Never Deceive a Viscount

by Renee Ann Miller

  Was he fishing for information? Still trying to figure out who’d hit him if she was the woman who’d kissed him and stolen his ring? “No, I do not.”

  His lips formed a straight line, and they continued walking in silence to Great James Street. At the door to her residence, the entry lamp highlighted a visible red patch on his jaw.

  “You’re injured.” As if of its own volition, her hand lifted and cupped the bruised skin.

  His eyes widened.

  She lowered her palm. “Does it hurt?”

  “Not a bit. I’ve always thought I possess a jaw of steel.” His gaze held hers, then lowered to her mouth. His body shifted closer, and his warm breath fanned against her cheek.

  Her breathing quickened.

  The front door flew open. Mrs. Flynn stood at the threshold. “Ah, I thought I heard voices.” Red spots colored the older woman’s cheeks. With her chin she motioned across the street.

  Emma followed the woman’s gaze. A curtain in the second story window of Mrs. Jenkins’s house was drawn back and the glow of candlelight in the window revealed a person peering out. Mrs. Jenkins was a tattler of the highest order. The woman would gossip mercilessly about them if she thought anything untoward was happening.

  “Dinner will be ready shortly. Is Mr. Radcliffe to dine with us?” Mrs. Flynn asked.

  Dine with them? Emma’s stomach twisted. “I’m sure he does not—”

  “How kind. I’d love to.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The savory scent of beef stew with parsnips and carrots filled the small dining room in the Trafford residence. Simon glanced at Emma, seated to his left at the round table. The relieved expression she’d exhibited after he’d taken care of the two drunkards had evaporated. Now, she acted pensive, avoiding eye contact. Perhaps because he’d nearly kissed her before Mrs. Flynn opened the door.

  Not for the first time, he’d wanted to. Wanted to taste Emma’s mouth, and not just to see if her kiss felt familiar, but because of his damnable attraction to the woman.

  Across from where he sat, a movement grabbed his attention. With her elbows propped on the table and her hands cradling the lower half of her face, Lily glared at him like he was a mouse caught nibbling the family’s prized cheese.

  “Lily,” Emma said, “please sit straight, and remember people who glower run the risk of their faces freezing in a most unbecoming way.”

  The girl shot her sister a skeptical glance, but smoothed out her expression and draped a napkin over her lap.

  Mrs. Flynn strode into the room, set a basket of rolls on the table, and lowered herself onto the seat to his right. Simon quickly stood and helped the housekeeper with her chair. He’d never seen a servant join a family for a meal. Not true. When a tot, his nursemaid had eaten with him in the nursery, and later when Baines had been his tutor, the two of them had taken their meals together in the schoolroom.

  “Would you care for a hot roll, Mr. Radcliffe?” A full smile wreathed the lower half of the housekeeper’s face. She seemed the only one pleased he dined with them.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Flynn.”

  Emma lifted the lid of a large white ironstone casserole. The full force of the savory stew’s scent permeated the air. She passed it to him. His mouth watered. At luncheon today, Baines had served overcooked ham. Simon fed most of the rubbery meat to Kismet. Thank God, the cat didn’t possess discriminating taste buds and ate nearly everything put in front of him.

  “Do you wish me to serve you, Mr. Radcliffe?” Mrs. Flynn asked.

  “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.” Simon ladled the stew into his dish. “Smells divine.”

  The housekeeper’s face reflected her pride. “Thank you.”

  He set the casserole dish next to Emma.

  “We are quite fortunate to have Mrs. Flynn to cook for us.” Emma smiled. “I fear we would be eating porridge if the task fell to me.”

  Mrs. Flynn tsked. “Now, dearie, you’re a marvelous cook.”

  Lily snorted. “She makes everything taste like shoe leather or mush.”

  A soft thump resonated under the table.

  Lily yelped and glared at Mrs. Flynn. “What did I do?”

  The housekeeper scowled at the child before turning to him. “Mr. Radcliffe, don’t pay any mind to Lily. Her sister is a fine cook and any man would be blessed to have her as his wife.”

  Emma gasped. Two bright red spots appeared on her cheeks. “Mrs. Flynn!”

  “’Tis the truth, child.”

  It appeared the older woman had taken on the task of a matchmaking mama. Realizing he was smiling, Simon sobered his expression.

