Harlequin Historical September 2014 - Bundle 1 of 2: The Lone Sheriff\The Gentleman Rogue\Never Trust a Rebel (25 page)

‘I think maybe I would.'

Her gaze still lingered on the derelict building as she spoke. ‘A ruined glory. There are pigeons nesting in what is left of the roof. Rats with wings, my father used to call them,' she said.

‘Plenty good eating in a rat.'

She laughed as if he were joking. He did not. He thought of all the times in his life when rat meat had meant the difference between starvation and survival.

‘One day it will be something else,' he said. ‘Not a ruined glory, but rebuilt.'

‘But then there will be no more violets growing from the walls.'

‘Weeds.'

‘Not weeds, but the sweetest of all flowers. They used to grow in an old garden wall I knew very well.' The expression on her face was as if she were remembering and the memory both pained and pleased her.

Emma looked round at Ned then and there was something in her eyes, as if he were glimpsing through the layers she presented to the world to see the woman beneath.

‘I will remember that, Emma de Lisle,' he said, studying her and everything that she was. A man might live a lifetime and never meet a woman like Emma de Lisle, the thought whispered again in his ear.

Their eyes held, sharing a raw exposed honesty.

Everything seemed to still and fade around them.

He lowered his face to hers and kissed her in the bright glory of the sunshine.

She tasted of all that was sweet and good. She smelled of sunshine and summer, and beneath it the scent of soap and woman.

He kissed her gently, this beautiful woman, felt her meet his kiss, felt her passion and her heart. Felt the desire that was between them surge and flare hot. He intensified the kiss, slid his arms around her and instinctively their bodies moulded together, as their mouths explored. He was hard for her, felt her thigh brush against his arousal, felt the soft press of her breasts against his chest, the slide of her hand beneath his jacket to stroke against his shirt, against his heart.

And then her palm flattened, pressed against his chest to stay him.

Their lips parted.

‘It is broad daylight, Ned Stratham!' Her cheeks were flushed. Her eyes were dark with passion and shock. ‘Anyone might see us.'

He twitched his scarred eyebrow.

She shook her head as if she were chiding him, but she smiled as she got to her feet.

He stood, too.

A whistling sounded and a man's figure appeared from the corner, trundling his barrow of fish along the road—Ernie Briggins, one of the Red Lion's best customers. ‘Morning, Ned.'

Ned gave a nod.

Ernie's eyes moved to Emma with speculation and a barely suppressed smile. ‘Morning, Emma.'

‘Morning, Ernie.' Emma's cheeks glowed pink.

Ernie didn't stop, just carried on his way, leaving behind him the lingering scent of cod and oysters and the faint trill of his reedy whistle.

Emma said nothing, just raised her brows and looked at Ned with a ‘told you so' expression.

‘I better get you safely home, before any more rogues accost you.'

‘I think I will manage more safely alone, thank you. Stay and enjoy your view.' Her eyes held to his. ‘I insist.' She backed away. Smiled. Turned to leave.

‘Emma.'

She stopped. Glanced round.

‘I'm going out of town for the next week or so. I have some business to attend to. But I'll be back.'

‘Developed a compulsion for the porter, have you?'

‘A compulsion for something else, it would seem,' he said quietly. ‘We need to talk when I return, Emma.'

‘That sounds serious.'

‘It is.' He paused, then asked, ‘Will you wait for me?'

There was a silence as her eyes studied his. ‘I am not going anywhere, Ned Stratham.'

Their eyes held, serious and intent, for a second longer. ‘I will wait,' she said softly.

They shared a smile before she turned and went on her way.

He watched her walk off into the sunlight until she disappeared out of sight.

A man might live a lifetime and never meet a woman like Emma de Lisle.
But not Ned.

A fancy new dress and Emma wouldn't be out of place in Mayfair. Ned smiled to himself and, lifting his hat, began the long walk back across town.

* * *

The letter came the very next morning.

Emma stood in the rented room in the bright golden sunshine with the folded and sealed paper between her fingers, and the smile that had been on her face since the previous day vanished.

It had taken a shilling of their precious savings to pay the post boy, but it was a willing sacrifice. She would have sold the shoes from her feet, sold the dress from her back to accept the letter and all that it might contain.

Her heart began to canter. She felt hope battle dread.

The paper was quality and white, her father's name written on the front in a fine hand with deep-black ink. There was no sender name, no clue impressed within the red-wax seal.

She swallowed, took a deep breath, stilled the churn in her stomach. It might not be the letter for which her father and she had both prayed and dreaded all of these two years past.

The one o'clock bell tolled in the distance.

She placed the letter down on the scrubbed wooden table. Stared at it, knowing that her father would not finish his shift before she left for the Red Lion, knowing, too, that he would probably be asleep by the time she returned. She was very aware that the answer to what had sent her mother to an early grave and turned her father grey with worry might lie within its folds.

Kit.
She closed her eyes at the thought of her younger brother and knew that she could not get through the rest of this day without knowing if the letter contained news of him. Nor would her father. He would want to know, just the same as Emma. Whether the news was good...or even if it was bad.

She pulled her shawl around her shoulders, fastened her bonnet on her head and, with the letter clutched tight within her hand, headed for the London Docks.

Chapter Four

E
mma knew little of the warehouse in which her father worked. He had spoken nothing of it, so this was her first insight into the place that had become his world as much as the Red Lion had become hers.

All around the walls were great racks of enormous shelving stacked with boxes and bales. The windows in the roof were open, but with the heat of the day and the heavy work many of the men were working without shirts. She blushed with the shock of seeing their naked chests and rapidly averted her gaze, as she followed the foreman through the warehouse. Eventually through the maze of shelving corridors they came to another group of shirtless men who were carrying boxes up ladders to stack on high shelves.

‘Bill de Lisle,' the foreman called. ‘Someone here to see you.'

One of the men stepped forward and she was horrified to see it was her father.

‘Papa?' She forgot herself in the shock of seeing his gaunt old body, all stringy from hard labour.

‘Emma?' She heard her shock echoed in his voice. In a matter of seconds he had reclaimed his shirt and pulled it over his head. ‘What has happened? What is wrong to bring you here?'

‘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.

* * *