Harlequin Historical September 2014 - Bundle 1 of 2: The Lone SheriffThe Gentleman RogueNever Trust a Rebel

by Lynna Banning

  ‘You know the tips from the chop-house pay very well indeed, much better than for any milliner or shop girl. And it will not be for ever.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ he said thoughtfully.

  ‘No perhaps about it, Papa,’ she said sternly. ‘Our savings begin to grow. And I have made an application for a position in Clerkenwell. It is not Mayfair, but it is heading in the right direction.’

  ‘Managing a chop-house.’

  Managing a tavern, but she did not tell him that. ‘One step at a time, on a journey that will eventually lead us back to our own world.’

  He smiled. ‘My dear girl, have I told you that you are stubborn as a mastiff?’

  ‘Once or twice. I wonder where I might have acquired such a trait? I do not recall my dear mama having such a defect.’

  He chuckled. ‘Indeed, I own the blame. The apple does not fall so very far from the tree.’ He gently patted her hand. ‘Come, take a seat. You must be tired after working all evening.’

  Emma dropped into the seat opposite. ‘Not so tired at all.’ And although her feet were aching it was the truth. She thought of Ned Stratham and the interaction that had passed between them earlier that evening and smiled. He was a man without an inch of softness in him. Probably more dangerous than any of the other men that came to the chop-house, and the men that came to the Red Lion were not those anyone would wish to meet alone on a dark night. Definitely more dangerous, she corrected, remembering precisely what he had done to Black-Hair and his cronies. And yet there was something about him, something that marked him as different. Pushing the thought away, she focused her attention on her father.

  ‘How were the docks today?’

  ‘The same as they ever are. The good news is that I managed to get an extra shift for tomorrow.’

  ‘Again?’ The fatigue in his face worried her. ‘Working a double shift is too much for you.’ Working a single shift in a manual job in the London Docks’ warehouses was too much for a man who had been raised and lived as a gentleman all his life.

  ‘What is sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander,’ he said. ‘Do not start with your scolding, please, Emma.’

  She sighed and gave a small smile. It was his birthday and she wanted what was left of it to be nice for him. There would be other days to raise the issue of his working double shifts. ‘Very well.’

  ‘Fetch your cup. I shall propose a toast.’

  She did as he bid.

  He poured a dribble of porter into her cup. Raised his own tankard in the air. ‘God has granted me another year and I am happy and thankful for it.’ But there was a shadow of sadness in his eyes and she knew what he was thinking of. ‘To absent loved ones,’ he said. ‘Wherever Kit is. Whatever he is doing. God keep him safe and bring him home to us.’

  ‘To absent loved ones,’ she echoed and tried to suppress the complicated swirl of emotions she felt whenever Kit’s name was mentioned.

  They clunked the cups together and drank down the porter. Its bitterness made her shudder. Once it had been champagne in the finest of cut-crystal glasses with which he made his birthday toast and the sweetest of lemonades, extravagantly chilled with ice. Once their lives had been very different from the ones they lived here.

  As if sensing her thought, he reached his hand to hers and gave it a squeeze. Her eyes met his, sombre for a moment with shared dark memories, before she locked the memories away in the place they belonged. Neither spoke of them. It was not their way. She forced a smile to her face. ‘You should eat those pork chops before they grow cold.’

  ‘With pleasure, my dear girl.’ Her father smiled in return and tucked into the meal with relish.

  * * *

  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 sat
isfaction.

  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.’

  ‘As if I would have time to be counting.’

  She saw the hint of amusement in his eyes as he moved aside and let her pass through.

  Emma did not look back. Just got on with serving the tableloads of customers that were outside in the alley. But all the while she was conscious that he was inside. Too conscious. She smiled wryly to herself and got on with clearing the outside tables before returning to the taproom.

  There was not a seat to be had inside. Ned was leaning against the bar, comfortable, already sipping a porter. He looked unconcerned by the crowd, by the heat, by not having a chair or table.

  ‘Six porters, two small beers and a stout, Emma!’ Paulette shouted and thumped the last of the tankards down on the wooden counter beside Ned.

  Emma continued her quick pace to the bar and, while unloading her tray, slid a glance in Ned Stratham’s direction.

  ‘Busy in here tonight,’ he observed.

  ‘There’s a schooner in at the docks. We’ve had the full crew in since lunchtime.’

  ‘Good business.’

  ‘But bad timing. Tom did not come in today. Nancy is in the kitchen, cooking in his place.’ She started loading up the fresh porters while she spoke.

  ‘Bet that’s made her all sweetness and light.’

  ‘You know her so well.’

  With impeccable timing, Nancy’s face, beet-red with heat and running with sweat, appeared at the hatch as she thumped three plates down. ‘Three mixed grills!’ She flicked a crabbed gaze in Emma’s direction.

  ‘Where’s me bleedin’ platter?’ someone shouted from the other side of the room.

  ‘Any more of your lip and it’ll be up your bleedin’ backside,’ Nancy snapped in reply and riveted the man with a look that would have blistered paint on a door.

