Never Deceive a Viscount

by Renee Ann Miller

  “Careful.” He reached out. His long fingers closed around her upper arms, steadying her. A spark of energy mixed with heat traveled from his hands and into her skin as if she sat too close to a roaring fire. His dark gaze held hers.

  For a long moment, she couldn’t look away. Did he know how dangerous he was to her composure? More reason he should go.

  He stepped back, breaking the spell.

  “Here.” She handed him the loose papers.

  He angled the drawings toward the sunlight streaming through the windows. His eyes scanned the top sketch of a horse whose ears were disproportionate to the rest of his head. Mr. Radcliffe’s brow furrowed. “Interesting,” he mumbled.

  “Some days I’m more skilled than others,” she said, trying to look contrite.

  The next one was of a baby, most likely Lily, considering the yellowing of the paper’s edges. Her sister’s head looked misshapen, elongated like an egg. Emma had forgotten how horrid these sketches were. She bit the inside of her mouth to halt a smile.

  Mr. Radcliffe tipped his head to the side and cupped his jaw. “Very flattering.”

  What? Was the man blind?

  The last one was her father sitting behind his desk. It showed every detail, even several strands of nasal hair. Yes, this one would do the trick. “As I mentioned, sir, I am not always consistent in my work.”

  “Impressive, Miss Trafford. Your sketches have cemented my belief you are the perfect artist to paint my portrait. The commission is yours.”

  Emma nearly swallowed her tongue. Those drawings were abominations.

  “Nearly as good as the portrait of your father in the morning room.” There was a twinkle in Mr. Radcliffe’s eyes. “Or the ones displayed here.”

  Ah. Clearly he was on to her and there would be no dissuading the man. Her stomach fluttered.

  “When do we begin?” he asked.

  “Well, I—”

  “Tomorrow?” He handed her the sketches.

  “I’m not sure I can fit you in.”

  “I was given the impression you are seeking new clients. Is there a reason you don’t wish to paint me?”

  Yes. Too many. “No, of course not, sir. Tomorrow afternoon would be fine. Is two o’clock agreeable?”

  “Quite.”

  She motioned to the landscape. “Would twenty-five pounds seem a reasonable amount?”

  “Twenty-five pounds?” A thin line formed between his dark brows.

  Did he think the amount too exorbitant? She set the sketches down on the table. “If that seems too dear—”

  “No. Not at all. I’m looking forward to this venture, Miss Trafford. It shall be . . . interesting.” He grinned, flashing his perfect white teeth.

  A nervous spark exploded in her belly, sending a tingling sensation to her limbs. This wasn’t about his portrait. This was like a fox after a rabbit. And she knew in most cases the animal usually cornered its prey.

  Chapter Nine

  As soon as Emma closed the front door behind Mr. Radcliffe, Lily darted into the entry hall. “I can’t believe you are going to paint him. You instructed me to stay clear of him, yet—”

  “I know. But what was I to do?”

  “You could have told him no!”

  “What excuse could I give him? The man is already suspicious of me, and we could use the funds.” Or was there another reason she’d accepted the commission? Did fear tempered with excitement feed some baser desire? If so, what addled her brain?

  Emma inched the door open and peeked out. Three burly men were unloading a large desk and leather chair from a dray, while two older gentlemen dressed in black stood on the pavement. The one wearing a cutaway coat directed the movers.

  Mr. Radcliffe began to converse with them.

  Lily scooted in front of Emma. “Do you think those two old gents belong to the same society of murderers?”

  Emma massaged her temple. “No. The one in the cutaway coat looks to be a butler.”

  “A butler?” Lily shook her head. “No one on Great James Street has a butler. He looks more like an undertaker, with his gloomy, pinched face.”

  “What are you two looking at?” a voice boomed from behind them.

  Emma spun around. Mrs. Flynn stared at them while wiping her hands on her white apron. The housekeeper moved to the door, peered over Lily’s shoulder, and made a little noise. The type Mrs. Flynn made when savoring one of her own lemon tarts. “What a fine buck of a man.”

  Emma agreed. Just his proximity caused a low hum to vibrate through her body. And he smelled clean and spicy, almost edible. She mentally smacked her palm to her forehead. Maybe it wasn’t Lily Mama had dropped on her head when an infant.

