Harlequin Historical September 2014 - Bundle 1 of 2: The Lone Sheriff\The Gentleman Rogue\Never Trust a Rebel (40 page)

He locked his emotions away. Thought through the steps of what must be done. The only things he could do. Nothing would make this right. But then he had always known that. He could bear her hatred, but her hurt—that was a lot harder. But Ned would bear it. He had borne much in his life. Things that would have made men like Devlin and Kit Northcote quail. He would bear it and know he had done all that he could. And that knowledge at least was something.

Ned did not drown his sorrows in gin. He did not stare aimlessly down on to the darkened street. He went to the desk and he found the papers that he needed. Then he sat there in that expensive leather-winged armchair, in a room that was bigger than any house he had lived in. He waited for the night to pass, and the dawn to come.

* * *

When daylight finally came he washed and dressed himself in fresh clothes. And with the papers safely stowed in his pocket he slipped out of the front door.

Emma stood at the edge of the window of her bedchamber and watched Ned's figure disappear along the road.

She was still wearing the nightdress and shawl. Her feet were bare and tinged blue from the cold. Her head was pounding from a night filled with a storm of misery and disbelief and nothing of sleep. Her eyes were swollen and heavy from weeping. But she did not weep now. She was empty. Numb.

She stood there even after he was long gone.

She stood there because she did not know what else to do.

What
did
a woman do when she discovered that the man she loved was not who she thought him? That everything upon which their life and love was based was a lie?

I have never lied to you. I never will.

Maybe not in words. But he had deceived her just the same. And she did not know where they went from here. Because she did not know what it was she felt for him any more. Because she was his wife and he her husband and nothing could change that.

He was her husband.

He was her lover.

And he was the man who had taken her family's money.

She thought of her father having to give up their family home in Berkeley Street and move to a string of increasingly cheaper accommodations. And of the slow ignoble decline to obscurity.

She thought of Kit's running away, of what that had done to her mother, of first Spitalfields and the consumption that had taken her mother's life. And then Whitechapel, and the dockyards and the Red Lion.

‘Kit.' She whispered his name in the quietness of the room, as if he would hear her.
Kit.
In her mind she saw his face, the laughing eyes that were so like her father's, the grin that he wore when he teased her.

No one put a pistol to his head and forced him to the gaming tables.
Devlin's words sounded again in her memory. She tried to close her mind to that truth, just as she had always done, but this time there was something in the way and the door would not shut completely.

She closed her eyes and it was not her brother's face she saw, but that of another man. A face that was not refined or beautiful. A face that was rugged, with its own harsh handsomeness. It made the hole in her chest, where her heart had been, ache. But it could not change who he was and what he had done. It only ridiculed it all the more, even if what had brought them together really had been just a cruel trick played by fate. Did she even believe that?

The memory of the pain in Ned's eyes, the force of emotion pulsing through him when he had denied her accusation. A man on the edge. She believed him. But it did not change anything. He had kept the truth from her. And, in a way, that deception hurt more than what it was he had been hiding.

She thought of packing the little travelling bag with which she had arrived here. Of returning to her father.

She thought of turning up at the Red Lion and asking for her old job back. Of earning enough to rent a room with another girl.

But in the end she knew she could do neither of those things.

So Emma went through the motions and she washed and she dressed, and she waited for Ned to come home.

* * *

It was six o'clock in the evening when Ned returned to the Cavendish Square mansion.

The sky was grey outside, the light already beginning to fade even at this early hour. Rain pattered softly against the bow window, trickling down the panes of glass like tears. She sat on the Queen Anne armchair by the fire in the drawing room, pretending that she was reading a book, pretending that she had not been pacing and anxious.

‘Emma.' He came to stand by the fireplace. She could see the sparkle of raindrops where they sat upon the shoulders and sleeves of his coat, not yet absorbed by the wool. His hair was damp, swept back as if he had raked his fingers through it.

The silence was strained.

‘Where have you been all day?' He looked tired. There were shadows beneath his eyes. And she already knew that he had stayed the long night in his study.

‘To see my man of business. And a few other people, too.'

There was the slow tick of the grandfather clock in the corner of the drawing room and the clatter of horses' hooves passing from the road outside. It felt everything that her relationship with Ned had never been—awkward, uncomfortable. The accusations she had thrown at him last night still hung between them, jagged and sharp, still cutting.

‘I don't expect you to forgive me, Emma.' His eyes held hers for a moment and her heart began to pound and the pain was back, making a lump in her throat.

‘I am not sure that I ever can.' She had to be honest with him.

