“Miss Trafford is quite attractive. She’s a portraitist.”
“A portraitist and a thief. What an interesting combination.”
“I’m going to commission her to paint me.”
A furrow formed between Westfield’s eyebrows. “Are you mad? If this is the woman who robbed you, have you forgotten her accomplice tried to crack open your skull? Why don’t you just go to some East End lodging house and flash a few banknotes about? I’m sure some guttersnipe will slit your throat if you’re looking for trouble.”
“I don’t have a death wish.”
“Wouldn’t know it by the way you’re acting. Dr. Trimble should have been summoned to attend to you. Obviously you’re suffering some trauma from that blow to your head.”
“I want my ring returned.”
“Then have a couple of constables cart her down to the police station and question her.”
“And my proof? What should I say? That I recognize the touch of her hands? The scent of her minty breath? It sounds dashed foolish even to my own ears.”
Westfield leaned forward in his chair and laughed. “That’s your evidence?”
Simon folded his arms over his chest. “Laugh all you want, you bloody sod, but I’m almost sure I have the right woman.”
“I see there will be no dissuading you. Be careful.”
Simon smirked.
“What do you find so humorous?” Westfield asked.
“You. At one time, you threw caution to the wind like a cat with nine lives. But now, you are truly a mother hen. You’re as bad as my two manservants.”
“What rubbish. No one can be as bad as Harris and Baines.”
Simon stretched out his legs, clasped his hands behind his head, and studied his friend. The man had changed so much over the last year. He smiled more, and there was a look of contentment in his eyes. What would it be like to cherish someone as dearly as Westfield did his wife? To capture a woman’s sincerest regard? Not because he purchased her whatever she wished for, but because of a strong affection. Because of love. Simon realized he was touching the scar on his face. He slowly returned his hands to the armrests.
“Simon—”
“I must be shoving off.” He stood. God knew what type of comment his friend would make.
“Wait,” Westfield said. “Did you read over the loan agreement from Baring Brothers again?”
“Yes. If you haven’t signed the documents, go ahead. The financial terms are precisely what we want. We need to act fast. Get Huntington to read over the papers. Otherwise all of Finch’s holdings will become the property of that bloodsucker he borrowed money from.”
Westfield rubbed the back of his neck. “Finch’s great-great-grandfather started that distillery. The old man must be turning over in his grave. I don’t understand how Finch allowed himself to fall into the clutches of an East End moneylender such as Mr. Wolf. The man is ruthless and dangerous. He deserves his moniker, the Devil of Danbury Street.”
Simon knew what it was like to lose nearly everything. “Should we lease the business back to Finch?”
“You know he’ll only strip it raw of all the machinery and start gambling again,” Westfield said. “We didn’t force the young buck into the gambling hells. In truth, we are saving him. After we buy his company, he’ll have enough funds to pay off his debts and keep his town house. That moneylender would have left him with little more than a pot to piss in. He should never have borrowed from such a scoundrel.”
“Yes, you’re right. No, it’s better this way,” Simon said.
“The solicitor is sending me the final documents on the purchase tomorrow. I’ll bring them over for you to sign right after. Then Huntington needs to approve them. Where will you be?”
“Bloomsbury. I’ve an appointment with my little painter.”
Westfield shook his head. “Don’t turn your back on the woman.”
Chapter Eight
Leaning idly against the window frame, Simon stared out the mullioned glass of his bedchamber window in Bloomsbury. The afternoon sun, which had finally broken free of the clouds, shone bright on the row of narrow town houses that lined Great James Street. A short, plump woman with gray hair, wearing a white bibbed apron, fastidiously swept the steps of the Trafford residence.
“You wished to see me, sir?” Harris asked.
He glanced over his shoulder at his butler. “Yes. Our excursion to Bloomsbury might take a bit longer than I anticipated.”
“Longer, my lord?”
