Never Deceive a Viscount

by Renee Ann Miller

  Simon glanced over his shoulder. A nerve twitched in his jaw, a steady tattoo. He stared at Emma for a long minute. Or was it no more than a couple of seconds? Time had grown sluggish. “Carry on. I shall be but a moment.”

  Carry on. Was he mad? His lover had returned and he expected her to sit here and eat soup.

  He strode from the room. The woman shrieked in a tone painful to one’s ears. Baines and Harris followed.

  “I knew all along he’d not murdered her. Simon is too nice to be a true villain,” Lily said.

  It appeared her sister was as poor a judge of men as Emma was.

  “Come, Lily. I think it best we return home.” Emma stood on wobbly legs and clasped her sister’s hand.

  “But Simon said to wait,” Lily complained. The child’s eyes grew round. “Do you think they left to engage in those wicked games again?”

  The thought made Emma’s eyes burn.

  Mrs. Flynn dashed to Emma’s side. “Who is she? What’s happened?”

  “I believe his paramour,” Emma whispered into the woman’s ear.

  The housekeeper gasped.

  Still holding Lily’s hand, Emma moved down the corridor. The butler and the valet now stood outside the drawing room, their ears pressed to the closed doors. They straightened upon seeing her.

  Inside the room, the woman was sobbing in earnest.

  “Vivian,” Simon said. “Stop crying and let me explain.”

  The scoundrel was trying to talk his way out of this mess. Vivian was more than welcome to him.

  “Explain?” the paramour yelled. “I should have known a scoundrel like Lord Adler could not be faithful to one mistress! I should have accepted Lord Fairmount’s offer.”

  “Lord Adler?” Emma repeated, her heart beating so fast she feared it would cease from exhaustion. She peered at the two manservants. They both flushed like truant schoolboys caught playing in the park.

  “Is it true?” Emma heard herself ask in a small voice.

  The red on Baines’s cheeks deepened. “Well, um, yes.”

  Suddenly looking paler than normal, Harris nodded.

  “Gorblimey,” Mrs. Flynn said. “I knew he looked familiar. I’ve seen his caricature in Punch magazine.”

  “Lord Adler,” Lily mumbled as if still processing it all.

  “Come, dears.” Mrs. Flynn wrenched the front door open.

  “You’re leaving?” Baines asked, looking like he wanted to weep. “But we still haven’t served the roast and parsley-topped potatoes.”

  Mrs. Flynn narrowed her eyes and jabbed her index finger into Baines’s chest. Once, twice, three times. “I hope Lord Scandal chokes on it.”

  Harris stepped up to Emma. “Please wait, Miss Trafford, I believe his lordship has a gift for you.”

  A gift? For services rendered? What a fool I’ve been. Again.

  “He can take his gift and shove it up his . . . nose,” Mrs. Flynn said.

  Lily dug her heels into the entry hall rug. “I wish to stay. I want to know where the woman has been.”

  “It’s none of our concern.” Emma pulled her sister outside. The cool air felt too thick to draw into her taut lungs.

  “Come, dearies,” Mrs. Flynn said, prompting them to cross the street.

  Once inside her house, Emma slumped against the closed door.

  Mrs. Flynn stared at her but said not a word.

  “Can you believe it, Em?” Lily said. “He’s a nobleman. . . just like Charles, and he was living right across the street from us.”

  Just like Charles. The words felt like a perverse taunt. Tears filled her eyes, then trailed down her face.

  Lily’s eyes grew wide. “What’s the matter, Em?”

  “Come, child.” Mrs. Flynn took Lily’s hand and drew her down the corridor and below stairs. “Let’s leave your sister alone for a bit. You can help me make dinner. She’ll feel better with a bit of food in her stomach.”

  Emma couldn’t eat. The thought of food intensified the nausea gripping her stomach. So it seemed they had both been keeping secrets. She reached into her pocket and clasped the ring. Goodness, Lord Adler. A favorite subject of Mrs. Jenkins’s tattles. And if the gossipmonger spoke the truth, his lordship was a libertine who’d possessed a bevy of mistresses. And none had lasted very long.

  A pounding on the door startled Emma. She straightened.

