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

your back to the wall so that no one could surprise you from behind. Always have a clear view of the doorway—both to see who entered and for exiting purposes. Where they stood satisfied both criteria.

      On their right was the wall lined with long rectangular windows that had no curtains or blinds, only shutters that were fixed open. On their left were the internal wall and doorway that led in from the hallway and chapel. The dying sunset outside lit the windows, casting the hall with a rosy glow. From the centre of the high ceiling hung a massive but unadorned chandelier lit with the flicker of candles. It was a glamorous event, select, fashionable, six months in the organising. Tickets had been priced at one hundred pounds and every single one had been sold. To the richest and most elite of the ton. Ned smiled at that thought.

      Rob gave a faint gesture of his head towards the door. ‘Thought that Devlin and his cronies would have been at the demi-monde masquerade ball in the Argyle Rooms. Wonder what they’re doing here instead?’

      ‘Supporting the Foundling Hospital.’ Ned gave a wry smile.

      Rob laughed. ‘A nice thought that.’

      ‘Very nice.’

      ‘Would get right up their noses as much as you do, if they knew precisely where their money was going.’

      ‘If things go well with Misbourne, it won’t be too long before they discover it for themselves.’

      Rob grinned.

      But Ned suspected that there was more to Devlin’s presence here than just a night out. As if on cue, Devlin glanced at Emma.

      Ned didn’t need to follow his gaze. He already knew that she and the Dowager Lady Lamerton were standing with a group of the ton’s tabbies at the other end of the room. He knew that beside her the other women seemed faded and bland and that, beneath her calm, capable, polite interchanges, Emma was as aware of him as he was of her.

      Devlin scanned the rest of the crowd until his eyes finally met Ned’s.

      Ned curved his mouth in a smile, drew Devlin a tiny acknowledgement, at which the viscount couldn’t quite hide his contempt.

      ‘Caught looking and he doesn’t seem too pleased about it if the expression on his face is anything to go by,’ said Rob. ‘He normally likes to pretend you’re so beneath him that he doesn’t even notice you.’

      And yet they both knew that were there a thousand people in this room Devlin would still have noticed him.

      Ned’s gaze shifted to Emma Northcote one last time.

      And at the very same time her eyes met his. Something rippled between them before she looked away, engaging her attention more fully on Lady Lamerton and the group of women around her.

      Ned pushed the thought of her from his head. It did not matter whether she was here or not. He had business to attend to. ‘Time to go and talk to Misbourne.’

      Rob gave a nod.

      The musicians finished their tuning and began to play the initial bars of the first dance.

      Ned sat his empty glass on the tray of a passing footman before making his way with Rob across the dance floor.

      * * *

      Emma was standing with Lady Lamerton at the other end of the Foundling Hospital hall. Lady Lamerton’s social life was such a whir of activity. It had been so long since Emma had lived amongst the ton that she had forgotten what it was like to have so many social engagements, to plan one’s entire life around them. The Season and Little Season were possibly the most important events of the year. Wardrobes were built around them. Débutantes launched in them. Marriages forged. And money, huge amounts of money, spent on and because of them. Emma had grown up accepting it as normal, but since her return from Whitechapel she questioned it.

      After six months in that other world she could see it with fresh eyes. The vast luxury of it. The wonder. The sophistication and elegance. It took her breath away at the same time as it made her feel uneasy. She wondered if this was how Ned must have felt when first he came to Mayfair; wondered if he still felt it or had grown used to it.

      She glanced across the length of the hall at where he stood with his steward, Rob Finchley. The midnight-blue tailcoat served to show his strong square shoulders. Other men padded their shoulders, but Emma knew that Ned Stratham’s required no padding. She remembered too well how lean and hard and strong his body was.

      Her eyes moved over his white cravat and white-worked waistcoat. Dark breeches clung to those long muscular thighs that had pressed to hers. White stockings and dark slippers. Hair that was cut short and cast golden by the candlelight.

      And yet all his expensive tailoring did not disguise Ned’s slight edge of danger and darkness. There was something untamed about him. Like a wolf amongst a pack of sleek, pampered, pedigree dogs. She thought of what it took to survive in a place like Whitechapel. She thought of what it must have taken him to rise up out of it.

      Her ears pricked up at the mention of his name. It dragged her back to the presence of Lady Lamerton and the surrounding conversation.

      ‘I would not have thought to find Mr Stratham here,’ Mrs Quigley, a tabby with the sharpest claws, was saying. Her little eyes flicked a look of superiority in his direction.

      ‘I would be more surprised over his absence,’ Lady Lamerton said in a tone that put Mrs Quigley in her place. ‘Given that Mr Stratham is a patron of the Foundling Hospital.’

      That was news to Emma and apparently to Mrs Quigley, too.

      ‘I have it from m’son that Edward Stratham is the hospital’s most generous single donor.’

      ‘Garnering favour with the prospective fathers through marriage,’ said Mrs Quigley.

      ‘Tush,’ said Lady Routledge. ‘Any prospective fathers through marriage are likely to be up to their necks in River Tick and would be more impressed if Stratham kept the cash in his own coffers.’

      ‘Indeed.’ Lady Lamerton adjusted her walking stick. ‘But who I am surprised to see here are Devlin and his friends.’

      ‘Not their usual scene at all,’ said Mrs Hilton.

      ‘Would have thought it rather too tame for those dissolute young bucks,’ said Lady Routledge. ‘I hope they are not here to cause trouble.’

      ‘They are here for something,’ said Lady Lamerton. ‘Take my word upon it.’

      ‘Perhaps one of them has their eye on a respectable lady. Perhaps they have decided to give up their rakish ways and settle down. Perhaps Devlin’s papa has finally had a word in his ear.’ Mrs Quigley glanced across at Lady Lamerton.

      ‘Stanborough has mentioned nothing to me.’

      ‘That does not mean it is not true,’ pointed out Mrs Morley.

      The dowager drew her a look that would have felled a lesser woman.

      The music started up, the rhythm of the notes thudding through Emma’s head, through her blood. The first dance was announced.

      Emma glanced across at Ned again and met the full force of his gaze. It made the butterflies flock in her stomach and her heart strike a tattoo just the same as it had done in the Red Lion; maybe even more so given the mess of their entanglement.

      In that look was that same strength of character, that same tight rein of self-control. Calm, watchful confidence with the hint of something so resonant that it sent a shiver through her whole body.

      Emma glanced away. This was not the Red Lion. He was not the same man. And even if he were, it was too late. She was here with a purpose. She could not forget her brother or the vow she had sworn to her mother. She turned away to the dowager just as Mrs Quigley exclaimed in breathy shock, ‘Oh, my! I do believe he is coming to ask Miss Northcote to dance. How...unexpected.’

      For a tiny moment she thought Mrs Quigley meant Ned. Emma’s heart banged