[GOD08] The Lost Gentleman

by Margaret McPhee

  He heard the rattle of the handle, but he knew for certain that the door was locked and the key removed from her side.

  She did not persist.

  The silence that followed was loud.

  He stared out over the London streets, wondering where his father and sister were, wondering how the hell they had managed all those years with ever-diminishing funds. In his pocket the bank cheque was neatly folded. Soon Collins would trace them; soon he would make the little reparation he could.

  * * *

  Kit might have told her his deepest darkest secrets. He might have laid his soul bare before her. But it had changed nothing. In the morning they sat at the long mahogany silver-set table in the dining room with Tom between them as if it had not happened. She realised that everything was rolling on like an unstoppable carriage running down a hill, heading towards a destination she could not change.

  He discussed the day’s schedule, the planned visit with Tom to an art exhibition at the Royal Academy with a smooth ease.

  She did not know how he bore it. How he kept going, as if their whole world were not imploding. As if he felt nothing. But she knew he felt. And she knew that this was more of a torture to him than to her, facing what he had fled from, trying to right the wrongs. She also knew if she was going to reach him it was never going to be by a direct approach.

  * * *

  Within the main exhibition gallery at the Royal Academy of Art Kit and Kate stood before a massive, framed oil painting of naval ships in fast pursuit of a schooner. Tom was a little distance away, a frown on his face as he examined a painting of a ship of pirates being apprehended by a British naval frigate.

  ‘Perhaps we should be looking at some still-life oils of flowers and fruit,’ Kit said by her ear, knowing this was safe because they were in public.

  ‘Or pastoral scenes of the English countryside,’ she replied. ‘Scared the Admiralty will hear of our racy preferences in art?’

  ‘Terrified,’ he said.

  She smiled.

  And so did he.

  ‘That schooner has a look of Coyote about her,’ she said.

  ‘She does,’ he agreed, and felt the brush of her fingers against his.

  She did not look at him, only at the tall-masted ships, the billowing canvas sails and spray of ocean waves. ‘Are you keeping any more dark secrets from me?’ she asked.

  ‘Were not the ones last night enough for you?’

  ‘Nowhere near enough,’ she said, and turned her face to look into his. ‘I have not changed my mind over you.’ Threading her fingers through his, she leaned in closer until he felt her breath, warm and sensual against his ear. ‘Even if you do lock your bedchamber door against me.’

  His eyes met hers and it was not pity he saw there or disgust. It was acceptance. It was strength. It was love. He raised their joined hands to his mouth and pressed a kiss to her fingers.

  ‘Just in case the Admiralty are watching?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ he answered. ‘I do not give a damn if they are watching or not.’

  They stared into each other’s eyes.

  She knew the worst of him. She knew who he was, what he was. And she did not judge him.

  ‘Are those King’s navy men going to hang the pirates?’ Tom asked in a loud voice.

  ‘It looks like they are going to, doesn’t it?’ Kate replied as she pulled Kit to examine the picture Tom was worrying over. She lowered her voice, ‘But I happen to know that they escape.’

  ‘Are the pirates villains?’ the boy asked.

  ‘Some pirates are, but not those ones.’

  ‘Not like the ones that captured you.’

  ‘Not like the ones that captured me,’ she agreed.

  ‘You must be very glad that Captain North rescued you and captured their captain.’

  ‘Very glad, indeed,’ she said, and her eyes met Kit’s again.

  She knew and still she looked at him like that.

  ‘No more veils,’ she said.

  ‘No more veils,’ he echoed.

  No masquerade. No pretence. Everything between them was real. Now, and for the days they had left together.

  ‘Thank you, Kate,’ he said quietly

  ‘For what?’ she asked, and held his eyes with that old defiance and strength so that he smiled to see it. ‘Now, sir, we should take this boy to see some more peaceful paintings of the world.’

  ‘How about Venice?’ He smiled. ‘There is a Canaletto exhibition in one of the smaller rooms.’

