Chapter Eight

      Mrs Morley’s picnic in Hyde Park took place three days after Ned and Rob’s early morning drive in the same place. The weather had grown hotter and stickier. It was a select affair arranged by one of the ton’s grande dames to raise funds for her husband’s regimental charity. The price of the tickets guaranteed only a select attendance; as did the limited number of places.

      Ned was there, with Rob, not because he enjoyed such frivolous wastes of time, or displaying the style of his dress. Ned did not care about clothes or fashion or the style of his hair. He kept the knot in his cravat simple and had looked at his valet in disbelief when the man suggested tying rags in his hair overnight to curl it. To give the valet his due, he had not asked again. Ned was there because he knew the importance of maintaining a presence when it came to doing business with these men. And being on a level meant attending social functions like this on a regular basis. It meant dining with them and being a member of a gentlemen’s club.

      He nodded an acknowledgement at Lord Misbourne across the grass. Misbourne was of particular importance to him, more so than the others. But Ned had sown the seeds. Now he had to wait for Misbourne to come back to him.

      ‘Quite the turnout,’ he said, looking over to where Spencer Perceval, the prime minister, and the Prince Regent were speaking to Devlin and his cronies. Beyond them he could see Emma Northcote and Lady Lamerton.

      ‘Old boys’ club,’ said Rob.

      Ned gave a small smile of amusement and accepted a glass of champagne from the silver tray the footman offered.

      ‘Such a fine day for our picnic, don’t you think, Mr Stratham?’ Amanda White, a pretty young widow of a certain reputation, announced her arrival. Her neckline was just a low enough cut to afford an unhindered view of her cleavage and transparent enough to more than suggest what lay beneath. She looked at him with bold, seductive eyes and a lazy, sensuous smile.

      ‘A fine day, indeed, madam.’

      ‘I’m positively famished and need some advice over which are the tastiest morsels on offer.’ She glanced across at the feast of extravagant dishes set out on the line of tables, the tablecloths of which gleamed white in the sun. ‘Whether to have the wafer-thin sliced chicken or ham. Or something bigger, more masculine and...substantial. Like steak. Such a choice as to quite confuse a lady.’ She touched her teeth against her bottom lip, biting it gently. ‘What do you think, sir?’

      From the corner of his eye he could see Rob’s gaze fixated on Amanda White’s ample bosom.

      ‘I think you need the guidance of a renowned epicure. What good fortune there is one so close at hand...’ He glanced round at Rob. ‘Mr Finchley...?’

      ‘I would be delighted, ma’am,’ said Rob and offered his arm.

      Amanda White could not in all civility refuse. She eyed Ned for a moment, knowing full well what he had just done, but then she smiled and tucked her hand into the crook of Rob’s arm.

      Rob smiled, too, as he led her away towards the picnic tables.

      Ned’s eyes moved across the distance to where Emma Northcote and Lady Lamerton had stood, but both were gone. He located the dowager at the far edge of the party, talking intently with Mrs Hilton. His eyes were still scanning the crowd when he heard Emma’s voice behind him.

      ‘Mr Stratham.’

      A tiny muscle tightened in his jaw. Other than that, not one other sign betrayed him.

      ‘Miss Northcote.’ He turned to face her. Did not smile. ‘Shouldn’t you be with Lady Lamerton?’

      ‘She and Mrs Hilton are discussing something which they deem unsuitable for an unmarried lady to hear.’ She gave a small ironic smile. And in that moment, standing there dressed in their finery with champagne glasses in their hands and the extravagance of pineapples upon a banqueting table, surrounded by the elite of London’s ton, Whitechapel and all that had happened there whispered between them.

      The hint of a breeze flicked lazily at the olive-green satin of her bonnet ribbons. The colour suited her dark complexion well, highlighting the velvet brown of her eyes and the glossy dark gleam of her hair.

      Neither of them drank their champagne. Both stood there, glasses steady in hands, appraising the other with calm measure. She watched him with those same dark perceptive eyes as the woman he had met in the Red Lion.

      ‘I came to thank you.’ Her voice was quiet enough that only he would hear.

      ‘I have done nothing for which you should thank me.’

      A smile, there then gone. ‘You helped my father.’

      ‘Did I?’

      They looked at one another across the small distance, aware of the layers of tension between them.

      ‘You were not lying, after all.’

      ‘No.’ His eyes held hers, serious, focused, revealing nothing of the hard beat of his heart.

      ‘But you were courting titles on the marriage mart.’

      ‘Before you. And after.’

      ‘And in between?’

      ‘No.’

      Her eyes scanned his. ‘You really are from Whitechapel.’

      ‘Born and bred.’

      Their gazes still held locked. ‘You needn’t worry, Ned. Your secret is safe with me.’ The very words he had spoken to her upon Hawick’s dance floor.

      He smiled a crooked smile.

      And she smiled, too, that glorious warm smile of hers that revealed the small sensuous dimple.

      Ned’s gaze shifted to beyond Emma, to the four tall dark figures that were making a beeline for them.

      ‘Miss Northcote,’ Devlin said as he came to stand at her side. Monteith stood by Devlin. Fallingham and Bullford took her other flank. Aligning themselves around her. Aligning themselves against him. ‘And...Mr Stratham.’ There was a slight razor edge in the way Devlin said his name. The viscount held his gaze with disdain and contempt and a hint of threat.

      Ned found the less-than-subtle attempt at intimidation amusing. He had grown up the hard way. He knew how to read people. He understood Devlin better than Devlin understood himself. And he knew exactly which buttons to press to play him.

      ‘Lord Devlin.’ He smiled. ‘How nice of you all to come over.’

      The remark hit the spot. Devlin stiffened, then forced a smile. ‘Miss Northcote’s company beckoned.’ The viscount turned his attention to Emma. ‘I trust you are enjoying the picnic, Miss Northcote.’

      ‘Very much, thank you, Lord Devlin.’ Her words were polite, but Ned could hear the cool tinge in them. Her smile was small, perfunctory. It did not touch her eyes. Her dimple remained hidden. Her gaze skimmed over Devlin and his friends. Her poise was calm and controlled, yet beneath it Ned could sense her discomfort.

      ‘And you? Are you enjoying being here?’ Ned asked of Devlin.

      ‘Not as much as you, it would seem. I do not suppose they have picnics where you come from. Where was it again? I am not sure you ever did say?’ Devlin sipped at his champagne as he played a dangerous game.

      Emma shifted with unease.

      ‘Such an interest in me, Lord