When he was younger, the scar had stood out, a red ugly mark that drew attention. Unkind comments hurled at him from the lads at school had propelled him to use his fist on more than one occasion. However, after he’d bloodied a few noses, no one had spoken of it again. Time had mellowed the angry skin. Yet, Miss Trafford gazed at him as though he terrified her. Silly woman. He should have left her with the grocer and his crow-like mother.
“Madam,” he said, attempting to keep agitation from edging his voice. “I assure you I mean you no harm.”
“Where are you taking me?” Her shrill voice pierced his ears.
He forced what he hoped was an amiable expression. “Your residence on Great James Street. I’m not intent on ravishing you. Though you are welcome to complete our journey with your back pressed uncomfortably against the corner, I believe you will find the squabs more to your liking.”
“Y-you are taking me home?”
Had he not just told her so? He nodded and resisted the urge to turn the door handle and shove her out. Where else did the daft woman believe he would take her? He lifted his hand and kneaded the knot of tension forming in the back of his neck.
“Yes. Allow me to introduce myself. Simon . . . Radcliffe.” Best to use his mother’s maiden name, not his title. It always brought about unwanted attention. The newspapers were fond of printing on-dits about him that were scandalous and sometimes true. Though most were lies perpetuated by some unknown source, most likely his stepmother, still trying to ruin his standing in society.
She needn’t bother. His years of caring what society thought about him were long gone. However, if this woman had read any of them, she’d probably start trembling uncontrollably or leap from the moving carriage.
“And you are?” he asked.
She twisted her hands in the skirt of her plain navy dress. “Emma Trafford.”
The vehicle stopped. “Ah, here we are.” Thank God. The stimulating conversation could prompt a man to drink.
Hillman opened the door and lowered the steps. Simon alighted and offered his hand to assist Miss Trafford. She hesitantly set her fingers in his. A startling warmth seeped through her thin gloves as if they were skin to skin. As soon as her feet touched the pavement, he released her hand and took the packages Hillman had removed from the trunk.
“Thank you, Mr. Radcliffe.” Miss Trafford reached for the parcels.
“No, madam. I shall carry them inside for you.”
“Inside?” Her magnificent eyes widened. “I assure you, sir, I can carry them. You need not trouble yourself.” The nervous edge to her voice grew sharper.
Ignoring Miss Trafford’s protestation, Simon strode toward the front door. The woman fluttered beside him like a nervous goose. She opened the door and crept into the entry hall as if worried she might awaken the wild beast who slept within. She glanced around. Her tense body relaxed.
“Em!” a voice called from upstairs.
Miss Trafford stiffened.
A girl, wearing a yellow cotton dress and white stockings, slid down the balustrade, rump first. The child’s bum hit the newel post. She swung off the railing like an acrobat at a fair and spun around. The girl peered at Miss Trafford; then her gaze swung to him.
The child shrieked—a most unpleasant sound that left his ears ringing.
The poppet resembled Miss Trafford. Same huge blue eyes, though her hair was a shade lighter. Sisters? Yes, and apparently as befuddled in the head as the elder Miss Trafford, for she turned to her sister and clearly mouthed the words the murderer.
I’ve stepped into a house of bedlamites. “Are you Miss Trafford’s sister?”
Mouth hanging open, the child nodded.
He set the packages on the hall table with its chipped marble top. “Your sister nearly fainted. I conveyed her home because I believed it unwise for her to walk. Perhaps a physician should be summoned.” Anxious to remove himself from the scene, he turned to the elder Miss Trafford. “Do you wish me to send for a physician? I know a Dr. Trimble on Harley Street. I highly recommend him.”
She shook her head. A nervous little movement. “No, I-I feel quite recovered.”
Simon wished he could say the same. The dashed bump on the back of his head once again throbbed, and a megrim hovered on the edge, threatening its full force.
“Well then, good day to you, Miss Trafford.” He turned to acknowledge the girl, who still gaped as though he stood naked before her. He inclined his head, pivoted, and left, hoping whatever ailed them wasn’t contagious.
