Never Deceive a Viscount

by Renee Ann Miller

  “I’m not allowed to trundle my hoop in the street.”

  “Ah.” He ran his gaze over Emma. She looked like she wanted to give him a tongue-lashing. A vision of her pink tongue traveling over him flashed in his thoughts, though he doubted that was what she had in mind. He shoved the lurid image aside. A dusting of flour colored her nose and cheek. Could it be she’d not lied and was indeed baking bread? “Is that flour on your sister’s face, Lily? Is she helping Mrs. Flynn in the kitchen?”

  Lily nodded. “Yes, but I doubt whatever she’s making will be edible.”

  Next to him, Nick snorted.

  Emma set her hands on her hips. “Lily, you know you’re not allowed to play in the street.” She settled her narrowed gaze on Simon. “And you, Mr. Radcliffe, should know better.”

  “I beg your forgiveness, Emma. I am solely to blame. Perhaps tomorrow I can make amends.” A vision of their kiss flashed in his mind.

  Her cheeks turned pink. Her eyes held his. Was she thinking what he was?

  Oddly, he hoped so.

  Chapter Seventeen

  An hour after rolling the trundling hoop, Simon found himself in Clapton’s Boxing Club. He needed a distraction from Emma Trafford, and a round or two in a ring would serve him well. The place was nearly empty, but the stench of cologne and sweat still mingled in the air.

  He noticed Charles Neville standing near one of the rings. Though as tall as Simon, the ginger-haired man possessed a lanky physique common in younger men.

  Lord Langford, another young swell, was assisting Neville with slipping on his boxing gloves. In here, members were held to the Marquess of Queensberry rules. Leather gloves softened the blows, and rounds were limited to three minutes. The politeness of it all was a stark contrast to the winner-take-all atmosphere of the illegal, more dangerous bare-knuckled brawls one could find in the basements of East End pubs or back alleys.

  Simon remembered what Emma had said yesterday about her betrothal to the man. Something seemed off. Simon knew Neville’s pompous sire wouldn’t allow him to marry someone outside his station, and Simon was sure Neville had known that as well. The young buck was lucky she’d not sued him for breach of promise.

  Simon nudged James Huntington, who was lifting dumbbells. He could understand Huntington’s hesitation to go out. Everywhere the man walked, gazes and whispers followed him about his wife’s death. Simon motioned to Neville. “What do you know of him?”

  “More than I wish to,” Huntington said. “He’s a right bastard. Heard him bragging once about how all he had to do was mention he was the heir to a barony and most women all but dropped their knickers for him.”

  Damnation, I was right. The shite had conned Emma when she’d been at one of the most vulnerable points in her life, after the passing of her father. The cocky bastard had wanted something, and Simon had a strong suspicion what it was.

  Simon suddenly wanted to hit something. No, not something. Someone. Charles Neville. The man would pay for his duplicity. Forcing a complacent expression, he strode up to the two young bucks. “Looking for a sparring partner, Neville?”

  The boyish-faced man grinned and positioned himself in an upright stance, then crouching, he jabbed his gloved hands into the air in front of him. “Indeed, Adler. You think you’re up for the task, old man?”

  Old man? The smug little shite was about to learn how much Simon wanted to break Neville’s perfectly straight nose. “Yes,” Simon replied. “I think my old body can handle a couple rounds. Just let me get changed and put my gloves on.”

  Lord Langford’s lips twitched. Unlike Neville, Langford had witnessed Simon’s prowess in the ring, and knew him capable of inflicting a bone-crushing punch even when wearing gloves.

  Ten minutes later, bare-chested, Simon slipped through the ropes and stepped into the ring were Neville stood with his back to Simon. The man hopped around like a kangaroo, punching and jabbing at the air in front of him as he bounced and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

  “Ready, Neville?” Simon asked.

  The kangaroo swung around to face Simon. The cocky expression on Neville’s face evaporated. He stilled as though gazing into Medusa’s eyes. Obviously he’d believed Simon’s broad shoulders were due to a tailor’s skill at padding Simon’s coats.

