Never Deceive a Viscount

by Renee Ann Miller

  Her companions’ gazes swung to her.

  She flushed. “Well, I’ve never seen the man, and I’ve heard he is in possession of a fine physique. Though, they say his face is scarred. Were you close enough to see it, Mrs. Jenkins?”

  “I was. It runs from his forehead all the way to his chin.”

  Another lie. Simon rolled his eyes.

  “Did you notice our new neighbor’s scar?” the second woman asked, obviously not realizing his proximity to her. “He looks rather piratical. All Mr. Radcliffe needs is a patch over his eye and a sword.”

  Mrs. Jenkins spotted him and rammed her elbow into the woman’s ribs.

  “Ouch! Goodness, Mrs. Jenkins. What are you about? I shall be bruised.”

  The gossip tipped her head in Simon’s direction and arched a gray brow.

  The woman turned around. The color in her cheeks dissolved.

  “Madam,” he said.

  “M-Mr. Radcliffe, I-I hope you are enjoying yourself?” Her voice quivered.

  “I am,” he lied. God, was there anything worse than gossiping biddies? Yes. Mrs. Naples and her colicky dog were heading toward him. He looked for an escape. A green velvet curtain hung at a doorway not far from where he stood. On the other side, if fortuitous, would be a means to leave this tedious affair, if only for a brief respite.

  Simon inclined his head. “If you’ll excuse me, ladies.” Mrs. Jenkins opened her mouth, but he turned away before she could forestall him.

  As he moved toward the curtain, he noticed the gazes that followed him, both blatant and covert. He had nearly reached the curtain when the cacophony of voices grew. He peered over his shoulder to see a young man step into the room from the entry hall.

  Fans fluttered and whispers grew as the women noticed the newcomer. Like vultures, several swooped closer, as if spotting a carcass. On careful examination, he realized the poor fellow looked no more than twenty-one. A veritable babe in the clutches of these predators. Poor unsuspecting sod.

  Simon took the opportunity afforded him to slip behind the curtain. There was a narrow corridor and at the end of it a door. Salvation—if it led outside where he could enjoy a cigarette.

  He made his way down the passage and stepped outside onto a back terrace. Most of the flagstones lining the ground were cracked and uneven with moss curling over them, making them treacherous to navigate. If the garden had ever been lush, those days were long past. It seemed doubtful any of the ladies would venture out here. He sucked in a deep breath of cool air, redolent with the earthy scents of spring.

  The terrace was dark except for the light streaming from the set of French doors in the back of the drawing room. One of them swung open, and Chastity stuck her head out. He stepped back into the shadows between an outcropping of two chimneys.

  “Mr. Radcliffe, are you out here?” the young woman whispered. “Mr. Radcliffe?” She waited. When she didn’t receive a reply, she uttered a blasphemy and stepped back inside.

  He leaned against the building, reached into his inside breast pocket, and withdrew his cigarette case. He should return to Mayfair tomorrow. This was ridiculous. He didn’t even know what his thief looked like.

  The doors opened again, and two slender women moved carefully across the uneven stones, their heads bent close as they conversed.

  Bugger it! He slipped his case back into his pocket and crossed his arms over his chest.

  The shorter of the two women turned to her companion. The light from the French doors illuminated Miss Madeline Smyth’s face. “I wondered if you had changed your mind about attending. I know you don’t enjoy either Mrs. Vale’s or Mrs. Jenkins’s little neighborhood gatherings.”

  Clearly, the taller woman possessed a sensible mind.

  “Maddie, you know I wouldn’t attend at all if not for the fact I am looking for new clients.”

  “Mrs. Naples has been singing your praises. She is quite pleased with your work and has told everyone.”

  Simon nearly laughed aloud. Mrs. Naples believed her dog to be her dead husband. Not the soundest endorser, unless the woman was a psychic.

  “I think it’s your finest work,” Miss Smyth said. “When others see the portrait, I do not doubt you shall have more clients than you could wish for.”

  Simon straightened. Portrait? The woman painted? Her height matched his intruder’s. He narrowed his eyes and tried to see her face.

  “I pray you are right, Maddie.”

  Miss Smyth shifted, allowing the interior light shining through the doors to illuminate the other woman’s face. Good God, it was Miss Trafford. But he had already dismissed her as a possibility. The weak-minded woman couldn’t be the she-cat he sought.