After crossing the street, Simon unlocked the door and entered the town house he’d purchased a few weeks ago. The residence stood quiet. Nothing seemed out of place. Like last night, white dust cloths still covered the furnishings. He dashed up the steps to the room where he’d found the she-devil intruder.
The broken vase crunched under his feet as he strode to the two front windows and folded back the shutters. Light streamed into the room, highlighting the shards of blue and white pottery scattered about. He scanned the floor for his ring, crouched, and moved several larger pieces of the broken vase around.
Nothing. Deep down, he’d known he wouldn’t find his ring. The witch had stolen it. The devil take her. She’d find it hard to sell a signet ring with a nobleman’s marking emblazoned on its bezel. She’d most likely pawn it to some bastard who’d melt it for the gold.
Hell and fire. It had been in his family for five generations. Every Viscount Adler had worn it. It was one of the few things, along with his title, his father hadn’t been able to keep from him.
Anger tightened his gut. He walked to one of the front windows, slammed his palm against the casing, and stared out. A couple strolled up the pavement. The woman twirled her white parasol. Two laughing children ran up the street, a dog trailing them. How innocent they all looked, yet somewhere in this enclave of civility was a thief. The intruders had known the house stood vacant—that Vivian and the staff had left yesterday.
When he’d stumbled out onto the pavement last night, he’d not seen a soul. The she-devil and her accomplice lived close by. A neighbor most likely. He scanned the town houses.
Across the street, two people stood staring out the ground-floor window. Miss Trafford and her sister? Yes. Was it possible the woman’s violent reaction to him had nothing to do with his scar? She stood about five-foot-six. Tall and slender, like the woman who’d kissed him.
Unlikely. His mystery woman had acted fearless. Ruthless. Miss Trafford was a timid creature frightened of her own shadow. No, the woman who kissed him was a sultry vixen with a warm, eager mouth. He stared at the shards of pottery. A bloody hell-cat that needed taming.
Chapter Four
“He’s returned,” Lily whispered as they stared out the front window.
“Yes,” Emma replied, the disquieting tension in her chest razor sharp.
Her sister touched her own cheek. “Did you see his scar?”
“I saw it last night,” Emma said, remembering the moonbeam which briefly highlighted Mr. Radcliffe’s face.
Lily glared. “You didn’t mention it.”
“It is of no consequence.”
Her sister released a heavy breath and set her hands on her hips. “If you read Inspector Percival Whitley’s stories, you would know it is of great importance. Every villain has a distinguishing feature. An eye patch. A hook for a hand. Or a peg leg. In fact, in the last book, Inspector Percival Whitley and the Crimson Lord, the murderous baron had such a scar.”
Emma sighed. “Indeed. What more evidence does one need? He must be dragged to Newgate and strung from the gallows.”
“You may mock me all you wish, but I know a blackguard when I see one.”
The child was hopeless. Perhaps Mama had dropped Lily on her head when an infant. “Must I remind you again, that it was you who committed a crime?”
“Crime?” Lily snorted. “I’m conducting an investigation. Now, tell me exactly what he did. Do not withhold the slightest detail.”
“He did nothing. I literally bumped into him outside Mr. Mays’s grocery shop. I feared he would recognize me and summon the police. My chest tightened, a roaring filled my ears, and the space around me swirled, causing me to teeter. He offered to convey me home. Nothing more.” Best not to mention the gentleman smelled as enticing as he had last night—like some exotic spice from the Far East.
“You’re never dizzy. Or frail in the least.”
“Yes, but jail has never loomed in my future, either.”
“Obviously, he didn’t see your face, and he won’t involve the police. Criminals are not inclined to do so.”
Across the street, a figure stepped up to the window of Mr. Radcliffe’s town house. Emma shivered. He watched them. She felt it as clearly as she recalled the seductive slide of his tongue against hers. She clasped her sister’s hand. “Come, dear. Step back. It would be best if we do not draw attention to ourselves. You must stay away from his residence. Do not take it into your head to snoop about again.”
