‘A letter. Addressed to you. I thought it might contain news of...’ She bit her lip, did not finish the sentence.
‘If you will excuse me for a few moments, gentlemen,’ her father said to the men behind him. ‘And Mr Sears,’ to the foreman who had brought her to him.
Her father guided her a little away from the group.
‘Bill?’
‘It is what they call me here.’
She gave a small smile. The smile faded as she passed the letter to him. ‘Maybe I should not have brought it here, but I thought...’ She stopped as her father scrutinised the address penned upon it. ‘The writing is not of Kit’s hand, but even so... Someone might have seen him. Someone might know his whereabouts.’
Her father said nothing, but she saw the slight tremble in his fingers as he broke the red-wax seal and opened the letter. He held it at arm’s length to read it since his spectacles were long gone.
She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry with anticipation. Rubbed her clammy palms together and waited. Waited until she could wait no more.
‘Is it good news?’
Her father finished reading and looked up at her. ‘It is the best of news, Emma...’
The breath she had been holding escaped in a gasp. Her heart leapt. The terrible tight tension that held her rigid relaxed.
‘...but it does not concern your brother.’
The warm happiness flowing through her turned cold. She glanced up at her father. ‘I do not understand.’
‘The letter is from Mrs Tadcaster, who was second cousin to your mama. She writes to say that the Dowager Lady Lamerton’s companion has run off with one of the footmen.’
‘Why is that good news?’
‘Because, my dear—’ he smiled ‘—the dowager is in need of a new companion, a woman of gentle breeding who would understand what was required of her and might start in the position with immediate effect.’
The penny dropped. Emma suddenly realised why her mother’s cousin had written to impart such trivial gossip. She knew where this was leading. And she should have been glad. Indeed, had it been only a few weeks ago she would have been. But much had happened in those weeks and the feeling in the pit of her stomach was not one of gladness.
‘Mrs Tadcaster had spoken to her ladyship of you and Lady Lamerton has agreed to take you on as her companion.’
Emma could not say a word.
‘Such sudden and surprising news after all this time. Little wonder you are shocked.’
She was shocked, but not for the reasons her father thought.
We need to talk when I return.
That sounds serious.
It is. Will you wait for me?
Ned’s words and all they might mean had not left her mind since yesterday. Her stomach felt hollow.
‘I cannot go.’
‘Why ever not?’ He stared at her
How could she tell him about Ned? Not a gentleman, but a Whitechapel man. A man who was tougher and more dangerous than all he had warned her against. A man who could best five men in a tavern fight and who had worked on these same docks. A man who made magic somersault in her stomach and passion beat through her blood. Whose kiss she wanted to last for ever...and who had implied he wanted a future with her.
‘I could not possibly contemplate leaving you here alone.’
‘Nonsense. It would be a weight off my mind to know that you were living a safe, respectable life with the Dowager Lady Lamerton. Do you not think I have enough to worry over with Kit?’
‘I understand that, but you need not worry over me.’
‘You are a serving wench in a tavern.’
‘It is a chop-house, Papa,’ she corrected him out of force of habit.
‘Emma, chop-house or tavern, it makes no difference. Do you think I do not know the manner of men with whom you must deal? Do you think there is a night goes by I am not sick with worry until Tom sees you safely home and I hear you coming through that front door?’
She felt guilt turn in her stomach at the thought of him worrying so much while she enjoyed being with Ned.
‘Were you with Lady Lamerton, I could find lodgings closer to the docks. There are always fellows looking for someone to share the rent on a single room. It would be easier for me. Cheaper. More convenient. And they are a good enough bunch in here. Tease me a bit, but that is the extent of it.’
‘Lady Lamerton will see this as an opportunity to glean every last detail of our scandal from me. You know she is chief amongst the gossipmongers and has a nose like a bloodhound.’