  “Emma, open the door!” Simon yelled.

  “Go away, Lord Adler. I do not wish to speak to you right now.”

  “Open the door, Emma, or I’ll break it in.”

  The sharp tone in his voice implied he wasn’t kidding. She squared her shoulders and grasped the door handle. It was time they both revealed their secrets.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The fierce expression on Simon’s face made Emma regret opening the door. He stood on the top step, his coat brushed back, his fisted hands on his lean hips, a nerve jumping a steady beat in his strong, chiseled jaw.

  A movement beyond him drew her attention. Simon’s carriage stood before his residence. Was his lover inside? The vehicle pulled away, and Emma noticed Mrs. Jenkins and Mrs. Vale had exited their homes. The two old women watched the goings-on with rapt interest. Emma wouldn’t allow the gossipmongers a front row seat to whatever spectacle would commence. She stepped back, allowing Simon to enter.

  Footfalls dashed up the basement steps—the rapid pace proclaimed them Lily’s. Face pensive, her sister stepped into the corridor. “Em, is everything fine?”

  Before she could reply, Simon spoke. “Your sister and I need to talk, poppet. Can you give us a moment?” The calm tone of his voice contradicted the storm in his eyes.

  Mrs. Flynn came up the steps and stood behind Lily. The protective woman clasped her heavy wooden rolling pin like a billy club.

  “You have no need for that, Mrs. Flynn,” Simon said. “You know I would never do anything to harm Emma. I only wish to speak with her.”

  The housekeeper narrowed her eyes. “I know Simon Radcliffe wouldn’t harm a blessed soul in this house, but I’m not so sure about Lord Adler.”

  “As you now know, madam, we are one and the same.” Simon’s low voice sounded infused with steel. “And not different in many ways.”

  The housekeeper narrowed her eyes. “That’s what worries me.”

  “As I said before, everything you’ve read in the scandal sheets isn’t always true, madam. Please give Emma and me a few minutes alone.”

  Lily’s and Mrs. Flynn’s gazes shifted to Emma.

  She wiped her moist palms on the skirt of her dress and nodded.

  Still looking unsure, Lily and the housekeeper turned away and made their way below stairs.

  Simon clasped Emma’s hand and pulled her into the morning room. He closed the doors behind them. The sound of the lock clicking into place caused her heart to skip a beat.

  “I wish to explain . . . about Vivian,” he said.

  “No need. It all seems rather clear. Vivian is your current mistress.” She arched a brow at him, daring him to deny the blatant truth.

  “She was my mistress, but not any longer.”

  “Dismissed like all the others. Poor woman. If the gossip is true, you’ve had a harem of them, Lord Adler.”

  “Emma . . .” He strode forward.

  Holding up her hands, she stepped back.

  Yet Simon kept moving toward her, erasing the distance between them. When a mere two feet separated them, he stopped. “Let me explain.”

  “No need, my lord. Though I do wish to ask you one question, if you don’t mind?”

  “Anything.” His hand curled about her elbow, sending warmth not only to her arm but the rest of her traitorous body.

  “Do high-born gentlemen like you and Charles Neville sit around your fancy clubs discussing your conquests—the foolish women you’ve ruined?” She needed to know if she wore a scarlet letter. Was an easy mark. The possibility made her stomach twist.

  “What?” Simon flinched as if sh
e’d cracked her palm against his cheek. “Good Lord, you don’t really think that.”

  Warmth heated her cheeks. “I don’t know what to think. I’ve had two liaisons. Both with men of noble birth. And I’m nothing more than a portraitist, and a struggling one at that. It seems a rather strange coincidence.”

  He released her elbow. “Emma, you know I didn’t set out to make love to you. It happened. There was no plan. And I’m disgusted Neville breached his promise to marry you. But I’m not him.”

  “Do you know him?”

  His jaw visibly tensed.

  “Do you?” she repeated.

  “Yes. I know him. He’s a fool.”

  “Well, at least he pretended to want to marry me. What do you intend to do? Ask me to be your next mistress?”

  “Would that be so terrible?” His hand settled on her waist and he shifted closer. “I could take care of you and your family. You wouldn’t want for anything.”