Simon scrubbed a hand over his freshly shaven chin. “Yes. I want the morning room that overlooks the rear garden converted to my office. A desk will be delivered this afternoon.”
Conveying his disappointment, Baines’s sniffling floated out of the dressing room. He’d tasked his valet with packing the remainder of Vivian’s clothing and retrieving more of Simon’s garments from his Curzon Street residence.
“I have an appointment with one of our Bloomsbury neighbors this afternoon. I might commission the woman to paint my portrait.”
“A woman painter?” Harris echoed as though Simon had said a gargoyle. “Why? George Clayton is the premiere portraitist for members of the nobility.”
Ignoring the man’s question, Simon continued, “Lord Westfield will be calling here later with some documents for me to sign. If I’m not here, ask him to wait in the drawing room.”
“Really, my lord, in that drawing room?” Harris said, as if putting Westfield in a place with purple-flocked wallpaper and pink pillows was tantamount to Simon’s social ruination. “It’s rather . . . garish.” The butler’s already razor-straight back stiffened. “My lord, if I might be so impertinent, I think it high time you settled down and found a woman of quality. I doubt you shall find her here or on the stage.”
Baines poked his head out of the dressing room. “He’s right, my lord, you should find yourself a suitable wife. Harris and I will not always be around to take care of you.”
“I’m quite capable of taking care of myself, you old curmudgeons.”
The clock on the mantel chimed. Three o’clock. Simon pushed away from the window. Time to visit Emma Trafford. Time to find out if he had the right woman, and if so, play with his prey a bit—set his claw on the mouse’s tail before consuming it.
As Simon crossed the street, he noticed Miss Trafford’s sister staring at him from a third-floor window. Hard to see, but he would have sworn she held a wooden stake as if he were a vampire. The girl was obviously twelve hot cross buns short of a baker’s dozen.
He lifted the knocker and banged it against the door.
The plump older woman he’d spied earlier answered. He handed her one of the calling cards he’d had printed this morning bearing the name Simon Radcliffe. “I’ve come to see Miss Trafford with regard to a portrait.”
“Come on in, sir. She’s expecting you.” The woman gave him a jovial smile, turned the card over in her hand, and glanced back at him. “Simon Radcliffe,” she read, her voice nearly inaudible. “I must say, you look familiar. Though I can’t quite put my finger on where I’ve seen your face.”
Simon held his breath. He’d had the illustrious privilege of having his caricature plastered in the newspapers for both political and social reasons more than once. Thank goodness, his features were usually exaggerated in the drawings, making it hard to recognize him from them.
“I’m sure we’ve not met.” He averted his face and tugged off his gloves.
“No. Don’t believe so, yet . . .” She tipped her head as if trying to recall where she’d seen him.
“Lovely weather, isn’t it, madam?” Thankfully, her regard shifted from him to the transom above the door.
“Yes, finally feels like spring.” She took his top hat and gloves, set them on the marble-topped table, and motioned to a sunny room to the right of the entry hall. “Please have a seat, I’ll go tell Miss Trafford you’re here.”
Simon glanced around. The pillows and cushions on the yellow so
fa and chairs sported faded coverings. A blue threadbare carpet covered the floors. Hard times had befallen the family. This would explain Emma Trafford’s need for money. There were few opportunities for women in her tier of society—strictures dictated acceptable employment, but thievery wasn’t one of them.
Emma Trafford entered the room, her hands clasped demurely at her waist. She wore a simple purple dress with a lace collar and a row of pearl buttons down the bodice. Her blond hair was styled into a loose chignon and several tendrils fell about her face. As she stepped farther into the room, the sun streaming through the windows caught her eyes, making the blue color more intense. She looked like innocence personified, no more threatening than a playful kitten.
“Mr. Radcliffe,” she said in a soft voice.
“Miss Trafford.” He kept his tone even, camouflaging the anger he held toward her.