  Looking like a rabbit who’s just crossed the path of a hungry fox, Neville blinked. Simon was going to enjoy this.

  Lord Langford struck the bell.

  Without preamble Simon strode up to Neville and hit him with a quick jab to the face.

  Wide-eyed, Neville stumbled back a few paces and shook his head. “I wasn’t ready,” he whined.

  “You didn’t hear the bell?” Simon arched a brow.

  Neville shook his head and hopped around again. The silly fool would exhaust himself—already sweat beaded on the man’s forehead. The young buck placed his gloves before his face, leaving his gut exposed, and stepped in front of Simon.

  This is going to be too easy.

  Neville drew back his arm, and Simon hit him in the stomach. Air swooshed from the man’s mouth. He folded over and gasped. Simon moved back, giving him some space. He could have struck him again, but he didn’t want it to be over yet.

  Pale and unsteady on his feet, Neville straightened. He stepped up to Simon and swung wildly with his right, then left, then right, making contact twice with Simon’s shoulder.

  Simon hit him with an uppercut.

  The young man’s neck stretched as his head jerked backward from the impact.

  “Jesus,” Neville mumbled, shaking his head as if to clear the fog swirling about in his skull.

  Neville swung again, another frenzied punch.

  Simon ducked and planted a fist into the man’s exposed ribs.

  The man spun around and landed on the ropes.

  Langford started counting. “One, two, three, four, five . . .”

  Neville should have stayed for the count, but the idiot turned around and staggered toward Simon.

  “Get on your knee, Neville, and admit you’re beat, you fool,” Langford called out.

  “You wish to give up?” Simon taunted.

  The younger man’s face reddened and with his feet shuffling on the ring’s floor, he stepped back to the center. Simon had known the taunt would work. Neville was a half-wit.

  “Do you know a Miss Emma Trafford?” Simon asked, ducking another jab at his face.

  The man’s large Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. Simon could smell the fear on the young swell’s skin. The bell rang, ending the first three-minute round, and Neville staggered to his corner of the ring.

  When Simon reached his corner for the sixty-second break, Huntington tossed a towel at him. “I have a feeling by the way you’re hitting Neville, you’ve an agenda.”

  Simon grinned. Huntington had always been smart. “Just a bit of poetic justice.”

  “Hit him on the brow. Once blood gets in his eye, he won’t see very well.”

  “I intend to break his nose.” Simon flashed a grin at Neville, who stood in his corner, wiping off his sweaty face. The young heir looked ready to climb the ropes and run for the exit. Simon had intended on drawing this out—going several rounds to extract a pound of flesh, but looking at the man made him sick. It was time to end this. The bell dinged and apprehensively Neville made his way to the center.

  The man opened his mouth and before he uttered a word, Simon hit him with a quick combination to his face and gut.

  With a thud, Neville fell onto his back, arms spread wide, out cold. Blood trickled out of his nose.

  As if concerned about the man’s health, Simon bent on one knee and gave Neville a none-too-gentle smack on his cheek. “You okay, old boy? Terribly sorry if I hit you a might too hard.”

  The man made a moaning noise.

  Simon smacked him again.

  The swell’s eyes opened. He blinked.

  Simon leaned close. “If you ever tell anyone what you did to Miss Trafford, I
want you to know I’ll track you down like a rat catcher does vermin and snap your neck. Have I made myself clear?”

  The man grew even paler than he already was.

  “Are we clear?” Simon repeated.

  Neville wet his dry lips and nodded.

  * * *

  Simon leaned against the window casing in his drawing room and stared at the Trafford residence. One by one, the windows had grown dark, leaving only the two in Emma’s studio lit. Then they’d darkened.

  A new light appeared on the second floor. A slender form moved about in the room before drawing the curtains closed. Was that Emma’s bedchamber? Yes, he could imagine her preparing to retire—how she’d pull the pins from her blond hair, allowing the heavy tresses to cascade down her back.

  The light escaping the confines of the curtains faded, and the house stood dark.

