* * *
‘Ah, here comes Mr Stratham. He will step in and save us, I am sure.’ Lady Misbourne glanced over to Ned and Rob’s arrival.
Emma followed her gaze.
‘Lady Misbourne’s daughter, Lady Marianne Knight, has come over in a swoon, leaving her poor mama without a partner. And we are in the middle of a crucial match,’ explained Lady Lamerton.
Ned stiffened. He made no pretence of smile or charm. For the first time since she had known him she saw something of obvious discomfort in his eyes.
‘My apologies, ladies, but I do not play.’ He bowed and made to leave, either uncaring or unaware of the insult he was dealing their hostess. Already Emma could see the disapproval and sneers on several faces. Already she could hear the whispers of ‘trade’ and ‘lack of breeding.’ But Devlin’s warning whispered in her mind. As, too, did her own pride.
She should leave him to it. Maybe she should even be glad of it. But it was not gladness at his mistake that she felt. It was something else altogether. Something that pumped through her blood and was there in her bones, something that wrung at her heart. She looked away, trying to ignore it. Told herself that what they thought of him, what they did to him, was nothing to her. That if his slight of Lady Misbourne made her husband change his mind on whatever business deal he had with Ned, it did not matter to her. She swallowed. Gave a grim silent sigh and knew she could not sit there and let it happen.
She stood up. ‘Mr Stratham is too polite. He does not wish to tread upon the sensibilities of us ladies by winning. But I assure you, sir, Lady Lamerton is a formidable player. And I am not so badly skilled myself.’
Her eyes held Ned’s across the room, sending the message that this was not an invitation he could afford to refuse, willing him to put what was between them aside for his greater good. ‘You must play, sir.’ She said it lightly as if it were a joke, but her words were in deadly earnest. ‘You would not wish our hostess to feel injured.’ The subtlety of that last comment would not be lost on him and if he walked away now, he would insult both her and Lady Misbourne.
‘When you put it like that, Miss Northcote...’ His lips curved in the hint of a smile, but his eyes were cool and focused all on her. ‘How can I refuse?’
He gallantly helped Lady Misbourne to her chair. Then, once all the ladies were seated, he sat down by their hostess’s side.
She saw him glance over at his friend, Mr Finchley.
Ned smiled, but it was a smile that did not touch his eyes. For all intents and purposes he was his usual impassive self, but beneath it Emma sensed something else, something that was as tense and still and focused as the calm before a storm. Something dark and tumultuous. It was so palpable that she wondered that any of the other women did not sense it.
‘Rest assured, sir, we will treat you gently,’ she said to lighten the situation. The remark made all the ladies smile. Ned smiled, too, and he seemed almost as relaxed and confident as his usual self. But when his eyes met hers, she could see that it was a sham and she knew that he felt the same terrible conflict that beat in her own heart.
‘You do know how to play whist, do you not, Mr Stratham?’ Lady Lamerton enquired.
‘I do, for my sins.’
Lady Lamerton smiled. ‘Then let play begin and see if Miss Northcote and I cannot best you and Lady Misbourne.’
The dowager dealt the cards, one at a time in rotation, until the pack was exhausted. ‘Ah, hearts are trumps, I see,’ she said as she dealt the last card face up on the table.
Ned picked up his cards, spread them to a small fan within his hands. Across the cards his eyes met Emma’s. In that moment it was as if his guard was lowered and she caught a glimpse of his soul—bared for her to see. And what she saw was such a blazing tortured intensity of emotion that it took her breath away. Their eyes clung together, as if they were the only two people in the room, as if they were the only two people in the world. As if there was nothing and no one except him and her and the force of this thing that raged between them. It shook her.
It shook him, too. She could see it in his eyes as they lingered too long on hers before lowering to his cards.
They played on. Lady Lamerton was in her element as she and Emma soon took the lead.
And then Lady Lamerton exchanged a look with her, giving a subtle gesture across the room. Emma followed Lady Lamerton’s gaze to see Devlin standing there.
