The Gentleman Rogue. Margaret McPhee
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‘You made me believe you were something you were not.’
He raised his eyebrows at that. Just as she had made him believe she was someone she was not.
It fuelled her anger and sense of injustice.
‘All those nights, Ned… And in between them you were here, living in your mansion, dancing at some ball with the latest diamond of the ton hanging on your arm. Seeking to ally yourself with some earl’s daughter while you played your games in Whitechapel.’
He said nothing.
‘You would have bedded me and cast me aside.’
‘Would I?’
His voice was cold, hard, emotionless. There was something in his eyes when he said it that unnerved her. It made her feel as though she was the one who had got this all wrong. She reminded herself of the shabby leather jacket and boots he had worn—a disguise. She reminded herself of what had passed between them in the darkness of a Whitechapel alleyway while he’d been living a double life here.
‘Now that matters are clear between us there is no need to speak again. Stay away from me, Ned.’
You first met this heroine, Miss Emma Northcote, in my earlier book, A DARK AND BROODING GENTLEMAN. With Emma and her family suffering such difficult times, I felt she deserved a story of her own. And a worthy hero of her own, too!
I found him in Ned Stratham, a man of the dark streets in London’s East End, seemingly ordinary, but who turns out not to be so ordinary after all. He’s a wolf amongst pampered pedigree dogs—in more ways than one!
So here is Emma and Ned’s story of destiny and love and happiness. I sincerely hope you enjoy reading it.
With warmest wishes.
The Gentleman
Rogue
Margaret McPhee
For Gran & Grandad
and
for Agnes & John
with love
MARGARET McPHEE loves to use her imagination—an essential requirement for a trained scientist. However, when she realised that her imagination was inspired more by the historical romances she loves to read rather than by her experiments, she decided to put the ideas down on paper. She has since left her scientific life behind, retaining only the romance—her husband, whom she met in a laboratory. In summer, Margaret enjoys cycling along the coastline overlooking the Firth of Clyde in Scotland, where she lives. In winter, tea, cakes and a good book suffice.
Contents
London—August 1811
Emma de Lisle watched the man covertly from the corner of her eye. He was sitting at his usual table, over at the other side of the room, his back to the wall, a clear view of the door. On the table before him sat his pint of porter, his almost-finished plate of lamb chops and, beside it, his faded leather hat.
He moved the small ivory disc over the back of his hand, just as he always did, the trick making the disc look like it was magically tumbling one way over his fingers and then all the way back, forward and back, forward and back in that slow easy rhythm. He sipped from the tankard and seemed comfortable just sitting there on his own, eating, drinking, watching—a part of the bustle of the taproom of the Red Lion Chop-House, and yet not a part.
‘All right?’ A short brown-toothed man muttered as he passed, giving a sullen nod of his head in the man’s direction.
The man gave a nod in return and the little disc disappeared from his fingers into his jacket. Emma had noticed him before. Just as she noticed him now. Because of the way he ran the small ivory circle over his fingers. Because a slice of one dark-blond eyebrow was missing, a tiny scar cutting in a straight line clear through it, and because the eyes beneath those brows were the colour of a clear summer sky. But most of all, she noticed him because he intrigued her.
The faded brown-leather jacket he wore was cracked with age. Beneath the table she knew he wore scuffed boots that