The silence hissed.

He nodded, then looked away. Took some papers from his pocket, legal papers by the looks of them.

He sat them down on the table by her side. ‘Everything is yours. To do with as you see fit. My only request is that you keep the businesses running. My man of business, Mr Kerr, will call upon you in the morning to explain the details. As far as everything else, if there are any problems, if you are ever lost, go to Rob Finchley in South Street. He will help you.'

‘You are leaving?' Her heart contracted small and tight with shock and too many other confused emotions.

‘I didn't think you wanted me to stay.'

The silence roared

Stay!
her mind whispered, but her tongue held the word captive and would not let it escape. Her fingers were gripping so hard to the book between them that her knuckles shone white. Pride was all she had left. Pride and the pretence that he had not flayed her raw, that his leaving was not hurting her all the more.

That moment was the longest of her life. Stretched precarious. Painful. Cutting to the bone.

‘Goodbye, Emma.'

Do not go!
The plea pounded through her head. Whispered through her blood. But she sat there and said nothing, and let him walk away.

The drawing-room door shut softly behind him. She heard the quiet murmur of voices, then the open and close of the front door.

He could not be gone. So quickly. In the space of a few heartbeats.

She ran to the window, saw the familiar figure walking away down the street. Alone. No carriage. No travelling bag. Nothing save the clothes he was wearing. The darkness of his tailcoat disappearing into the grey gloom of the evening.

He could not really be gone, she thought again. Just like that. With nothing. He had to be coming back, for his clothes, for his possessions. Didn't he? But there was a terrible empty feeling in her chest because she knew, absolutely knew, that Ned was not coming back.

The book slipped from her fingers to thud on the Turkey rug below.

She did not stoop to pick it up. She did not even know its title or a single word that was written within its blue-bound covers. The rain lashed harder against the windows like fists beating to gain entry.

And a little part of Emma's soul shrivelled and died.

Chapter Seventeen

E
mma received Mr Kerr in the drawing room at ten o'clock the next morning.

He was a small tidy man, with short grey hair neat around a balding pate. His age was middling, but his eyes were sharp and honest. Everything about him exuded competence and efficiency.

His gaze moved to the documents that still lay untouched on the table where Ned had left them.

She met his eyes, held them. ‘What are you here to tell me, sir?'

‘Mr Stratham had this house and the other property, and all of his assets, moved into a trust. He then gave the trust into the management of Mr William Northcote, with the stipulation that it be all for the “separate use” of his daughter, Mrs Emma Stratham. It effectively means that legally you own it all.'

‘But he is my husband, and as such, everything that I own is his.'

‘Not in the case of the trust. It is one of the few devices that may be used to circumvent certain particulars of the marriage property laws.'

She looked at him as what he was saying sunk in. ‘I own it all?'

‘Down to the last farthing.'

She frowned. ‘You mentioned another property.'

‘A house in Berkeley Street. Number nineteen, as I recall.'

The house in which she had been born and grown up.

‘Mr Stratham purchased it almost two months ago.' He slipped a pair of spectacles to his nose and peered down at his notes. ‘On the thirteenth of September.'

A few weeks after she had come to work for the Dowager Lady Lamerton.

‘I have taken the liberty of producing a summary of your financial situation, which I thought would be of assistance.' He passed her a single-page document. ‘I think you will find everything to be in order, but if you have any questions or instructions please do not hesitate to contact me.' He removed his spectacles to the safety of his waistcoat pocket, put his papers away in his leather folder and rose to leave. ‘I will bid you good day, Mrs Stratham.'

Emma's eyes moved over the sheet, scanning the figures written there. ‘A moment, sir.'

He stopped and looked at her with polite enquiry.

‘These figures...the sums in the bank accounts... They cannot be accurate.'

‘I assure you, madam, they are entirely correct.'

‘But...' Her father had been wealthy enough, worth five thousand a year. She totted up the balances of the bank accounts. ‘One hundred thousand pounds?' she said weakly. It had to be an error. It made no sense.

‘Your husband is a very shrewd businessman. There are not many men who could grow an investment twentyfold in the space of two years.'

She stared at him. ‘How did he do it?'

‘A nose for knowing what to invest in and when.'

‘He spoke of “businesses.”'

‘A variety throughout the East End—a vinegar manufactory, a dye house, several timber yards, a cooperage, a large brewery and a distillery. He also owned several mills—for wool, cotton and silk. Investments in the East and West Indies, and in the Americas. Shipyards in Portsmouth. And then there were the London Docks with all the warehousing, storage and loading operations located there. As I said, a very shrewd gentleman.'

