Never Deceive a Viscount

by Renee Ann Miller

  For a long moment, she just stared at him.

  Is she missing the contact as much as I am? What an odd thought. He shoved it into the darkest recesses of his mind. “Forgive me for wandering about. I heard piano playing and my curiosity got the better of me.”

  Straightening her clothing, she scrunched up her button nose. “You are too generous, sir. I would not call that racket playing as much as banging upon the keys. But if my sister thinks it will deter me from asking her to practice, she is quite mistaken.”

  “So you are aware of her ploy?”

  “I am. If you find the noise unsettling and wish to terminate our arrangement . . . to find another portraitist, I completely understand.” She smiled sweetly at him.

  “My dear Miss Trafford, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to dissuade me.”

  Red singed her already rosy cheeks. “No, not at all, sir. It’s just this ruckus is enough to give anyone within hearing distance a terrible headache.”

  “I’ll tell you a secret. When I was learning to play, I might have employed a scheme similar to your sister’s.”

  “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.”

  Her honest comment startled him, and he found himself smiling. He forced his lips into a straight line. “Your sister seems rather leery of me.”

  “D-did she say something?” Her voice shifted an octave higher.

  Was she worried? Did her sister know what he believed Emma did at night?

  “Forgive her,” she said, without waiting for his response. “She is strong-willed, and those silly penny dreadfuls she reads have made her imagine that danger and mayhem lurk at every corner.”

  Was that the reason Lily feared him? He remembered how she’d whispered the word murderer the first time he met her. Did he resemble one of the villainous characters the child had read about? He touched his cheek. “Perhaps my scar unsettles her.”

  “No, sir. Your scar is barely noticeable. And from an artist’s view, you . . . you are quite handsome.”

  Damn her. He wasn’t handsome. The scar on his face made sure of that. Emma lied with as much skill as Julia. Anger tightened the muscles in his back. “I have an appointment, madam. We will have to continue the portrait tomorrow, if that’s agreeable with you.” He heard the sharpness in his voice.

  As if baffled, the conniver blinked. “Yes, that would be fine. Two o’clock?”

  He nodded. “Good day.”

  Simon exited the Trafford residence, crossed the street, and stepped into his town house. He tossed his hat and gloves on the small side table by the door.

  Harris rushed into the entry hall. “Something amiss, sir?”

  Simon raked his fingers through his hair. He was an idiot who desperately wanted to believe Emma’s softly spoken compliment. Hadn’t he learned not to trust a lovely face unless he was paying the woman for her admiration?

  “Sir?” The butler’s gray brows knitted together.

  Simon patted Harris’s shoulder. “Ignore me, I’m in a wretched mood.”

  He stepped into the small drawing room off the entry. Baines was wrapping Vivian’s plethora of gewgaws in newspaper and handing them to Nick, the young lad Harris had hired this morning to help box up the clutter.

  The boy, who possessed shaggy brown hair and looked to be about fifteen, flashed a wide smile. “Good afternoon, guv’ner.”

  Baines heaved a heavy breath. “No. No. No. A proper servant does not address his employer as guv’ner.”

  The lad’s face puckered. “Then whot’s I to call him?”

  “You will refer to him as sir. But there really is no need for you to speak to him at all.”

  Harris stepped into the room and handed the boy a broom. “Nick, go sweep the pavement in front of the house.”

  “Right-o, sir.” The lad tipped two fingers to his forehead, took the broom, and headed out the front door, slamming it hard enough to rattle the walls.

  Baines grumbled. “Where did you find him, Harris? The docks?”

  Harris’s spine stiffened. “He knocked on the door. Asked if we wished to employ a footboy. And we desperately need help packing up this mess.” The butler blinked. “No offense, my lord.”

  “None taken.” Simon plopped onto one of the ugly chairs with stripes and flamingos stitched into the fabric and stretched out his legs.

  Baines harrumphed. “Harris, you should have known better than to hire a lad off the street.”

  Bickering, the two servants walked out of the room.

  Relieved they were gone, Simon closed his eyes. The steady swish, swish, swish of the broom on the pavement outside lulled him into a groggy state. The memory of Emma Trafford’s little pink tongue wetting her lips flashed in his mind. Draping an arm over his face, he shoved the image aside.

