Never Deceive a Viscount

by Renee Ann Miller

Initially, no. He’d come here to burn off the restlessness within him, and though he enjoyed talking with Margaret, it hadn’t been the reason for his midnight visit. Yet after arriving, the desire to join her in bed had vanished.

  “Who is Emma?” she asked, drawing him from his thoughts.

  Simon’s gaze swung to Margaret’s. “Emma?”

  Margaret sat next to him on the settee and patted his knee. “When I awoke you were saying her name. I presume she’s the reason you didn’t join me in my bed?”

  What an idiot he was. Coming here and mumbling Emma’s name in his sleep so Margaret heard it was beyond the pale. Like him, she was scarred, though hers were emotional, not physical, and he didn’t wish to add to that.

  Damn, he was an arse. “Forgive me.”

  “No need. We both know this relationship is based on reciprocal gratification, nothing more. No, that’s not true. I consider you one of my dearest friends.”

  Simon slid his hand over hers and squeezed her fingers. After her marriage to that cheating rat-bastard Lord Griffin, Margaret trusted men very little.

  “Do you love her?” Margaret asked.

  Love Emma? How laughable. “Absolutely not.”

  She arched an eyebrow, clearly stating she didn’t believe him.

  “For all your charm toward women, I know the truth, Simon.”

  He frowned. What truth?

  “You don’t trust them. Not a one.”

  “What bosh. I’m here with you.”

  “Yes, normally sharing my bed, but have you ever confided in me? Told me what dark secrets you hold? Never. Have you ever done so with any woman?”

  He thought of his conversation with Emma—how he’d revealed that he and his father hadn’t been close. “I have.”

  “Her?”

  Good Lord. He didn’t blush, yet he felt his cheeks warming.

  Margaret smiled. “I think I have my answer.”

  This was ridiculous. He didn’t care for Emma. He wanted her in his bed. There was a difference. He would not allow himself to fall in love. Doing so left one vulnerable to manipulation.

  Margaret stood, pulling him from his thoughts. “The maid who lights the grate will be arriving soon. And my servants are probably already buzzing about my house below stairs.”

  Simon glanced at the window. Muted morning light filtered through the sheer curtains. He should have left over an hour ago. He could withstand anything whispered about his antics, since there wasn’t much that hadn’t already been bandied around with regard to him, but Margaret’s pristine reputation would be sullied if her servants witnessed him leaving her bedroom at daybreak. He stood and cracked open the bedroom door an inch. The sound of footsteps one flight below revealed he’d indeed waited too long to make his exit down the rear stairway.

  Margaret’s lips thinned into a straight line.

  “Don’t fret.” He donned his coat, moved to the window, and pushed up the lower sash.

  “Simon, you can’t be serious. You’ll fall and break your neck climbing out my window. Then everyone will learn of it. It will cause a scandal.”

  He sighed. “I’m so glad you are as concerned about my demise as you are your reputation.”

  She laughed softly. “I am concerned about both.”

  “Indeed. No need to worry. Westfield and I became quite skilled at shimmying down drainpipes when at school.” That memory brought his concerns back to Emma and her brother. Perhaps he should talk to the lad, see what was bothering him.

  No, it was none of his concern.

  Simon swung one leg out onto the ledge and reached for the drainpipe. The fabric of his coat stretched tight over his shoulders. A ripping noise reached his ear. Cool morning air filtered through the tear in the shoulder of his coat. Uttering a low curse, he wrapped his hands on the pipe, set the heels of his shoes against it, and slid down.

  His feet silently touched the flagstone on the back terrace. Sludge from the pipe muddied the front of his clothing. He brushed it off as best he could, reached for his top hat to make a gallant bow, and realized he’d left it in Margaret’s bedchamber.

  My hat, he mouthed and pointed to his head.

  Margaret nodded, disappeared for a minute, and returned. Leaning out the window, she tossed the top hat to him. It tumbled downward, fluttering like a one-winged bird. He caught it and placed it on his head before sneaking through the rear gardens and to the alley behind.

  Best he return to his Mayfair residence and stay there for a few days. He needed to screw his head back on straight and remember his objective before returning to his house on Great James Street.

