Never Deceive a Viscount

by Renee Ann Miller

  A nervous energy fluttered in her stomach as she slipped the ring into the front pocket of her trousers and made her way to Michael’s bedchamber to get a knit cap and a navy sweater. On soft feet, she made her way down the stairs and drew the sweater over her head, then pulled the cap on and tucked her hair under the knitted wool.

  Taking a deep, calming breath, she slipped outside into the night’s fog.

  The sound of hooves clopping on Theobald’s Road broke the graveyard silence. Like a mouse in search of crumbs, Emma dashed across the street. In front of her, the white low-lying mist parted as she stepped through it to reveal the wrought iron gate that led to the area below street level. Unlike last time, the heavy gate swung on silent hinges. Holding on to the rail, she made her way down the steep steps.

  Drat. The crate she and Lily had used to boost themselves up was gone. A gust of wind displaced the fog. Another flash of lightning lit the sky to reveal a person curled up in a ball in the farthest corner near the house. Heart beating fast, Emma moved to the stairs. As she took the first step, she glanced at the person, whose chest rose and fell, sending small puffs of white air into the cold night.

  She stilled. Nick? Yes, she recognized his long brown hair, sticking out from beneath his flat cap. What was he doing sleeping here? Didn’t the child have a home? She turned around, crouched next to him, and touched his hand, which felt as cold as death.

  The lad bolted upright and grabbed something from his boot. The cold edge of a sharp blade pressed against her cheek. “I’ll slit you like a rooster at Smithfield Market if you touch me.”

  “Nick,” she croaked, trying not to move too much. “It is Miss Trafford. Lily’s sister.”

  The boy rubbed a fisted hand against one of his heavy-lidded eyes and tucked the knife back into his boot. “I thoughts you were a man, miss. Your clothes.”

  “Understandable. I’m sorry to have frightened you.” She pulled the knitted hat off. Her pinned-up hair came loose in several places and tumbled over her shoulders.

  “What’s you doing out here, miss?”

  Standing, she slipped her hand into her trouser pocket to touch Simon’s ring. She couldn’t tell the lad the truth. “Um, I thought I saw Mr. Radcliffe’s white cat roaming about. I came to fetch him. In this pea soup the animal could be run over by a carriage.”

  The child nodded. “Why’s you dressed like a man?”

  Her heart skipped a beat. She couldn’t afford to have him repeat that he’d seen her dressed this way. “Sometimes when I paint I dress in my brother’s old clothes, so as not to ruin my gowns, but I hope you won’t repeat what you have seen. I’d hate to be gossiped about.”

  Another bolt of lightning lit the sky. The air held the scent of an oncoming storm. The child could not remain here during the cold, bone-chilling night. Emma wrapped her arms about herself. “What are you doing here, Nick? Don’t you have a place to sleep? A home?”

  Nick stood and smacked the dirt off his trousers. “I was waiting for Mr. Radcliffe and the old gents to return. They told me they’d be back in a few days.”

  His averting her question answered it as clearly as if he’d affirmed it. The child was homeless. Thunder rumbled in the distance. “You cannot stay here. A storm is about to split the sky open, and you’ll end up drenched. You might take on a chill and get sick. My brother, Michael, is away at school and you may spend the night in his bedroom.”

  The lad blinked. “You are inviting me to sleep in your home?”

  “Yes, of course, come.”

  He shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked on his heels.

  Several small drops of rain fell from the sky. Pulling the knit cap over her hair, Emma climbed up the narrow stairs. “Nick, if we wait much longer, I fear we will get caught in a deluge. We must hurry.”

  “I ain’t lookin’ for no handouts. If I go, I need to earn me keep.”

  “You shall. In the morning after we eat eggs and bacon, you will have to sweep the doorstep and help Mrs. Flynn in the kitchen scrub the pan she used to bake the warm muffins in. You like buttered muff ins, don’t you?”

  Nick licked his lips and nodded.

  Emma smiled to herself. “Then we have a deal.”

  * * *

  The following morning, Nick shoveled three hardboiled eggs into his mouth in quick succession. Obviously, the boy hadn’t eaten much since Simon left.

