Kneading the muscles in his neck, he moved back to the bed. Even in the subdued light, the red drops of claret Vivian had spilled on the bedcover stood out. He tugged the thick counterpane to the foot of the mattress and lay faceup on the sheets. He stared at the night’s shadows dancing across the white ceiling while he took several slow breaths.
Baines and Harris, along with the cook and maid, were to arrive early today. He closed his eyes, hoping he might fall back asleep before the two manservants showed up and started another inquisition.
It seemed only minutes later when an annoying voice filtered through Simon’s foggy head.
“You’ll catch a cold sleeping like that.”
Simon opened his eyes. Morning light bathed the room.
Baines stood at the foot of the bed staring at him. “Gave the new maid a fright, you did. Came in this morning to fill the grate and returned below stairs babbling like a fool.”
Simon followed his valet’s gaze. Damnation, not a stitch of clothes on and his cock piss-proud to boot. “Shocked her, did I? Have Harris offer her a year’s wages, then send her on her way.”
“Already done. Did you have trouble sleeping?”
Simon covered his eyes with his forearm and grunted his response. “What bloody time is it?”
“Ten.” Baines rolled the cart with Simon’s breakfast tray and freshly pressed copies of the daily papers closer to the side of the bed. “The arrival of your trunks and the staff early this morning has drawn quite a bit of attention by two old biddies who have repeatedly walked by your residence.”
“I should stand at the window. Do you think my nudity would scare them away, Baines?”
“Might. Then again, might draw a crowd—or a constable.”
Despite his weariness, Simon laughed. “I knew there was a reason I kept you around, you old curmudgeon. Must be your dry wit.”
“My lord, might I ask if the woman who resides here is to return, or have you cast her aside?”
Baines acted as if he uttered the word mistress aloud, he’d combust. “Why?”
“The décor, sir, is beyond hideous. I’ve never seen so much pink, purple, and magenta, along with a green which looks like something one purged after a night of debauchery. The only room that is not godawful is this one.”
The valet was right. Vivian’s taste was abysmal. When he’d insisted no pink or gewgaws in the master bedchamber, she’d pouted. Sadly, he’d given her carte blanche in all the other rooms. A mistake of grand proportions.
When she returned he needed to cast Vivian off, but the thought of her theatrical reaction caused his head to throb. Simon swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Leave it be. Hopefully, we will not be here too long.”
The man stared at him for several heartbeats, as if waiting for an explanation as to why they were here at all. He wouldn’t give one, or perhaps he actually couldn’t give one. This was a foolish venture, like looking for a needle in a haystack, yet his thief’s sultry voice whispering the word repentance had once again replayed in his mind as he’d fallen asleep.
Baines continued to stare at him.
“What is it?”
“Your signet ring, my lord. I hesitate to ask what has become of it. Please tell me it wasn’t lost at some gaming hell.”
Simon touched the bump on the back of his head. He should be offended by the valet’s question. He was a damn good card player. A sharper, many would say, who never bid more than he had at the ready.
After his father had all but disowned him, he’d used his skill at the tables to relieve those wealthier than he of their heavy purses. He’d invested those winnings wisely— amassed a fortune greater than any his father had ever possessed.
“You know I’m skilled at the tables, and I wouldn’t gamble the ring away. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to eat without further interrogation.”
“Very well, my lord.” At the door, Baines pivoted back. “Your name is mentioned in the Globe.”
Simon reached for the paper and scanned the front page. Last week, he’d given a rousing speech in the House of Lords in favor of prison reform. He scanned the front page.
“The scandal page, my lord,” Baines said.
Gritting his teeth, Simon flipped the pages.
It appears Lord A must have some Siberian blood. It’s rumored the Scandalous Viscount was spotted rowing down the Thames wearing little more than a smile.
What cock and bull. He’d gone rowing in Putney with three other members from his rowing club, but not nearly naked. Too bloody cold. One would freeze their bollocks off in this April chill. He sighed. The news that his father had all but cut him off, along with his own antics, had made him notable—the newspapers had made him notorious. And when there was nothing noteworthy to print, they published Banbury tales, titillating stories about the infamous Lord A, in an attempt to attract readers.