  ‘Perfect.’ She smiled.

  * * *

  The small room that led off from the main exhibition hall was covered with intricately painted canal scenes of Venice, all blue skies and translucent green water that reminded her of the ocean back home in Louisiana. There were magnificent pale sandstone buildings and red-tiled spired churches, and grey-domed cathedrals, but what drew her attention the most were the dark boats that crowded the canal water. Mostly small rowing boats and ferries and hooded dark gondolas, but larger sailing barges, too.

  The room was quiet compared to the main exhibition hall. Only a single woman stood there, dark-haired, respectable, dressed in a pale-blue walking dress and cream spencer, her attention all on the painting before her, seemingly caught up in its scene.

  Kit glanced at the lone figure and kept on walking. But then Kate felt the check in his step as he looked again at the woman.

  Beneath her hand she felt his arm tense, felt everything about him still.

  The woman only then seemed to sense that she was not alone. Glancing round, her eyes widened and fixed on Kit. She stared as if he were a ghost.

  ‘Kit?’ the woman whispered.

  ‘It is good to see you, Emma,’ he said quietly.

  Emma.

  ‘Oh, Kit!’ The woman flew to him, wrapping him in her embrace, staring up into his face. ‘Kit!’ She wept and pressed her face against his chest, while he held her.

  Tom stared in confusion. ‘Who is that lady?’ His hand crept into Kate’s. He looked at Kit fiercely as if he were betraying them both.

  ‘That lady is Captain North’s sister.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, and visibly relaxed. ‘I suppose it’s all right then if she hugs him.’

  ‘I suppose it is,’ said Kate with a smile.

  ‘I never had a sister,’ Tom said wistfully.

  ‘Maybe you will one day,’ said Kate, for she did not doubt that Tom truly had become something of a son to Kit. When she had gone home to Louisiana and Kit was with another woman. Just the thought made her want to weep.

  ‘I would like that.’ Tom smiled.

  She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

  A tall, muscular, fair-haired man walked into the little Canaletto room. Kate knew by his fine-tailored, expensive clothes that he was a gentleman, but the scarred eyebrow above his sky-blue eyes and the air of danger about him suggested otherwise.

  ‘Emma?’ the man said.

  ‘Oh, Ned, it is Kit! He has come home at last!’

  But when Kit’s eyes rose to see the man standing there everything changed.

  ‘Ned Stratham?’ he said in a soft dangerous voice.

  Emma released her hold of him and moved to take the man’s arm.

  Kit’s eyes were arctic as they went between his sister and the man.

  ‘It is not what you think, Kit,’ Emma said quickly. ‘Ned is my husband. We have been married these six months past.’

  ‘Your husband...?’ Kit did not look at his sister, only at the man who stood by her side. The promise of violence was suddenly thick in that little room, along with danger and tension. Kate knew something was about to explode.

  ‘Kit,’ she called his name, trying to prevent it, but knowing enough
of warring men to realise it was fruitless. She reacted instinctively, her outstretched arm shielding Tom, backing him against the wall, away from where the little group stood. ‘Kit!’

  ‘You bastard, Stratham!’ he whispered.

  Ned Stratham knew what was about to happen, too, for in one swift move he had placed his wife behind him. ‘Get out, Emma,’ he said in a harsh London accent unlike any of the others Kate had heard in the ton.

  But Emma was shaking her head. ‘No, Kit!’

  ‘Me, Stratham, yes, but not my sister,’ Kit growled. ‘She was innocent of any wrong, damn you!’ And he launched himself at Ned Stratham.

  ‘No!’ screamed Emma and tried to grab her husband back. ‘Do not hurt him, Ned!’

  Kate ran to Kit, putting herself between the two men, moulding herself to him as a barrier so that he could not reach Stratham. ‘Look at me, Kit.’ She took hold of his face, steering it to hers. ‘Look at me,’ she commanded, knowing she had to break the death lock in his eyes before he would hear her.