Devlin’s eyes rested on Ned and just for a moment the expression on his face was one of utter loathing. Then he masked it and slid his gaze to Emma’s. The words of his warning seemed to whisper between them.
She glanced down at her cards. Kept her face composed. Betrayed nothing. But when she glanced at him again, he was walking directly towards Ned.
She felt her stomach dip and begin to churn. Her eyes met Ned’s in warning.
Ned understood. A tiny glance over his left shoulder to see where Devlin stood.
The change in his face was so small as to have been imperceptible, but Emma saw it. That slight tension and the way his hand moved to touch against the watch pocket of his waistcoat, which only she knew contained not a watch, but the small battered token that was his good-luck charm.
He played on. Lost. Again.
‘Such terribly bad luck you are having today, Mr Stratham,’ lamented Lady Misbourne.
Ned glanced over his other shoulder where Fallingham and Bullford now stood. ‘Worse than you can imagine,’ he said with a smile.
‘One might almost think, sir, that you are determined to have Miss Northcote and me win,’ said Lady Lamerton with a twinkle in her eye as she scooped the growing pile of winnings closer.
‘As if I would,’ said Ned in a teasing tone.
Devlin walked round to Emma’s side of the table, came to stand close to her, close enough to have a slightly threatening possessive feel about it. For a moment she feared he meant to reveal her and Ned before them all. But then she saw the way he looked at Ned across the table. A challenging look. A look that was so obvious in its contempt that she felt her blood run cold.
As Monteith, Fallingham and Bullford crowded around Ned, the rest of the table saw only three gentlemen intent on getting a closer look at the game, swept along in the excitement and camaraderie. But Emma saw something else. She saw that the threat and danger was aimed not at herself, but at Ned.
Ned showed nothing of intimidation. He seemed relaxed enough, but Emma knew he had not been so since he had walked into the room. She could sense his tension as if it were her own.
* * *
The game dragged on, the pressure building ever higher. Every time Ned lost, Lady Misbourne scooped a trick and so they survived a little longer.
Sensing something of the atmosphere, people gathered round to watch. But closest of all were Devlin, Fallingham, Bullford and Monteith, like ravens in their black tailcoats waiting for the kill.
‘All done,’ said Lady Lamerton as she won the last trick.
‘I must beg your forgiveness, Lady Misbourne, for having been such a poor partner,’ said Ned.
‘Not at all, sir. Luck was not on our side tonight, but our losses were not so bad,’ Lady Misbourne replied.
Their audience began to disperse, wandering back to their own tables. But Devlin and his friends made no move. The atmosphere hummed with menace. The tension felt drawn to breaking point.
‘Lady Lamerton...Miss Northcote.’ Ned’s eyes lingered on Emma’s for a heartbeat, before he made his apologies and took his farewell of Lady Misbourne. ‘If you will excuse me.’ He bowed and walked out of the room.
She watched with a sick feeling in her stomach as Devlin and his friends followed him.
‘We did well, Emma,’ said Lady Lamerton.
‘Indeed,’ she managed. But there was a panic in her ready to unleash, and a
dread seeping through her bones over what might happen in that hallway. ‘If you would excuse me for a few moments.’
‘Of course, my dear.’ Lady Lamerton gave a nod.
Chapter Twelve
Ned and Devlin stood facing each other in the corridor. The look on Devlin’s face was one of ice-cold fury. Standing on Ned’s side was Rob Finchley. Monteith, Fallingham and Bullford were sided with Devlin.
‘You can dress yourself in fine clothes, Stratham. You can feign some pretence of manners and politeness. You can attend every opera, ballet and ball that you wish. But it cannot change what you are beneath. You are no gentleman. Not all the money in the world will ever buy you that.’ Devlin’s voice was quiet enough, but Emma heard every word.
Ned smiled as if Devlin’s rant amused him.