Playing with the tip of her long braid, Lily smiled angelically. “Em, would I do anything so reckless?”
“You already have, and you must never do anything so foolish again. And though you do not deserve it, there is something for you in the packages Mr. Radcliffe carried in for me.”
“Radcliffe? So that’s the blackguard’s name.” Lily tapped a finger against her lips. “I had expected something more sinister, like Mr. Lucifer.”
God, give me patience. Emma retrieved the packages and set them next to her on the faded yellow sofa in the morning room.
Rubbing her hands together, Lily plopped down next to her. “So what did you buy?”
Emma placed the top parcel with Michael’s gloves aside and handed Lily the larger box.
Her sister opened the package and lifted the dress out. A brief frown tugged the corners of Lily’s mouth downward.
“You don’t care for it?”
“It’s very pretty, Em. Thank you. I just thought you’d bought me some mystery books.”
“No, I think it best you refrain from reading them for a while.”
Lily’s shoulders slumped. She motioned to the milliner’s box. “You bought yourself a hat?”
“I did. I couldn’t resist.”
“Put it on.”
Unable to stop her smile, Emma lifted the lid and placed the delicate hat with silk roses on her head.
“Em, you look beautiful. Prettier than the Princess of Wales.”
Heat crept up Emma’s face. She took the hat off and carefully placed it back in the box. She shouldn’t have purchased it. It was an extravagance. Would the milliner allow her to return it?
The sound of Mrs. Flynn talking with someone outside drifted through the windows into the morning room. Emma’s heart stuttered in her chest before picking up speed.
“Do you think it’s Mr. Radcliffe?” Lily asked.
I hope not. Emma tiptoed to the window and parted the curtain an inch. Mr. Mays’s dray and horse were parked on the street. The man himself was carrying the groceries down the stairs to the basement entrance. Emma’s breath eased from her lungs. “It is only the grocer delivering my order.”
“Mr. Mays?” Lily wrinkled her nose as if smelling bad fish.
“Yes. I forgot. He gave me some pomfret cakes to give you. Though I paid him for them.”
Emma stepped into the entry hall, picked her reticule off the marble-topped table, and handed the candy to her sister.
Lily licked her lips, then frowned. “You aren’t going to marry him, are you?”
“Who? Mr. Mays? Lord, no.”
“Good. I’m going upstairs.”
“Why don’t you stay? I’m sure Mr. Mays intends to pay us a call.” She didn’t wish to entertain the man by herself.
“And watch him make cow eyes at you? No, I think I’ll go read the geography book.”
Ha! Doubtful. Lily probably intended on searching the upstairs for her Inspector Whitley books. She wouldn’t find them. Not where they were hidden under the eaves in the attic.
As Lily moved up the steps, she pulled something shiny from the side pocket of her dress.
“What do you have there?” Emma inquired.
“Nothing.” Lily nervously fumbled with whatever she held. The sparkly piece of metal tumbled down the stairs and landed by Emma’s feet.
Emma glanced down at the gold contrasting against the red rug. Her palms grew damp. Her stomach tumbled within her. She picked up the ring with a lion and a swirling design emblazoned on the round bezel.
“Lily, please tell me this belonged to Papa. That you found it in his office.”
“I did.” Lily bit her lower lip.
Oh heavens, the child was lying. Emma swallowed the lump of fear threatening to close her throat. “It’s Mr. Radcliffe’s, isn’t it? You took it off his finger, didn’t you?”
“I needed to. Don’t you see the lion? Surely, it must mean something.”
“Yes, it means you are not only a thug, but a thief.”
The knocker banged against the front door. Clasping the front of her dress, Emma spun toward the sound. Mr. Radcliffe? Hopefully not. “Go to your room, Lily. And do not come out until you are twenty-one.”
“May I have the ring back?”
The child had definitely been dropped on her head. “No!”
Lily stomped up the stairs.
Emma slipped the ring into the side pocket of her skirt and inched the door open.
Mr. Mays stood on the top step, a single red rose in his hand. She’d never been so relieved to see the man in her life. “Hello, Mr. Mays.”