  Lily wrinkled her nose and opened her mouth.

  Emma shot her sister a warning glance.

  Little good it did, for Lily asked, “Do you always eat so fast, Nick?”

  Nick wiped his sleeve across his chin and drew back his shoulders. “I’m a man. Men eat faster and more than women.” He squeezed the small muscle in his upper arm.

  The expression on Lily’s face didn’t bode well. Emma gave Lily another don’t-you-say-a-word glare, again to no avail.

  “Mr. Radcliffe doesn’t eat like that, and he’s broader in the shoulders than any man I’ve met. I bet he could catch a cannonball, like that strongman John Holtum does.”

  “Yes, but Mr. Radcliffe is older.” Emma nudged her sister’s foot under the table. “Nick’s body is still developing at a very quick pace. He needs to eat more at his age. Might I ask how old you are, Nick?”

  “Fifteen, miss.”

  “Yes, that’s what I thought. Fifteen is a most important age for eating.” Emma shoved the plate with the last rasher of bacon toward the lad. “I’m not in the mood for bacon today. You are more than welcome to eat mine.”

  Mrs. Flynn frowned. “You not feeling well, miss?”

  “I am quite well, thank you.” Emma picked up a muffin and spread marmalade on it.

  After the dishes were cleared away and washed, Mrs. Flynn handed Nick a broom and sent him outside to sweep the doorstep.

  Emma followed him. The money Simon had paid for the painting he’d purchased, along with what she would charge him for the portrait, had eased her financial burdens and put food in their larder and cupboards. Surely, enough that she could offer this poor lad a place to stay in exchange for a job, though if he continued to eat like a growing boy did, her money would run out sooner than she hoped. “Nick.”

  He turned and looked at her as though worried she was about to send him on his way. “I’m sorry, ma’am, if I ate too much, but Mrs. Flynn is a fine cook. And I’ll work hard to earn that food. I’ll even shimmy down your chimney to clean it, if you wish.”

  “Oh heavens, no. I would never ask you to climb up on our roof, and you are too large to scoot down the chimney. You might get stuck. And I’m not displeased. In fact, I was thinking . . .”

  The sound of hooves on the pavement and the appearance of a grand equipage with yellow wheels turning onto Great James Street made Emma’s stomach heave upward as though it wished to take residence in her throat. The familiar carriage slowed and stopped in front of Simon’s residence.

  A smile wreathed the bottom of Nick’s face. “Mr. Radcliffe has returned.”

  “So it seems.” Emma placed her hand over her queasy stomach as pleasure and nervousness battled for precedence within her.

  The carriage lurched to the side as an occupant disembarked. Simon’s tall form appeared on the pavement. He made his way around the back of the vehicle. He wore another fashionable gray suit, a crisp white shirt, and a silver four-in-hand tie, but no hat. His dark hair shone under the morning sun. The unreadable expression on his face as he crossed the street made her question whether their heated kiss had been an erotic dream brought about by a fever she didn’t recall. No, it was real—another ploy by him to lower her defenses.

  He stepped before her and bowed his head congenially. The way his gaze took a leisurely path down her body, evaporated any fanciful idea that she’d dreamt of his touch or the pleasure it bestowed on her.

  “Emma, how are you?”

  “I am well, sir.”

  “Is your brother still visiting?”

  “No, he stayed only until the morning
after he arrived.”

  “Were you able to find out what’s bothering him?”

  “He assured me it’s nothing. Just the pressures of school and examinations, leaving him a bit on edge.”

  He glanced at Nick holding a broom. “What are you about, lad?”

  Nick stared at his feet. When he glanced back up, his cheeks were red. “Miss Trafford offered me a bed and a meal if I done some work for her.”

  “A bed?” Simon asked, his regard returning to hers.

  “Nick,” Emma said, sensing the boy’s discomfort, “would you ask Mrs. Flynn if she will be good enough to make me a list of groceries she needs this week?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The door clicked closed behind the child.

  “He has no home?” Simon’s dark eyes held hers.

