The Regency Season: Gentleman Rogues. Margaret McPhee

Took a breath and turned to face her employer.

      ‘I did not mean to startle you, my dear.’

      ‘The fault is all mine. I was wool-gathering and did not hear your approach.’ She smiled and, moving from the window, directed the dowager’s attention elsewhere. ‘Cook has quite surpassed herself with the ham and eggs this morning.’

      ‘She has a temperament that requires handling with kid gloves, but...’ Lady Lamerton smiled and lowered her voice to share the confidence ‘...she is worth her weight in gold. Worked for the royal household for years. When she left, Amelia Hilton tried to snaffle her, but I got in first.’ The dowager leaned on her walking stick and gave a very satisfied cat-that-got-the-cream smile that made Emma smile in earnest.

      Emma lifted a plate from the heater and helped Lady Lamerton to a selection from the breakfast dishes before they both took their seats.

      Lady Lamerton peered at the empty space before Emma. ‘I trust you have eaten?’

      ‘I have, thank you.’ She knew how precious food was. How hungry a person could get. So she had eaten whether she had appetite or not.

      ‘I see Mrs Lewis seated you beside Devlin. Hardly the most sensitive of seating arrangements given the history of your families.’

      Emma made no comment.

      ‘Did he upset you?’

      ‘Not at all,’ she lied and thought of Devlin’s insinuation about Ned.

      Lady Lamerton glanced across at Emma as she ate. ‘And yet you have something weighing upon your mind.’

      The butler appeared with a fresh pot of coffee and set it down on the table between them, sending wafts of steam and its rich roasted aroma through the air. By unspoken consent both Emma and Lady Lamerton waited until he had departed again before they resumed their conversation.

      ‘I was thinking of my father,’ Emma admitted, aware that the older woman was no fool. It was the truth, just not all of it.

      ‘Wondering how he is faring in Hounslow without you?’

      In his small comfortable cottage living a quiet but respectable life in Hounslow. So many lies. Emma met Lady Lamerton’s gaze. There was a formidable kindness in it. She wondered what Lady Lamerton would do if she knew the truth? Of Whitechapel and the hardship of life there, of the dockyard warehouse and the Red Lion Chop-House. Part of her wanted so much to tell. To unburden herself. To cease the dishonesty. But Emma knew she could not. She was under no misapprehensions. Lady Lamerton had a kind heart, but she would not understand. And she certainly would not have a woman who had been a serving wench living in her house, acting as her companion. So Emma just smiled in reply.

      ‘I am taking tea with Mrs Hilton this afternoon. There is no need for you to come. Take the day off. Travel out to Hounslow and surprise your papa with a visit.’

      And discover for herself the truth of how he was coping. ‘If you are certain...’

      ‘Quite certain. I would not say it were I not. As long as you are returned before evening. Remember we have agreed to a card evening at Lady Routledge’s.’

      ‘I will be back long before evening.’ No woman wanted to be walking the Whitechapel streets at night. And that made her think of the night that Ned Stratham had stepped in to save her from the two sailors. Of his walking her home...and all it had led to. She stopped the thoughts. Closed her mind to them. Thought of her purpose in being here.

      ‘I have been meaning to ask you whether Lord Lamerton has yet had word of Kit?’ she asked.

      ‘It is early days, Emma, and m’son continues with his enquires. We must leave the matter in his capable hands.’

      ‘I am most grateful. My father will be, too.’ It would be the first thing her father would ask.

      ‘If there is word to be had, Lamerton will be the one to have it.’

      ‘He will.’ Emma smiled, but as she sipped her coffee the question on Emma’s mind was what that word would be.

      * * *

      It was a couple of hours later when Emma made her way across town, walking at a brisk pace. The new olive-green walking dress, cream spencer, bonnet and gloves, all part of the wardrobe Lady Lamerton had bought for her upon her arrival, allowed her to belong in Mayfair. But not so in the East End. It was only when she got into Spitalfields and then headed further east into Whitechapel that she was aware of the way people were looking at her.

      Before, in her own old and shabby attire, or the serving dress lent to her by Nancy, she had fitted in, drawn no notice. Now her new and expensive clothing proclaimed her from another tribe, an intruder from another world. The further she trod into Whitechapel the more uncomfortable she became.

      Streets that only a couple of weeks ago had been her home, her locale, seemed threatening. Men, lurking in doorways, eyed her with sly speculation. Women, sitting upon their steps, did not recognise her as Emma de Lisle, one of Nancy’s girls from the Red Lion, but as someone who should not be here, someone who did not fit in. Only two weeks had passed, but already she had forgotten the depth of the darkness, the stench of the dirt and the cutting danger of this place.

      Five miles separated Whitechapel and Mayfair. It might as well have been five thousand. They were worlds apart. Little wonder Ned changed his clothes to come here. She wished she had done the same.

      But although her clothes were all wrong, she knew these people. She kept her head up, maintained her confidence and stayed true to herself.

      It was with relief that she eventually reached the London Docks.

      In the warehouse was the same foreman she had met before. He did not recognise her at first. Did a double take when she apologised for inconveniencing him and asked him if she might speak to her father.

      ‘Of course, miss.’ He gave a nod. ‘Come right this way for Mr de Lisle.’

      Not Bill this time, but Mr de Lisle. It struck her as odd, as did the fact he led her into an office at the front she had not noticed before.

      Her father was not shirtless and glistening in sweat. The clothes he wore were new—a fine fitted tailcoat and matching breeches, pale shirt and stockings, dark neckcloth and waistcoat. His grey hair was cut short and tidy and combed neat. A new pair of spectacles was perched on the end of his nose. He was the very image of respectability, sitting there at a large desk in the middle of the room writing within a ledger. Like the gentleman he had once been. So many emotions welled up at the sight. Surprise and relief, pride and affection. She pressed her gloved fingers to her lips to control them.

      ‘Emma!’ He set the pen down in its wooden holder. Got to his feet, came to her and embraced her.

      She heard the office door close behind the foreman.

      ‘Oh, Papa! How on earth...?’ She looked him up and down before gazing around them at the change in his environment.

      ‘It is a miracle, is it not?’ He laughed. ‘The very day that you left the company deemed they had a need of someone who could manage the accounts in-house rather than farm it out to an office on the other side of town. A money-saving venture they said. They seemed to know that I had something of an education and offered me the job. Fate has dealt us both good fortune, Emma.’

      ‘It seems that it has,’ she said quietly.

      ‘And the vast increase in wage means I can afford some very fine rooms not so far away in Burr Street, although I have not yet had a chance to write to Mrs Tadcaster so that she could inform you.’

      ‘And you are eating?’

      ‘Like a king. There are some splendid chop-houses in the vicinity.’ There was a twinkle in his eye as he said it.

      Her smile broadened. It was so good to see him like this.

      ‘Now tell me all about how things are with you, my dear girl. I