  He turned away from the window, tipped his glass of cognac to his lips, and drained it dry. A meager inch of liquid glistened through the cut-glass decanter on the sideboard. He poured the remaining brandy into his snifter and peered at the stairs beyond the open doors of the drawing room.

  He should go to bed, attempt to conquer the nocturnal beast within, or be about Town. There was always some entertainment to be had. Yet he stood in the dark, staring at the Trafford residence, asking himself a question that continually echoed in his head like the bells in a church tower. Was the innocent-looking Emma Trafford the woman he sought?

  Today when he’d kissed her, he’d not thought of revenge.

  He’d wanted her. His hands skimming over her body, delving under her skirts to explore the silkiness of her skin. He wanted Emma in his bed. Under him. Straddling him. The possibilities seemed endless. He could still feel the sensation of her eager mouth and hear her little gasps of pleasure.

  Hell, he was hard as a brick, and his balls were most likely a distinctive shade of blue.

  He continued to lose track of his plan. Was he once again allowing a beautiful woman to connive him? Or was he chasing a ghost? Could Westfield be right? Had Simon displaced his anger onto Emma because she looked as innocent as Julia—convicted Emma on nothing more than circumstantial evidence?

  Yes, they were both blond and beautiful, but Emma radiated kindness. She acted like a mother to her sister—cared for the child. Loved her. Julia only loved herself. He couldn’t imagine his stepmother acting so caring and maternal unless searching for a means to an end.

  He scrubbed his hand over his bristled jaw. Would Emma consider being his mistress?

  Good Lord, where did that thought come from? Angrily he rubbed at the back of his neck. Bloody hell. What tomfoolery was he contemplating? He trusted the woman as far as he could spit. Simon slammed his empty glass down on the sideboard. Damnation! Once a fool, always a fool. He had to remember not to lower his guard.

  A purr rumbled in the air, and Kismet rubbed his body against Simon’s legs. He bent onto one knee and scratched the cat’s neck. He’d brought the animal here after Vivian had seen a mouse. She’d detested the feline nearly as much as vermin. More so, since Kismet left his prized catches by the side of the bed for inspection.

  Already restless, the cat darted into the room’s shadows in search of new prey. Unlike Simon, the animal wasn’t so easily detoured.

  A movement outside the window drew Simon’s attention. A shadow cut across the pavement as someone in front of his town house stepped under the lamppost. The slender man appeared to survey his surroundings before he tugged his flat cap lower on his head and crossed the street.

  The hairs on Simon’s neck prickled as the man slipped a key into Emma’s front door and entered the residence.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Dressed in his shirtsleeves, Simon dashed out of his town house. In the short time it had taken him to drag on his shoes, the night’s fog had thickened. No need to worry about Mrs. Jenkins spotting him through this pea soup.

  As he crossed the street, both dread and exhilaration intertwined within him. Was the man he’d seen entering Emma’s home the bastard who’d hit him over the head? He needed to know. Yet the realization that Emma might be as conniving as Julia knotted his gut. He stepped onto the pavement and peered through Emma’s morning room window.

  Nothing to see but darkness. Was the man upstairs in Emma’s bed? A red, angry haze Simon didn’t wish to examine flashed before his eyes.

  Blast it. He would pound on the door and demand to know the man’s identity.

  Footfalls moved up the basement stairs, alerting Simon to someone’s approach.

  A tall, slender form stepped through the dark, foggy night to appear before him at the same time a cricket bat came into view, heading right at Simon’s head.

  “Bloody bastard!” a voice hissed.

  What the hell. Simon ducked. The wood swooshed over him, making contact with the exterior wall of the residence. Shards of splintered willow flew in the dark air.

  His attacker took a single step out of the shadows. Weak moonlight spilled onto his young face. A sense of having seen him before flashed in Simon’s mind as his assailant cranked the bat back and swung it as if determined to knock the snot out of Simon.

  He sidestepped as the wooden weapon whipped by his shoulder, scraping his arm. Burning pain seared his skin.

  The momentum of the forceful swing brought the bloke’s body sideways.

