Never Deceive a Viscount

by Renee Ann Miller

  “I accompanied Vivian to Victoria station yesterday. She is holidaying in France.”

  “Her decision or yours?” Caruthers asked.

  “Mine. I told her to go and buy herself some gowns in Paris.”

  “Ah, I see a pattern forming. You sent the mistress before Vivian there before you broke it off.” Huntington sat at the card table.

  Yes. That one, an opera singer, possessed a voice capable of shattering glass as well as eardrums. Simon sighed. “When Vivian returns, I’ll probably buy her a pretty bauble and end it.”

  “How many mistresses does that make in the last year?” Westfield asked, lowering his newspaper.

  Too many. Simon felt restless lately. Discontent. As if he lacked something that even his wealth couldn’t buy. “Are you writing a biography on my life?”

  “No, just concerned about you, old chum. Do you wish Dr. Trimble to be summoned?” Westfield rubbed at his chin.

  “Why don’t you have your lovely nurse-wife attend to him, Westfield?” Caruthers returned to his chair.

  Westfield scowled at the man. “I’m not sure if he’s moaning over the lump on his head or his bruised bollocks, and I’ll not have Sophia inspect the latter.”

  Laughter erupted in the room again, and the pounding in Simon’s head grew. He closed his lids and prayed for a quick death.

  What seemed only minutes later, Simon opened his eyes and pulled his watch from his fob pocket. Nearly noon. Hell, he’d fallen asleep. While he’d slept, he’d dreamed of the she-devil’s warm, mint-flavored mouth and soft body. He tipped his head to the left, then to the right. His headache had vanished.

  Huntington and Caruthers played bezique while Westfield reclined in a chair and read. What was Westfield still doing here? He rarely spent time at the clubs since marrying. Unlike Huntington, who came to this private room to avoid all the whispers that perhaps he’d had a hand in his wife’s death. A bloody lie.

  Westfield flipped a page in his book and glanced at Simon, a concerned expression on his face.

  Dash it all, what a mother hen the man had become. “Well done, Huntington,” Simon called out, pointing at the empty glass.

  The man looked over his shoulder and peered at him. “It worked?” He sounded shocked.

  “Yes, what the deuce was in it?”

  “Whisky, pickle juice, capsicum, oats, and—”

  “Damn, Huntington, were you trying to finish him off?” Westfield asked, snapping his novel closed.

  Huntington unfolded his tall form from his chair. “My valet swears it will cure any illness or strip the varnish off your furniture, if you prefer.”

  Simon cringed. He’d be lucky if he didn’t end up with a hole in his stomach. He stared at the lighter band of skin on his left hand and blinked. Where was his signet ring? Had that bollocks-smashing vixen taken it? Or had he lost it during the scuffle? He jerked to his feet.

  “Where are you going?” Caruthers asked.

  “I have somewhere to be.”

  “I’m off, as well,” Westfield said.

  They stepped out of the room, and Westfield set a hand on Simon’s shoulder. “Are you still coming for dinner tomorrow?”

  “Of course. I haven’t seen my godson in over a week. How is the little fellow?”

  A smile turned up Westfield’s lips. “He’s crawling now. Perhaps it is time you married and started a brood of your own.”

  Marry? God, no. He’d witnessed firsthand how foolish falling in love could make a man. His stepmother was the devil’s spawn. She’d poisoned Simon’s relationship with his father, and his sire had gone to his grave believing everything that manipulating woman had said. No, he would not allow himself to be twisted around a woman’s finger. “I enjoy my freedom.”

  The expression in Westfield’s eyes looked too close to pity, and Simon realized he was trailing a finger over his scar. He lowered his hand.

  “You need to learn to trust, my friend. Not all women are as manipulative as Julia.”

  “I trust women.”

  “Who? Your mistresses?” Westfield shot a disbelieving expression. “Even them you keep at a safe distance. A family would do you well.”

  He’d had a family, and he’d lost it in the blink of an eye, all because his father had taken Julia’s words over his. “Your sermon on trust would have more impact if not preached the day after a woman tried to crush in my skull. Now I need to go. I have a little bird to cage.”

  “The woman from last night?”