  The rhythmic noise stopped. Simon leaned forward and peered out the slightly ajar window. Lily stood before Nick.

  “What’s your name?” she asked the lad.

  A distrustful expression flashed on the boy’s face. “Wot business is it of yours?”

  Lily folded her arms and stuck out her chin. “You’re not very sociable, are you?”

  The lad braced his hands on the top of the broom’s handle. “If you must know, it’s Nick.”

  “I’m Lillian, but everyone calls me Lily.”

  Silence filled the air. Lily tapped her foot on the pavement. “A gentleman would say I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  “I ain’t no gent.”

  “No, but one day you might be.”

  “You thinks so, do you?” The boy’s voice oozed disbelief.

  “Oh, yes. I’m very intuitive. I think I might be clairvoyant.”

  “Clair whose aunt?”

  “No, clairvoyant. It means capable of seeing the future.”

  Nick harrumphed. “And me mother’s the Queen.”

  “I doubt that.”

  Simon bit back a laugh.

  Nick pulled his flat cap off and swiped a sleeve against his damp brow. With narrowed eyes, he stared at the girl.

  Lily reached in her pocket and withdrew something wrapped in a linen napkin.

  Whatever it was, Nick’s eyes widened.

  Simon shifted closer to the window. The lemon tart in Lily’s hand glistened under the sun.

  “Do you want this?” She inched the pastry closer to the lad’s nose.

  The boy wet his lips. “Whot’s I got to do for it?”

  Simon wondered what indeed. The child appeared to always have an ulterior motive for her actions.

  “Answer a few questions about Mr. Radcliffe?”

  Simon stiffened. Why, the little imp. What the bloody hell was she about?

  “Whot’s you want to know?” Nick asked.

  The chit tapped a finger to her chin. “What did he say when he hired you?”

  “He didn’t hire me. One of the old gents did.”

  Lily stepped closer. “The tall, pasty-faced one? The one that looks like an undertaker?”

  Nick scratched his head. “Ye know, come to think of it, he does, don’t he?”

  “Yes, I thought so as soon as I saw him. So you’ve not noticed anything peculiar about Mr. Radcliffe?”

  “Nothing. Seems a fine enough gent.”

  Lily’s shoulders drooped, and she handed Nick the tart. “If you see anything unusual, let me know.”

  “Unusual?” Nick echoed. “Likes whot?”

  “You know . . . Dead bodies, pagan rituals, graves in the basement.”

  Simon flinched. Pagan rituals? Did the child’s imagination hold no bounds?

  Nick scrunched up his nose before shoving the whole tart in his mouth.

  Lily turned away and took several steps before pivoting around. “Do you read Inspector Percival Whitley’s books? My sister took all mine away. I’ve searched high and low, and I cannot find where she hid them.”

  The lad brushed the crumbs away from his mouth and swallowed. Red suddenly heightened his cheeks. “Ca
n’t you see I don’t have no time to read?”

  Simon leaned back in his chair. He got the impression it wasn’t a matter of time as much as ability.

  Lily made a soft little noise, betraying her disappointment.

  “I’ve got to go,” Nick said. “That ole gent will get his trousers in a twist if I dawdle.”

  “It was nice meeting you, Nick.” Lily crossed the street.

  The front door of Simon’s residence opened and banged closed.

  “Nick,” Simon called as the lad passed in front of the drawing room’s doors. “Would you come here?”

  “Yes, guv . . . sir.”

  “Do you know how to read?”

  Nick peered down at his feet while his fingers tightened on the broom’s handle. “No, sir, I ain’t never learned to read well. But that don’t mean I can’t do the work asked of me here.”

  “I agree. However, would you be interested in spending an hour every morning with Mr. Baines, learning to do so? You’ll get paid for your time. I’ll admit the old goat’s a bit short on patience, but he’s a fine teacher. In fact, he was my tutor.”

  “You’re going to pay me to learn to read?” Nick narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

  “Because I employ quite a few clerks in my business, and in a few years, I’m sure someone will retire, and then I’ll need a bright chap to fill that man’s place.”