  After a brisk walk, Simon stepped into his Curzon Street town house.

  The under-butler, Samuel Pritchard, came barreling down the corridor. Upon seeing Simon in the entry hall, the man came to an abrupt halt and tugged down his waistcoat.

  “My lord.” The servant’s eyes widened as his gaze raked over Simon’s dirty clothes. He glanced past Simon’s shoulders as if wondering where the two old retainers were.

  “Follow me, Pritchard.” Simon stepped into his office, picked up a piece of foolscap, and jotted a note to Harris and Baines, informing them he would return to his Great James Street residence in a few days. The two mother hens were probably pacing back and forth awaiting him.

  He folded the note, wrote his Bloomsbury address on it, and handed it to the servant. “I wish this to be delivered. Harris and Baines are there.”

  “Yes, my lord. I’ll send a footman right away.”

  Simon held up a halting hand. “No, I want you to deliver it, and you are not to tell anyone whom you work for. Understand? Especially a little blond-haired chit graced with an inquisitive nature. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Most definitely, my lord.”

  “Take a hackney.” Simon reached into his pocket and pulled out several coins.

  “Very well.” The under-butler dashed out of the room.

  Simon slumped into the high-backed leather chair behind his desk. Mail was strewn haphazardly across his blotter. Harris would squawk like a chicken with a randy rooster on its tail if he returned to see the way Pritchard had tossed the post about. Harris had a system. Business correspondence in one pile. Social correspondence in another. Invitations in a third.

  Simon sorted them. He’d just finished responding to every inquiry when he heard Harris’s and Baines’s voices. Inhaling deeply, Simon pinched the bridge of his nose. Had he asked them to return? Of course not, but he should have realized they would.

  The two servants stormed into the room. Baines wrinkled his nose. “You look like you slept in your clothes and rolled in a cow pasture.”

  For once he agreed with the man. “Thank you for making me aware of that. Now if you don’t mind, I have—”

  Baines gasped. “The shoulder of your coat is torn.” The valet made a tsking noise and shook his finger at Simon. “I hope you didn’t walk around Mayfair looking so bedraggled. It reflects poorly on me if you’re seen about Town looking so disheveled.”

  “I did. In fact, I visited Marlborough House dressed this way. The Prince was aghast, and the Princess of Wales became so distraught by my dirty apparel, she swooned. She needed to be carried to her bedchamber and resuscitated with smelling salts.”

  The valet’s color drained from his face. “Tell me you’re jesting, my lord.”

  “I am. Now go away.” With his hand, Simon motioned to the door.

  Baines released a heavy breath.

  “Where were you last night?” Harris withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to Baines, who mopped at his damp brow.

  “That is none of your business. Now would you both leave me in peace? I have work to do.”

  The two servants turned to exit the room.

  “Wait.” Simon tapped his pen against his blotter. “Baines, did you go to Miss Trafford’s and inform her I would be away on business for a few days?”

  “I did. Just as your note said, my lord.”<
br />
  “Good.”

  “Miss Lily answered the door. She is a very odd child.”

  “What did she say?” Simon scrubbed his hand over his bristled jaw.

  The valet stared at Harris.

  “Out with it,” Simon prompted.

  “She asked me if Harris moonlighted as an undertaker. The child clearly suffers from some disorder.”

  “She is fond of reading penny dreadfuls and has an overactive imagination,” Simon explained, unsure why he defended the blond-haired imp. Hell, did he actually like the child? He recalled Lily’s exuberant expression as she’d cheered Nick on as the lad wheeled the trundling hoop. Realizing he was smiling, Simon scratched his head and frowned.

  It was time to accept the truth. That conk to his noggin had obviously caused some type of trauma to his brain. Nothing else explained his desire for Emma and his sudden defensiveness regarding her hoyden sister.

  * * *

  The carriage moved at a slow pace up Curzon Street. Impatiently, Simon leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees while he ran a hand over his face.