  “Yes.” Like his stepmother, she’d sucked him in, then unleashed her true self. Simon clenched his hand, absent the weight of his ring. While he’d slept, the woman’s sultry voice had whispered the word repentance in his dream. By God, if she’d taken his ring, he’d find her and make her pay.

  Chapter Three

  Lily paced the morning room floor. “I tell you, Em, moonlight highlighted the bed, and I saw red drops of blood smeared into the white comforter. You would have seen them if you hadn’t entered the wrong room.”

  Emma turned away from the window. The town house across the street remained quiet. All morning she’d feared an army of constables would descend upon them, or at least question the neighbors, but so far nothing. She rubbed at her eyes. Unable to sleep last night, she’d risen and finished painting the portrait of Mrs. Naples.

  Now, Lily’s prattling threatened to drive Emma mad. “Have you studied your mathematics or started reading the book I gave you on geography?”

  “Read? I’m too distraught. Do you realize I saved your life?”

  Lud. She’d told the child, repeatedly, the man had not been murdering her. That in fact, she’d kissed him in an effort to distract him so Lily could escape. She closed her eyes and recalled the way the man’s tongue had tangled with her own. Charles had never kissed her like that, or with such hunger. She ran the tip of her tongue across the top of her mouth. It didn’t evoke the same sensations.

  “Have you at least read the book of sonnets Aunt Henrietta sent you?”

  Lily stared at the ceiling as though the water spot marring the white paint fascinated her.

  “You are aware Aunt Henrietta will write and ask your opinion on them.”

  “Sonnets are as stimulating as conversing with Ronald Watts.”

  “Ronald cannot converse. He is only seven weeks old.”

  “Yes, that is my point.” Lily crossed her arms over her chest. “I will read them if you return my Inspector Whitley books.”

  “I will not. You are fortunate I haven’t tossed them in the grate and rendered them to ash. What you did was reckless. Unlawful. And God knows the condition of that poor gentleman.”

  “Poor gentleman? Pish! Dastardly villain, I say.”

  Emma strode to the secretaire, opened the desk’s top drawer, and withdrew the brochure for Mrs. Hibble’s School of Refinement. She turned the pages. “I still think this is an interesting school for young ladies.”

  “Egad, you cannot be serious. It’s in Northumberland. The wilds of England. And the Geordies have a horrid accent. If you send me there, I shall return home speaking unintelligibly.” Lily stalked toward the open door. She stopped and wheeled about, causing her long blond braid to whip in the air. “You would miss me, Em. With Michael away at school you’d be all alone.”

  She would never send Lily so far away, even if she possessed the funds to do so, but the threat always defused whatever tirade her sister fancied. “Mrs. Flynn is here, and I could invite Aunt Henrietta to stay with me.”

  Lily gaped. “Aunt Henrietta is in her dotage, sleeps half the day away, and when awake complains incessantly.”

  “I would gain a small measure of peace and quiet while she slept.”

  “Pfft.” Lily turned and continued her flamboyant exit. Her shoes stomped on the worn blue carpet as she stormed past the housekeeper entering the room.

  Mrs. Flynn folded her thick arms over her ample bosom and frowned. “Mrs. Naples and that dog she thinks is her dead husband
are here.”

  Emma understood the housekeeper’s scowl. Not only did the pug have an excessive amount of flatulence, he’d also piddled on the carpet on his last visit. “Please show her in, Mrs. Flynn.”

  Grumbling, the housekeeper exited.

  A moment later, Mrs. Naples rushed into the room, the little dog trailing her as though the woman dangled a beef joint from the hem of her skirts.

  “Emma dear, you have completed my portrait!”

  How did she know? She blinked at the gray-haired woman.

  As though she had spoken the question aloud, Mrs. Naples said, “Alfred told me during breakfast this morning.” She patted the pug’s head. “Didn’t you, dear?”

  The dog gave two resounding barks.

  “It is done, isn’t it?” the elderly woman asked.

  Emma narrowed her eyes at the animal, and wondered, not for the first time, if Mrs. Naples wasn’t actually as loony as everyone thought. “Ah, yes.”

  “I knew it. Alfred is rarely wrong.”

  The dog barked again.

