The Regency Season: Gentleman Rogues: The Gentleman Rogue / The Lost Gentleman. Margaret McPhee

      ‘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