  She could feel the raggedness of his breath as his chest rose and fell hard against her breasts, but she did not let an inch of space open up between them.

  ‘Think what you are doing, Kit. Think of your sister’s reputation. Think of Tom who is watching.’ She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘Think of your vow...’

  He took a breath and she knew she had got through to him. His eyes finally met hers.

  ‘There are better ways to do this, Kit,’ she said quietly.

  His nostrils were still flared with the scent of violence, his eyes dark as the devil’s. She could feel the tension that strained through every muscle of his body. But he nodded and swallowed. His gaze shifted to the crowd that was staring in fascinated horror from the doorway before moving to Stratham again.

  ‘My wife is right,’ he said stiffly.

  Emma’s face was powder white, her eyes dark and huge in her face. She looked shaken. Stratham stood slightly in front of her, everything of his stance protective towards her.

  ‘You, too, are married?’ his sister asked.

  Kit gave a nod.

  In name only. The words seemed to taunt Kate. She slid her hand into his and held on tight.

  ‘Your wife is right,’ Emma said. ‘Please, both of you—’ her eyes shifted to take in Tom ‘—and the boy. Come home with us to Cavendish Square so that all of this might be explained.’

  Kate looked at Kit.

  He gave a nod.

  Kate took Tom’s hand in hers. The other she placed in the crook of Kit’s elbow and let him lead them out through the silent crowd.

  * * *

  They did not speak another word until they were in their town coach, following after that of Stratham and his sister’s toward Cavendish Square.

  ‘Who is he?’ she asked.

  Kit looked into her eyes. ‘He is the man I played against that night in the gaming hell.’

  Her blood ran cold and her heart went out to his.

  ‘Oh, Kit,’ she whispered and understood his reaction in the art exhibition. ‘Maybe it is not as it seems.’

  ‘Maybe,’ he said, but he did not look convinced.

  * * *

  In a drawing room at the back of a massive mansion house in Cavendish Square the two couples sat facing each other on dark-red-and-gold-striped sofas. Tom was outside in the garden, playing in the sunshine with a puppy and a footman that both belonged to Ned Stratham and Kit’s sister.

  Four tea cups filled with tea sat untouched on the occasional table between them.

  The servants had vanished out of sight.

  ‘It is not what you think, Kit,’ Emma said again. He saw where her hand rested upon Stratham’s. ‘I know who Ned is. I know what he did. And I know what you did, too.’

  He closed his eyes at that and felt Kate’s hand tighten around his.

  ‘And I still love him, Kit. Just as I still love you.’

  ‘Even knowing the truth of what I am?’ he asked.

  ‘What are you other than my brother?’

  ‘A fool, a cheat, a coward,’ he supplied.

  ‘We’ve all been a little of those in our lives,’ said Stratham.

  He looked at Stratham.

  ‘I own my share of the blame,’ Stratham said. ‘If I could go back and undo that night in Old Moll’s, I would.’

  ‘The blame was mine, Stratham, all of it. I went to look for you in Whitechapel earlier this week to tell you. I know they would have lynched me were it not for your intervention. But Emma is a different matter.’

  ‘I know you will never believe it, Northcote, but I do love her. And if you were not her brother I’d break your damn neck for what you’ve put her through.’

  ‘Ned,’ Emma chastised softly.

  ‘If you ever hurt her, I will be the one breaking necks.’

  Stratham smiled. ‘You’ve grown some balls, Northcote.’

  The two men looked at one another with a grudging mutual respect.

  Kate rubbed her fingers against Kit’s, her gaze touching to his before saying to Ned Stratham, ‘It looks like you have a delightful view of a wonderful garden. May I...?’ She got to her feet, gesturing towards the further of the two windows in the room.

  Stratham was already on his feet, understanding what it was she was doing.

