The Regency Season: Gentleman Rogues: The Gentleman Rogue / The Lost Gentleman

Ned found the less-than-subtle attempt at intimidation amusing. He had grown up the hard way. He knew how to read people. He understood Devlin better than Devlin understood himself. And he knew exactly which buttons to press to play him.

‘Lord Devlin.’ He smiled. ‘How nice of you all to come over.’

The remark hit the spot. Devlin stiffened, then forced a smile. ‘Miss Northcote’s company beckoned.’ The viscount turned his attention to Emma. ‘I trust you are enjoying the picnic, Miss Northcote.’

‘Very much, thank you, Lord Devlin.’ Her words were polite, but Ned could hear the cool tinge in them. Her smile was small, perfunctory. It did not touch her eyes. Her dimple remained hidden. Her gaze skimmed over Devlin and his friends. Her poise was calm and controlled, yet beneath it Ned could sense her discomfort.

‘And you? Are you enjoying being here?’ Ned asked of Devlin.

‘Not as much as you, it would seem. I do not suppose they have picnics where you come from. Where was it again? I am not sure you ever did say?’ Devlin sipped at his champagne as he played a dangerous game.

Emma shifted with unease.

‘Such an interest in me, Lord Devlin. How flattering. I could give you my life history—where I came from...how I came to be here... All the details, if you want. We never really have had a chance to chat.’

Devlin’s eyes narrowed with contempt. ‘I am a busy man. My time is precious. And I have no interest in trade.’

Emma’s eyes widened at the implied insult.

Ned smiled. ‘And yet here you are, sharing that precious time with me.’

Devlin bristled. A muscle twitched in his jaw as he clenched his teeth. He glared at Ned for a moment before addressing Emma. ‘If you will excuse me, Miss Northcote.’

She gave a tiny nod of her head.

The four young noblemen made curt bows and walked away.

Emma and Ned looked at one another.

It could have been just the two of them standing there, as it had been that day at the old stone bench. But that day was long gone and was never coming back.

His eyes traced her face.

‘Goodbye, Emma.’ A small bow and he walked away.

* * *

That evening was one of Lady Lamerton’s rest evenings, as she called them. One of two or three evenings a week when she stayed at home. To rest and nurture her strength and vigour and to make her presence all the more appreciated at the Foundling Hospital’s ball the next evening. Every night and they grew tired of one, she said. Too few evenings and they thought one out of it. The trick was in getting the balance of nights in and nights out just right. And the dowager knew a thing or two about such subtleties of the ton, having spent a lifetime mastering its handling.

They sat together in the little parlour playing whist.

‘Apparently the picnic raised more than three thousand pounds for Colonel Morley’s regimental charity.’ Lady Lamerton eyed her cards.

‘A very successful fundraiser. Mrs Morley must be happy.’ Emma placed a card down on the pile.

The dowager gave a tut when she saw the card.

Emma smiled at her.

And the dowager smiled, too. ‘Positively crowing. You know she never got over Lamerton—God rest his soul—choosing me over her. Accepted Morley as a poor second best.’

‘I did not know that.’

‘It was so long ago that there are few enough of us left to remember.’

‘Was it a love match between you and Lord Lamerton?’

‘Good heavens, no!’ She gave a chuckle as if it were an absurd suggestion. ‘Lamerton needed my papa’s fortune.’

As too many earls needed Ned’s.

‘I was in love with someone else.’

The revelation was so unexpected. It allowed Emma a glimpse into the past and the young and passionate woman that Lady Lamerton must have been.

The dowager placed her card down on top of Emma’s with deliberation. When she looked up to meet Emma’s gaze she smiled. ‘Elizabeth Morley’s contribution to the picnic was paltry. Considerably more is expected of the hostess than a few seed cakes. Little wonder her face was so sour when she saw the magnificence of my peach flans.’ She gave a small cackle.

‘You are incorrigible.’

‘I am blessed with natural ability.’

They both smiled.

‘I saw you talking to Devlin and Mr Stratham. Matters between you and Devlin seem amicable.’

They were hardly amicable, but in her role as the dowager’s companion Emma could not be anything other than civil to him. She gave a smile that the dowager interpreted as agreement.

‘You do know that Mr Stratham contributed the pineapples.’

‘Rather too extravagant,’ said Emma.

‘I would describe it as a clever move. When it comes to cultivating the ton, he knows he must make his money work for him.’

Ned was a shrewd man. She thought of the way he had sat in the Red Lion all those months. Self-contained, serene, but with so much beneath. She thought, too, of Devlin’s words about Ned and women. She hesitated just a moment, then spoke.

‘And yet I heard a rumour concerning Mr Stratham.’

‘A rumour, you say?’ The dowager raised an eyebrow and looked interested.

‘That Mr Stratham is less than discreet or honourable when it comes to women.’

‘Rather a risqué rumour for the ears of an innocent.’

Emma smiled. ‘I could not help overhearing a conversation as I was passing.’

Lady Lamerton smiled her appreciation of eavesdropping. ‘It is a quite misinformed opinion, my dear. Stratham is not that manner of man at all.’

‘And yet he did spend time with Mrs White at the picnic.’ Emma thought of the vivacious young widow and the way her violet eyes had looked so seductively into Ned’s, the way she had touched a gloved hand on more than one occasion to his arm.