  Emma moved a carrot about her plate before she speared it with the tines of her fork. She glanced at him from her lowered lashes. “Mr. Radcliffe and I didn’t venture to the museum together, by any means. We happened upon each other as we exited, and he was good enough to accompany me home. Thank you again for your kindness, sir.”

  Lily harrumphed, and all heads turned to the child. “Inspector Whitley says coincidences are few and far between.” The girl flipped her long, fair braid over her shoulder and narrowed her eyes at him.

  There was another thump under the table, and Lily yelped again.

  “Sorry, dear, just stretching my legs,” Emma said.

  “I shall be black and blue before this meal is done,” the girl grumbled. She plopped a heaping of parsnips into her mouth.

  Simon forked a piece of beef. The meat practically melted against his tongue. He almost sighed out loud. After eating Baines’s cooking, he wanted to kiss Mrs. Flynn—or possibly kidnap her. The woman’s skill in the kitchen surpassed even his Mayfair cook’s talents.

  As they ate, the conversation moved to the mundane—the weather and the Queen’s mourning wear.

  “May I add more pepper to my food?” Lily asked.

  The housekeeper glared at the girl as if she’d asked to eat her own hand. “It doesn’t need more.”

  Simon agreed. It was perfectly seasoned.

  “But I like mine spicy,” the child said.

  Emma sighed. “Yes. Go get the pepper shaker from the kitchen.”

  After Lily exited the room, Mrs. Flynn’s scowl deepened. “Did either of you read the on-dits in the newspaper?”

  Simon’s spine straightened. Bloody hell, he hoped his name hadn’t been bandied about in those ludicrous gossip columns today.

  The housekeeper peered at Simon. “Though there was no mention of that scandalous Lord A, Mrs. Jenkins’s housekeeper said that her mistress saw the nobleman boating shirtless on the Thames.”

  A nerve twitched in Simon’s jaw. Was the harridan still spreading that lie?

  “I think it doubtful,” Emma said. “It was freezing cold most of last week. One would have to be a fool to engage in such an activity.”

  Either Emma had just championed him or called him a fool.

  “Those scandal sheets are sometimes filled with falsehoods,” he said, attempting to keep his tone even. “I doubt he actually went rowing without wearing a shirt.”

  “Oh, but he’s a wicked one, Mr. Radcliffe,” Mrs. Flynn said. “Rumor has it, even his own father wanted nothing to do with him when the old viscount was alive.”

  Emma glanced at him, and Simon realized he’d gone as still as a stone.

  “Are you okay, sir?”

  He nodded.

  “Well,” Mrs. Flynn continued, “Mrs. Jenkins also said that last month at some swanky Mayfair residence, the nobleman stood on the dining room table and sang a rather ribald ditty.”

  Now that is pure balderdash! He hadn’t sung a ditty. He’d sung “God Save the Queen.” And it hadn’t happened last month, but years ago. That story seemed to resurrect itself every couple of years. And in his defense, he’d downed a bottle of vintage Perrier-Jouët champagne earlier, after his father had given him a direct cut at Tattersalls. Everyone at the horse auctioneers had noticed his father’s refusal to talk to him, casting more speculation as to
what had caused the rift. As if his stepmother’s innuendoes that Simon was depraved hadn’t already cut him off from the high sticklers. He’d become a leper in some circles. Persona non grata.

  Emma set her fork down none too gently, drawing Simon from his thoughts. “Mrs. Jenkins is a gossipmonger and her stories are suspect at best, but I fear some members of the nobility don’t hold the Queen’s regard for morality. Let us not talk about such scoundrels.”

  It appeared Emma was not his champion. It also appeared she didn’t hold certain members of the peerage, such as himself, in high regard.

  “But what about Charles?” Lily asked, stepping back in the room and sitting. “One day, he’ll be a baron, right? And if you had married him, you would have become a baroness.”

  The pink singeing Emma’s cheeks darkened. “Hush, Lily.”

  So Emma had been engaged to a nobleman’s son.

  “That Charles Neville is a good-for-nothing.” The housekeeper cut a piece of meat as though she were slicing off a piece of the man’s anatomy.