Most of the time, at least as of late, except for his string of mistresses, he was a rational man. When younger, he’d suffered some youthful indiscretions—acted the scamp. He’d drunk a bit too much in an attempt to anger his staid father, a man so in love he’d been blind to all that transpired right under his nose. But the man was dead and the memories . . . well, they were just that, memories. And like the sky, they appeared clearer on some days than others.
What was more damaging than the on-dits in the newspapers were the lies whispered about him throughout the ton. The word deviant had been mentioned more than once. He presumed Julia spread that malicious lie to discredit him, so if he ever told the truth about what caused his fallout with his father, the ton wouldn’t believe him.
Mothers who truly cared about their daughters steered them away from him, leaving only those interested in his title and wealth. Simon blew out a breath in frustration. What did he care? He didn’t wish to marry.
“I should have your tailor make you some long woolen drawers,” Baines said, drawing Simon from his thoughts. An expression of reproof was plastered on the manservant’s face.
“I don’t need them. It’s untrue.”
“Of course, my lord.” Clear doubt dripped from his valet’s voice.
He narrowed his eyes at the man and pointed at the door. “Out!”
* * *
Two hours later, Simon exited his Bloomsbury residence. His feet had just touched the pavement when the door of the town house next to his flew open. Two rotund, gray-haired women, both dressed in dark lavender, rushed forward, their heels clicking a quick staccato.
“Halloo,” the first matron called, waving a white handkerchief enthusiastically in the air.
Hell and fire. He could spot a gossipmonger a mile away, especially when they moved in pairs. There’d be no avoiding them.
“I am Mrs. Jenkins.” She pointed a plump finger at the town house they’d sallied from. “We are neighbors.” She imparted this information as though it were akin to a blood relation. “And this is Mrs. Vale.” Mrs. Jenkins pointed at the residence next to her own. “She is your neighbor as well.”
Simon forced a smile. “If I had known the beauty one could find in Bloomsbury, I would have taken residence sooner.”
Both women tittered, and Mrs. Jenkins smacked him playfully on the arm with a force that would have knocked a less hearty man to his knees.
“I fear you are a flatterer, Mr. . . . ?”
“Radcliffe.”
“Radcliffe.” Mrs. Jenkins repeated his name as if he’d fed her a tasty morsel. “Will we have the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Radcliffe soon?”
“No, madam, I am not married.” Obviously, they both retired early, if his late-night visits to Vivian had gone undetected.
“Was the woman who lived here a relation to you? We have not seen her in a couple of days.”
“An acquaintance of mine, but she has gone on holiday, and I have taken over the residence.” He took out his watch and flicked it open. His good friend Margaret, the widow Lady Griffin, having heard of Vivian’s holiday, had invited him to c
all on her today for luncheon and lawn tennis, and a bit of recreation.
Smiling, both women nodded.
“It was a pleasure, ladies, but if you will excuse me, I am in need of my afternoon . . . constitutional.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” Mrs. Jenkins replied. She batted her lashes at him. “It has served you well.”
“You are gracious, madam.” He tipped his hat. “I bid you good day.”
He thought himself free of their claws when Mrs. Vale said in a small voice, “Mr. Radcliffe, I-I wish to invite you to a small gathering I’m having tonight.”
Not bloody likely. “No, I’m—”
“Nothing too grand,” Mrs. Jenkins added. “Just a few neighbors.”
“I’m sorry, but I must decline your kind invitation.” He tipped his hat again, took two steps, and stopped. These two tabbies probably had their fingers on the pulse, if not the jugular, of every resident on the street, probably all of Bloomsbury.
He turned back to them. They were both staring at him with crestfallen expressions. “Perhaps you lovely ladies could help me.”
Their countenances brightened.
“I wish to purchase some artwork for my new residence. Do either of you know of any local painters that do landscapes?”
“There is Mr. Dubois,” Mrs. Vale replied.
Mrs. Jenkins scrunched up her nose. “But he is French, and you know how temperamental the French are, especially artists. My niece does some lovely watercolors.”
