The Gentleman Rogue. Margaret McPhee
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from Black-Hair.
* * *
Ned Stratham saw the woman again a week later on his visit to the Red Lion. His meal had been delivered by the other serving wench, but it was Emma who came to collect his cleared plate and empty tankard.
Her dark hair was clean and pinned up, her pale olive skin clear and smooth, unmarked by pox scars. Her teeth were white and straight. She was too beautiful for Whitechapel. Too well-spoken, too. It made her stand out. It made her a target for men like the dark-haired chancer last week. He already knew that she wore no wedding band upon her finger. No husband. Unprotected in an area of London where it was dangerous for any woman, let alone one like her, to be so.
‘Do you wish another pint of porter, sir?’ Her voice was clear, her accent refined and out of place on this side of town.
‘Thank you.’ He watched in silence as she shifted his plate, cutlery and tankard to sit on her empty wooden tray. But once the table was cleared she did not hurry off as usual. Instead she hesitated, lingering there with the tray in her hands.
‘I did not get a chance to thank you, last week.’ Her eyes were a dark-brown velvet. Warm eyes, he thought as he looked into them. Beautiful eyes.
‘For what?’ he asked.
‘Spilling your drink.’
‘A clumsy accident.’
‘Of course it was.’ She smiled in a way that told him that she understood exactly what he had done. The hint of a dimple showed in the corner of her mouth.
It made him smile, too.
She was always polite and professional, and friendly with it, as if she genuinely liked people. But unlike most other serving wenches he had never seen her flirt with any man, even though that would have earned her more tips. She did her job with a capable efficiency and sense of purpose that he liked.
He turned his gaze to focus on the tumble of the small pale-ivory token across his knuckles. No matter how beautiful she was, there was a part of him that wanted her to just walk away as she had done all the other times, to attend to other punters on other tables. There were things on his mind more important than beautiful women. Things he had spent a lifetime chasing. Things upon which he had to stay focused to bring to fruition. He did not want distractions, not of any kind.
And the truth was he had not wanted to intervene last week, but he could not have just sat there and turned a blind eye while a woman was forced against her will, whatever the level of it. He had known men like the black-haired tough all his life. What started out as ‘fun’ soon escalated to something else.
He watched the rhythmic smooth tumble of the token over the fingers of his right hand. It was a movement so long practised as to no longer be a trick but a reflex, a part of himself.
‘I will fetch your porter.’ He didn’t look up at her but he knew she was still smiling. He could hear it in her voice.
Ned said nothing more. Just kept his focus on the token, effectively dismissing her.
He heard her turn and walk away. Shifted his eyes momentarily to her retreating figure, to the soft sway of her hips. The smallest of glances; no risk to the ripple of his fingers that was as instinctive and easy to him as breathing. And yet, in that moment, for the first time in years, he fluffed the move like a novice. The token tipped from his hand, straight off the table, landing edge up on the floorboards to roll away with speed.
His heart skipped a beat. He was already on his feet and following, but the token was way in front and heading for the crowded bar. But Emma, as he’d heard her called, reached a foot forward and, with the toe of her boot, gently stopped it, balanced the tray on her hip and retrieved it from the floor.
Ned watched as she rubbed the token against the bodice of her dress, dusting off the dirt that marred its smooth pale surface. Her gaze moved over the worn ivory, studying it.
She turned to him as he reached her.
Their eyes held for a tiny second before she passed the token to him.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘For what? I trust the inadvertent and clumsy tread of my boot did your property no harm.’ Her eyes held his.
He couldn’t help himself. He smiled.
And so did she.
Her eyes watched the token as he slipped it safely inside his jacket. ‘What is it?’
‘My lucky charm.’
‘Does it work?’
‘Without fail.’
Her eyebrows rose ever so slightly, but she softened the cynicism with a smile that did things to him that no other woman’s smile ever had. It kept him standing here, talking, when he should have walked away.
‘You don’t believe me.’
‘A lucky charm that works without fail...?’ She raised her eyebrows again, teasingly this time. ‘Perhaps I should ask to borrow it.’
‘Are you in need of good luck?’
‘Is not everyone?’
‘Emma!’ Nancy shouted from the bar. ‘Six pints of porter here!’
‘Ned Stratham.’ He did not smile, but offered his hand for a handshake.
‘Emma de Lisle.’
Her fingers were feminine and slender within his own. Her skin cool and smooth, even within the warmth of the taproom. The touch of their bare hands sparked physical awareness between them. He knew she felt it, too, from the slight blush on her cheeks and the way she released his hand.
‘Emma!’ Nancy, the landlady, screeched like a banshee. ‘Get over here, girl!’
Emma glanced over her shoulder at the bar. ‘Coming, Nancy!
‘No rest for the wicked,’ she said, and with a smile she was gone.
Ned resumed his seat, but his eyes watched her cross the room. The deep red of the tavern dress complimented the darkness of her hair and was laced tight to her body so that he could see the narrowness of her waist and the flare of her hips and the way the material sat against her buttocks. There was a vitality about her, an intelligence, a level of confidence in herself not normally seen round here.
He watched her collect the tankards from the bar and distribute them to various tables, taking her time en route to him. His was the last tankard on the tray.
‘What’s a woman like you doing in a place like this?’ he asked as she set the porter down before him.
Her eyes met his again. And in them was that same smile. ‘Working,’ she said.
This time she didn’t linger. Just moved on, to clear tables and take new orders and fetch more platters of chops.
He leaned back against the wooden panelling on the wall and slowly drank his porter. The drift of pipe smoke was in the air. He breathed it in along with the smell of char-grilled chops and hoppy ale. Soaking up the atmosphere of the place, the familiarity and the ease, he watched Emma de Lisle.
He had the feeling she wouldn’t be working here in the Red Lion for too long. She was a woman who was going places, or had been to them. Anyone who met her knew it. He wondered again, as he had wondered many times before, what her story was.
He watched how efficiently she worked, with that air of purpose and energy; the way she could share a smile or a joke with the punters without it delaying her work—only for him had she done that. The punters liked her and he could see why.
She didn’t look at him again, not in all the time it took him to sup his drink.
The bells of St Olave’s in the distance chimed eleven. Nancy called last orders.
Ned’s time here for tonight was over. He drained the tankard. Left enough coins on the