‘Clarissa Lamerton likes to be queen of the ton’s gossip, not its subject. She will grill you herself, but protect you from all others. What is this sudden change of heart, Emma? This argument is usually the other way around. You have always been so strong and committed to returning to society and tracing Kit.’
Emma glanced away.
‘Lady Lamerton’s ability to discover information is all the more reason to accept the position. You would be well placed, in one of the best households in London, to hear news of Kit. Lady Lamerton’s son has an association with Whitehall. Rest assured young Lamerton will hear if there is anything to be heard and thus, too, his mother. You have to take this opportunity, Emma, for Kit’s sake and mine, as well as for your own. You know that without me telling you.’
She did. That was the problem. She understood too well what he was saying and the truth in it.
‘If you stay here, you are lost. It is only a matter of time before one of these men makes you his own. Indeed, it is a miracle that it has not already happened.’
She glanced down at the floor beneath their feet so that he would not see the truth in her eyes.
But he reached over and tilted her face up to his. ‘You are a beautiful young woman, the very image of your mother when I met and married her. I want a better life for you than that which a husband from round here could offer you.’
She wanted to tell him so much, of Ned and all that was between them, but she could not. Not now, not when her duty was so pressing.
‘As if I would have a husband from round here.’ Her forced smile felt like a grimace.
Will you wait for me? In her mind she could see that soul-searching look in Ned’s eyes.
And hear her own reply. I am not going anywhere, Ned Stratham...I will wait.
‘I am glad you have not forgotten your vow to your mother, Emma.’
‘How could I ever forget?’ She never would, never could. Family was family. A vow was just that, even if it was at the expense of her own happiness. She felt like her heart was torn between her family and the man she loved.
She told herself that Ned might not love her, that she might have misunderstood what it was he wanted to talk to her of. After all, he had made no promises or declarations, and despite all those late-night conversations and all their passion, they knew so little of each other. But in her heart, she knew.
She knew, but it did not change what she had to do.
‘You know you have to take this chance, Emma.’ Her father’s eyes scanned hers.
‘Yes.’ One small word to deny the enormity of what was in her heart.
‘I will go past the mail-receiving office on the way home, pay for paper and some ink and write to Mrs Tadcaster.’
She gave a nod.
‘Let me escort you from this place.’
Emma placed her hand on his arm and walked with him, without noticing the shirtless men who stopped working to watch her pass with silent appreciation.
She was thinking of all the days and nights she had worked so hard to escape Whitechapel, of all the times she had prayed for just such an opportunity. And now that her prayer had finally been answered she did not want to leave.
She was thinking of
a man whose hair the sun had lightened to the colour of corn-ripened fields and whose eyes matched the cloudless summer sky outside; a man who had captured her heart, and to whom there would be no chance to explain.
* * *
On the afternoon of Ned’s return from Portsmouth, he went straight to a meeting in White’s Club. But now the meeting was concluded, the necessary introductions made and ideas discussed. He shook hands with the Earl of Misbourne, Viscount Linwood, the Marquis of Razeby and Mr Knight.
‘If you will excuse me, gentlemen?’ A nod of the head and he and his friend and steward, Rob Finchley, were out of the room and walking down the corridor.
Further down the corridor, he saw the small group of men who knew his secret. Men who were bursting with longing to take him down, to expose his real identity, but could not. They knew what would happen if they did. He met each of their gazes in turn across the distance, held them so that they would remember why they could not tell what itched upon their tongues to be out. And in return they glowered with all their haughty disdain.
Rob cursed beneath his breath. ‘They look at you as if you’re a gutter rat in their midst.’
Ned smiled at the group of arrogant young noblemen. It had the desired effect, twisting the knife a little deeper. ‘But remember what it costs them to stand there and suffer my presence.’
Rob grinned. ‘I feel better already.’
They were still smiling as they crossed St James’s Street and climbed into the waiting gig. It was a top-of-the-range model, sleek, glossy black exterior, cream leather seats; a small white circle enclosing a red diamond shape adorned the front plate. Ned did not look back. Just took up the reins and drove off.