  “Emma,” Miss Smyth said, “perhaps our new, very virile neighbor would like to have his portrait painted.”

  Even from a distance, he noticed Miss Trafford stiffen. “Mr. Radcliffe? I hope not.”

  “Yes, he does exude a dangerous air. I’m not sure how Mrs. Vale persuaded him to attend, but it is a coup.”

  “Attend? He is here?” Miss Trafford’s voice suddenly sounded like the high-pitched squeak he recalled.

  “Yes, didn’t you see him when you arrived?”

  “No.”

  “But you have met him?”

  Miss Trafford pressed her fingers to her temples. “Yes, and I made a complete cake of myself.”

  Simon nodded in agreement.

  Miss Smyth moved to the French doors and peered inside. “I don’t see him. He might have already left.” She turned back toward her companion. “Do tell about your inauspicious meeting.”

  “Too dreadful to repeat.”

  “Really?”

  “If only you knew,” Miss Trafford replied.

  Laughing, Miss Smyth pulled her shawl tighter about her shoulders. “Shall we return? It’s too cold for me out here.”

  Miss Trafford shook her head. “You go ahead. I shall join you in a bit.”

  “Don’t dawdle, Emma. Not if you wish to garner more business.”

  Miss Smyth opened the door. The cacophony from the room briefly seeped out onto the terrace before the door closed, muffling the sound.

  As soon as Miss Smyth left, Miss Trafford paced the uneven surface. In the dark, her abrupt movements looked familiar—quite similar to his thief’s. He shook his head. Impossible that such a timid mouse could be whom he sought.

  She reached into her pocket, extracted a tin, and placed something in her mouth. Was she an opium eater? It would explain a great deal. She pivoted and started walking toward him. He pressed his back more firmly against the wall. Several feet from him, the woman’s foot snagged on a lifted flagstone and she stumbled forward.

  Damnation. He stepped out from the shadows to catch her.

  Chapter Seven

  If Mr. Radcliffe is here, I shall not return to the drawing room—was Emma’s last thought before the toe of her left shoe slammed against a lifted flagstone.

  She stumbled forward and collided with a hard chest. Strong hands grasped her waist, steadying her. Curling her fingers around the man’s lapels, she glanced up into dark eyes.

  “Miss Trafford,” a smooth and masculine voice said.

  A shiver raced down her spine. Even if the man hadn’t spoken, Emma would have recognized Simon Radcliffe’s spicy scent and impressive physique, along with the flash of his perfect white teeth.

  “Mr. Radcliffe,” she whispered, finding it difficult to speak with her blood pounding a steady rhythm in her ears.

  The smile on his face faltered, and his eyes narrowed as though attaining some forgotten memory. His hold around her waist tightened. Painfully so.

  Did he now recognize her as the intruder? The already rapid beat of her heart escalated. She swallowed the mint drop dissolving in her mouth. It slid down her throat like a lead weight. “Sir?”

  “Yes.” His low voice held a sharp edge.

  “You’re holding me too tight.”

  “Am I? Forgive me.” His grip
eased, but his warm hands remained on her waist. Unblinking eyes locked on hers, then slowly dipped to her mouth.

  Unwanted heat flooded her body, and the air between them thickened, making it difficult for Emma to breathe.

  The French doors leading from the drawing room to the terrace swung open. Mr. Radcliffe stepped back, setting Emma firmly on her feet.

  Chastity Langley stood at the threshold. If Emma thought Mr. Radcliffe’s gaze foreboding, Chastity’s was ferocious. Possessive. She strode toward them, eyes narrowed on Emma.

  “Mr. Radcliffe, I’ve been looking for you,” Chastity said and slipped her arm through the crook of his.

  Emma’s years of painting faces had taught her to notice genuine expressions of pleasure. The smile he offered the other woman lacked sincerity. He looked like a feral animal thwarted in his hunt. A frightening thought, since Emma feared she might be his prey.

  “Aren’t you coming back to the drawing room, sir?” Chastity fluttered her lashes.

  “Yes.” He turned to Emma. “Miss Trafford, you are a portraitist?”

  She couldn’t lie, not with the other woman staring at her. “I am.”

  “Might I call on you to discuss a commission?”