  She shook her head. “I don’t believe so.”

  “And you have taken him in?” Simon cupped his shaved chin.

  “Yes, for the night in exchange for him completing a few chores. I was about to offer him a live-in position when you returned.”

  A furrow creased the smooth skin between his dark brows. “Why?”

  “Why?” she echoed.

  “Yes, why are you willing to take him in?” Again he held her gaze as if he couldn’t comprehend her actions. Understandable, since he believed she’d robbed him.

  “Because I think he’s an orphan. And he’s not much older than my sister. I cannot fathom what it would be like to live on the streets. To sleep in the cold and worry where one’s next meal is coming from. He sat on your step for two days awaiting your return.”

  Simon’s jaw tensed. “Blast it. I did not know. He told Harris he lived on Theobald’s Road. But I should have realized something was wrong. I shall offer him a permanent position.”

  Simon Radcliffe was compassionate. And that knowledge made her heart squeeze in her chest with the same nitwit longing she’d felt for him while he was away. “He’ll be pleased. Will you be sitting for your portrait today?”

  “I will. Is two o’clock a convenient time?”

  “It is.”

  He leaned close. His masculine, heady scent filled her nose. She tried but failed to stop her toes from curling in her shoes. His gaze dropped to her mouth. Like the quickness of the storm last night, she remembered the feel of his lips on hers. The heat of his skin. And the wicked way he’d touched her. And she wanted to experience it all again.

  Simon Radcliffe was dangerous in more ways than one.

  “Then I shall see you at two o’clock.” She turned on her heel and entered the house, her stomach full of butterflies and anticipation.

  Chapter Twenty

  “You’re going to wear a path in the rug, my lord,” Baines said, sticking his head out of the dressing room off Simon’s bedchamber.

  Simon shot the valet a narrow-eyed scowl and slumped into the upholstered chair by the window. Bracing his forearms on his knees, he scrubbed his hands over his face. Emma Trafford was a quandary—a puzzle in need of solving. Everything about her residence, from the threadbare rugs to the faded furniture, proclaimed misfortune had settled on her household, yet she’d been about to take Nick in. How could such a woman be his she-devil? She was the antithesis of how he’d expected the woman to act.

  Emma was kindhearted. One only had to witness how she loved her sister. In fact, she should be canonized for the patience she bestowed on the child.

  You’re wrong about her being your femme fatale, a voice in his head whispered. Was he? Or was she just that sly? He recalled Westfield’s comments about Simon’s evidence being shoddy at best, and if he was honest with himself, Simon would agree. And he’d not seen any man call on Emma, except that bumbling grocer. Doubtful that fool was her accomplice.

  Simon thought of that dreadful book he’d been reading about Inspector Whitley. The man had an innate sense of who his suspects were—a gut feeling. And everything within Simon felt he had the right woman. Everything, but his common sense.

  “Bloody hell,” Simon grumbled.

  Baines appeared in the doorway of the dressing room again. “Did you say something, my lord?”

  “No, just talking to myself.”

  “Oh dear,” Baines mumbled.

  “What?” Simon narrowed his eyes at the man.

  “My first employer, Lord Hutten, started talking to himself. And we all know what happened to him. Dreadfully sad when a gentleman of sixty-five insists he be dressed in short trousers and wants his maids to spank him while proclaiming him a naughty boy. He was mad, and it all started after he began talking to himself.”

  “Once again, Baines, you are a comfort to have around. And Hutten wasn’t mad, he was perverse and sexually frustrated.”

  “Might that be your problem, my lord?” Grinning like a sly fox, the man strode back into the dressing room.

  No, that wasn’t his problem. Or was it? In truth, Simon couldn’t step within three feet of Emma without feeling some damnable reaction. He was like a bloody dog in heat. He should get in his carriage and return to Mayfair. Forget about finding his ring. And forget about Emma, her warm smile, and the odd contentment he had begun to feel every time he entered her house. He touched the back of his head. The lump had vanished, but he was sure that blow had done something to his brain.