“I’m more interested in oils.”
“There is Miss Madeline Smyth,” Mrs. Vale said. “She does landscapes. Mostly of the English countryside.”
Mrs. Jenkins scowled at Mrs. Vale. “But my niece’s watercolors are more refined.”
He turned his brightest smile on Mrs. Vale. “Miss Smyth? Does she reside on the street?”
“Indeed, she resides with her father at number three.”
The door of the residence across the street opened and the child he’d met yesterday, Miss Trafford’s younger sister, came out of the house with a trundling hoop. She stared at him for a long moment before she rolled the toy up the pavement.
Mrs. Jenkins narrowed her eyes at the girl. “Do guard your shins, Mr. Radcliffe. Those hoops are vile toys that the authorities should ban. Only last week, I heard one nearly maimed a horse. Why Miss Trafford allows her sister to engage in such an activity is beyond me.”
Simon had never owned a hoop. His father, like Mrs. Jenkins, had thought them frivolous. “I shall, Mrs. Jenkins. You said her sister allows . . . am I to assume they are orphaned?”
“Yes, their mother died quite some time ago, and their father three years past. Miss Trafford does do her best to contain the child, but Lily’s a bit of a hoyden.”
He glanced at the girl. She was staring at him again. What an odd child. He looked back at Mrs. Vale. “Will Miss Smyth be in attendance tonight?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Jenkins exclaimed.
“I might be able to alter my plans and attend.”
Mrs. Vale’s round face glowed. “Oh, how splendid!”
Mrs. Jenkins’s hand settled over her rather ample bosom as she turned to Mrs. Vale. “Nine o’clock, right, Bea?”
Mrs. Vale nodded enthusiastically, sending a gray ringlet tumbling from her coiffure. “Yes, nine o’clock.”
“I look forward to tonight, ladies,” Simon replied, more than anxious to meet Miss Smyth.
Chapter Six
Bloody hell, I’ve been ambushed! Simon stifled a curse as he stepped into Mrs. Vale’s drawing room. There wasn’t another male in sight, and all eyes were on him. He felt like a mouse being dangled before a throng of felines.
Apparently, the scar on his face didn’t evoke the same violent reaction from the matchmaking mamas of Bloomsbury as it had from Emma Trafford. Or, more likely, his fine equipage and the possibility he was a man of means overrode the deterrents of those more squeamish.
Mrs. Vale cut a path through the crush. The rose scent of her perfume added to the air already thick with every floral essence known to mankind. “Mr. Radcliffe, I’m so pleased you could make it to my little gathering.”
Little gathering? They were elbow to elbow. It looked like every biddy, mother, and eligible chit from here to Sussex was crammed into the small room.
“Everyone is most anxious to make your acquaintance. Isn’t that marvelous?” The corners of her lips turned upward, lifting her papery skin.
He forced a smile, wondering where Miss Madeline Smyth was, and how long it would take him to get an introduction to the painter.
“May I get you a cup of tea, Mr. Radcliffe, or a glass of lemonade?” Mrs. Vale asked.
Tea? Lemonade? Clearly, God wished to punish him for numerous misdeeds. “Neither, madam, though they both sound . . . refreshing.”
“Mr. Radcliffe!” Mrs. Jenkins waved her handkerchief in the air as she fluttered toward him. “There is someone I wish to introduce you to.” The woman grabbed his elbow and dragged him across the crowded room like he was a recalcitrant child. She stopped in front of a short little chit dressed in pink. “Prudence, may I introduce Mr. Radcliffe? Mr. Radcliffe, my niece Miss Prudence Langley.”
The young woman giggled and shyly peered at him through lashes that were so fair they were nearly invisible. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Radcliffe.”
“Miss Langley.” He inclined his head.
Red-faced, the girl twisted her fingers in her gown.
A movement caught Simon’s attention. A young woman with loose brown hair rushed toward them like an Amazon, pushing the others aside as she approached. She ruthlessly bumped Prudence out of her way.
Caught off balance, the shy woman stumbled backward.
