The Regency Season: Gentleman Rogues: The Gentleman Rogue / The Lost Gentleman. Margaret McPhee
Читать онлайн книгу.
good. She smelled of sunshine and summer, and beneath it the scent of soap and woman.
He kissed her gently, this beautiful woman, felt her meet his kiss, felt her passion and her heart. Felt the desire that was between them surge and flare hot. He intensified the kiss, slid his arms around her and instinctively their bodies moulded together, as their mouths explored. He was hard for her, felt her thigh brush against his arousal, felt the soft press of her breasts against his chest, the slide of her hand beneath his jacket to stroke against his shirt, against his heart.
And then her palm flattened, pressed against his chest to stay him.
Their lips parted.
‘It is broad daylight, Ned Stratham!’ Her cheeks were flushed. Her eyes were dark with passion and shock. ‘Anyone might see us.’
He twitched his scarred eyebrow.
She shook her head as if she were chiding him, but she smiled as she got to her feet.
He stood, too.
A whistling sounded and a man’s figure appeared from the corner, trundling his barrow of fish along the road—Ernie Briggins, one of the Red Lion’s best customers. ‘Morning, Ned.’
Ned gave a nod.
Ernie’s eyes moved to Emma with speculation and a barely suppressed smile. ‘Morning, Emma.’
‘Morning, Ernie.’ Emma’s cheeks glowed pink.
Ernie didn’t stop, just carried on his way, leaving behind him the lingering scent of cod and oysters and the faint trill of his reedy whistle.
Emma said nothing, just raised her brows and looked at Ned with a ‘told you so’ expression.
‘I better get you safely home, before any more rogues accost you.’
‘I think I will manage more safely alone, thank you. Stay and enjoy your view.’ Her eyes held to his. ‘I insist.’ She backed away. Smiled. Turned to leave.
‘Emma.’
She stopped. Glanced round.
‘I’m going out of town for the next week or so. I have some business to attend to. But I’ll be back.’
‘Developed a compulsion for the porter, have you?’
‘A compulsion for something else, it would seem,’ he said quietly. ‘We need to talk when I return, Emma.’
‘That sounds serious.’
‘It is.’ He paused, then asked, ‘Will you wait for me?’
There was a silence as her eyes studied his. ‘I am not going anywhere, Ned Stratham.’
Their eyes held, serious and intent, for a second longer. ‘I will wait,’ she said softly.
They shared a smile before she turned and went on her way.
He watched her walk off into the sunlight until she disappeared out of sight.
A man might live a lifetime and never meet a woman like Emma de Lisle. But not Ned.
A fancy new dress and Emma wouldn’t be out of place in Mayfair. Ned smiled to himself and, lifting his hat, began the long walk back across town.
* * *
The letter came the very next morning.
Emma stood in the rented room in the bright golden sunshine with the folded and sealed paper between her fingers, and the smile that had been on her face since the previous day vanished.
It had taken a shilling of their precious savings to pay the post boy, but it was a willing sacrifice. She would have sold the shoes from her feet, sold the dress from her back to accept the letter and all that it might contain.
Her heart began to canter. She felt hope battle dread.
The paper was quality and white, her father’s name written on the front in a fine hand with deep-black ink. There was no sender name, no clue impressed within the red-wax seal.
She swallowed, took a deep breath, stilled the churn in her stomach. It might not be the letter for which her father and she had both prayed and dreaded all of these two years past.
The one o’clock bell tolled in the distance.
She placed the letter down on the scrubbed wooden table. Stared at it, knowing that her father would not finish his shift before she left for the Red Lion, knowing, too, that he would probably be asleep by the time she returned. She was very aware that the answer to what had sent her mother to an early grave and turned her father grey with worry might lie within its folds.
Kit. She closed her eyes at the thought of her younger brother and knew that she could not get through the rest of this day without knowing if the letter contained news of him. Nor would her father. He would want to know, just the same as Emma. Whether the news was good...or even if it was bad.
She pulled her shawl around her shoulders, fastened her bonnet on her head and, with the letter clutched tight within her hand, headed for the London Docks.
Emma knew little of the warehouse in which her father worked. He had spoken nothing of it, so this was her first insight into the place that had become his world as much as the Red Lion had become hers.
All around the walls were great racks of enormous shelving stacked with boxes and bales. The windows in the roof were open, but with the heat of the day and the heavy work many of the men were working without shirts. She blushed with the shock of seeing their naked chests and rapidly averted her gaze, as she followed the foreman through the warehouse. Eventually through the maze of shelving corridors they came to another group of shirtless men who were carrying boxes up ladders to stack on high shelves.
‘Bill de Lisle,’ the foreman called. ‘Someone here to see you.’
One of the men stepped forward and she was horrified to see it was her father.
‘Papa?’ She forgot herself in the shock of seeing his gaunt old body, all stringy from hard labour.
‘Emma?’ She heard her shock echoed in his voice. In a matter of seconds he had reclaimed his shirt and pulled it over his head. ‘What has happened? What is wrong to bring you here?’
‘A letter. Addressed to you. I thought it might contain news of...’ She bit her lip, did not finish the sentence.
‘If you will excuse me for a few moments, gentlemen,’ her father said to the men behind him. ‘And Mr Sears,’ to the foreman who had brought her to him.
Her father guided her a little away from the group.
‘Bill?’
‘It is what they call me here.’
She gave a small smile. The smile faded as she passed the letter to him. ‘Maybe I should not have brought it here, but I thought...’ She stopped as her father scrutinised the address penned upon it. ‘The writing is not of Kit’s hand, but even so... Someone might have seen him. Someone might know his whereabouts.’
Her father said nothing, but she saw the slight tremble in his fingers as he broke the red-wax seal and opened the letter. He held it at arm’s length to read it since his spectacles were long gone.
She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry with anticipation. Rubbed her clammy palms together and waited. Waited until she could wait no more.
‘Is it good news?’
Her father finished reading and looked up at her. ‘It is the best of news, Emma...’
The breath she had been holding escaped in a gasp. Her heart leapt. The terrible tight tension that held her rigid relaxed.
‘...but it does not concern your