  The meeting with his banker in Bishopsgate had taken longer than he’d expected. Huntington and Westfield had grilled Ned Baring on the amortization of the loan and all the minute details, while Simon had sat, distracted. Bloody hell, distracted was an understatement. He’d almost snored through it all. Thank God, both his partners were astute businessmen and he needn’t worry about the details they’d worked out.

  Bone weary, Simon leaned back against the squabs and closed his eyes. Since returning to Mayfair two days ago, sleep had been elusive.

  The rhythm of the horses’ hooves clunking against the pavement slowed as his carriage pulled before his Curzon Street residence. He’d reached the front steps when the door opened and a nervous-looking Harris stared at him.

  “What’s the matter, old boy?” Simon asked.

  The butler’s gaze shifted past Simon’s shoulder.

  Simon glanced behind him. A black carriage waited on the opposite side of the street. Simon leaned closer to Harris and whispered, “Baron Yules entertaining a bevy of loose women again?”

  “No. You have a caller.”

  “An unfavorable one, by the distasteful expression on your face.”

  “Your stepmother, Lady Adler, arrived a short time ago and awaits you in the blue salon. I informed her you were out. However, she wished to wait.”

  Julia. Simon’s stomach clenched as though a pugilist rammed his ham-sized fist in his gut. He should have known his stepmother would eventually pay him a call.

  Clenching and unclenching his hand, Simon entered the drawing room and closed the double doors behind him. Julia, dressed in a light blue gown with a cream overskirt, stood behind the settee. Her hand lightly traced the fabric, a gentle sweep—back and forth. As her fingers moved, an unforgettable sense of discomfort settled in his belly. His gaze shifted from the movement to her face. Though nearly forty, her fair skin remained unblemished, and her blond hair retained its shine, yet he realized the color wasn’t as golden as Emma’s.

  Without a word, he moved to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of cognac.

  “You don’t appear pleased to see me, Simon.”

  He gave a bitter laugh. “Julia, you’ve grown more delusional if you thought I would be awaiting you with open arms.”

  “We could be friends, Simon. Put our past differences aside.”

  Differences? Is that what she thought them? Her choice of words seemed almost laughable, if it wasn’t so perverse.

  He fought the urge to touch the scar on his face. “Madam, you are not welcome in my home.”

  She tipped her head slightly to the side and pursed her lips. “What will people say if we don’t converse? They will whisper.”

  “Do you think I care? I’ve heard their whispers for most of my adult life. Everyone in the ton wonders why my father cut me from his life, and someone continues to spread malicious lies. I have become immune to their gossip.” He walked to the tall arched window, glanced at a couple walking up the street, and took a sip of his drink.

  He sensed Julia’s proximity a moment before the scent of gardenias nauseated him. That old revulsion, which had started to ease, tightened—grew. He set his glass down on the sill, turned around, and forced a dispassionate expression. “If you are so concerned with gossip, return to Hampshire.”

  “I have rusticated in the country for far too long.”

  There was more to her tale than she was admitting. “What else, Julia?”

  She sighed. “You were always so astute, Simon, unlike your father. I’m in need of funds.”

  “Good God, woman, don’t tell me you’ve lost it all.”

  “I owe Lady Leeman ten thousand pounds.”

  Jesus. Lady Leeman was a skilled whist player who’d paupered several gentlemen after their wives had bet too deep.

  Julia had the good graces to avert her eyes.

  “I guess you will have to suffer the consequences. What a shame. I suppose the ladies in your inner circle will turn their backs on you if you don’t pay your debt. Social ruin . . . how fitting.”

  “So you will not give me the money to pay off my marker?”

  He cocked a brow at her. Was she mad? How could she think of asking him? “You thought I’d give you the money to pay off your debt?”

  “Damn you, Simon. I am your stepmother. We are family.”

  His bitter bark of laughter exploded in the air like a gunshot. “Family? Do you even comprehend the meaning of the word?” For a brief moment, he thought of Emma and Lily. They acted like a family should. Loving. Caring.

  She stepped close to him and placed her hand on his sleeve. “I do.”

  Simon jerked back. “You took nearly everything away from me with your lies, and now you have the audacity to ask me for money? I fear dementia has consumed your brain.”

