Never Deceive a Viscount

by Renee Ann Miller

  “Please call me Simon,” he said.

  “Simon,” she repeated, her cheeks a lovely shade of pink. “And you may call me Emma.”

  Neither of them moved. Was she experiencing the same current toward him that he’d been experiencing for her ever since they’d stood in that dim alley? The same odd sensation he’d experienced when he’d kissed his thief in the dark. His thief. Damnation, why am I continually losing my perspective on this situation?

  “You will return for another sitting tomorrow at two o’clock?” she asked.

  “Yes, perfect.” As if unable to stop himself, he stepped closer. His legs brushed against her skirts. The enticing scent of roses and soap filled his nose. He tucked a loose tendril of hair behind her ear, then skimmed the pads of his fingers across her neck to where her pulse beat. The steady patter picked up tempo, and a small lump moved in her throat as he lowered his head.

  “Ahem.”

  Straightening, both their gazes swung to Lily standing near the basement stairs, her arms crossed over her chest.

  “Goodnight, sir,” Emma said, taking a sizable step back.

  Simon opened the door. “Thank you again for a lovely meal.”

  * * *

  As soon as Simon entered his residence, both Baines and Harris dashed up to him.

  “You look like a drowned rat, my lord.” The valet’s gaze veered to the transom above the door. “Has it started raining?”

  “I helped fix a plumbing leak at the Trafford residence.” Simon heard the pride in his own voice.

  “Are you sure you fixed it? Looks more like you stood under it,” Harris said.

  Simon scowled at the man.

  “You know nothing about how to repair plumbing,” Baines added. “And surely, it isn’t something a gentleman should attempt. Perhaps you’re feverish, sir?” The valet reached up as if to gauge the temperature of Simon’s forehead.

  Simon waved the man away. “I’m not feverish.”

  “Well, those wet clothes cannot be conducive to good health. Let’s get you into some dry clothes,” Baines said as if talking to a small child.

  “I don’t need your assistance.” Ignoring Baines’s protestation, Simon took the stairs two at a time. Inside his bedroom he strode to the window, and as he’d done numerous times before, he peered at Emma’s residence. Though this time he didn’t stare at the house hoping to learn something new. No, this time he stared at it wishing he was still inside.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Bright streaks of early morning sun cut through the window, casting a wide band of light across Simon’s desk in his Bloomsbury residence. Restless, and finding sleep elusive, he’d risen earlier than usual. He stuffed his note to Mr. Marlow inside an envelope, along with several banknotes. Simon handed it to Nick, who stood patiently waiting before the desk, and tossed the lad a shilling.

  Sporting a wide grin, Nick snatched the coin out of the air and slipped it into his tattered coat pocket.

  “Not a word about this, especially to Lily. Are we clear?”

  Nick nodded his head. “She won’t get a word out of me, sir. Not. A. Word.”

  “Good lad.”

  The boy’s stomach rumbled.

  Simon doubted Nick had eaten. Every morning the boy showed up looking disheveled. Most likely his parents worked from dawn to dusk at some factory, leaving the child to fend for himself. Simon tossed him another coin. “That bakery on Theobald’s Road sells hot cross buns. Buy yourself a couple.”

  “Thank you, sir. Do you want some too?”

  An appealing idea. Baines would probably serve the same thing he cooked every morning: runny eggs, burnt toast, and bacon rashers as tough as a horse’s hoof. He tossed Nick another shilling and winked. “You’re a bright lad. Sneak me two.”

  “Will do, guv’ner. Will do.” Nick darted out the doorway.

  Harris walked into the office. Without a word, he placed the morning newspaper on Simon’s desk, then exited the room as if it reeked of decomposing fish heads.

  It appeared the man wasn’t talking to him. He knew why. Last night Baines had walked into Simon’s bedchamber to find him staring at Emma’s house. The valet had accused him of being smitten.

  Smitten. What poppycock. And when he’d refuted the claim, Baines had had the audacity to argue with him.