‘I think you hooked Misbourne.’
‘Let’s hope.’ The wheels sped along. Ned kept his eyes forward concentrating on the traffic. ‘I can’t make Dawson’s ball tonight.’
‘Not like you to miss a big event like Dawson’s.’
‘I have a commitment elsewhere.’ His face was closed and impassive, his usual expression when it came to dealing with friend and foe alike.
‘All the bigwigs are going to be there.’
‘I know.’
There was a small silence before Rob said, ‘Must be important, this other commitment.’
‘It is.’ Ned slid a glance at his friend, let his eyes linger for a moment, in that quiet confrontational way, and smiled.
Rob smiled, too. ‘All right, mate. I get the hint. I’ll stop fishing about your mystery woman.’
* * *
A few hours later, Ned walked alone into the Red Lion Chop-House. Some heads nodded at him, recognising him from the weeks before. Ned felt the usual comfort and ease that sat about the place, felt it as soon as he crossed the parish boundary that divided the East End from the rest of London. The taproom was busy as usual, the tables and rowdy noise of the place spilling out into the alleyway in front. His eyes scanned for Emma, but did not find her.
The first suspicion stroked when he saw that it was Paulette who came to serve him.
‘Your usual, is it?’
He gave a nod. ‘Emma not in tonight?’
‘Thought you might ask that.’ She smiled a saucy knowing look. ‘Emma’s gone. Landed herself some fancy job as a lady’s maid again. An offer she couldn’t refuse apparently, lucky mare. She left a message for you, though. Said to tell you goodbye. That she was real sorry she couldn’t tell you in person. Said she hoped you would understand.’
He dropped a coin into her hand for passing on the message. ‘Forget the lamb and the porter.’ He didn’t wait.
There were other chop-houses in Whitechapel. Other serving wenches. But Ned didn’t go to them. Instead he made his way up along Rosemary Lane to Tower Hill and the ancient stone bench beneath the beech trees. And he sat there alone and watched the day shift finish in the docks and the night shift begin. Watched the ships that docked and the ships that sailed. Watched until the sun set in a glorious blaze of fire over the Thames and the daylight faded to dusk and dusk to darkness.
Had she waited just one week...a single week and how different both their lives would have been.
Loss and betrayal nagged in his gut. He breathed in the scent of night with the underlying essence of vinegar that always lingered in this place. And he thought of the scent of soap and grilled chops and warm woman.
He thought of the teasing intelligence in her eyes and the warmth of her smile.
He thought of the passion between them and the sense that she made his world seem a better place.
He thought of what might have been, then he let the thoughts go and he crushed the feelings. Emma de Lisle had not waited. And that was that.
Ned was not a man who allowed himself to be influenced by emotion. He had his destiny. And maybe it was better this way. No distractions, after all.
He heard the cry of the watch in the distance. Only then did he make his way back across town to the mansion house in Cavendish Square.
* * *
Along the Westminster Bridge Road in Lambeth, the evening was fine and warm as Emma and the Dowager Lady Lamerton approached Astley’s Amphitheatre.
‘I say, this is really rather exciting,’ her new employer said as they abandoned the carriage to the traffic jam in which it was caught and walked the remaining small distance to the amphitheatre’s entrance.
‘It is, indeed.’ It was only Emma’s third day returned to life in London’s high society, albeit at a somewhat lesser level to that she had known, and already she was aware that there was a part of her that had settled so smoothly it was as if she had never been away—and a part that remained in Whitechapel, with her father...and another man.
She wondered again how her father was managing in his new lodging. Wondered if he was eating. Wondered if Ned Stratham had returned to the Red Lion yet and if Paulette had passed on her message.
‘In all of my seventy-five years I have yet to see a woman balancing on one leg upon the back of a speeding horse,’ said Lady Lamerton. Her walking stick tapped regular and imperious against the pavement as they walked.