He doffed his hat and smiled so wide, she feared his jaw might lock in place. “Miss Trafford, you look much improved.”
“Thank you. Do you wish to come in?”
“No, I promised Mama I’d be quick. I delivered your groceries, but before I left, I wished to give you this.” He handed her the rose.
“Thank you, sir. How kind of you.”
“You are most welcome.” His cheeks reddened. “I wondered if you’d honor me with a stroll on Sunday.”
Emma tucked her hand behind her back and crossed her fingers. She hated lying, but... “I fear I cannot. I’ve promised a portrait to a new client.”
“Yes. Yes. Very understandable. Perhaps another time.”
She forced a smile and nodded.
Across the street, Mr. Radcliffe stepped out of the town house. He looked so tall and powerful, and the expression on his face was fierce. A nervous bubble exploded in her stomach. She slipped her hand into her skirt pocket and curled her fingers around the weight of the ring.
“Is something wrong?” Mr. Mays asked. “You’ve turned a rather ghastly shade again.”
“No, nothing.”
He nodded. “Well, good day, Miss Trafford.”
“Good day, Mr. Mays.”
Mr. Radcliffe stepped to the curb and appeared to scan the pavement.
Lord, have mercy. He was searching for his ring.
She closed the door and slumped against it.
* * *
A half hour later, without waiting for his driver to lower the step, Simon leapt from his coach as it pulled up to his Curzon Street residence. He flexed his hand, still absent his ring. Doubtful he’d recover it. Anger tightened the muscles in his back.
As he stepped inside, Harris rushed forward to divest him of the overcoat slung over his arm.
He waved the gray-haired butler off. “I’m going upstairs, Harris. I’ll give it to Baines myself.”
Harris cleared his throat. “My lord, a messenger from Baring Brothers brought several documents over this morning. I’ve set them on your desk.”
Blast it all. His warm bath would have to wait. The realization added to his foul mood. He handed the overcoat to Harris. “Give this to Baines, but have a care. There are slivers of broken pottery imbedded in the fabric.”
The butler’s bushy eyebrows pinched together. “Pottery, m
y lord?”
“Yes.” Simon quickly strode down the corridor, trying to evade the barrage of questions Harris was in the habit of asking. Once inside his office, he shrugged off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and sank into the leather chair behind his desk. He rubbed at the knot in his neck while he perused the documents from his banker: a commercial loan amortization on a distillery that Westfield, Huntington, and he intended to purchase.
The sound of his valet screeching drifted down the corridor. Quick footfalls moved toward his office. Simon pinched the bridge of his nose.
Baines swept into the room, his round face florid, and his gray hair sticking up as though the valet had repeatedly raked his fingers through it in frustration. The ancient manservant outstretched his arm to exhibit Simon’s overcoat, which dangled from the valet’s thumb and forefinger as if it smelled like horse manure. “My lord, when you were barely out of short trousers I could tolerate your disregard, but this—”
“Can’t you brush the shards out?”
“Indeed, a tedious undertaking, but I am more concerned with the smell.” His valet inched the garment to his own face. His nose twitched. The man had the nose of a canine, capable of tracking down a scent from across the length of a cricket field.
“What bloody smell?”
The manservant shook a finger at him and tsked. “Such profanity, sir.”
Simon took several deep breaths. “Baines, how old am I?”
“Thirty-one.”
“Yet, you talk to me as though I’m still in leading strings.”
“Do I?”
“You do.”
“Well, a man of thirty-one should be aware that a fine bespoke garment must be treated with reverence . . . as one would treat a treasured lover.”
“If you can find a garment that can caress my bol—”
“My lord!”
Simon folded his hands atop his desk and forced a serious expression. The man would not leave unless he heard him out. “Speak your piece.”
The elder man heaved an exaggerated breath. “Over the years, I’ve been required to remove wine, blood, and numerous unknown fluids from your garments, but I’m baffled as to how you have managed to get”—Baines sniffed the garment again—“turpentine on the lapels of your overcoat.”
Never Deceive a Viscount Page 4