  The boy gaped. “You thinks I could be a clerk?”

  “Of course. So should I tell Baines to expect you?”

  The boy nodded. “Yes, thank you, sir.”

  * * *

  After dinner, Emma made her way into her studio. Moonlight streamed through the window to highlight the white canvas with her unfinished sketch of Mr. Radcliffe. How fierce he looked in the drawing. His jaw firm. His mouth a serious line. Not boyish in the least, but when he smiled, his harsh face softened. She’d gotten the impression he’d been startled by her compliment. Didn’t he realize the symmetrical beauty of his face? She could gaze upon it all day. Yet she needed to complete his portrait and send him on his way. The gentleman was on an expedition to uncover the truth, and with Lily about, he might find out what he searched for.

  If she told him what Lily had seen, how the child had misunderstood the situation, and returned his ring, would he refrain from summoning the police? She stared at the sketch—the intensity in his eyes. His words from earlier today played in her head. Mark my words, Miss Trafford. I shall find those responsible. When I find the thieves, they will regret ever crossing my path.

  No, he wanted revenge. She mustn’t allow the occasional softness in his expression and his blatant flirting to sway her. It was an act—a way to get her to lower her defenses.

  With one last glance at the canvas, she exited the room and made her way down one flight to her bedroom. She closed the door to hinder prying eyes and lit the gas lamp on her dresser.

  Mama’s mahogany jewelry box, with a rose carved into the front panel, sat next to the lamp on the bureau. Emma opened the lid. The only items of true value were Mama’s cameo, ruby necklace, and wedding ring. And she doubted the thin, plain band of gold was worth much. And, for all she knew, the ruby necklace could be paste, nothing more than cut glass. Twice she’d walked to the pawnbrokers with Mama’s jewelry, intent on hawking the pieces, only to return home unable to part with them. But like the carriage she’d sold, they were most likely the next most valuable things her family had ever possessed. If Emma couldn’t make a living with her portraits, she would have to pledge the jewelry to the pawnbroker.

  At the rear of the box the velvet lining was loose. Emma reached between the mahogany and the brushed material and withdrew Mr. Radcliffe’s ring. The light from the lamp reflected off the gold. Holding it under the illumination, she examined the swirling design with the image of a lion. Was it from some gentlemen’s club or university?

  As she slipped the ring back into its hiding place, her fingers brushed against the rose Charles had given her after she’d accepted his marriage proposal. The vibrant red was now a faded wine color and the petals crisp to the touch. Why had she kept it? She should have burned it like she had her sketches of him. The man was married now with a child on the way. Emma walked to the grate and tossed the reminder onto the recently lit coals.

  The tips of the dried petals smoked, turning them black before they caught fire and glowed. Orange flames licked upward, and then quickly died down. The reminder was gone, but not the memory. She didn’t love Charles anymore, but the sense of not being enough for him had left a pain too close to her heart. And lately, she’d been wondering if Charles might have used her distress over losing her father to manipulate her. Perhaps he’d never intended to wed her at all.

  Had she acted the gull? Been duped? As much as she didn’t wish to admit it, most likely. Many members of the nobility lived scandalous lives. They were rakes. She should have paid more heed to what Mrs. Flynn read in the scandal sheets about their antics.

  Now she was ruined. Soiled.

  A tear leaked from her eye. Agitated over her moment of self-pity, she swiped at the dampness trailing down her cheek.

  I don’t need a man. But as the thought drifted in her mind, so did the memory of Mr. Radcliffe’s kiss and the warmth that exploded in her belly during it. She shook her head quickly to dislodge her thoughts and moved back to the dresser to close the jewelry box.

  The clapping of horses’ hooves on the quiet street drew her attention. Emma parted the curtain. Simon Radcliffe stepped out of his residence and into the dark night. The moon and the streetlamp highlighted his tall form and broad shoulders to send a long shadow onto the pavement.

  As if he sensed her watching him, his steps slowed and he glanced up at her window. She moved out of sight, pressed her back to the wall, and wiped the moisture on her palms against the skirt of her dress.

  “Move on,” the coachman instructed the horses. The clopping of hooves echoed into the night, and then faded.