‘Playing whist with Miss Northcote...’ Devlin sneered.
‘Do you wish a game? I fancy my luck would return were I to play you.’
‘I would not sully myself to sit at the same table.’
‘Afraid you would deal me the winning hand, Devlin?’
Devlin’s nostrils flared. Emma saw the muscle tighten in his jaw, saw his eyes darken with fury, saw the barely concealed violence. The air crackled with it. Devlin’s fists balled. He stepped closer to Ned. ‘You have gone too far this time, Stratham. Way too far.’
Ned still seemed relaxed, but she had seen him fight and she recognised that look in his eyes and the subtle shift in his stance. She knew what was about to happen. She knew Ned would annihilate Devlin. There would be violence, and blood and a fight that would not follow gentlemen’s rules, here in Misbourne’s home, before his family, before all his guests. Ned would best Devlin, but there would be a cost to it more than he realised.
She stepped closer as if about to pass them, brushed against Devlin and tipped the contents of her glass of lemonade down the front of his tailcoat and breeches. ‘I am so sorry, Lord Devlin. Forgive me. I am too clumsy.’
It was enough to quench the fuse that had been lit...for now.
Devlin reacted by stepping away from Ned, glancing down at his soaked clothing.
His eyes met hers. There was nothing of his usual charming or smooth self. In their place was a cold promise that frightened her. He knew exactly what she had done. ‘You have made a very foolish choice, Emma,’ he said softly.
She sensed the movement in Ned. Saw the tightening of the muscle in his jaw. Stepped between him and Devlin to prevent what he was about to do.
But the two men glowered at one another. Two combatants. The fight was not over. It would never be over, but only grow worse in this escalating war of which Emma was a part.
‘If you will excuse me, Miss Northcote...Mr Stratham.’ Devlin walked away with his friends.
She saw the flick of Ned’s gaze towards the door through which Devlin had just left. Saw the hardness in his eyes.
The breath shook in her throat. She could feel a slight tremble running though her body.
‘Emma...’ His voice was low, husky, quiet enough for only her to hear. He was looking at her with such strained control that she could see the storm of emotion that simmered beneath. He was looking at her as if he were committing her image to memory. She felt the surreptitious brush of his fingers against hers and glanced at where Rob Finchley stood watching, before meeting Ned’s gaze once more.
She knew that they did not have much time. Knew after what she had just witnessed what he would do if she told him that Devlin had blackmailed her to stay away from him and now meant to reveal her to Lady Lamerton. She could not tell him even to warn him.
‘Ned,’ she whispered with urgency, ‘this is not Whitechapel. You must fight by different means here or be ruined.’
Their eyes held locked. They were still standing too close.
‘Emma,’ she heard Lady Lamerton’s voice from the doorway of the drawing room and stepped away from Ned.
‘If you will excuse me, Mr Stratham,’ she said formally.
‘Your servant, Miss Northcote.’ He bowed.
She made her way back along to Lady Lamerton.
The violence she feared had not materialised, but that did not allay the worry churning in her stomach. She had the overwhelming sense that something had just happened between Ned and Devlin and herself, something from which there could be no turning back for any of them.
The Rubicon had been crossed.
* * *
Ned stood alone by the window of his bedchamber that night, staring out at the lamplit street and seeing nothing of it.
He could not stop thinking of that card game.
The choice had been between insulting Misbourne’s wife in a very public way in her own home or sitting down at that table with Emma Northcote. And after all these years...after all he had striven for, on the brink of success, he had almost walked away. Almost spoiled the deal that was in the bag. And he knew why. He closed his eyes at that.
Emma had been right to stop him from walking away and delivering the insult. It was Emma who had saved the deal.
But to sit down at that table across from her... He had not thought it would affect him so. He had not realised the magnitude of his dilemma until that very moment. Now he understood it too well. He understood exactly what it was he had done two years ago.
