The Gentleman Rogue

* * *

Across town the next day, within the dining room of a mansion house in Cavendish Square, a very distinguished luncheon was taking place.

The fireplace was black marble, carved and elaborate. The walls were red, lined with ornate paintings of places in Scotland and overseas Ned had never been. Above the table hung an enormous chandelier from which a thousand crystal drops danced and shimmered in the slight breeze from the opened window. There were two windows in the room, both large, bowed in style, both framed with long heavy red damask curtains with fringed swags and tails. Both had blinds that were cream in colour and pulled high.

Out in the street beyond, the sky was bright with the golden light of a summer’s afternoon. It glinted on the silver service and crystal of the glasses on the polished mahogany table stretched out like a long banqueting table from kings of old. Enough spaces to seat eighteen. But there were only five men dining from the sumptuous feast. Seated in the position of the principal guest was the government minister for trade. On his left was the minister’s secretary. Directly opposite the minister was the biggest mill owner in the north and one away was a shipping magnate whose line was chief to service the West Indies and the Americas. A powerful collection of men, and seated at their heart, in the position of host, was Ned Stratham.

He fed them the best of fine foods and rich sauces prepared by a chef who had once been employed by the Prince Regent. He ensured that his butler and footmen were well trained enough to keep the men’s glasses flowing with expensive French wines. A different one suited for each dish.

Ned knew how to play the game. He knew what was necessary for success in business and influence over policy.

‘I can make no promises,’ said the minister.

‘I’m not asking you to,’ replied Ned.

‘And the source of the figures you quoted?’

‘Sound.’

‘You really think it would work?’

Ned gave a nod.

‘You would be taking as much a risk as us, maybe even more so as it is your money on the line.’

‘Maximum gain comes from maximum venture.’

‘If the vote were to go against us and the bill fail...’

‘You would survive it.’

‘But would you?’ the minister asked.

‘That’s not your problem.’ Ned held his gaze while the seconds stretched, until eventually the minister for trade nodded.

‘I will set the necessary mechanisms in motion tomorrow.’

‘Then, we’re agreed.’ Ned held out his hand for a handshake.

The minister swallowed. A shadow of unease shifted through his shrewd eyes. It was one thing to say the words, but another to shake on it. A handshake for men like him placed their honour on the line.

There was a silence that was awkward for them all save Ned. He took a sort of wry pleasure in such moments; using gentlemen’s discomfort of him and his dubious breeding to his own ends.

The other three looked nervous, waited to see what the minister would do.

Ned kept his gaze on the other man’s. Kept his hand extended. Both were steady.

The minister smiled and finally shook Ned’s hand. ‘You have convinced me, sir.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’

* * *

It was after six by the time the luncheon finally ended and four of the most influential men in the country left Cavendish Square.

The butler and two footmen returned to the dining room, standing with their backs against the wall. Faces straight ahead, eyes focused on some distant point. Ned marvelled that gentlemen discussed the details of confidential business before servants, as if they were not men, as if they could not see or hear what was going on. Ned knew better. He never made the same mistake.

He sat alone at the table, the wine glass still half-full in his hand. The sunlight which streamed in through the windows lit the port within a deep ruby-red and made the monogram engraved on the glass’s surface sparkle—S for Stratham.

The minister had squirmed, but in the end the deal had been done. It would be good for much more than Ned. He felt a sense of grim satisfaction.

The butler cleared his throat and came to hover by his elbow. ‘More port, sir?’

‘No, thank you, Clarkson.’ Ned wondered what Clarkson would do if he were to ask for a porter. But gentlemen in Mayfair did not drink porter. Not in any of their fancy rich establishments. Not even in their own homes. And Ned must keep up the guise of a gentleman.

But porter made him think of Whitechapel, and the Red Lion...and Emma de Lisle. With those perceptive dark eyes, and that vitality and warm, joyful confidence that emanated from her.

He glanced out of the window, at the sunlight and the carriage that trundled past, and felt the waft of cool air break through the cigar smoke that lingered like a mist within the dining room.

He had other business to attend to. But it didn’t have to happen tonight.

Ned set the fine crystal goblet down upon the table. Got to his feet.

The butler appeared by his side again.

‘I’m going out, Clarkson.’

‘Very good, sir. Shall I arrange for the carriage?’

‘No carriage.’ Not for where Ned was going. ‘It’s a fine evening. I’ll walk.’

Ned went to change into his old leather jacket and boots.

* * *

The heat from the kitchen mixed with that that had built up in the taproom through the summer’s day to make the air of the Red Lion stifling. The chop-house’s windows and doors were all open, but it made little difference.

Nancy had taken advantage of the heatwave and had her staff carry some tables out on to the street, so that the chop-house’s customers could sit out there in the cool shade and drink their beer.

‘Three pitchers of ale!’ Nancy yelled and Emma hurried to answer.

Emma could feel the sweat dripping down her back and between her breasts. Never had a shift seemed so long. Her legs were aching and her feet felt like they were on fire. She lifted the tray, tried to blow a hair away from where it had escaped her pins to dangle in her eye and made her way across the taproom, hurrying out of the doorway, just as Ned Stratham was coming in.

She collided with him, almost dropping the tray. It was Ned who steadied it, stopping the slide of the pitchers and the ensuing disaster.

‘Ned Stratham,’ she said, and inside her stomach felt like a flock of starlings taking off from the fields as one to swoop across a sunset sky. ‘Two nights on the trot? This is a first.’ Sometimes weeks passed between his visits.

Those blue, blue eyes met hers and held for a second too long. ‘You’ve been counting.’