  Kit needed time and privacy to talk to his sister and discover what had happened in his absence. He needed to learn the details of his mother’s death and his father’s welfare and whereabouts.

  ‘I would be delighted to show you the view, ma’am,’ said Stratham. Kate smiled at Kit and Emma, too, before she walked with him to the window at the far away end of the drawing room.

  ‘A beautiful house and garden,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you.’ said Stratham. ‘A fine boy.’ His eyes were on Tom running the length of the lawn with a glee that matched that of the small, brown, scruffy dog by his side.

  ‘Yes.’

  They could hear the soft murmur of voices and knew that Emma Stratham had moved to sit by her brother’s side.

  ‘Kit rescued him,’ she said. ‘As he rescued me.’

  Stratham said nothing.

  ‘Do not judge my husband so harshly. He has suffered in ways you could not begin to imagine.’

  ‘And you think that Emma did not? You have no idea what he left them to. So do not seek my sympathy, for him I have none,’ said Stratham and switched those cold too-blue eyes to hers.

  ‘It is not sympathy I seek. Sympathy would kill him.’

  ‘I am glad to hear it.’

  She held his cold gaze fearlessly. ‘You are the one who has no idea. My husband did something foolish, but he has paid a thousand times over. He is a good man. If you knew—’ She stopped, aware she had probably said too much already.

  ‘He has a loyal wife.’

  A loyal wife. Stratham’s words cut right through everything in that moment. It was not Kit North to whom she was loyal. Or the little boy who played so happily on the lawn outside that window. In a matter of days she was going to walk away from them both and sail to the other side of the world. Nor was she even really his wife. It was all feigned, all an illusion, a marriage in name only. She swallowed hard and forced the thoughts away.

  ‘As Emma has a loyal husband.’

  Stratham said nothing, but she saw the flicker of his eyes to where his wife sat weeping by Kit on the sofa, and the way they softened for the woman and hardened with threat at her brother. Kate’s gaze moved to Kit, taking in the hard line of his jaw and the way those dark eyes stared straight ahead and her heart contracted hard as if it had been punched, and a band of iron seemed to tighten around her chest, for she knew that Emma was telling him of their mother and she knew, despite all that it appeare
d otherwise, inside he hurt much more than his sister. He blamed himself as the cause of it all.

  * * *

  Kit did not tell her what his sister had revealed of the family’s life following his departure. And Kate could not ask, not while Tom was present.

  But that evening he went to visit his father and she read stories to Tom and played cards with the child until his bedtime. Afterwards the hours stretched on without Kit’s return and her concern grew all the more.

  A single candle burned on her bedside cabinet. She waited by the rain-flecked window of her bedchamber and watched for his return, worrying until at last, when she had all but given up hope, she saw the familiar dark figure upon horseback come trotting down the rain-soaked road that shimmered in the light of the gas lamps.

  She heard the outside door shutting, heard the quiet tread of his booted steps on the staircase. Tensing in anticipation, she stared round at that door, willing him to open it, but he did not so much as hesitate outside her bedchamber, only walked straight on past to reach his own. Her heart wilted. She turned aside, leaning on the window sill, staring down on to that same wet, dismal, dark street, telling herself not to be such a fool, that it was better this way for them both.

  A single rasp of knuckles tapped against the door connecting their chambers and her pulse leapt at the sound of it.

  The door opened softly and then closed again behind him.

  She turned to face him.

  His face was pale, his eyes black in the candlelight. The rain had soaked his hair, making it cling dark and sleek to his head. Raindrops sat wet on his face and across the black superfine of his coat, like a scattering of crystal beads. He just stood there and said nothing, but she could sense his devastation.

  She came to stand before him. He had brought with him the scent of rain and dark night and their chill. She could feel it emanating from his damp clothes without even touching him.

  ‘You waited up for me,’ he said quietly.

  She nodded.

  From the pocket of his coat he took a piece of white paper folded in half. It was soft with dampness. Opening it out, he looked at it.