  “What?” Lily gave the elder woman a severe scowl. “He looks like a villain!”

  “With that lovely sweet face?” Mrs. Flynn patted her gray upswept hair.

  One could call Mr. Radcliffe’s face arresting, but surely not sweet. “Are you referring to Mr. Radcliffe?” Emma asked.

  The housekeeper shook her head. “He’s an attractive man, but a bit too severe for my taste and a mite too young.” She pointed at the man not wearing the butler’s uniform. “’Tis the other man I refer to. Now that’s a fine fellow.” She glanced over her shoulder at Emma. “So has Mr. Radcliffe commissioned you to paint him?”

  “Yes, he’ll return tomorrow for his first sitting.” Emma closed the door.

  Mrs. Flynn tapped her index finger against her pursed lips. “I’ve seen him before . . . can’t remember where.”

  “They’ve probably got his picture hanging in the rogues’ gallery in Scotland Yard, with all the other criminals,” Lily said.

  The housekeeper frowned. “Seemed a polite enough chap to me. A Savile Row gent, if I ever seen one.”

  Yes, his clothing spoke of wealth. Today he wore a navy frock coat, a silver waistcoat, and dark tailored pinstriped trousers. His clothes amplified the breadth of his shoulders, the length of his legs, and his lean build. Mrs. Flynn was right, he looked every bit the gentleman. Perhaps a successful merchant.

  Someone struck the knocker.

  Emma’s body tensed.

  Mrs. Flynn answered the door, and making an uncharacteristic cooing sound, tugged off her dirty apron and shoved it into the umbrella stand. Emma peered around the woman. The man they’d seen talking with Mr. Radcliffe—the one Mrs. Flynn fancied—stood on the top step. He appeared to be well into his sixties with a round, pleasant face and thinning gray hair.

  The man nodded a stiff, formal greeting to Mrs. Flynn. “Madam, is Miss Trafford available?”

  “Yes, do come in!” The housekeeper turned to Emma, her cheeks glowing with heightened color.

  Emma stepped forward. “I’m Miss Trafford.”

  He gave a small half-bow. “Miss, I am um . . . Mr. Radcliffe’s manservant, Mr. Baines. I’m here to collect a painting and render payment.”

  “I do apologize, Mr. Baines. I didn’t expect you so soon.” Emma motioned to the morning room. “Would you please have a seat while I wrap it?” She turned to the housekeeper, who practically drooled on the man. “Mrs. Flynn, will you bring Mr. Baines some refreshments?”

  “That is quite unnecessary,” the man said stiffly.

  “But I baked a batch of lemon tarts this morning,” Mrs. Flynn said, leading the man into the adjacent room.

  Lily giggled. “I’ve never seen Mrs. Flynn make cow eyes before.”

  Emma smiled. Neither had she. Lifting her skirts, she dashed up the stairs. As she entered her studio, she noted how the light streaming from the window caught the painting Mr. Radcliffe was purchasing. It depicted a family taking a pleasant stroll through a garden with their children. Perhaps it did have some merit, though its simple oak frame did nothing much for it. She lifted the painting off the wall. Would it hang in a place of prominence in Mr. Radcliffe’s house?

  Did it really matter? The sale would put food on the table, coal in the vault, and help with Michael’s tuition.
/>
  After wrapping the painting up in an old scrap of blanket, she tied it with string, and returned to the morning room. Mr. Baines sat on the sofa, while Mrs. Flynn stood staring anxiously at the man as he plopped the last bite of a lemon tart into his mouth. He rolled his eyes heavenward as though the mini-pastry was a decadent treat he wished to savor. A bit of lemon filling remained on his fingers and he licked it off and sighed.

  “Ah, Mrs. Flynn.” He stared at the housekeeper as if she possessed the power to pluck the stars from the sky. “I am all but speechless. Just the right combination of both tart and sweet, and the consistency of the lemon filling is like silk.”

  The housekeeper beamed; her cheeks grew pink. She pushed the tray of tarts, set on the needlepoint-covered ottoman, closer to him. “Mr. Baines, do have another.”

  Wiggling his fingers, he inched them toward the pastries. “Perhaps one more.” He plucked a tart off the tray, took a large bite, and ate it hastily when he noticed Emma standing at the doorway. He stood and quickly moved to take the painting from her.