  Releasing a heavy breath, Simon stood and strode to the painting Emma had done of the family walking in the park. Harris had set it on the mantel. Simon ran the fingers of his left hand over the painted surface and touched the woman’s likeness. She was blond like Emma and the gentleman dark-haired. As if unable to stop himself, his fingers drifted to the baby sitting in the wicker perambulator. The infant, with full cheeks, wore a white dress and lacy bonnet. Simon thought of Westfield’s son and how the toddler smelled. Would this infant smell the same way?

  My God, he was going mad. This was a painting. Nothing more.

  Baines said something.

  Simon glanced over his shoulder. The valet stood in the dressing room doorway again, one of Simon’s coats draped over his arm. “What?”

  “I said, Miss Trafford is quite skilled.”

  “Ah, yes. Quite. I think I should have the painting reframed.”

  “I’m sure Lord and Lady Westfield would appreciate that.”

  “Westfield?” Simon echoed.

  “Didn’t you purchase it as a gift for them?”

  Had he? He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yes, of course.”

  “So should we pack it up? Send it to be reframed and delivered to their residence?”

  Simon turned back to the painting and centered it better on the mantel. “No rush. Maybe I’ll give it to them for Christmas.”

  Baines chuckled.

  What the deuce did the man find so funny?

  * * *

  Usually Emma enjoyed afternoon tea as a break when painting.

  Not today.

  Over the rim of her porcelain cup, she watched Simon, who sat across from her at the small table in her studio, finish his slice of Mrs. Flynn’s Victoria sponge cake. He licked a bit of raspberry jam off the tip of his finger.

  Emma’s stomach clenched. She couldn’t look at his sinful mouth without thinking of the kiss they’d shared the other day, or how he’d drawn her finger into his warm mouth. Throughout the afternoon, the memories had continued to insinuate themselves into the forefront of her thoughts. The days they’d spent apart hadn’t cooled her desire for him. It seemed to have strengthened it.

  Lud, I need to find a way to return his ring to him, finish this painting, and send Simon Radcliffe on his way. She cleared her throat. “This afternoon, I intend to do some shading. I don’t believe it should take more than an hour at most, so I shall not keep you very long.”

  Instead of looking relieved, a crease dissected the smooth skin between his brows.

  Was he disappointed? Had he missed her? What silliness to contemplate such a thought. You are a ninny, Emma Anne Trafford. A bumbling fool.

 
; Simon nodded. He stood and offered her his hand.

  Not wise to touch him. Without taking it, she stood. The heat of his gaze warmed her back as she strode to the easel. He watched her like a hawk setting his sights on his prey. Was he once again trying to throw her off balance? All day, he’d been glancing at her as if she were a specimen in ajar.

  As he passed her on his way to the chair, he leaned close. “Is something the matter, Emma?”

  There seemed to be genuine concern in his eyes. “No, but I was wondering the same thing. Is something bothering you?”

  His brows drew together. “Of course not. Might I ask why you’d think that?”

  Because you’ve been staring at me, more intensely than usual, she wanted to say, but she bit the inside of her mouth to halt the words.

  “Emma?”

  “It’s nothing. Now please sit, so we might resume your painting.”

  Over the next hour, Emma worked on Simon’s portrait, shading in the hard angles of his face, the hollows below his high cheekbones, and the line of his jaw, slightly darker than his face. It seemed no matter how close he shaved, it didn’t remove the shadow of his bristles, which added to the look of danger he exuded.

  Piano music drifted into the room. Not the harsh banging she’d become almost immune to hearing, but an enchanting sound. Emma placed her brush down and moved to the doorway. Setting a hand on the casings, she leaned into the corridor and cocked her head toward the lyrical notes.

  The music, the skill with which the pianist struck the keys, as if an extension of their hands, made her breath catch.

  She felt the warmth of Simon’s body as he moved to stand behind her at the doorway.

  “Lily?” he asked.

  It could be no one else. Mrs. Flynn was a skilled baker, but she didn’t know how to play the piano. “Yes. It must be. Though only nine when our father died, this is how she played before his death. I remember the first time she sat and started tinkling with the keys. She’d barely learned to talk, yet she had this innate ability.”