  The knot in her stomach twisted tighter. She wanted to say no, but what excuse could she offer? “Of course, sir.”

  “Then, I’ll see you tomorrow. Is three o’clock agreeable?” The tone of his voice remained even, yet a warning seemed disguised in its civility.

  “Yes,” Emma said, trying to sound calm. She walked toward the French doors, forcing herself to move at an even pace, and not dart away like a scared child.

  Inside, she searched for Mrs. Vale and Maddie. She wanted to say goodbye and run home as fast as her legs could move. She spotted both women talking with Mrs. Naples. Maddie was wrinkling her nose at Mrs. Naples’s dog. The disgusted expression on her friend’s face would have been comical, if Emma could dredge up a laugh, or even a smile. But she couldn’t dislodge the fear clawing at her chest that Mr. Radcliffe had somehow recognized her as his intruder—the woman who’d kissed him in that dark bedroom. She glanced over her shoulder.

  Mr. Radcliffe and Chastity stood next to the French doors. The man’s gaze followed Emma like a fox closing in on a rabbit. Her pulse throbbed at her temples.

  He knows. Nothing else could explain the intensity in his eyes or how firmly he’d held her waist. So tight, she’d thought his massive hands itched to snap her in two. She stepped next to Maddie and forced a smile at the evening’s host. “Thank you, Mrs. Vale, for such a lovely gathering.”

  Mrs. Vale blinked. “You’re leaving already? You just arrived.”

  “I’m not feeling well.” Emma touched her temple, then her stomach, which still clenched with fear.

  Maddie’s expression turned concerned. “Oh dear. I hope you are not catching the collywobbles. Papa has been sick for days with it.”

  “No, just a megrim. I’m sure it will pass shortly.” Only to return tomorrow when Mr. Radcliffe called. Maybe she could tell him she had contracted some hideous disease. But then she’d not be able to take on any new clients with him living across the street, watching. No, there could be no avoiding painting him if he wished it.

  “I’ll walk you to the door.” Maddie slipped her arm through the crook of Emma’s. “Not that I’m pleased you are unwell, but you have saved me. I was dying there. The smell. I’m not sure what Mrs. Naples feeds her dog, but it should be outlawed. Tell me, how on earth were you able to paint Alfred?”

  “I held my breath a lot.”

  Maddie chuckled. “You poor soul. You deserved twice your commission, for that alone.”

  They stopped and Maddie hugged her. “Do feel better.”

  “I will.” She just needed to be away from here. Away from Mr. Radcliffe’s perceptive gaze. Oh, why had Lily taken his ring?

  * * *

  The hairs on the back of Simon’s neck stood on end. The moment Emma Trafford had spoken in the dark, while her hands clasped his lapels, he’d experienced a feeling of déjà vu. And the scent of her minty breath only heightened the sensation. Was she his femme fatale? And if so, who was the man who’d hit him over the head?

  Chastity’s fingers skimmed up his arm, pulling him away from his thoughts. “Are you sure you wouldn’t care for a glass of lemonade, Mr. Radcliffe?”

  “I’m afraid I must take my leave, Miss Langley.”

  “Must you really?” Chastity’s lips formed a pout.

  “Yes.”

  “Before you leave, would you care to accompany me to my aunt’s residence next door? I could show you my watercolors.”

  The clingy woman was on the hunt for a well-to-do husband. He didn’t doubt that if he accompanied her, she’d lead him into a private bedchamber, and her aunt would walk in on them and insist he do the honorable thing.

  “Thank you, but I really must be leaving.”

  Her lower lip protruded, and he thought she might stomp her foot. “Well, I do hope you might call on my aunt the next time I visit with her in London.”

  He nodded, keeping his gaze on Emma Trafford, who was engaged in conversation with Miss Smyth. She stood near a wall sconce that highlighted her blond hair styled in a prim chignon. How innocent she looked in her high-buttoned dress of navy wool with its simple lace collar, adorned with only an ivory cameo.

  As if she sensed his regard, she glanced at him, but quickly averted her gaze.

  It didn’t seem possible that this timid creature might be the vixen who’d kissed him with such abandon. She was either a consummate actress or she danced to the tune of an overbearing man, a scoundrel capable of leading her into thievery and violence. He would find out the truth, and if it was the latter he’d extract his retribution on the man, but if the former, Emma Trafford would pay for her misdeeds, especially if he didn’t recover his ring.