  Emma glanced beyond his shoulder to Mrs. Flynn, who looked crestfallen. “Do finish your tea, Mr. Baines,” Emma said.

  “No, really I must be going.” With the painting tucked under his arm, he turned back to the housekeeper. “Thank you, Mrs. Flynn. Would you be kind enough to share the recipe?”

  “Yes—”

  “No,” Emma interjected. “I’m sorry, but it is an old family recipe, and Mrs. Flynn has been sworn to secrecy. I’m sure if you would like, on another day she could make a batch for you to enjoy, along with her special tea.”

  The manservant moistened his lips. “No, I couldn’t impose on your household, Miss Trafford.”

  “No imposition, sir.” Emma smiled at the man.

  “Only if you allow me to bring the ingredients,” he said.

  Mrs. Flynn’s eyes sparkled. “Yes, that would be perfect. We need flour, sugar, butter, and a half dozen lemons. The other ingredients are the secret I can’t divulge.”

  “Very well.” Mr. Baines moved toward the door. He suddenly stopped, reached into the breast pocket of his coat, and extracted an envelope. “Lor—um, Mr. Radcliffe’s payment.”

  Emma nodded and took it.

  “Good day, Miss Trafford,” he said as he left.

  She closed the door and opened the thick envelope. The bills inside clearly exceeded twenty-five pounds. With a gasp, she braced a hand on the newel post.

  “Did he cheat you, lovey? I don’t care how handsome his manservant is. I’ll set him straight, I will.” Mrs. Flynn rolled up her sleeves, exposing her thick forearms, and stormed toward the door.

  “No! It is not what you think. The amount within is too dear. I fear there has been some mistake.” Emma slipped the envelope into her skirt pocket, grabbed her blue wool shawl from the wall hook, and stepped outside. A cool April breeze whipped across her face. She pulled the shawl tighter. As she crossed the street, the dray that had delivered the desk pulled away from the front of Mr. Radcliffe’s residence. Behind it was a shiny black carriage. Did Mr. Radcliffe have company? She hesitated, but continued to his door, lifted the plain brass knocker and struck it twice.

  The other man she’d seen earlier, the one dressed like a butler, opened the door. He appeared to be of a similar age to Mr. Baines, yet his face was thinner, more wrinkled, with wiry eyebrows that matched his gray hair.

  “May I help you?” he intoned in a deep baritone.

  “Yes, I’m Miss Trafford. Is Mr. Radcliffe at home?”

  He held a silver tray out to her.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t have a calling card on me.”

  The butler’s nose inched disdainfully in the air. The sound of a door closing echoed behind the haughty servant.

  “Miss Trafford.” Mr. Radcliffe stepped next to the man. “Thank you, Harris. That will be all.”

  The tall butler stepped back, inclined his head, and stiffly retreated down the corridor.

  Mr. Radcliffe arched a dark brow. “Is there something we need to discuss?”

  “Might I have a minute of your time?” Emma tried not to fidget.

  “Yes, come in.”

  The entry hall was nearly identical in size to her own, though freshly painted in an ugly shade of green, with nary a crack in the plaster. She took the envelope of banknotes from her pocket. “Sir, I believe there’s been a grievous mistake.”

  His eyebrow notched higher. “Really?”

  She wished Mr. Baines had answered the door. “Ah, well . . . the amount in the envelope is far greater than twenty-five pounds.”

  As if she were a complex puzzle in want of solving, Mr. Radcliffe stared at her for a long moment, his dark eyes unblinking. “Miss Tra—”

  A heavy bang from the adjacent room halted his voice. The walls rattled. The floor shook. He glanced toward the closed double doors. “My cat appears to have knocked something over.”

  Whatever had fallen sounded as heavy as a bag of mortar. “I do hope nothing of great value.”

  “Doubtful. There is little of value in that room.” He sighed. “Miss Trafford, I have an appointment I need to get ready for.”

  “Forgive me.” She held the envelope out to him. “As I said, there is more than twenty-five pounds in here.”

  “I believe the value of art rests upon whatever a buyer is willing to pay for it. Is that not true?”

  “Yes, but—” Her words seized in her throat as he placed his warm ungloved hand to the small of her back and propelled her toward the door.