  “Don’t be a braggart, Alfred. It is unbecoming.” Mrs. Naples leaned conspiratorially closer to Emma. “When we were first married, I couldn’t get a single word from him during breakfast, but now that he only wets the newspaper instead of reading it, he talks incessantly. Quite tiresome at times.”

  Alfred sniffed at the carpet. Mrs. Flynn would be livid if the dog piddled on it again. Emma set her hand on the woman’s back. “Mrs. Naples, though the portrait is complete, the paint has yet to dry. However, I could show it to you and Alfred.”

  The woman excitedly clapped her hands together. “That would be lovely. Wouldn’t it, Alfred?” The animal stood on his hind legs and walked in a circle.

  In Emma’s studio, Mrs. Naples held Alfred and stared at the portrait. The stillness of the woman, and her unreadable expression, caused a weight to settle in Emma’s belly.

  With a choked sob, Mrs. Naples placed her hand to her mouth and began to cry. Not a gentle cry, but a weeping-sobbing-shoulder-shaking cry. As if consoling her, Alfred nudged her face with his snout.

  This doesn’t bode well. The weight in Emma’s stomach shifted upward, making her chest tight. If Mrs. Naples refused the commission, Emma feared she would cry more robustly than the elderly woman.

  Suddenly, Mrs. Naples turned to her and grabbed her hand. “Oh, my dear, how wonderful. You’ve truly captured Alfred’s soul. I can’t thank you enough.”

  * * *

  An hour later, Emma glanced around the grocer’s shop. “Mr. Mays, I’ll take a tin of Earl Grey tea as well.” She tried to temper her smile, but since Mrs. Naples’s visit, it seemed an impossible task.

  When was the last time she’d felt so carefree? Not since before Father’s passing. At present, she felt as if she floated on a cloud. How wonderful to feel so unburdened. Mrs. Naples had not only given her a check for the agreed-upon commission, but three extra pounds. An unexpected boon! And if that hadn’t been enough to set her spirits high, the fact the police had not shown up only added to her euphoria.

  “Can I get you anything else, Miss Trafford?” Mr. Mays asked.

  She pointed at the Keiller’s marmalade. When Father was alive, the preserve of Seville oranges had been a breakfast staple, but she’d not purchased it in over a year. “I’ll take a crock of marmalade.”

  The grocer, a short man in his early thirties with brown thinning hair, placed the container on the counter before he opened a large glass jar filled with pomfret cakes. He scooped several pieces of the licorice-flavored candies onto a piece of white paper and wrapped them up, then reached behind him for a round tin of peppermint drops.

  He glanced toward the heavy drapes that separated the back room from the storefront. “Give these to Lily,” he whispered, handing her the pomfret cakes. “The mints are for you. I know how you enjoy them so.”

  “Nigel!” a tight voice called from behind the curtain.

  It appeared the grocer’s overbearing mother stood guard, listening. Mrs. Mays held the misguided assumption Emma returned her son’s affection. The woman had nothing to fear in that regard. Emma would not marry a man whose mother shadowed and dictated his every move. And she didn’t need a man to take care of her.

  “How thoughtful of you, Mr. Mays, but I insist on paying for them.” She placed several coins on the counter and slipped the candies into her reticule. “I’ll take the candy with me, but you may deliver the marmalade with my other groceries.”

  The grocer pointed to the packages Emma had set on the counter when she’d walked into the shop. “Do you wish to leave your parcels here, Miss Trafford? It would be no trouble to deliver them with your order.”

  Emma glanced at the boxes. Before coming here, she’d purchased Lily a blue cotton dress and Michael a pair of gloves. Riding gloves, of all things. How utterly foolish. They’d sold their horse and carriage last year.

  She ran her hand over the floral-patterned hatbox beneath the other parcels. She’d stood for ten minutes outside the milliner’s shop, staring through the window at the cream-colored hat with its pink rosebuds and taffeta ribbons. Quite rash to purchase herself such finery.

  “A most kind offer, Mr. Mays, but I shall carry them home with me.” She was eager to show Lily the blue dress—and perhaps just as eager to try her hat on again.

  * * *

  Simon glanced out the window of his coach. The streets of Bloomsbury were filled with rattling drays, newsboys hawking papers, and the sweet aroma from a nearby bakery. Restless, he reached for his ring, momentarily forgetting its absence. He had a terrible habit of twisting it around his finger. He pulled out his silver cigarette case.