Mrs. Jenkins gasped, but quickly smiled as though nothing were amiss. “Mr. Radcliffe, this is my other niece, Miss Chastity Langley. Chastity is the one I spoke of... the one who paints watercolors.”
Chastity was the opposite of her sister—darker in coloring, bold, and voluptuous. And the way she eyed him, it was clear her parents had not aptly named her.
“Charmed,” she purred, thrusting out her bosom as she ran her tongue over her full lower lip.
Careful, old boy. Don’t encourage this one. He kept his expression bland. “Miss Langley.” He peered beyond her and inwardly groaned. Chastity Langley was the least of his troubles. A swarm of eager mamas and their daughters were forming a line to greet him.
An hour later, he’d met nearly every woman in the room. But not the one he’d come for. He turned to Mrs. Vale. “Is the painter Miss Smyth here?”
“Yes, I saw her earlier.” Mrs. Vale stood on her tiptoes and glanced around the room. “There she is.” The elderly woman lifted a plump finger and pointed to a slender woman who was a good three inches shorter than his thief.
Damnation. Clearly not the woman he sought.
“I shall introduce you, sir.”
Simon inwardly sighed. It appeared he’d have to purchase a painting or at least pretend to be interested in the woman’s art.
“Miss Smyth,” Mrs. Vale said. “Allow me to introduce you to Mr. Radcliffe, our new neighbor.”
The woman possessed a heart-shaped face, brown hair, and crystal-clear blue eyes. She offered a tentative smile and outstretched her hand for him to shake. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Radcliffe.”
“Likewise, Miss Smyth.” Simon shook her gloved fingers.
“Mr. Radcliffe is interested in purchasing some landscapes,” Mrs. Vale explained. “Sir, did I mention that Miss Smyth’s paintings are as lovely as any displayed at the Royal Academy of Arts?”
Miss Smyth’s smile broadened. “You are too kind, Mrs. Vale. If you wish to see some of my work, you are more than welcome to call on my father and myself at number three. Just up the street.”
Simon liked the artist. She wasn’t flighty or pushy or, apparently, in want of a husband. “Thank you, Miss Smyth.”
He glanced about the ro
om, hoping to see a woman as tall as his thief. Several were of similar height. Perhaps if he heard their voices.
“If you’ll excuse me, ladies. I think I see someone I know.” A lie, but a plausible one.
Simon edged around the room, listening to the conversations. He stopped near a tall young woman who listened as a matron chatted about a vicious goose that chased her for a quarter mile while she was visiting her brother in Kent last month.
“I shall never return,” the older woman exclaimed in a high-pitched tone that sounded like the screech of an injured bird.
Simon cringed. With a grating voice like that, most likely the woman’s brother had trained the fowl, hoping for such an outcome.
“Geese are such vile creatures,” the taller woman replied in a thick Scottish accent. Definitely not the she-devil he sought. He continued walking, stopping a couple yards shy of where Mrs. Jenkins stood. The older woman whispered something to the two matrons she conversed with.
All three women tittered like schoolgirls.
“Viscount Adler? Do tell, what wickedness did his lordship engage in now?” one of the women asked, fanning herself in an excitable manner.
Simon’s ears perked up.
“Yes, do,” the third woman said, her eyes wide.
Mrs. Jenkins paused as if wishing to heighten anticipation. Then, as though imparting a national secret, she glanced around the room.
Simon cocked his head closer.
“Did you read the on-dit in the newspaper about Lord A rowing on the Thames with barely a stitch of clothing on?”
Both women nodded.
“I saw the rascal. It was Lord Adler,” Mrs. Jenkins said.
The lying old crow!
One of the women gasped. “You did?”
Mrs. Jenkins bobbed her head. “Indeed. The newspaper omitted some of the details.”
“Yes?” the two biddies prompted in unison.
Mrs. Jenkins smiled like a cat with a wren in its belly. “He wore only a top hat and his trousers while waving the Union Jack at those on the banks.”
What rubbish!
“How shocking,” the third woman said. She didn’t sound shocked at all; in fact, she sounded enthralled. “Where?” She wet her lips. “Do you think he will do it again?”
Never Deceive a Viscount Page 6