  Charles Neville? Lord Everly’s son? He didn’t really know the young man that well, though they both belonged to the same boxing club, but he thought Charles arrogant. While Neville’s father, Everly, was a pompous blowhard. Hadn’t Charles Neville recently married the Earl of Dalman’s daughter?

  Lily looked as though she wished to say more, but feared another swift kick under the table if she spoke again.

  “No-good wretch.” Mrs. Flynn stabbed her fork into a potato as if it were one of Charles Neville’s bollocks.

  “Did you see today’s newspaper article about William Russell?” Emma asked, sounding eager to change the subject. “He’s completed his book about the Prince of Wales’s trip to India.”

  “The Prince. Hmm, another bad seed,” Mrs. Flynn mumbled.

  Emma shot the older woman a silencing look.

  The housekeeper gave a clearly forced smile. “I mean how wonderful.”

  “I think it would be exciting to go to India,” Lily said. “Inspector Whitley journeyed there in his novel The Tiger’s Eye.”

  “I’ve never read any of the inspector’s books,” Simon said, thankful for the turn in the conversation. “I might have to purchase one.”

  Lily actually smiled at him. “I think you would enjoy them, especially The Man of St. Giles. It is about a fellow who works in a bank during the day. Everyone thinks him a fine gent, but he’s really a murderer.”

  Emma narrowed her eyes at her sister, and Lily jerked her chair back as if expecting another kick to her shins.

  “I’ve made roly-poly jam pudding for dessert.” The housekeeper stood.

  “That sounds lovely, Mrs. Flynn. Would you care for some, Mr. Radcliffe?” Emma asked.

  “How could I refuse?” he replied.

  Beaming, Mrs. Flynn left the room. She returned a minute later with two plates, each with a thick slice of the dessert on it. She set one before Emma and the other in front of him.

  “Where’s mine?” Lily grumbled.

  “You and I are going to eat ours in the kitchen.” Mrs. Flynn grabbed Lily’s arm.

  Emma’s gaze snapped to the housekeeper. She opened her mouth, but Mrs. Flynn was already dragging the younger Trafford out of the room.

  “I’m so very sorry, Mr. Radcliffe,” Emma said after they’d left. “I’m not sure what Mrs. Flynn is about.” Blushing, she lowered her lashes and brought the mixture of raspberry jam and pudding to her lips.

  Simon’s groin tightened. More than once, he’d partaken in debauchery that had included a sumptuous dessert. And the thought of engaging in such an activity with Emma Trafford appealed to him more than he wished to admit. Good Lord, man, what is wrong with you?

  Needing a distraction, Simon mulled over what Lily revealed about Emma being betrothed to Charles Neville. Had the man found out she wasn’t as sweet as she appeared? Simon recalled the pained look in Emma’s eyes when Lily spoke of Neville, along with the way Mrs. Flynn had jabbed at her food, and Emma’s own words about the nobility. Had it been Neville who proved untrustworthy? Hurt Emma? Simon shouldn’t care, but the question clawed at him.

  “So you were engaged to this baron’s son, Charles Neville?” Simon knew it the height of impropriety to ask such a personal question.

  The color of her already rosy cheeks darkened, and the fork in Emma’s delicate hand, with a piece of dessert perched on its tines, stilled. “I was.”

  “Might I ask where you met him?”

  She placed her utensil on her dessert dish and folded her hands on her lap.

  “We met at the British Museum. As I told you earlier, I visited quite often while my father worked there. One day while drawing in the Elgin Room, Charles approached me and asked about my sketches. We struck up an acquaintance, and every Friday when I would go to the museum to wait for Father, Charles would show up. He’d sit on the bench beside me and watch me sketch, and we’d talk about art. At first it made me self-conscious, but I became used to seeing him there. I even looked forward to it.”

  “And he asked you to marry him?”

  She lifted her napkin and dabbed at her lips. “You’re as inquisitive as a barrister in court, Mr. Radcliffe.”

  He forced what he hoped looked like a sheepish expression. “Forgive me.”

  She stared at him with those dark blue eyes of hers and gave a weak smile. “I’m not sure why, but talking about this with you doesn’t bother me. Yes, he asked for my hand after my father died.”

  There was melancholy in her voice, and Simon had a feeling this tale didn’t have a happy ending for Emma—that there was more to her story. He knew what that felt like. Anger swelled inside him. “What happened?”