  “Accept the payment. I wouldn’t have given it if I didn’t feel the painting worthy of such an amount. I will call on you tomorrow.”

  She glanced up at his hard, chiseled face.

  Their eyes locked, and he inched a bit closer. His warm breath fanned against her cheek.

  Her heart skipped a beat.

  With a little cough, he straightened. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Yes, tomorrow, Mr. Radcliffe.”

  * * *

  Simon closed the front door and flung open the double ones to his drawing room.

  Westfield stood at the window peering out. “That lovely creature walking across the street is the she-devil who tried to relocate your bollocks? Surely, you jest.”

  Simon scowled. “You, of all people, should know an angelic face can mask a soul as dark as pitch. Have you forgotten about Adele Fontaine?”

  “No. I will never forget what that madwoman did to my family, but for a thief Miss Trafford seems a bit too honest.”

  True, most thieves didn’t try to return money.

  Simon scratched his jaw. “I’m not sure what the deuce she’s up to. She may be a better actress than Vivian.”

  Westfield laughed. “Not a hard feat. Though clearly your mistress’s acting skills are not what enamored you to her. Nor her taste in décor.” Westfield touched the back of a gaudy chair upholstered in purple-and-gold striped velvet with small pink flamingos stitched into the fabric.

  Simon glanced about the room. He should never have given Vivian carte blanche. The purple walls and garish furnishings were enough to give one dyspepsia. And the baubles that filled nearly every inch, made it nigh impossible for a man to move about. The only tasteful piece was the blue china vase he’d given Vivian, but she’d seen fit to fill it with fuchsia-colored feathers.

  He suddenly noticed the large bust of Shakespeare was absent one ear. “What the deuce happened to the Bard?”

  Westfield grimaced. “Sorry, old chap. I bumped right into poor William. It’s a bit tight in here. Do all these trinkets belong to Vivian?”

  “Do you believe I’d have this much clutter by choice?”

  “No, it’s a bit nauseating.” Westfield turned back to the window. “Are you quite sure Miss Trafford is the woman you seek? Perhaps you are mistaken.”

  Two days ago, Simon had not even considered Emma Trafford. Too timid a creature. But on the terrace at Mrs. Vale’s, with dim light surrounding them, he
would have sworn she was his femme fatale. The scent of her breath. The feel of her in his arms. His own body’s damnable, traitorous reaction to her.

  “Not so sure?” Westfield asked.

  “I have my doubts, but I’ll find out. I might even attempt to seduce her to uncover the truth.”

  “Does retribution mean that much to you?”

  “My signet ring was stolen.”

  His friend’s gaze shifted to Simon’s hand. “Why you wear the damn thing, I’ll never understand.”

  “Because it is part of who I am.”

  “It doesn’t matter that it is the reason you are scarred?”

  “No. Julia manipulated my father so he’d not leave me anything besides what was entailed. That greedy witch couldn’t take my title, my ancestral home, and she bloody well couldn’t take my signet ring.”

  Westfield picked up the broken piece of the Bard’s ear from the floor and set it next to the sculpture on its ornate Grecian-style podium.

  “Might you have misplaced your impartiality because Miss Trafford’s hair is close in color to Julia’s? I know you have never been fond of women with blond hair.” Westfield’s lips pinched into a tight line.

  “It has nothing to do with that.” If his anger stemmed from anything it was most likely that he’d played the fool, allowing a woman to distract him with a searing kiss. He should have known better, yet he’d lowered his guard and once again been the recipient of a woman’s treachery.

  “If you seduce her and find out she is not your femme fatale, but an innocent, you might find your neck firmly ensnarled in the parson’s noose. Tread carefully, my friend.”

  Yes, he’d be careful. Finding out the truth was of paramount importance, but marriage was the last thing he wanted.

  Chapter Ten

  “He’s on his way, Em,” Lily exclaimed the following day. For the last hour, the child had stood by the window, awaiting Mr. Radcliffe’s arrival.

  Attempting to ignore the rapid beating of her heart, Emma removed her mother’s portrait from the wooden easel and set a newly stretched canvas on it. She wiped her sweaty palms over the skirt of her simple green day dress and straightened the sharpened pencils lined up neatly on the table by the easel.