Her gaze, which seemed focused on the buttons of his waistcoat, lifted to his face. Her cheeks flushed. She was indeed worthy of the stage, acting the innocent. He would take pleasure playing cat and mouse with her. He motioned to the portrait of an older gentleman with gray eyes, which hung above the mantel. “Did you do this?”
She glanced at the painting. “Yes.”
His knowledge of artwork was limited, but he could discern commendable pieces, and this portrait fell soundly into that category. Miss Trafford’s face conveyed sadness as she stared at it. This was not the man he sought. This man was dead. “Your father?”
Distractedly she fiddled with the edge of her sleeve. “It is.”
Something in her expression, the melancholy it revealed, tugged at him. He touched the lump on his head. No, he would not feel pity for her, no matter what predicament her father’s passing had heaved upon her.
“He died three years past.” She pinched her soft lips together, drawing his gaze to her plump lower lip.
“My condolences.” He regarded the painting again. “You are gifted.” A movement caught his attention. Lily peered around the edge of the doorframe.
“Good afternoon, Lily.” He forced a smile.
The girl narrowed her eyes at him and ducked behind the wall.
“I appear to be a curiosity to your sister.”
“I do apologize. Lily has an active imagination—along with an overabundance of inquisitiveness.”
At least she’d put aside her stake, but he recalled how the imp had mouthed the words the murderer the first time he’d met the child. What was it about him? Simon lifted his hand, then realizing he was about to touch his scar, lowered it. “Just you and your sister reside here?”
“I have a brother who is attending school in Berkshire. But he hasn’t been home since Easter.”
Did she tell the truth? Odd that he believed her, but he did. Perhaps she had a lover and that was who had hit him. If so, surely she’d have painted or sketched the man. “Do you have a studio where I might examine your work?”
Miss Trafford nervously twisted a button on her bodice. “Yes, it’s upstairs.”
He motioned to the doorway. “Then, please, lead the way.”
The sound of Lily’s shoes clicking against the floorboards resonated as the strange chit ran down the corridor, farther out of sight.
Gathering her skirts, Miss Trafford climbed the steps before him. The feminine sway of her hips drew his gaze.
On the third floor, they entered a dark room redolent with the scents of paint and turpentine. She drew the heavy curtains open on the two windows that overlooked the street. Sunlight streaked through the clean glass, exposing a French daybed with green bolsters, a walnut armoire, two upholstered chairs in faded brown velvet, and an oak stool. An easel with a canvas covered by a cloth faced one of the tall windows and beside it stood a large round table—its surface scarred with splatters of paint in varying shades. Atop the table were jars, rags, pigments, and a wooden palette. There were also three smaller tables set around the room with gas lamps on them.
The walls were dotted with several portraits of her sister and a boy who resembled them. Her brother? She’d painted both children at various ages. In the most recent portrait, the boy looked to be about seventeen. He favored both Miss Trafford’s and Lily’s coloring—same fair skin and blond hair.
“My brother,” she said, as if reading his thoughts.
“Yes, I see the resemblance.” There were no portraits of any other men.
There were also a few landscapes. The landscapes were different from the portraits. The lines not as crisp. The effect of realism discarded for a more abstract feel, which captured the sunlight and reflected off the subjects on the canvases. Though brighter in color, they conveyed a serene restfulness.
The one of a family in a park caught his attention. He stepped before it. A woman pushing a perambulator strolled with a man while a young girl walked beside them. A bright blue sky hung above, and the grass and leaves stood out in vibrant greens. It brought to mind Westfield and his family. The tranquility his friend had finally attained in his life.
He glanced over his shoulder. “Did you do this?”
“Yes. A few months ago.”
He lifted his hand, felt the raised paint, thick on the canvas’s surface. He could imagine Emma Trafford toiling with her brushes, applying the layers. “I’d like to purchase it.”
She blinked. “What?”
“I said I’d like to purchase it,” Simon repeated.
