scarlet with blood from Black-Hair’s nose. His dark neckcloth was askew. He was not even out of breath. He just stood there calm and cool and unperturbed.
The slamming of the front door echoed in the silence.
No one spoke. No one moved. No one save the man.
He smoothed the dishevelment from his hair, straightened his neckcloth and walked through the pathway that cleared through the crowd before him.
They watched him with respect. They watched him with awe. Soft murmured voices.
Fists and feet were what gained a man respect round here. Standing up for himself and what he believed in. Physicality ruled. The strongest, the toughest, the most dangerous. And the man had just proved himself all three.
Some regulars from the crowd half dragged, half carried the injured away.
The man returned to his table, but he did not sit down. He finished the porter in one gulp and left more coins beside the empty tankard than were needed for payment. He lifted his hat and then his eyes finally met Emma’s across the taproom.
Within her chest her heart was still banging hard against her ribs. Through her veins her blood was still rushing with a shocked fury.
He gave her a nod of acknowledgement and then turned away and walked out of the place, oblivious to the entire crowd of customers standing there slack-jawed and staring at him.
Emma stared just as much as all the others, watching him leave. And even when the door had closed behind him she still stood there looking, as if she could see right through it to follow him. Six months in Whitechapel and she had never seen a man as strong, as ruthless or as invincible.
‘Don’t think he’ll be having any trouble for a while,’ said Nancy, who was standing, hands on hips, bar cloth in hand, watching.
‘Who is he?’ Emma asked in soft-voiced amazement.
‘Goes by the name of Ned Stratham. Or so he says.’
Emma opened her mouth to ask more, but Nancy had already turned her attention away, raising her voice loud and harsh as she called out to the taproom audience, ‘Show’s over, folks. Get back to your tables before your chops grow cold and your ale grows warm.’
Emma’s gaze returned to linger on the front door and her thoughts to the man who had just exited through it.
Ned Stratham.
A fight seemingly over a pint of spilled porter. And yet Emma was not fooled, even if all the others were.
Ned Stratham did not know anything about her other than she served him his dinner and porter. He was a man who had barely seemed to notice her in the months he had been coming here. A man who kept to himself and quietly watched what unfolded around him without getting involved. Until tonight.
It had not been fighting in any sense that a gentleman would recognise, it had been raw and shocking and, if she were honest, much more effective. It followed no rules. It had not been polite or genteel, nor, on the surface of it, honourable or chivalric.
‘Backlog of chops in the kitchen, Emma,’ Nancy’s voice interrupted.
Emma nodded. ‘I am just coming.’
Seemingly a taproom brawl over a clumsy accident and yet... In her mind she saw again that blue gaze on hers, so piercing and perceptive.
‘Emma!’ Nancy yelled again. ‘You want it in writing?’
Lifting her tray, Emma headed for the kitchen. Ned Stratham’s table had been nowhere near Black-Hair’s and any man who could tumble a disc over his knuckles had no problems with balance.
And she knew that, despite his method, what Ned Stratham had just done was chivalric in every sense of the word. She knew that what he had just done was save her 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