  “That is unkind, Simon.”

  “Sometimes life is unkind. Strange how I learned that at such a young age.”

  She lifted her right hand and ran her finger over the scar on his cheek. “Poor boy. I told you not to tell your father. A man so besotted only hears what he wishes. And what man wants to learn his wife favors his son more than him?”

  Simon knocked her hand away. “I’m not a child anymore, Julia. You would be well advised to never touch me again.”

  Somehow the truth of those words—that Julia could not hurt him, calmed the anger within him. She’d taken nearly everything from him—his father, his wealth—yet he’d survived. He picked up his cognac and strode to the mantel. He glanced up at the portrait of his father. The old man’s dark eyes looked astute, as though they saw all, but the artist’s depiction was an illusion. The man had been near blind when it came to Julia. Her beauty and angelic face masked a monster, and his father had lived in oblivion. He lifted his glass and saluted the portrait.

  “Do you believe in hell, Julia?” Simon asked, not turning around.

  She didn’t respond.

  “I don’t wish to see you again. I suggest you return to Hampshire, for though I’m not a man who’d hurt a woman, you sorely tempt me to send you to the devil.”

  Her silk skirt rustled—announced that she moved toward the door. It opened and clicked shut. Simon lifted his glass to his lips and downed the contents.

  Someone scratched at the door.

  “Yes, what is it?”

  Harris entered. “Is there something I can get for you, my lord?”

  “No, but tell Baines tomorrow we return to Bloomsbury.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  From her studio window, Emma stared through the night’s fog at Simon’s residence. No one appeared to be inside. Two days ago, Mr. Baines had visited and informed her that Mr. Radcliffe had been called away on business. The valet didn’t know when his employer would return for his next sitting.

  An hour after delivering this message, both Mr. Baines and Mr. Harris had hastily exited the town hou
se and taken off in Simon’s carriage. She’d watched the vehicle move up the street until it turned onto Theobald’s Road.

  Crestfallen, poor Mrs. Flynn now puttered around. The housekeeper wasn’t the only one dejected. Nick, Simon’s daily servant, had sat glum-faced for the second day in a row on the doorstep awaiting his employer’s return. Even Lily acted downcast since the house across the way went dark.

  Emma strode back to her easel. Restless, she’d removed Simon’s portrait and replaced it with her mother’s and resumed working on it. The black and white daguerreotype photo of Mama gave no clue to the shade of her gown, so Emma had painted it blue since it seemed to reflect everyone’s mood. Even hers. Yet, she should feel relieved and pray Simon never returned.

  She picked up her palette, mixed a bit of white pigment into the rich sapphire color, and added a few highlights to her mother’s dress. Pleased with the outcome, she dipped her dirty paintbrush into the jar filled with turpentine and wiped it clean with a soft linen rag. She tossed the cloth into a bowl and brushed her damp fingers over the front of her trousers. Her mind drifted to thoughts of her brother, who’d left yesterday morning. He’d assured her that nothing was wrong except the examinations were challenging, but an uneasiness lingered within her.

  Unable to help herself, she stared at Simon’s unfinished portrait, which leaned against the wall. Somehow it comforted her.

  Goodness, how silly. With quick, agitated movements, she lifted her palette, scraped the paint off, and cleaned it. After turning off the three gas lamps, Emma moved down the stairs to the floor below and tiptoed by Lily’s door. Her sister had fallen asleep a couple of hours ago, as had Mrs. Flynn, leaving nothing but the sound of the clocks ticking to fill the quietness of the night.

  Emma stepped into her bedchamber. The moonlight streaming through her window highlighted the objects in the room with a blue hue. A bolt of silent lightning flashed in the distance. Her gaze jerked to the window and Simon’s town house. The empty residence afforded her the perfect opportunity to return his ring. If the basement window remained unlocked, she could easily sneak back in and place it on the counterpane, where he’d find it upon his return. She flipped back the hinged lid of Mama’s jewelry box and wiggled her fingers between the torn velvet lining and the wooden sides. She plucked Simon’s ring out and fisted it in her hand. The heat of her skin warmed the gold until it seemed to scorch her palm.