This wasn’t just about him. There were hundreds relying on him. Those who were nameless, faceless, voiceless, forgotten. How could he turn his back on them? But sitting down at that card table had not guaranteed their safety. Ned knew people and he knew the look of a man who had been pushed too far. He knew, too, how this evening must have looked to Devlin: that Ned was taunting him with a red rag, that he was rubbing his face in it. Every man had his limit and Devlin had reached his.
If Devlin knew what Ned felt for Emma, there would be nothing to stop him. He would strike. He would destroy Ned and all of his work.
What he felt for Emma.
He stared out of the window, knowing now what it was he felt for her, knowing, too, the impossibility of it.
Destiny had seen to that.
He slipped the token from his pocket and rubbed the worn surface between his fingers.
A man might gain the world and lose himself in doing so. A man’s luck always ran out eventually.
Ned thought that maybe his time had come.
* * *
The weather turned cool and gloomy the next day. Within the little parlour at the back of Lady Lamerton’s town house a small fire burned on the hearth to chase the chill from the room and banish the gloom. It did not banish Emma’s megrim. Her head felt so thick with fatigue from a night sleepless with worry that she could not think straight.
She was on edge at every letter Lady Lamerton opened. Her stomach clenched every time the butler came into the room.
You have made a very foolish choice, Emma. Devlin’s words rang in her head.
She knew what was coming and she had only herself to blame. Nor could she get Ned’s expression out of her head. When he had looked at her across that card table, and afterwards, when his fingers had touched hers. Maybe she should have told him of Devlin’s threat, but she had known what would have happened if she had done that. And now it was too late.
‘You are wool-gathering, Emma. Have you reached the list of forthcoming events for the Little Season yet?’ Lady Lamerton’s voice interrupted her thoughts.
‘Forgive me.’ Emma forced her eyes to return to The Lady’s Journal that lay opened on her lap. She turned the page and started to read aloud again.
It was almost a relief when Wilcott interrupted with the news that Lord Devlin had called and was waiting in the drawing room to speak to Lady Lamerton unattended.
‘Very interesting,’ said Lady Lamerton with a twinkle in her eye as she looked at Emma.
&
nbsp; Emma could not smile. She knew what the dowager thought and how wrong it was. She knew what was coming and her blood was ice-cold with dread. The same dread that was pounding in her chest and tying her stomach in a knot. She should say something, utter some small warning to the dowager, it was only fair, but her mouth was too dry and the words would not form upon her tongue. By the time she opened her mouth Lady Lamerton was halfway across the room, smiling, happy as she made her way to meet Devlin.
The door closed with a click behind her, leaving Emma sitting alone.
She closed over the pages of the journal with bloodless fingers. Sat it neatly on the table and got to her feet with legs that were stiff and cold.
She thought of her father. She thought of her brother, Kit, and all that Lamerton might have achieved. She thought of Lady Lamerton’s disappointment.
Only a few minutes passed before the dowager returned to the parlour and closed the door behind her. The expression on her face was unreadable.
Emma stood still as a statue. The beat of her own heart was loud in her ears as she met her employer’s gaze and waited for the axe to fall.
‘Devlin wishes to speak to you, Emma. Alone.’ Lady Lamerton smiled.
Emma stared at her, shocked by this unexpected turn of events, not understanding what Devlin was doing.
‘Says he has something very important to speak to you of...’
She could hear in Lady Lamerton’s tone her romantic expectation, for, in the dowager’s mind, why else did a gentleman call on a respectable lady at home and ask to speak to her alone?
Why else indeed?
‘Well, off you go, my dear. You do not want to keep him waiting.’
‘I do not.’ She went to discover just what Devlin had in store for her.
Devlin was standing beside the white marble of the drawing-room hearth, with a dark look within his eye.
‘Miss Northcote,’ he said and then more softly, ‘close the door behind you.’
Harlequin Historical September 2014 - Bundle 1 of 2: The Lone SheriffThe Gentleman RogueNever Trust a Rebel Page 36