She sat very still.

‘So it seems,' she said and thought back to the conversation that had passed between her and her father on the day of her wedding, specifically to that one subtle slip. She understood it now, although she had barely noticed it then, let alone understood what it meant—that her father knew that Ned Stratham was the man who owned the dockyard and provided employment to him and all those men in the warehouse.

‘Are there any other questions with which I may help you, Mrs Stratham?'

‘No, thank you.' She let the butler show him out before untying and opening the uppermost legal document. It was the trust deed that Mr Kerr had spoken of.

Her eyes scanned over the list of all it encompassed. All the monies and properties and businesses. Bonds and shares and investments. Everything that Ned had owned. Wealth that must best almost every other man in England. And then her eye saw the date on the document.

The house was silent. Empty. Not another sound within it save the sob that caught in her throat.

Ned had signed the document on the morning of their wedding.

* * *

The days passed and Ned did not return. Everything went on in the house just as before, everything running like clockwork. Well oiled and efficient without her. The servants never asked when their master would be returning. If they knew he was not, they made no mention.

After a week of hiding behind closed doors she left Cavendish Square and went to visit the house in Berkeley Street.

The family to whom her father had sold the lease had changed much, but some things were still the same. As she walked from room to room there were echoes of memories from far-off days: her mother smiling and entertaining in the drawing room; Christmas Day with twenty gathered round a banquet in the dining room; Kit pulling her ponytail and laughing as he chased her down the stairs; cold winter evenings in the parlour with her father telling them stories as they all sat round a roaring log fire, drinking warmed milk with honey. And the feeling was bittersweet because all those times, all that happiness, and what had Ned been doing in those same years?

Children are not children for long round here.

A boy alone in a harsh world. With no warm cosy house. No proper home at all. A foundling. A runaway. No banquets at Christmas. No love.

The thought scraped at her insides. She closed her eyes, tried to suppress it, but it remained there silent and stubborn.

Poverty. Struggle. Hardship. What would a man not do to escape that life?

The house was empty now. A past gone never to be reclaimed. Inside Emma was keening. But it was not that long-lost life of plenty that she grieved. It was the loss of something much more precious. And it did not matter if she closed her eyes because she still saw him standing there with those intense blue eyes. And it did not matter if she blocked her ears because she still heard the gentleness of his voice.

She hugged her arms around herself, clutched her skin tight, but she still ached for his caress. A man stronger and fiercer than any she had known. A man who she did not doubt could kill another. And yet towards her she had never known a more gentle man.

She left Berkeley Street and knew she would not return. The past was just that. Gone, as much as Ned.

* * *

Emma sought out Rob Finchley in his house across town in South Street the next day.

He received her in his drawing room.

‘Mrs Stratham.' For all the polite tone of his voice she could see his reserve and judgement when he looked at her. He knew Ned had left and why.

‘Is something wrong, ma'am?' Worry flashed a frown in his eyes, there, then masked.

She did not waste time in niceties. There was little point in that for either of them. ‘Where is he, Mr Finchley?'

‘If you are referring to Mr Stratham's whereabouts, the answer is I don't know.'

‘You came with him from Whitechapel. You are his friend. You must know where he has gone.'

‘He would not tell me.'

She held his gaze, not sure whether he was telling her the truth. ‘And if you did know...would you tell me?'

‘I'm afraid I wouldn't, ma'am,' he said.

They looked at one another.

‘I just want to know that he is all right. That he is...safe.'

‘Ned is a survivor. He was on the streets alone at four years old. His home was a corner in a derelict manufactory. He's survived things you couldn't even begin to imagine.'

She said nothing. Because she knew it was the truth. And nothing she could say could make it better, only worse.

‘Ned is hardly blameless in all of this,' she said to justify herself against the accusation she sensed in him. ‘He did take the money.'

‘He took the money all right, the money your wastrel brother would have drunk and whored and gamed elsewhere...'

‘My brother—' she began in Kit's defence, but Rob Finchley kept on talking.

‘The money that you would have frittered on fancy frocks and balls and fripperies. Yes, he took it, and he did something good with it. He created jobs for those that had none. He set up soup kitchens for the hungry, and is building a children's home for those that live on the streets of Whitechapel. You may think what you will of him, but Ned Stratham is a better man than any I've ever known.'

‘A home for children?'

‘His project with Misbourne. An annexe of the Foundling Hospital. Ned's idea, Ned's money and means. But no matter how worthy the cause, he still needed a title to sway the prejudice of the powers that be. Misbourne is chief amongst the Hospital's governors.'