  Simon wasn’t interested in Emma Trafford. He’d nearly kissed her because he hoped to see if the kiss sparked a recollection. And his obsession was with the woman’s home. It had more to do with Mrs. Flynn’s cooking and the worn but comfortable furnishings that didn’t have flamingos stitched on them. It definitely had nothing to do with Emma’s smile, or the scent of her skin, or that she’d shown him her brother’s letter and asked Simon about his own boyhood. Or that while he’d fixed the pipe, he’d felt like part of a family. And it surely had nothing to do with her hoyden sister.

  Angry over Baines’s gibberish, he’d threatened to banish the interfering man to the North Country. Now Harris was acting like Simon had kicked a beloved dog, and Baines was moping about as dejected as a wallflower at a ball.

  Kismet, who sat on the windowsill, shot Simon a narrow-eyed glare.

  “You too?”

  The white cat jumped down and walked out of the room, his tail swishing in the air.

  “It isn’t like I’d actually do it,” he called after the feline. Though at times the idea of sending both the old retainers away held immeasurable appeal.

  You’d miss them, a voice in his head whispered.

  Like one would miss a toothache.

  Simon picked up the newspaper. As he read the political section, he noted the bent corner of another page. Damnation, the old coots had bookmarked something they found interesting. And usually what they found interesting pertained to Simon on the scandal page.

  Gritting his teeth, he flipped to the dog-eared section.

  It is rumored that the always scandalous Lord A drove through Hyde Park, dismounted his carriage, and took a leisurely swim in the Serpentine while fully clothed, shoes and all. He was accompanied by a woman with long, flowing red hair, who championed his strokes from the banks of the lake.

  Simon took a deep breath. Another Banbury tale. He hadn’t driven through Hyde Park in months, but at least in this escapade he wasn’t half-naked. Now that his stepmother had returned to London, was Julia up to her old tricks, spreading lies about him?

  Harris walked into the office and dragged a dirty feather duster over the round table in the corner of the room, sending dust motes dancing through the sun-drenched air.

  Simon coughed. So this was how it was going to be. He shouldn’t care. The two men were servants. Yet in truth, he’d come to care for them as if they were two elderly, obnoxious uncles.

  Family. The only family he had. They’d stood by him after his father had banished him. An unwelcome stab of guilt drifted through his conscience.

  “How are you today, Harris?” Simon set the newspaper down.

  “Well, sir,” Harris replied in a clipped tone.

  “Did Baines tutor Nick this morning?” He knew the answer. When Simon had walked by the drawing room, he’d heard the lad complaining about being taught to read using books meant for babies. But Baines had replied that one couldn’t just jump into reading Charles Dickens.

  “Yes.” The butler’s lips remained in a straight line.

  “And what is Baines about now?”

  “He’s cooking breakfast.”

  The thought of eating the valet’s food held as much appeal as walking on hot coals. He swallowed that thought and lied. “I’m looking forward to it.”

  The butler’s lips twitched before he ruthlessly straightened them again.

  Baines stepped into the room. His eyes looked tired. Had the valet slept poorly? Simon’s guilt increased twofold.

  “Sir, your breakfast is ready,” the manservant said, his voice low and scratchy. “Do you wish to eat in the dining room or take your meal in here?”

  Her
e would be better, since Simon could feed the food to Kismet undetected. He thought of how Mrs. Flynn had joined Emma and Lily for dinner. Maybe if he asked the manservants to join him all would be forgiven. “I would like us to eat breakfast together today.”

  Harris’s bushy gray eyebrows shot upward. The man’s gaze veered to the decanter of whisky on the sideboard as though he feared Simon had drained it dry.

  Wide-eyed, Baines wiggled a finger in his ear as if trying to dislodge wax. “Together, my lord?”

  Simon sighed. “Yes. That’s what I said.”

  “Most improper,” Harris responded. The butler had the audacity to lean forward and try to sniff Simon’s breath.

  “Dash it all, man, I’ve not been drinking,” Simon snapped. “Never mind. Just wheel the bloody cart in here.”

  The two old coots bowed their heads together. Baines cupped a hand to his mouth and spoke in his approximation of a whisper. “Do you think he’s drunk?”

  Harris shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. His breath smells like the neroli oil in his tooth powder.”