  Empty. Blast it. He slid open the window behind the coachman’s perch. “Hillman, stop at the tobacconist up ahead.”

  “Yes, m’lord.”

  The carriage pulled to the curb, and Simon leapt onto the pavement. He had only taken a few steps when a woman plowed right into him. His gloved hand shot out to grasp her elbow. “Forgive me, madam.”

  “No, no, it is I who must beg your forgiveness, sir.” She started to peer around her packages, but the topmost one began to slip.

  Simon released her elbow and steadied the parcel.

  A grocer with a white apron tied around his waist darted out of a shop. The man flashed Simon a narrow-eyed scowl as he rushed to the woman’s side. “Are you hurt, Miss Trafford? Do you wish to return to the shop and sit in the back room? I’m sure my mother wouldn’t mind the company.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Mays, but it’s quite unnecessary.” The taut edge in the woman’s voice clearly conveyed her distaste at the idea of spending time with the man’s mother. However, the dull-witted chap’s smile proved him oblivious.

  Simon reached for the woman’s purchases. “Madam, do you have a carriage I may convey these to?”

  “Kind of you to ask, but I live a short stroll away. And it’s such a pleasant day.”

  Simon glanced at the sky. It was a pigeon gray, and the sun had yet to make an appearance. Obviously, the woman suffered some visual deficiency. She appeared not only a detriment to herself but every pedestrian who walked Bloomsbury. He took her parcels from her delicate gloved hands.

  The woman’s gaze met his. She staggered backward and swayed like an off-balance toy top. Her golden-tipped lashes fluttered.

  Dear God! Was she ill? He shoved the parcels into the grocer’s hands and grasped the woman’s shoulders to prevent her from tumbling to the pavement. Her stunning blue eyes turned unbelievably round as she focused on him.

  “Madam, are you unwell?”

  She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

  The grocer sighed. “I thought her so hale. Surely, Mother will not give her blessing now.”

  Simon narrowed his eyes at the foolish chap. “If you will give me her directions, I shall see her safely home.”

  The woman gave a frantic shake of her head and uttered a barely audible squeak.

  The bel
l over the grocer’s door jangled. A thin, prune-faced woman dressed in severe black moved to stand next to the grocer. “Come inside, Nigel. Let the gentleman handle this.”

  “But, Mama, we do not even know the man. He could be a blackguard. He could attempt to compromise poor Miss Trafford while conveying her.”

  Ignoring the bickering pair, Simon glanced over his shoulder at his coachman. “Hillman, take the woman’s packages.” He looked back at the grocer. “Her directions?” he snapped in an authoritative voice.

  The color drained from the grocer’s cheeks.

  The old woman stepped forward. “Twelve Great James Street.”

  “But, Mama . . .”

  “I-I’m fine, sir.” The woman finally spoke, her voice a low unsteady whisper as if smoke scorched her windpipe.

  Miss Trafford, apparently a neighbor of Vivian’s, clearly wasn’t fine. Her face was a ghostly shade of white.

  “You cannot walk home in your current condition. And your packages are already in the trunk.” Simon set a firm hand on the woman’s back, ushered her inside his carriage, and sat across from her.

  The vehicle swayed as Hillman returned to his perch, and then the equipage lurched forward.

  Simon studied Miss Trafford’s pale face. She possessed delicate features: a button nose and bow-shaped mouth that was pink and supple looking. Her blue eyes were darker than most, with nearly undiscernible flecks of gray circling her irises. Lovely. However, her blond hair brought his stepmother to mind. A knot twisted in his stomach, and he tossed thoughts of Julia aside.

  He tugged off his gloves, set them onto the seat, and eyed the reticule that dangled from Miss Trafford’s wrist. She probably carried smelling salts. Women who swooned usually did. “Are you feeling improved? Do you have a vinaigrette in your handbag?”

  Miss Trafford shook her head, pressed her back into the corner like a mouse hiding from the kitchen cat, and stared at him as though he were the devil incarnate.

  Perhaps, she wasn’t ill. Perhaps it was . . . Briefly his fingers brushed against his left cheek. There were times when he completely forgot about his scar. Then there were times, like this, when he was more than aware of its presence.