  “Until you tired of me. Like Vivian?”

  She’d never seen Simon blush, didn’t think him capable of it, but red singed his high cheekbones. “My relationship with Vivian was nothing more than an arrangement. With no promises. Those tears she cried today weren’t for me, but for my financial support. We never loved each other. Whereas, you and I . . .” He raked his hands through his dark hair. “We share a connection that cannot be denied.”

  A connection? He meant lust. Not love. And the desire between them would fade when it wasn’t so new to him. Hadn’t she learned that firsthand from Charles? How fleeting desire could be. And being a nobleman’s mistress was not what she aspired to. She wished to be an example to her sister. She tipped her chin up. “I’m not interested.”

  “Just think about it. You could paint all day without worrying about money, and at night you and I could . . .” His gaze held hers. The air between them grew thick, charged with the passion neither of them could deny. He cupped her face and angled his mouth over hers. His kiss was fierce and demanding. He coaxed her lips open, his tongue plunged, and tangled with hers.

  She melted against him. She wanted him like a drunkard craved another bottle of gin, knowing it was nothing more than a short reprieve from the insidious thirst that would return with a vengeance. But she wouldn’t become his lover just to be discarded. That would be worse than what happened between her and Charles. That would be social ruin. Everyone would know. And how would her neighbors like Mrs. Jenkins and Mrs. Vale treat her after Simon cast her off? Worse, she might get with child. Any children they had would be bastards. A nobleman’s by-blows. And despite their father’s blue blood, society would scorn them.

  It was time to put an end to this. And she knew just how to do it. She pushed him away and took several steps back. Fearful she’d change her mind, Emma quickly reached into the pocket of her skirt, pulled out Simon’s ring, and held it in her outstretched palm.

  His gaze narrowed on the shiny metal. He blinked, as if trying to dislodge an illusion, then stepped back as if kicked in the gut.

  Swallowing the lump in her throat, she struggled to find her voice. “We’ve both had secrets, Simon.”

  If she’d thought him angry before, it was nothing compared to the fury in his eyes now. She could almost taste the betrayal swirling within him, more powerful than her own.

  “You lied?” His hands clenched like he wanted to shake her until her teeth rattled.

  “I did.” She fought the urge to explain it all to him, sensing he would forgive her, but that wouldn’t send him away. And right now she feared herself more than him. Feared if he kissed her again, she’d say yes to his proposal.

  “I guess the game is up.” Casually, as if it meant nothing, she tossed the ring toward him.

  He didn’t even try to catch it. It bounced on the rug and landed by his feet. “I could have you arrested.”

  “But you won’t, will you, because it would just be another sordid tale in the scandal sheets.” Panic tightened her airway. She hoped her assumption was correct. “Isn’t that why you didn’t involve the police in the first place? You might pretend you don’t mind your name in the scandal sheets, but I think you do.”

  The slight clenching and unclenching of his jaw proclaimed she’d guessed right.

  “Tell me the name of your accomplice. The bastard who hit me.”

  “I will never tell you.”

  “Good Lord, Emma, you could be arrested if caught. Are you willing to risk your freedom for such a blackguard? Do you love him?”

  “Yes.”

  His hands flexed.

  “Go back to your fancy house in Mayfair, my lord. I’ve enjoyed our little game, but I think it is time we put an end to it.” Emma tried not to blink, fearing if she did she might cry.

  Without picking up the ring, Simon turned around and strode from the room. He closed the front door so hard, the walls shook.

  And only then, did Emma allow her tears to fall.

  * * *

  “Full house,” Caruthers said, a broad grin dimpling the man’s left cheek.

  With a flick of his wrist, Simon tossed his pair of fives facedown onto the table.

  “Distracted, eh, my friend?” Caruthers swept up his winnings and meticulously stacked the coins.

  Simon picked up his glass of whisky and took a long sip. He glanced around the private room in the gentlemen’s club. Once again, he wondered why he’d come here after leaving Emma’s residence instead of seeking out female companionship. Most likely, because he intended to get pissing drunk. And if the way he was letting Caruthers rake him over the coals was any indication, he was already halfway there.

  Caruthers snapped his fingers in Simon’s face. “Daydreaming again, old chum?”