  “Why must the two of you always presume I’m three sheets to the wind? Contrary to what those blasted scandal sheets say, I haven’t been drunk in years.”

  The two manservants’ faces flushed red.

  “You heard us, my lord?” Harris asked.

  “The neighbors most likely heard you. Even that old fellow up the street with the hearing trumpet most likely heard you. You were conversing in exceedingly loud voices.”

  “We were not, my lord,” Baines replied, indignation in his voice.

  Simon rubbed at his temples, fighting the urge to toss them both out of the room. “Do you wish to join me for breakfast or not?”

  The two elderly men stared at each other, then Harris said, “We would be honored to break our fast with you.”

  The corners of Baines’s lips turned upward. “Yes, we’d quite enjoy it.”

  Simon gave a succinct nod, wondering for the umpteenth time if that conk to his head had dislodged the circuits in his brain, or if there was something evil in the water in Bloomsbury. It seemed the only explanation for why he’d asked the two old goats to breakfast with him and why he couldn’t stop thinking of Emma Trafford.

  * * *

  With a heavy sigh, Emma placed a postage stamp on the letter she’d penned to Michael. Even though she agreed with Simon that her brother’s last correspondence wasn’t that unusual for a lad at school, she still couldn’t stifle the unnerving sensation that something was wrong.

  As she stood from the secretaire in the morning room, the knocker tapped firmly against the front door.

  She opened it to find a thin man with a long nose, wearing a green sack suit, bright red waistcoat, and flamboyant yellow bow tie. In his hand, he clutched a brown leather satchel. His attire, along with his prominent nose and overlarge teeth, made him resemble the illustration of the Mad Hatter from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.

  Without waiting to be invited in, the man entered the house like she’d been expecting him. He doffed his top hat. “Good morning, ma’am. Patrick Marlow, master piano tuner.”

  Piano tuner? “I’m sorry, sir, but I believe you have the wrong address.”

  He set his brown leather satchel down and removed a piece of folded paper from his coat pocket. “Miss Trafford?”

  Had a neighbor summoned him, thinking that Lily’s piano playing could be improved by tuning the instrument? A laughable notion indeed. The child was skilled; it was her attitude that was lacking. “Yes, but—”

  “I’m on a schedule, ma’am. No time to dawdle. I’ve got several more calls to make in Mayfair.” Impatiently Mr. Marlow plucked his watch from his waistcoat pocket and flicked it open. The gold-faced timepiece looked costly.

  Egad, what does the man charge for his services? “What will be the cost?”

  He peered down his overlong nose at her, as if asking him such a question verged on vulgarity. With an exaggerated sniff, he tucked his watch back in his pocket. “The matter of payment has already been settled.”

  “I don’t understand. You mean to say someone has already paid you? Who?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  She glanced past the man’s shoulder and beyond the open door to Simon’s residence. A tall form stood at a second-floor window. “Did Mr. Radcliffe send you?”

  “Mr. Radcliffe? I’ve no idea who that is. And as I said, your benefactor wishes to remain anonymous. Now might I inquire where your piano is?” He tapped his foot impatiently against the floor.

  Lily’s feet thundered on the treads as she ran down the stairs. Upon reaching the entry hall, the child stared at Mr. Marlow and abruptly stopped. Her head bobbed up, then down as her gaze traveled over the man’s colorful attire. A grin lit up Lily’s face, and she clapped a hand over her mouth and giggled.

  “Lily,” Emma said in a warning tone, fearing the child would say out loud that the man resembled a cartoonish illustration.

  The housekeeper appeared in the entry hall.

  “Mrs. Flynn, would you please show Mr. Marlow to the drawing room. He is here to tune the piano.”

  Without waiting for the older woman’s reply, Emma grabbed her navy shawl off the wall hook and stepped outside.

  As she strode to Simon’s town house, she glanced up at the window where she’d seen him standing. It was now vacant. Emma dropped the knocker against his door.

  Harris answered.

  “Is Mr. Radcliffe home?”

  This time the stern-looking servant didn’t ask for a calling card, but nodded. “This way, miss.”