  “When Charles’s father found out his son had asked for my hand . . . Let us just say the man didn’t approve.”

  “He breached his promise? Walked away?”

  She nodded. “Some members of the nobility live by their own rules.”

  “You don’t hold the nobility in high regard?”

  “Some are not deserving of my regard.” She drew in an audible breath. “Were you ever close to marrying?”

  Yes, long ago. A marriage between him and Lady Alice Granger of Yorkshire had been arranged by their parents when they were children. Alice and he had corresponded for years. She’d seemed willing to dismiss the gossip about him as balderdash. However, when nineteen, he’d traveled to the North Country to meet her. At the time his scar was still an angry red slash on his face, and he could see it repulsed her. “Once, but we drifted apart.”

  “Em!” Lily dashed into the room. The child’s breath sawed in and out of her lungs. “Come quick. That deuced pipe in the kitchen is spitting water all over the place again, and poor Mrs. Flynn’s trying to stop it.”

  “Oh heavens!” Emma dashed toward the door. “Mr. Radcliffe, I do beg your forgiveness, but I fear I must tend to this.”

  He stood. “Of course, but I shall accompany you to the kitchen. Perhaps I can fix—”

  “Thank you, but no. This has happened before and I’m aware of what needs to be done.”

  Ignoring her assurance, Simon tossed his napkin on the table and followed her. She might know what needed to be done, but he’d not sit upstairs indulging in dessert while she worked on a plumbing leak.

  In the kitchen, Mrs. Flynn stood near the sink, her beefy hands wrapped about an iron pipe spitting water through her fingers and drenching the front of the woman’s white apron. “I cannot hold it much longer, miss!”

  Emma rushed to a tall cabinet in the corner of the room and pulled out a large wrench. The weight of the tool pulled her shoulders down as she clasped it with both hands.

  “Let me have that.” Simon shrugged out of his coat and rolled up his shirtsleeves.

  Emma peered at him. “No, Mr. Radcliffe, your clothing will be ruined. I assure you, I can handle this.”

  “I’m confident you can, but I wish to help.” He took the wrench from her.

&n
bsp; “Do you know how to use it?” Lily asked him, doubt in her voice.

  He shot the child a haughty look and stepped up to the pipe. Mrs. Flynn released it and shifted back. Frigid water squirted outward, drenching his face and waistcoat. He set the tool on the joint and turned it.

  The water leaking from the pipe increased like a geyser.

  “Isn’t he turning it the wrong way?” Lily asked the room at large.

  Bloody hell! Of course I am! He didn’t know a damn thing about plumbing. He set the wrench back on the joint and turned it the opposite way. The water became a trickle. Putting his weight into it, he gave it another firm twist.

  The water ceased.

  “Well done, Mr. Radcliffe,” Lily exclaimed. “Em never gets the leak to completely stop. She usually just wraps some rags about it and puts a bucket underneath to catch the drips.”

  He grinned, some odd sense of satisfaction welling up in his chest.

  Emma stepped up to him and softly dabbed a flannel across his wet face. Unlike so many women, her gaze stayed on his eyes instead of shifting to his scar. “Thank you, Mr. Radcliffe. How kind of you.”

  He stared into her blue eyes. They really were a fascinating shade, like bright sapphires.

  Clearing her throat, Mrs. Flynn took the wrench from his hand. “If you take off your wet waistcoat, Mr. Radcliffe. I shall hang it by the stove.”

  “You really should remove all your clothes,” Emma said.

  “Really? All of them?” Amusement laced his voice.

  Lily giggled.

  As if suddenly realizing her words, Emma’s cheeks turned red. “I mean, you should return home and change into dry clothes, so you don’t catch a chill.”

  He supposed he should, yet he didn’t want to go home. This house seemed so much warmer than his. And even though the piano needed tuning, he’d hoped to play it again. Simon tossed those thoughts from his head. Once again, he was forgetting his objective: to find out if Emma was his thief.

  “Yes, I should get going. Thank you for such a lovely meal.”

  “I’ll walk you to the door.” Emma motioned to the stairs.

  In the entry hall, she handed him his hat and gloves. “Thank you, Mr. Radcliffe, for your assistance with those two drunkards.”