  Ignoring the pain in his upper arm, Simon took the opportunity to grasp the bat’s handle and jerk his attacker off-balance, causing the man to stumble. He grabbed his assailant’s arm and twisted it behind the fellow’s back. “Move and I’ll dislocate your shoulder.”

  The front door swung open.

  A gasp cut through the thick air.

  Through the gloom, Simon zeroed in on Emma dressed in a white cotton nightgown and robe.

  “Mr. Radcliffe! Good Lord, what are you doing to my brother?”

  Brother? The paintings in Emma’s studio focused in his mind. Of course, that’s where he’d seen the lad’s face.

  Emma rushed to Simon’s side and pushed at him. “Let him go, sir! Michael, are you hurt?”

  Simon released him.

  Breathing heavily, the boy turned around. “You know this bloke, Em?”

  “Yes, he’s our neighbor. A client of mine. What are you doing with that bat?”

  “I thought he was . . .” The lad raked his fingers through his fair hair.

  Emma clasped his arm. “Who did you think it was?”

  “No one. Never mind.” Her brother’s voice sounded both sullen and defensive. Michael scowled at Simon. “That still doesn’t explain why he was peeking through our window like a lecher.”

  The boy had him there. “I saw you enter the house. I became concerned since someone robbed me.” There was some truth in that statement.

  “Robbed?” Michael echoed. The startled expression on the boy’s face seemed as genuine as his sister’s had been.

  “What are you doing home, Michael? Why aren’t you in school?” Emma asked.

  “I wish to pick up a few things.”

  “You need them so desperately that you decided to take the rail home and play hooky?”

  “I thought you’d be pleased to see me.” With a huff, the lad stormed into the house.

  Emma blinked. “Something’s going on with him.” Her warm fingers touched his arm. “Your shirt is ripped. Are you hurt?”

  “It’s nothing.” It was the least he deserved after coming over here half-cocked. He wasn’t sure what had bothered him more, the possibility Emma might have played him for a fool, or that a man, other than himself, might be sharing her bed.

  Emma shivered and wrapped her arms about herself.

  Simon fought the urge to pull her into an embrace to warm her skin. He glanced at Emma’s bare feet. “You should go inside, Emma. It’s damp out here.”

  “Yes. I should see if I can convince my brother to reveal what’s really going on. Thank you for your concern, and I’m sorry. Goodnight, Si
mon.”

  He waited until Emma returned to her house before he strode back to his own residence, unable to shake the feeling that Emma’s was right—something was definitely wrong with her brother.

  A short time later, Simon paced his bedchamber. The memory of Emma dressed in her simple bedclothes, a worried expression on her face, bothered him. And why should he care if something was wrong with her brother?

  Blast it. He needed a distraction, and he knew what would work.

  * * *

  With only the moonlight guiding him, Simon lifted a pot on the back terrace of Lady Griffin’s residence and removed the key to the rear door. Stealthily he made his way up the servants’ stairs, as he had numerous times, slipped into her bedroom, and locked the door.

  The glow from the grate revealed Margaret’s dark hair and lithe form sleeping in her bed. He took three steps, massaged the back of his neck, and stopped. What was he doing here?

  Damned if he knew.

  He should go home. Yet his first thought wasn’t of his luxurious Curzon Street residence, but his town house on Great James Street. Best to leave before Margaret heard him scurrying about and woke, but the thought of walking home or looking for a hackney at this hour held little appeal. He shrugged out of his coat and tossed it over a chair. Instead of moving to the tester bed, he stretched out on the settee. His long legs dangled over the arm of the short piece of furniture.

  Damn uncomfortable. He closed his eyes and Emma’s face floated in his mind as sleep overtook him.

  * * *

  “Simon, wake up.”

  Grumbling, he forced open his heavy-lidded eyes.

  Margaret, dressed in a long cream nightgown, stood next to the settee, frowning. “What are you about?”

  He didn’t know anymore. Raking his fingers through his disheveled hair, he swung his legs to the floor, cringing at the pain in his stiff back and sore arm.

  Margaret arched a brow, still waiting for an explanation.

  “I thought we could . . . talk. But when I arrived you were sleeping.”

  “Talk?” She smiled. “Was that all?”