‘I did not know,' she said softly. So many things she had not known about him.

‘Happen you didn't. But you should know how hard he tried to do right by you.'

She thought of all the times that Ned had saved her.

‘He would have married a title. Achieved the influence and acceptance he needed to drive his charities forward, to grow his businesses and provide more employment for the poor. And then you appeared...and everything changed.' Rob Finchley stopped. Reined himself in. ‘Forgive me, ma'am, if I've spoken out of turn. But it's a matter close to my heart.'

And a matter close to her own. She felt cold and alone. She felt the battle of conflicting emotions—of hurt and anger, of love and longing.
An annexe of the Foundling Hospital.
He was a villain; a rogue whose every action only proved all the more why she loved him. There was an ache in her heart that grew only worse, but Emma showed nothing of it. She gave a dignified nod and, with her head held high, walked away.

* * *

Emma rose early the next day, despite another night in which she had managed snatches of sleep and nothing more. Entered Ned's study for the first time since he had left. Just needed to have a sense of being near him.

The autumn sunlight was cool and pale through the window. The trees that lined the Square were ablaze with fiery leaves rustling in the breeze, a last show of colour before they withered and fell.

She stopped where she was. Felt her heart turn over. For there on the great desk lay a letter. One small pale shape upon that stretch of dark polished wood, just like Kit's IOU that had lain there on that terrible night.

She knew before she walked closer, before she stood before it and read the single name, written in a hand that was cramped and uncomfortable with writing, that it was for her. And she knew, too, who it was from.

Her heart was pounding hard and heavy. Her stomach clenched and twisted. She bit her lip to stop its tremble. Reaching out, she lifted the letter. Something slid and moved within its folds.

On the back it was sealed with a blob of red wax, the letter S imprinted within the waxen circle. She broke the wax and carefully opened out the letter. Inside, the paper was blank. Not one word written there. Instead, in its centre was a small ivory disc, dented and scraped, its edges unevenly clipped. The shape of the diamond carved within it was worn smooth by his touch through the years, its red stain now faded to the faintest blush. The only thing Ned's mother had ever given him. Ned's lucky token.

She took it in her hand and held it as if it were the most precious thing in the world. And the tears welled in her eyes and overflowed to spill down her cheeks because she knew then that he really had given her his everything. All that he owned. All that he was.

* * *

Rob knew he was coming and yet he jumped as Ned stepped out of the shadow of the wall beside him. The narrowness of the mews behind the house in Cavendish Square was quiet at this time at night.

Ned glanced towards the house with its lights that glowed behind blind closed windows, then asked the question. ‘How is she?'

‘She's like a ghost.'

Ned closed his eyes at that. ‘The pain and anger will fade eventually.'

‘Will it?' asked Rob.

‘For her, I hope.'

‘And for you?'

Ned said nothing to that. He had no anger. Only pain, and that was unremitting. He held it to him and would never let it go because it was entwined with her memory.

‘You haven't told her anything, have you?'

‘Just as you instructed.' Rob glanced away to the side. ‘She asked me where you had gone.'

Ned's eyes met those of his friend. ‘And what did you say?'

‘The truth—that I don't know.'

There was a little silence.

‘Where are you staying, Ned? If you need some money—' Rob began to pull some banknotes from his pocket, but Ned stopped him with a touch to the shoulder.

‘No.'

He could see the worry in Rob's eyes. Knew it was time to go. ‘Thank you for doing this for me, Rob. For looking out for her in these early days until I know she's going to be all right.'

Rob gave a nod. ‘It's the least I can do.'

They looked at each other for a moment longer, before Ned gave a final gruff nod. ‘Take care of yourself, Rob.'

‘You, too, Ned. You, too.' Rob stood and watched while the figure of his friend walked away to be swallowed up by the night.

* * *

She went to Whitechapel the next day. Walked there to the dockyard.

‘Emma?' Her father took one look at her face, gestured the other two men in the office to leave and closed the door quietly behind them before turning to face her. ‘You look tired, my dear.'

‘I am well enough.' She brushed away the observation, forced a smile to her face. ‘I am here to ask you to come home with me to Mayfair. You do not need to work, Papa.'

But he shook his head. ‘I may not need to work, Emma, but I want to. I like it here. I am useful. I have purpose. I am good at what I do and what I do makes a difference, to the men that work here, and more. My home and life is here now. Life moves on, Emma. There is nothing for me in Mayfair. Not any more.'