The Regency Season: Gentleman Rogues. Margaret McPhee

behind the departing butler.

      Ned walked straight to his desk and, ignoring the crystal decanter of brandy that sat there on the silver salver, opened the bottom drawer and took out a bottle of gin. He poured two generous measures into the matching crystal glasses. Passed one to Rob and took a deep swig from the other.

      He could feel his friend’s eyes on him and knew it didn’t look good, but right at this minute he didn’t give a damn.

      ‘You all right, Ned?’

      ‘I’ve been better.’

      ‘You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.’

      That was certainly one way of putting it.

      ‘Business deal gone bad?’ Rob asked.

      Nothing so simple. ‘Something like that.’

      ‘Not Misbourne. Not the—’

      ‘No.’ He cut Rob off. Took another swig of the gin, relishing the raw kick of it. ‘Not Misbourne.’

      ‘That’s a relief, at least.’

      ‘Yes.’

      There was a silence. Ned’s mind was whirring. His blood still pumping hard as if he’d just floored ten men. He could feel a cold sweat on his upper lip, a clamminess on the palms of his hands. He took another gulp of gin to numb the tremor of shock that still ran through him.

      ‘If you need to call off with Misbourne...’

      ‘I don’t.’ Ned met his friend’s gaze. ‘I need Misbourne on board. And missing a lunch he’s arranged will set him against me.’

      ‘It’s just a lunch.’

      ‘Nothing with these men of the ton is just a lunch.’

      ‘If he asks about any of the details...’

      ‘Leave the details to me.’

      Rob gave a nod.

      Ned finished the rest of the gin and set the glass down on the desk.

      ‘Let’s walk. I could do with some fresh air.’ To calm the pound of his blood and shutter the disbelief that was coursing through his body.

      Rob nodded.

      Ned rang the bell for his butler. There would be time to think later and there was much riding on Misbourne.

      Ned was well practised at putting emotion aside. He did it now, coldly, deliberately, and got on with the task in hand.

      * * *

      ‘More tea?’ Emma asked, teapot poised in hand to refill the dowager’s delicate blue Sèvres teacup.

      The afternoon sunlight filled Lady Lamerton’s little parlour, making it bright and warm. Dust motes floated in the sunbeams to land on the circulating library’s latest romance novel on the embroidered tablecloth of the tea table before them.

      On the sideboard at the other end of the parlour, a book on antiquity and a heavyweight tedious literary novel had been discarded until they were required for next week’s return visit to the library.

      ‘Thank you, my dear.’ Lady Lamerton gave a small nod.

      Emma poured the tea.

      ‘So what did you make of our Mr Stratham?’

      ‘Tolerable enough, I suppose.’ Emma managed to keep her hand steady and concentrated on adding a splash of cream and three lumps of sugar to the dowager’s cup, just the way she liked it.

      ‘Tolerable?’ The dowager looked at her aghast as she accepted the cup and saucer from Emma. ‘With those eyes?’

      ‘A pair of fine eyes do not make the man.’

      ‘So you did notice,’ said the dowager slyly. ‘And I must say he seemed rather struck by you.’

      ‘Hardly.’ Emma took satisfaction in her calm tone as she topped up her own teacup.

      ‘Indeed, I do not think I have seen any woman make such an impression upon him.’

      Emma remembered again that expression on his face outside the library. The intense scrutiny in his eyes. The force of something that seemed to emanate from him. Something angry and accusatory that he had no right to feel. She took a sip of tea and said nothing.

      ‘I wonder if he will be at Hawick’s ball tonight,’ the dowager mused.

      Emma felt a shiver ripple down her spine. ‘Is it likely?’

      ‘Most likely, indeed.’

      We will talk, Emma. She thought of the cool promise that had been in his eyes and the utter certainty in those quiet words. She swallowed and resolved not to leave the dowager’s side for the entirety of the evening.

      * * *

      The Duke of Hawick’s ballroom was heaving. It seemed that the entirety of the ton had returned early to London, and were here, turned out for the event since the rumour had got out that the Prince Regent himself might be present.

      It was as warm as an evening in the Red Lion, even though there were no adjacent kitchens here that fanned the heat. No low ceiling or small deep-sunk windows, and bricks that held the heat in summer and the cold in winter. It was a huge room of wealth and opulence that would have been beyond the imagination of most of those who frequented the Red Lion Chop-House. The massive chandelier held a hundred candles whose flames made the crystals glitter and sparkle like diamonds. The windows were numerous and large, the sashes pulled up to allow a circulation of fresh air. At the back of the room were glass doors that opened out on to a long strip of town garden similar to that at the back of the mansion house in Cavendish Square. All of that open glass and air and yet still the place was too warm because of the throng of guests.

      ‘Another fine evening,’ Lord Longley said and lifted a glass of champagne from the silver salver that the footman held before him.

      ‘Indeed.’ Ned accepted a glass of champagne, too. Took a sip without betraying the slightest hint that he hated the stuff. He was all too aware of the way Longley ignored Rob’s presence. ‘You have met my steward, Mr Finchley.’

      Longley could barely keep the curl from his upper lip as he gave the smallest of acknowledgements to Rob before returning his attention to Ned. He thought Rob beneath him. And Ned, too, but swallowed his principles for the sake of money.

      ‘Harrow tells me you were at Tattersall’s saleroom the other day looking at the cattle.’ Tattersall’s was the auction house where the ton went to buy their horses. Ned could hear the slight sneer that Longley always had in his voice when he spoke to him. Felt the edge of anger that he always felt amongst these men born to titles and wealth and privilege and who lived in a world far removed from reality.

      ‘Browsing the wares.’ Ned’s eyes were cool. ‘Were we not, Mr Finchley?’

      ‘And fine wares they were, too,’ said Rob.

      ‘Matters equine take a knowledgeable eye.’ Which you do not have. That patronising air that Longley could not quite hide no matter how hard he tried. ‘And experience. I would be happy to teach you a thing or two.’

      ‘How kind.’ Ned smiled.

      The sentiment behind the smile was lost on Longley.

      ‘Where do you ride?’

      ‘I don’t.’

      ‘I did not know that,’ said Longley and tucked the tidbit away to share with his friends in White’s should matters not work out between him and Ned as he was hoping. ‘I suppose I should have realised, what with your not having come from—’ He stopped himself just in time.

      Ned held Longley’s gaze.

      The earl glanced away, cleared his throat and changed the subject to why he was standing here in Ned’s company tonight.