  He led her to a room directly off the entry hall. Purple-flocked paper covered the walls. She glanced around, hoping to see the painting he’d purchased from her of the family walking in the park, but it was nowhere in sight. Emma blinked at the two purple-and-gold chairs. They appeared to have bright embroidered spots on them. She leaned close.

  My goodness, are they flamingos? Yes, stitched in bright pink silk. It seemed inconceivable that Simon Radcliffe owned such silly looking chairs. A laugh escaped her lips.

  Someone cleared his throat.

  Emma spun around.

  In all his harsh beauty, Simon stood in the doorway, dressed in a crisp white shirt with the sleeves folded up, revealing corded muscles. For a second, she found it impossible to pull her gaze away from his forearms and the scattering of dark hair on them. He stepped into the room. His tall, broad-shouldered body made the tight space feel even more closed in.

  “Emma.” The sound of her name on his lips, the familiarity in which he said it, caused a low hum to vibrate through her limbs.

  “I wished to ask you something,” she said.

  “And what is that?” He closed the distance between them.

  The exotic scent of citrus, spice, and male filled her nose, making her already strained senses snap to alert. “There is a piano tuner at my residence. Did you send him?”

  “No.”

  She was nearly positive it was him. What type of game was he playing? “I’m not sure I believe you.”

  “Really?” He stepped even closer.

  The proximity of his body pulled at her like a magnet. She fought the urge to erase the narrow distance that separated them.

  Thankfully, Baines stepped into the room.

  Simon’s intense gaze shifted to where the servant stood. He took a deep breath, as if bolstering his patience. “Do you need something, Baines?”

  The white cat that Emma had seen when she and Lily broke into Simon’s house darted into the room.

  “I was looking for Kismet,” the manservant said, as if the excuse suddenly came upon him.

  With its tail held high, the animal pranced up to Emma and rubbed his slinky body on the skirt of her simple green day dress as though Emma had rolled herself in catnip. She reached down and picked up the fluffy feline.

  Kismet purred, craned his head, and smoothed his whiskered face against her cheek.r />
  “That’s odd.” A furrow appeared between Baines’s gray brows. “Kismet isn’t normally so affectionate with strangers.”

  “Yes. It’s like he’s met you before.” Simon’s dark eyes pierced her.

  Emma’s heart skipped a beat. Her mouth grew dry. The cat nudged her hand. “Ouch! He bit my finger,” she lied. Attempting to look in pain, she gave the cat to Mr. Baines. “You are correct. He isn’t very fond of strangers.”

  “Really?” Simon said, an expression of disbelief etched upon his granite face. “I didn’t see him bite you.”

  “He did,” she averred.

  Simon peered at her finger and his warm hand curled around her wrist to examine her fake injury.

  Baines leaned over Simon’s shoulder and stared at her finger as well.

  Without releasing her, Simon said, “Baines, would you mind taking Kismet from the room before he violently attacks Miss Trafford again?”

  The valet looked as if he didn’t wish to leave. Did the manservant realize Emma’s brain turned to mush when Simon stood near?

  Simon cocked one dark eyebrow at the man.

  Looking resigned, Baines nodded.

  As the servant strode from the room, Simon called over his shoulder, “Close the door behind you, Baines, so Kismet doesn’t run back in here.”

  The door clicked closed.

  “I should go,” Emma said, her heart picking up speed. “It might not look devastatingly painful, but my injury burns terribly.”

  “Really?” Simon lifted her finger to his lips and drew it into his mouth.

  She gasped, but didn’t step back, mesmerized by the sight. How wicked. Erotic. Her knees grew weak. She should slap him, but could do little more than stare as an odd sensation flittered in her stomach, while her breathing quickened.

  He released her finger and blew on it, a light puff of breath.

  The hairs on her nape stood on end.

  “Better?” he asked.

  Gosh, no. Wanton thoughts raced through her mind. She wanted to press herself against the hard surface of his body. Worse, she wanted him to blow on every inch of her skin to douse the heat now coursing through her veins. How naughty she was. Perhaps it hadn’t been the melancholy of losing Father that had made her succumb to Charles. Might she possess an innate wickedness?