  “Damn, you, Caruthers. Just deal the bloody cards.” Simon downed the remaining contents of his glass in one gulp and glanced at Huntington. The marquess sat at an adjacent table in the private room, writing something on a sheaf of paper. Probably a tally of all those that had turned their backs on him since his wife’s unfortunate accident. Poor bloke.

  “Simon!” Caruthers snapped.

  “What?” Simon straightened in his chair and peered across the table.

  “I said it’s your bid.” Caruthers tossed his cards on the table. “Bloody hell. There is no joy in winning when you aren’t even paying attention. How about we go to Ferguson’s Music Hall?”

  “In Spitalfields? Why?” The rookery in the East End wasn’t one of their normal haunts.

  “I hear there is a new songstress, Eliza Bird, who’s been blessed with breasts large enough to suffocate a man.”

  Without looking up from his writing, Huntington snorted.

  Simon wasn’t sure that was the way he wanted to die, but he needed a distraction, and there was always a fight to be had if one looked hard enough in the East End. He placed his cards on the table and stood.

  “How about you, old boy?” Caruthers eyed Huntington. “Care to join us? I hear the songstress is looking for a wealthy protector. And if anyone needs a good tupping it’s you, my friend.”

  For the briefest moment, Huntington appeared to be considering it. The perpetual motion of his pen stopped, then moved again. “Go bugger yourself, Caruthers,” Huntington said.

  * * *

  An hour later, Simon and Caruthers weaved through the throng of patrons in the smoky East End music hall. The shabby concert-room was a far cry from the opulent Alhambra or any West End venue. This place boasted sooty lamps and gold-colored wallpaper that had lost its sheen years ago.

  Nevertheless, there were few vacant tables. And most of the empty seats were along the back and side walls. Simon spied one unoccupied table a stone’s throw from the stage. As they moved toward it, several men, already seated and laughing heartily at the antics of the comedian on stage, shifted in their chairs and gawked at them. The tailored attire Caruthers and he wore proclaimed them persona non grata—as welcome as a rat in one’s larder. This Spitalfields establishment catered to laborers, d
ockhands, and the petty thieves who lived here and in the neighboring rookeries. Tonight, the mostly male crowd appeared a bit rougher than normal.

  Upon reaching the table, the low hum of voices escalated around them. “Bleedin’ nobs,” one grungy man seated at the adjacent table hissed. “Go home. We ain’t want ye kind ’ere.”

  A second, oversized bloke, seated at the same table, stood and reiterated that opinion before spitting into his beefy palms and rubbing his chafed and reddened hands.

  “Sit your arse down, MacDonald, or I’ll sit it for you.” A tall, redheaded man approached the table, a wooden cudgel thicker than a policeman’s billy club in his hands. “I’ll be havin’ no ruckuses in me establishment.”

  The man named MacDonald shot Simon a contemptuous look before slumping back into his chair and picking up his muddy-colored pint of ale.

  A plump serving girl with a pretty face, who looked no more than sixteen, approached them. “What can I get ye?”

  “I’ll take a pint of ale,” Caruthers said.

  “Make that two,” Simon added.

  Her eyebrows rose. A frown settled over her freckled face. “I bet me cousin two pence ye was going to order champagne.”

  “Did you now?” Simon asked.

  “I did,” she responded, looking vexed.

  “Do you serve champagne?”

  “Gorblimey, no.”

  “Then how is he to know that initially we didn’t order it?” Simon asked.

  Her eyes narrowed, furrowing the smooth skin between her brows, and her face brightened. “Well, I’ll be. Ye make a fine point.”

  She marched to a tall, lanky lad wearing a soiled white apron who stood by the bar. She spoke to the boy before setting one hand on her hip while extending the other, palm up. The lad shot both her and them a severe scowl before placing the coins in her hand. She all but tossed her hair in his face as she walked away, a definite spring in her step.

  The comedian left the stage, and the crowd applauded heartily. The serving girl returned and placed two pints of dark ale on the table. “That’ll be a threepence each.”

  Simon reached into the pocket of his damask waistcoat, withdrew a sovereign and a sixpence, and handed it to the girl.