  She glanced at the jewelry box. She needed to sneak into Mr. Radcliffe’s house and return his ring while he wasn’t home. But not tonight. Too dangerous with his servants in residence. She must be patient and wait until the right opportunity presented itself.

  Emma stepped from the room and made her way below stairs. She’d asked Lily to help Mrs. Flynn clear the dining table of their supper dishes, but she’d offered to dry them after they were washed. The sound of Mrs. Flynn squawking like a heron reached Emma’s ears. Hastening her steps, she darted into the kitchen. The housekeeper’s thick fingers were wrapped around a leaking plumbing joint. Water squirted outward, wetting the woman’s face.

  What else could go wrong? “I’ll get Papa’s wrench, Mrs. Flynn. I can tighten it,” Emma said.

  “You tightened it last time, dearie. What you need is a plumber.”

  No, she could handle this. Emma dashed to the corner cabinet and withdrew the large wrench.

  Lily rushed over to the housekeeper, a pile of towels in her arms. She dabbed a dry one at Mrs. Flynn’s cheeks. “Forget about me, child. Wrap them cloths around the pipe.”

  Water squirted on Emma’s face as she clamped the wrench onto the leaking joint and applied pressure. The tool barely budged. Mrs. Flynn released the pipe to help Emma. The two of them put their weight into turning the wrench. The flow of water trickled down to a slow dribble.

  “This,” Mrs. Flynn said, “is why you need to find a man and get married.”

  A man like Charles, who’d made promises he’d not kept. And as much as she’d loved Papa, he’d been little help to Mama, especially when Emma’s younger brothers Samuel and Clyde died from influenza. Papa had buried his head in his books, leaving poor Mama to deal with the heartbreak alone. Emma could manage.

  “We will be fine, Mrs. Flynn.”

  “Humph.” Water dripped from the tip of the housekeeper’s nose. Mrs. Flynn blotted her face with her apron. “I noticed the way Mr. Radcliffe stares at you, dear. I think he might be sweet on you.�
�

  Emma walked to the closet and pulled out the wet mop. She couldn’t tell Mrs. Flynn that Mr. Radcliffe was more interested in sending her to jail than marrying her.

  “And that scar on his cheek ain’t so bad,” Mrs. Flynn added.

  Bad? Indeed not. His scar added character to a face almost too perfect.

  “She cannot marry him,” Lily exclaimed. “He is a blackguard.”

  Emma narrowed her eyes at her sister. “Hush, Lily.”

  “Fiddlesticks.” Mrs. Flynn grabbed the mop from Emma and dragged it over the puddle on the floor. “He’s a bit stern looking, but otherwise a strapping young man, I bet he . . .” The elder woman’s voice trailed off as she glanced over her shoulder at Lily.

  Heat warmed Emma’s cheeks. She could imagine what Mrs. Flynn was thinking. Worse, she kept recalling the press of Mr. Radcliffe’s lips and body against hers. Sadly, she also remembered how tightly he’d held her waist on Mrs. Vale’s terrace, and her impression that he’d wanted to snap her in two, along with his vow to catch the thieves who took his ring.

  Worse, tomorrow he would return, and they’d be cloistered together with that odd tension as thick as fog between them.

  Chapter Twelve

  From outside the Trafford residence, Simon heard Lily banging on the piano. He cringed. How Emma Trafford and the housekeeper could stand the noise remained beyond his comprehension. He lifted the brass knocker and struck it soundly against the hard oak, hoping it resonated above the ruckus.

  As if Mrs. Flynn had been standing on the other side waiting for him to arrive, the housekeeper flung the door open.

  “Mr. Radcliffe. Come in, sir,” she said, talking loud enough to be heard above the piano playing.

  “Good day, Mrs. Flynn.” He stepped into the entry hall and handed her his hat and gloves.

  The housekeeper’s gaze veered past Simon’s shoulder to his town house across the street. She patted her gray bun.

  “Do you know if Mr. Baines intends to call today?” Her fingers crushed the brim of Simon’s hat.

  He’d overheard Baines talking to Harris about purchasing some groceries. “Would you happen to be the reason he intends to buy sugar, flour, butter, and lemons?”