“I have no idea what you’re talking . . .” A vision of his little femme fatale grasping his lapels last night halted his words. Yes, there had been an earthy pine scent on her fingers. His nostrils flared. How could he have forgotten the smell? That’s right! He’d been conked over the head. Simon sprung from his chair. “What is turpentine used for?”
“What is it used for?” Baines echoed.
“Yes.”
The valet blinked. “I believe varnishing.”
The woman’s palms had felt soft and her fingers free of calluses. No, he doubted she labored with her hands all day. “What else?”
Baines cupped his jaw. His eyes turned bright. “Artists use it to thin their paints and clean their brushes.”
Simon snapped his fingers. Was that it? Did she paint with oils? He stared at the white band of skin where his ring normally was. Perhaps all was not lost. By Jove, if he was right, this clue offered a small sliver of hope that he might track her down. Recover his ring. He stepped around his desk and clasped his valet’s shoulder. “Baines, you tiresome old goat, I could kiss you.”
Wide-eyed, the valet stepped back. “Quite unnecessary, my lord.”
“Harris!” Simon called, returning to his chair.
His butler stepped into the room.
“Harris, Baines, we are to take residence in Bloomsbury.”
“Bloomsbury?” Harris echoed as though the location was as pleasant as a sip of soured milk.
“Bloomsbury?” Baines repeated with as much distaste.
One would think both servants were born and bred in Mayfair and not some rustic corner of Hampshire.
“Yes.” Simon withdrew a piece of paper from his stationery tray and jotted down the address of his recently purchased Bloomsbury residence. He handed the paper to Harris. “Hire a cook and maid. No one else. You will inform them they work for Simon Radcliffe. I do not wish anyone to know I am Viscount Adler. Is that clear?”
Harris took the paper. “Yes, my lord.”
“Are we to stay there long?” Baines’s shoulders sagged.
He didn’t know. Would he find his thief? Or was this nothing more than a futile expedition?
“Why must we go there?” Harris asked, his wrinkled face looking almost petulant.
Simon silently counted to five. Most men’s servants cowered when their employers spoke, but the two older men standing before his desk had been in his family’s employ since he had been knee-high. They seemed to think of themselves as his keepers more than his servants. He’d offered to pension them off, but the retainers were like annoying flies that wouldn’t leave. And in truth, he’d miss the gray-haired coots.
“For God’s sake, I haven’t condemned you both to the gallows. Must you always question me?” He rubbed at the tension in his neck.
Neither man replied.
He raked his hand through his hair and flinched when his fingers brushed against his tender scalp. “That will be all.”
The two men stared at him for a moment before they retreated, their heads bent close as they conversed. “He doesn’t look drunk,” Baines said in a voice that most likely sounded low to a man of advanced years.
“Yes, but he’s always held his liquor rather well,” Harris replied.
Baines nodded. “Indeed, he has.”
Simon leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and thought of the vixen’s mouth pressed to his. Would he find her before she hawked his ring? This woman whose face he couldn’t even describe. If he did, he’d take pleasure in bringing her to her knees.
Chapter Five
The following day, Simon had no sooner stepped over the threshold of Lord and Lady Westfield’s residence when Celia, Westfield’s nine-year-old daughter, came barreling down the stairs.
“Hi, poppet.” He handed his gloves and top hat to the butler.
Celia leapt off the stairs and into his arms.
He whirled her about.
She giggled. “You’re early, Uncle Simon. You’re always early lately.”
Was he? He set her down. How odd and unfashionable.
“Papa and Mama are getting dressed for dinner. You can come with me to the nursery to say goodnight to Vincent.”
A nursery seemed as appealing as a gathering of debutantes and their overbearing mamas. But Vincent was a pleasant little tot, and his godchild, and as long as he wasn’t required to hold the baby, what harm could come from it?
“Lead the way.”
Celia grabbed his hand and they walked up the stairs. She stopped at the second-floor landing and headed down the corridor. “Vincent sleeps in Mama’s bedchamber. It’s the nursery now. Mama never used it. She’s always slept with Papa.”
That explained the perpetual grin on Westfield’s face since he’d married Sophia nearly a year and a half ago.
They stepped into a room decorated with blue and cream striped walls. In the center was a white iron crib with an elaborate sheer canopy. A nursemaid sat quietly in a chair, her hands folded in her lap. She started to rise, but Simon held up a halting hand.
Celia ran to the crib. Standing on her toes, she peered down. “He’s not sleeping yet. Come see.” The child waved her small hand, motioning him closer.
Simon peered at Vincent, who possessed chubby cheeks, a mass of black hair, and dark eyes that seemed to absorb every movement. The baby grinned, and Simon experienced a jolt somewhere near his heart. No doubt, lingering indigestion from that deuced concoction Huntington had given him.
“He turned seven months yesterday,” Celia said. “He crawls, you know. Right over Papa’s chest when they play on the rug.”
He set his palm on the baby’s warm head. The child smelled like . . . Well, he wasn’t sure, but it was rather pleasant. The urge to pick Vincent up and sniff him nearly overwhelmed Simon. As if burned, he jerked his hand away and touched the back of his head. Ever since that sod had cracked a vase over his head, he’d felt out of sorts.
“Why don’t you have a baby, Uncle Simon?”
Throat suddenly tight, he coughed. “Best to have a wife first, dear.”
“You could marry Papa’s cousin Victoria. Great-uncle Randolph says he needs to find her a husband before she turns him gray.”
Just then, Westfield and his wife, Sophia, laughed in the adjacent room. Neither Celia nor the nursemaid seemed surprised by the sound. The door leading to the other room swung open, and Sophia stepped over the threshold. She was an attractive woman with dark hair and olive-colored skin. Her steps faltered upon seeing him. Then her wide mouth turned up.
“Simon,” she said, her hands outstretched to him. “How are you?”
At one time, their relationship had been uneasy, but he liked the woman, and it appeared the feeling was now mutual. He pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Well, Sophia, and yourself?”
She opened her mouth to reply, but Westfield entered the room. “Simon, I’ll not have you wooing my wife before my eyes, you old s—Oh, Celia, I didn’t see you there.”
Westfield walked over to the crib and set a hand on Celia’s shoulder while he stared at his son.
“He’s a fine boy, Westfield,” Simon said.
Smiling, Westfield glanced at him.
“Papa, do you think Uncle Simon should ask for Cousin Victoria’s hand so they can have a baby?”
Westfield’s smile evaporated.
Simon raised his hands, palms out. “Your daughter’s idea, not mine. Nineteen-year-old debutantes are the last thing I’m looking for.”
Westfield leaned over the crib and pressed a kiss to Vincent’s cheek, then took Celia’s hand, and moved to the door. “Let it rest, Celia. Uncle Simon will find a wife in time.”
Sophia slipped her arm through Simon’s. “If you could see your face, Simon.” She laughed. “Such a lovely shade of white.”
* * *
As soon as Sophia finished her dessert, she rose from the dining table. “Please excuse Celia and me, gentlemen. I have promised to read Celia a bedtime story. We
will leave you to your port.” She held out her hand for the child to grasp.
Standing, Westfield kissed his wife and daughter.
Simon stood. His friend was fortunate; his new wife not only loved him, but genuinely cared for her stepdaughter. Perhaps that explained Simon’s fondness for the woman. