She glanced around to all the pairs of eyes fixed upon them, to all the murmurs being whispered behind fans and into ears. ‘You call this privacy? Our every move is under scrutiny.’
‘Indeed. Apparently I am a source of fascination for the ladies of the ton.’
She blushed and eyed him with anger. She was very aware of the warmth of his hand around hers, of the proximity of his body. ‘I have already told you I will not listen to more of your lies.’
‘But I was not the one who was telling the lies, was I, Emma?’
‘Given what you did, I do not think I owe you any explanation as to why I did not wait. And as for a lady’s maid, I have undertaken such duties in the past. For a month.’
‘A month.’ He paused. ‘As the daughter of the maid’s master.’ He looked at her.
‘Strictly speaking it was not a lie.’
‘Strictly speaking.’
She pressed her lips firm. Glanced away.
He leaned closer, so that she felt the brush of his breath against her cheek, felt the shiver tingle down her spine and tighten her breasts.
‘And as we are speaking strictly, the little fact of your name, Miss de Lisle...’ His blue eyes seemed to bore into hers.
‘It was not a lie. De Lisle is my mother’s name.’
‘Your mother’s name. But not yours.’
She swallowed again. Her mouth was dry with nerves. He was making it sound as if she were the one in the wrong. ‘My father and I could hardly admit the truth of our background. That we were fallen from society. That we were of that privileged class so despised in Whitechapel. Do you think we would have been accepted? Do you think Nancy would have given me a job in the Red Lion?’
‘No.’ His eyes held hers, unmoved by the argument. ‘But it does not change the fact that you lied to me, Emma Northcote.’
‘Small white lies that made no difference.’
Something flashed in his eyes, something angry and passionate and hard. Something in such contrast to the cool deliberate control normally there that it sent a shiver tingling down her spine and made her heart skip a beat. ‘They would have made all the difference in the world.’
The dance took them apart, leading them each to change places with the couple on their right. She took those few moments to try to compose herself before they were reunited once more and his hand closed over hers, binding her to him. And to this confrontation she had no wish to conduct upon a crowded dance floor.
‘Do not seek to turn this around,’ Emma said. ‘You made me believe you were something you were not.’
He raised his eyebrows at that. Just as she had made him believe she was someone she was not.
It fuelled her anger and sense of injustice.
‘All those nights, Ned... And in between them you were here, living in your mansion, dancing at some ball with the latest diamond of the ton hanging on your arm. Seeking to ally yourself with some earl’s daughter while you played your games in Whitechapel.’
He said nothing.
‘You would have bedded me and cast me aside.’
‘Would I?’ His voice was cold, hard, emotionless. There was something in his eyes when he said it that unnerved her.
Had she waited, she would know for sure.
Had she waited it would have been too late.
The dance played on, their feet following where it led. There was only the music and the scrape and tread of slipper soles against the smooth wood of the floorboards. Only the sound of her breath and his. Given all that was at stake, she had to know. She had to ask him.
‘Are you going to tell them the truth of me? That I was a serving wench in a chop-house in Whitechapel? That my father is a dockworker? That we lodged in one of the roughest boarding houses in all London?’
‘Are you going to tell them that I was a customer in the same chop-house?’
They looked at one another.
‘You they would forgive. Me, you know they would not.’
‘They would be a deal less forgiving of me than you anticipate.’ He smiled a hard smile. ‘But do not fear, Emma. Your secret is safe with me.’
She waited for the qualifier. For what he would demand for his silence.
He just smiled a cynical smile as if he knew her thoughts. Gave a tiny shake of his head.
It made her feel as though she was the one who had got this all wrong. She reminded herself of the shabby leather jacket and boots he had worn—a disguise. She reminded herself of what had passed between them in the darkness of a Whitechapel alleyway while he was living a double life here. For all his denials he was a liar who had used and made a fool of her.
‘Now that matters are clear between us, there is no need to speak again. Stay away from me, Ned.’
He smiled again. A hard, bitter smile. ‘You need not worry, Emma Northcote,’ he taunted her over her name. ‘I will stay far away from you.’
‘I will be glad of it.’
He studied her eyes, as if he could see everything she was, all her secrets and lies, all her hopes and fears. Then he leaned closer, so close that she could smell the clean familiar scent of him and feel his breath warm against her cheek, so close that she shivered as he whispered the words into her ear, ‘Much more than you realise.’
Her heart was thudding. Her blood was rushing. All that had been between them in the Red Lion and the alleyway, and at the old stone bench, was suddenly there in that ballroom.
They stared at one another for a moment. Then he stepped back, once more his cool controlled self.
‘Smile,’ he said. ‘Every eye is upon us and you wouldn’t want our audience to think we were discussing anything other than the usual petty fripperies that are discussed upon a ballroom floor.’
He smiled a smile that did not touch his eyes.
And she reciprocated, smiling as she said the words, ‘You are a bastard, Ned Stratham.’
‘Yes, I am. Quite literally. But I deem that better than a liar.’
His words, and their truth, cut deep.
The music finally came to a halt.
The ladies on either side of her were curtsying. Emma smothered her emotions and did the same.
Ned bowed. ‘Allow me to return you to Lady Lamerton.’
She held his gaze for a heartbeat and then another. And then, uncomfortably aware that every eye in the ballroom was upon them, she touched the tips of her fingers to his arm and let him lead her from the floor.
* * *
Ned and Rob were in Gentleman John Jackson’s pugilistic rooms in Bond Street the next morning. At nine o’clock the hour was still too early for any other gentleman to be present. After a night of gentlemen’s clubs, drinking, gaming and womanising—which were, as far as Ned could make out, the chief pursuits of most men of the gentry and nobility—gentlemen did not, in general, rise before midday. After a bout of light sparring together, Ned and Rob were working on the heavy sand-filled canvas punchbags that hung from a bar fixed along the length of one wall.
Rob sat on the floor, back against the wall, elbows on knees, catching his breath. Ned landed regular punches to the sandbag.
‘What the hell was that about with Emma Northcote last night?’ Rob asked.
‘I wanted to speak to her.’
‘About what?’
‘To verify her identity.’
‘And you needed to dance with her for that?’
‘I had to put all those lessons with that dancing master to use at some time. I paid him good money.’
Rob raised his eyebrows. His expression was cynical. ‘I take it she is who we think.’
‘What gives you that impression?’
‘Maybe the fact that you’re knocking two tons of stuffing out of that punchbag.’
Ned raised
an eyebrow, then returned to jabbing at the sandbag, right hook, then left hook. Right hook, then left. ‘She doesn’t change anything. We go on just as before.’ He landed a left-handed blow so hard that it almost took the punchbag clear off its hook. He ducked as it swung back towards him, punched it again, and again. Kept up the training until his knuckles were sore and his arms ached and the keenness of what he felt was blunted by fatigue.
Rob threw a drying cloth up to him and got to his feet, gesturing with his eyes to the doorway with warning. ‘That it, is it, Stratham?’ he said, reverting to a form of formality now that they had company.
Ned caught the cloth and mopped the sweat from his face as he glanced round to see who it was that had entered.
There was only the slightest of hesitations in the Duke of Monteith and Viscount Devlin’s steps as they saw who was in the training room using the equipment.
Ned met Devlin’s eyes. The viscount returned the look—cold, insolent, contemptuous—before walking with Monteith to the other end of the room.
Ned and Rob exchanged a look.
‘Your favourite person,’ said Rob beneath his breath.
‘It just gets better and better.’ Ned smiled a grim smile, as he and Rob made their way to the changing rooms.
* * *
Within the dining room of Lady Lamerton’s town house a few streets away, Emma and the dowager were at breakfast.
‘It is just as I suspected, Mr Stratham dancing with you at Hawick’s ball is all the gossip, Emma,’ Lady Lamerton said as she read the letter within her hand.
The clock on the mantel ticked a slow and sonorous rhythm.
‘I cannot think why. It was only one dance.’ Emma did not speak while the footman moved from Lady Lamerton’s side, where he filled her cup with coffee, to Emma’s and stood waiting, coffee pot in hand.
She gave a nod, watching while the steaming hot liquid poured from the pot into the pretty orange-and-gold-rimmed cup. The aroma of coffee wafted through the air. She added a spot of cream from the jug and took a sip of the coffee.
Sunlight spilled in through the dining-room window. sparkling through the crystal drops of the chandelier above their heads to cast rainbows on the walls.
Lady Lamerton set the letter down on the growing pile of opened papers and reached for the next one. She glanced up as she broke the seal. ‘Because, my dear, Mr Stratham has not previously been seen upon a dance floor. He does not dance.’
Emma took another sip of coffee and tried to smile, as if what had happened upon the dance floor last night was nothing. ‘That must be somewhat of a disadvantage when he is at an Almack’s ball.’
‘Hardly,’ said the dowager. ‘If anything it is the opposite. It has created rather a stir of interest. The women see it as a challenge. The Lewis sisters have a sweepstake running as to who will be the first to tempt him upon a floor. It is considered to be an indicator of when he has made his choice of bride.’
Emma smiled again to hide the anger she felt at that thought. ‘Well, last night certainly disproved that theory.’
‘Indeed, it did. And will have made the Lewis sisters a deal richer.’ The dowager paused and looked at the letter in her hand. ‘They are all positively agog to know of what he spoke.’
If they only knew. ‘Nothing of drama or excitement. I already told you the details.’ Last night in the ballroom when there had been a subtle questioning which Lady Lamerton had parried with the air of a hawk, with its wings shielding its food for its own later consumption. And in the carriage on the way home the hawk had eaten...although not of the truth.
‘The weather and other trivialities are hardly going to satisfy them, Emma. Especially as the pair of you appeared to be having quite the conversation.’
Emma took another sip of coffee and said nothing.
Lady Lamerton held her spectacles to her eyes and peered at the letter again. ‘Apparently they are taking bets on whether he will dance again. And if it will be with you.’
Emma suppressed a sigh at the ton’s preoccupations. An hour’s walk away and the preoccupations and world were very different.
‘Fetch my diary, Emma, and check when the next dance is to be held.’
‘It is next week, on Thursday evening—the charity dance at the Foundling Hospital.’ Emma knew the line of thought the dowager’s mind was taking. ‘And even if Mr Stratham is there, I made it quite clear to him that my duty is as your companion and not to dance.’
‘Much as I admire your loyalty, my dear, you are quite at liberty to dance with him. Indeed—’ she glanced with unmistakable satisfaction at the unusually large pile of letters the morning post had brought ‘—it would be quite churlish not to.’
‘He will not ask me.’ Stay away from me, Ned.
You need not worry, Emma Northcote. I will stay far away from you. The echo of their words rang in her head. And she remembered again, as she had remembered in the night, the look in his eyes—cool anger and other things...
Emma smiled as if it were nothing and led the conversation away from Ned Stratham. ‘What are you wearing tonight for dinner at Mrs Lewis’s?’
Her tactic worked. ‘My purple silk and matching turban. I thought you could wear your dove-grey silk to complement me.’
‘It would match well,’ Emma agreed and listened as Lady Lamerton discussed a visit to the haberdashery to buy a feather for the turban.
Ned would stay away from her. And she would be glad of it.
More glad than you realise.
And a tingle ran over the skin at the nape of her neck at what those strange words might mean.
* * *
‘I see Mr Stratham is here,’ Lady Lamerton said sotto voce not five minutes after they had entered the drawing room of Mrs Lewis’s Hill Street house that night.
‘Is he? I had not noticed,’ Emma lied. He and his steward, Rob Finchley, were over by the windows talking with Lord Linwood and another gentleman, one whom Emma vaguely recognised but could not quite place. Ned was smartly dressed in the best of tailoring, his fair hair glinting gold in the candlelight. He looked as at ease here as he had in Whitechapel. Beneath that polished surface emanated that same awareness, that same feeling of strength and danger held in control. His eyes met hers, hard, watchful and bluer than she remembered, making her heart stumble and her body shiver. She returned the look, cool and hard as his own, and curved her lips in a smile as if he bothered her not in the slightest, before returning her attention to Lady Lamerton.
Their hostess appeared, welcoming them, telling Lady Lamerton how wonderful she looked and asking which mantua maker was she using these days.
Emma saw some of the women who had been friends of hers in what now seemed a different life. Women who had attended the same ladies’ educational seminary, who had made their come-outs at the same time, and against whom her competition in the marriage mart had necessitated spending a fortune on new wardrobes. They were dressed in the latest fashions, immaculately coiffured, safe in their little group. Emma knew how penniless ladies’ companions were viewed in their circle, the whispered pity; she, after all, had once been one of the whisperers. Not out of malice, but naïvety and ignorance. But who her father had been, and who she had been amongst them, still held influence for, despite her reduced status, most smiled and gave small acknowledgements. Only a few turned their heads away.
‘Lady Lamerton, how very delightful to find you here.’ Mrs Faversham arrived, all smiles and politeness, but with the barely concealed expression of a gossip hound on the scent of a story. ‘And Miss Northcote, too.’ Her eyes sharpened and lit as she looked at Emma.
‘Mrs Faversham,’ cooed Lady Lamerton and smiled that smile that, contrary to its softness, indicated when it came to gossip she was top dog and would be guarding her object of interest with ferocity. Emma’s father had been right.
‘Such a shame I missed Hawick’s ball. It seems it was quite the place to be. I heard that Mr Stratham finally took to the dance floor. But one can never be sure with such rumours.’
‘I can confirm the truth of it, my dear Agatha.’
‘Indeed?’ Curiosity was almost bursting out of her. ‘You must come to tea, dear Lady Lamerton. It has been an age since we visited together. Would tomorrow suit?’
‘I am taking tea with Mrs Hilton tomorrow. My tea diary is quite booked these days. But I might be able to squeeze you in at the end of the week...if that would be agreeable to you.’
‘Most agreeable.’ Mrs Faversham smiled and could not help her eyes straying to Emma once more. ‘And will Miss Northcote be there?’
But Emma was saved by the sound of the dinner gong.
* * *
The table was beautifully arranged with a central line of squat candelabras interspersed by pineapples. In the middle was a vast arrangement that involved the head and tail feathers of a peacock. Emma tensed, worrying that she would find herself seated beside Ned, but, for all his wealth, in the hierarchy of seating at a ton dinner table trade was still looked down upon and Ned and his steward were seated further down the table. A lady’s companion, effectively a servant, was deemed higher because her family had once been one of them.
Lord Soames, one of her father’s oldest and dearest friends, took his place by her side.
‘And how is your papa fairing out in rural Hounslow, young Miss Northcote?’ he bellowed on account of his deafness.
‘He is well, thank you, Lord Soames.’ She nodded and smiled, aware that the volume of Lord Soames’s voice was loud enough to be heard all around. Loud enough for Ned to hear those few seats away.
‘Glad to hear it, m’dear. You must tell him when you see him next that his presence is sorely missed.’
‘I will.’ She smiled again and smoothly changed the subject. ‘Such uncommonly good weather we have been having.’
‘What’s that you are saying? Speak up, girl.’
‘I was merely commenting upon the pleasant weather of late.’
Lord Soames held his ear trumpet to his ear. ‘Did not catch a word of it, Miss Northcote.’
Harlequin Historical September 2014 - Bundle 1 of 2: The Lone SheriffThe Gentleman RogueNever Trust a Rebel Page 29