“If it is a landscape you wish to buy, might I suggest Madeline Smyth. Her works favor the style of John Constable. She’s quite talented.”
“Miss Trafford, I offer to buy a painting and you try to dissuade me. Is it for sale or not?” Agitation laced his voice.
“It’s just—”
“A simple yes or no will suffice.”
“Yes.”
“I will send my man over for it. Set your price before he comes.”
“You are purchasing it price unknown?”
“You are an honest woman, are you not?”
The color drained from her face.
“You look a tad pale, Miss Trafford.” With a sweep of his hand, he motioned to one of the upholstered chairs. “You should sit. If you don’t mind, I will look around.”
“Of course,” she replied, remaining where she stood. He scanned the room. If she had a lover, she kept his portrait in a private room, perhaps her bedchamber. He walked over to the easel and lifted the corner of the cloth draped over the canvas. She opened her mouth as if to halt him, but said not a word.
Was this what he searched for? He folded the fabric up. A portrait of a woman with intense blue eyes and blond hair, styled in a soft chignon, stared back at him. A self-portrait? No, there were fine lines around the woman’s eyes and the corners of her mouth. There was also a carefree air to her smile, a gaiety Miss Trafford presently didn’t possess.
“My mother,” she said. “When I’m not engaged with a commission, I work on it.” She opened a small drawer on the table next to the easel and pulled out a daguerreotype of a woman who looked to be about thirty-five. “This is the only photograph I have of her. I think our hair was of a similar color, but in truth, I cannot recall the exact shade. Sad how sometimes our memories fail us, even with regard to those dearest to us.”
He glanced at the photograph. The resemblance between mother and daughter was unmistakable, except Emma’s face was fuller, softer, and her lips more sensuous. More startling was how the painting mirrored the photograph, except the painting came to life with vivid flesh tones. It appeared a work of undying love.
“Where did you study, Miss Trafford?”
“I have never had formal training.”
“This painting only confirms my belief in your talents.”
Damnation, what was he doing? He had come here to find out who had tried to fracture his head; instead he’d purchased one of her paintings and was flattering her, and not for the sole purpose of extracting information. He pivoted on his heel, stepping away from the scent of rose water drift
ing off her warm skin. He needed to settle his mind on the task at hand—confirming Emma Trafford was the woman he sought, and discovering the identity of her accomplice.
“May I see some sketches you have completed?”
* * *
Emma pressed her palms to her stomach, hoping to stop its fluttering. The thought of being confined in her studio with Mr. Radcliffe held little appeal. Or perhaps it held too much.
Already the large space had grown small, as if the walls were closing in. She glanced at the painting he wished to purchase. The money she would ask for it would help sustain them for the next couple of months until she could find a new client—one that didn’t make her stomach tighten, or that Lily hadn’t unjustly hurt, and surely not one capable of sending them to prison if he found his ring hidden in the jewelry box in her bedroom.
She needed a way to get it back to him. If she could sneak into his house, she could toss it under the bed in the room where he’d kissed her. The sudden memory of his warm mouth moving hungrily against hers caused her toes to curl.
“Miss Trafford?” he asked, drawing her away from her lurid thoughts. “Your sketches?”
“Yes, of course. I have several.” She needed to dissuade Mr. Radcliffe from giving her the commission. She wished he hadn’t noticed her father’s portrait downstairs or lifted the cloth and looked at her mother’s. Why had she so foolishly shown him Mama’s photograph?
Could she get him to believe her skill inconsistent? What did she have to lose? She opened the armoire. Her leather portfolio with her recent work lay on the top shelf. Emma removed several loose sketches from the bottom of the cabinet. She’d done them when younger before perfecting a grasp on proportions. The work looked amateurish at best.
Emma turned around and gasped as she nearly bumped into Mr. Radcliffe’s chest. When had he moved behind her? She stepped back, rattling the armoire’s doors as she banged into them.
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