Emma hid her private thoughts away and concentrated on the dowager and the evening ahead. ‘I hope you shall not find it too shocking.’ She tucked her arm into the dowager’s, helping to stabilise her through the crowd.
‘But, my dear, I shall be thoroughly disappointed if it is not. This latest show is quite the talk of the ton. Everyone who is anyone is here to see it.’
Emma laughed. ‘Well, in that case we had best go in and find our box.’
As being seen there was more important than actually watching the show, Lady Lamerton and Emma had a splendid vantage point. There was the buzz of voices and bustle of bodies as the rest of the audience found their seats.
‘Do look at that dreadful monstrosity that Eliza Frenshaw has upon her head. That, my dear, is what lack of breeding does for you, but then her father was little better than a grocer, you know,’ Lady Lamerton said with the same tone as if she had just revealed that Mrs Frenshaw’s father had been a mass murderer. Then had the audacity to nod an acknowledgement to the woman in question and bestow a beatific smile.
Emma drew Lady Lamerton a look.
‘What?’ Lady Lamerton’s expression was the hurt innocence that Emma had already learned was her forte. ‘Am I not telling the truth?’
‘You are never anything other than truthful,’ said Emma with a knowing expression.
The two women chuckled together before Lady Lamerton returned to scrutinising the rest of the audience with equally acerbic observations.
Emma let her eyes sweep over the scene in the auditorium before them.
There was not an empty seat to be seen. The place was packed with the best of the ton that had either remained in London for the summer or returned early. La
dies in silk evening dresses, a myriad of colours from the rich opulence of the matrons to the blinding white of the debutantes, and every shade in between. All wearing long white-silk evening gloves that fastened at the top of their arms. Their hair dressed in glossy ringlets and fixed with sprays of fresh flowers or enormous feathers that obscured the view of those in the seats behind. Some matrons had forgone the feathers in favour of dark-coloured silk turbans. There was the sparkle of jewels that gleamed around their pale necks or on their gloved fingers that held opera glasses. Like birds of paradise preening and parading. Only two years ago and Emma had been a part of it as much as the rest of them. Now, beautiful as it was, she could not help but be uncomfortably aware that the cost of a single one of those dresses was more than families in Whitechapel had to survive on for a year.
There were many nodded acknowledgments to Lady Lamerton and even some to Emma. Emma nodded in return, glad that, for the most part, people accepted her return without much censure.
Her eyes moved from the stalls, up to the encircling boxes and their inhabitants. To the Duke of Hawick and a party of actresses. To Lord Linwood and his wife, the celebrated Miss Venetia Fox. To the Earl of Hollingsworth, and his family and guest.
Lady Hollingsworth did not nod. The woman’s eyes were cool, her nose held high in disdain. Emma met her gaze boldly. Refused to be embarrassed. Smiled with amusement, then moved her gaze along to Hollingsworth’s daughter, Lady Persephone, with her pale golden-blonde hair and her perfect pout, and the way she was flirting with the gentleman by her side, no doubt the suitor Hollingsworth was hoping to land for her. The gas lighting dimmed just as Emma’s gaze shifted to the man, but for one glimmer of a second she saw him. Or thought she saw him. And what she saw made her heart miss a beat and her stomach turn a somersault.
The music started. The ringmaster, red-coated and waxen-moustached, the ultimate showman, appeared, his booming voice carrying promises of what lay ahead that drew gasps of astonishment from the audience. The performance was starting, but Emma did not look at the ring. Her focus was still on Lady Persephone’s suitor. On the fine dark tailored tailcoat, on the gleam of white evening wear that showed beneath. On the fair hair and face that was so like another, a world away in Whitechapel, that they might have been twins. And yet it could not be him. It was not possible.
Harlequin Historical September 2014 - Bundle 1 of 2: The Lone SheriffThe Gentleman RogueNever Trust a Rebel Page 26