  Mrs. Jenkins rushed to his side. The twinkle in the elder woman’s eyes reflected her pleasure at seeing her niece standing beside him.

  “I must be going, Mrs. Jenkins. Where is our hostess?” Simon asked.

  The elder woman’s jovial expression faded. “You are leaving, sir?”

  “Yes, I bid you a most pleasant night, Mrs. Jenkins, Miss Langley.” He spotted Mrs. Vale across the room and strode to her. “Madam, you didn’t mention that Miss Trafford is an artist, as well as Miss Smyth.”

  The woman tipped her head to the side. “But you said you wished for a landscape artist. Miss Trafford does portraits.”

  “Indeed, I did. I wish to thank you for inviting me. It’s been a most entertaining evening.”

  “Mrs. Jenkins will host our next gathering in two weeks. You must attend.”

  He’d rather be thrown from a horse and trampled. He lifted Mrs. Vale’s hand and brushed his lips against her gloved fingers. “I shall try.”

  She blushed and tapped him on the arm with her fan. “Mrs. Jenkins is correct; you are a scoundrel, sir.”

  If she only knew.

  He moved to the entry hall and passed Miss Trafford still conversing with Miss Smyth. He stepped behind her. “Until tomorrow, Miss Trafford,” he whispered, allowing his warm breath to fan against her nape.

  She turned to face him. Her blue eyes were large. Her cheeks flushed.

  His gut tightened. She really was a remarkably beautiful woman.

  “Y-yes, see you then, sir.”

  He nodded and made his way to the door, where a plump little maid handed him his overcoat. He stepped out of Mrs. Vale’s house and walked the short distance to his residence. Both Harris and Baines were peering out a front window. They smiled and waved at him.

  He didn’t feel like suffering through another inquisition. He turned around and headed toward Theobald’s Road.

  His front door flew open. The two manservants rushed after him. “Where are you going, my lord?” Harris asked.

  “To my club. I might get exceedingly drunk.”

  Baines tsked. “Have a care,
sir. I’ve read liquor is a detriment to a man’s health.”

  “Well,” Simon said, continuing to walk as the two men followed him like two goslings trailing their mother, “then I might seek the company of a woman and convince her to do wicked things with me.”

  Both men gasped.

  “I do hope you’re not going to visit a house of ill-repute,” Baines said, uttering the last word in a hushed tone. “You might catch a disease.”

  Simon stopped and peered at the two men. “If you continue to follow me, I’m going to insist you both accompany me. I’ll get you each a young, frisky woman, perhaps two.”

  Both men pivoted, and as fast as their old legs could travel, scurried back into his house. The door closed with a heavy thud. Simon continued up Great James Street to Theobald’s Road, intent on finding a hackney to take him to Mayfair.

  Twenty minutes later, Simon sank into one of the two leather chairs set before a warm grate inside Hayden Westfield’s library.

  His oldest chum, standing next to a sideboard, motioned to a decanter. “Whisky?”

  “No, I’m fine. Sorry to call you away from Sophia at this late hour.”

  “My wife is with our son. Rocking him. I was doing nothing more than watching them from the doorway.”

  “How is my godchild today?”

  “Thirsty.” Westfield grinned and sat in the adjacent chair. “You look in a fine mood. What brings you here? I thought you’d be at the club or at some card table.”

  “I think I might have found her.”

  “By her, am I to presume you refer to the woman who broke into your Bloomsbury residence?”

  “Yes.”

  Westfield leaned back in his chair. “You sly devil. How?”

  Simon waved his hand in the air. He didn’t feel like explaining it all. “She is different than I expected.”

  Westfield laughed. “Foolish to stick your tongue in a woman’s mouth in the dark. Did the light of day reveal a toothless hag?”

  He envisioned Emma Trafford’s lovely face—her bow-shaped lips, pink cheeks, and blue eyes with their long lashes. No, far from it. She looked innocent and sweet and unsoiled by life’s darker twists of fate. Yet, he’d learned long ago, beauty could mask many sins. He remembered the first time he’d met his stepmother. How Julia had smiled and clasped his hands before hugging him and calling him son.