  Emma’s and Ned’s eyes met in shared silent amusement. ‘Enjoy your porter,’ she said and then she was off, collecting the platters on her way to deliver the porters.

  ‘Come on, wench! My stomach thinks my throat’s been cut! How long’s a fellow got to wait in this place for a drink?’ a punter shouted from the table in the middle of the floor.

  ‘We’re working as fast as we can!’ screeched a flustered Paulette from behind the bar, her face scarlet and sweaty.

  ‘Five porters, gentlemen.’ Emma’s voice, although quiet in comparison to the rowdy conversation, shouts and laughter in the place, stood out because she sounded like a lady. She worked quickly and efficiently, setting a tankard on the table before each man before moving on to deliver the rest of the drinks from her tray.

  Ned watched her bustle across the room to the big table in the corner where the crew of the schooner looked three sheets past a sail. He felt himself stiffen as one of them copped a sly grope as she leaned across the table with a drink.

  Her movement was subtle and slight, but very effective. The contents of the tankard ended up in the worm’s lap.

  The sailor gave a yelp, followed by a curse, staggering to his feet and staring down at the sodden stain rapidly spreading over his trousers. ‘Look what the hell you’ve done!’

  His crewmates were all laughing.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ she said without the slightest bit of sincerity. ‘I will fetch you another porter. Let us just hope it does not go the same way as the first one.’ And there was the steely hint of warning in her eye as she said it.

  Grumbling, the man sat down.

  ‘I wonder where you got that idea,’ Ned Stratham said when she returned to the bar. He kept his focus on the token tumbling over his fingers.

  ‘I wonder,’ she said.

  He moved his gaze to her. The strands of her hair had escaped its pins to coil like damp ebony ivy against the golden skin of her neck. The swell of her breasts looked in danger of escaping the red bodice. He could see the rise and fall of it with her every breath. Her cheeks were flushed with the heat and her eyes, sparkling black as cut jet, held his. They shared a smile before she hurried off across the room again. She was so vivid and vital and alive that the desire he normally held in check surged through him.

  Ned wasn’t the only one, judging by the way the sailors were looking at her. After months away at sea most men had two things on their mind—drink and women. They were tanked up on the first and were now seeking the second.

  ‘What you doing later, darlin’? Me and you, we could step out for a little drink.’

  ‘Hands off, Wrighty, she’s coming home with me, ain’t that right, Emma darling?’ another said.

  ‘Neither is possible, I’m afraid, gentlemen. I’m meeting my betrothed,’ she said without missing a beat while clearing empties from their table.

  ‘Shame.’

  The other looked less than convinced. His gaze meandered with greed and lust over the length of her body as she returned to the bar. He wasn’t alone. A man would have had to have water in his veins not to want her. And what was flowing in the veins of the sailors was far from water.

  One drink, Ned had told himself. And yet he couldn’t walk away now. Not even had he wanted to. He ordered another porter from Paulette.

  * * *

  It was an hour before the bustle waned and another two before Paulette rang the bell for last orders.

 
Half an hour later and what remained of the Red Lion’s clientele had emptied into the alleyway outside.

  Emma leaned against the edge of a table, taking the weight off her feet, while fastening her cloak in place. The taproom was empty. The tables had been wiped down, the stools upturned on the tabletops. The floor had been swept ready to be mopped the next day. Ned Stratham had gone some time while she had been in the kitchen helping Nancy scrape the grills clean. Gone without saying goodbye, she thought, and then realised how stupid that thought was. He was just a customer like all the rest. And if she had any sense in her head she should be glad of it.

  ‘Ned Stratham’s got his eye on you, Em,’ Paulette teased with a sly face.

  ‘Nonsense.’ Emma concentrated on fastening her cloak and hoped the dimness of the candlelight hid her blush.

  ‘I saw the way he was watching you. Asking questions, too.’

  ‘Too much time on his hands,’ said Emma dismissively.

  Paulette smirked. ‘Don’t think so.’

  ‘What a night!’ Nancy swept in from the kitchen. ‘Tom better show tomorrow or there’ll be trouble.’

  Nancy unlocked the front door to let Emma and Paulette leave. ‘Watch yourself, girls, we got a few stragglers.’

  Emma gave a nod as she and Paulette stepped out into the alleyway.

  The last of the evening light had long since faded to an inky dark blue. The day’s heat had cooled. Behind them the kitchen door closed with a slam. A lone sailor stood waiting before them.

  Emma met Paulette’s eyes.

  ‘It’s all right, Em. George said he’d wait for me. He’s the boatswain off the ship that’s in,’ explained Paulette.

  Emma lowered her voice. ‘Paulette—’

  ‘I know what I’m doing, honest, Em. I’ll be all right,’ Paulette whispered and walked off down the alleyway with the boatswain.

  Behind her Emma heard Nancy slide the big bolts into place across the door, locking her out into the night. The only light in the darkness was that from the high-up kitchen window.

  Emma turned to head home, in the opposite direction to the one that Paulette and her beau had taken, just as two men stepped into the mouth of the alley ahead.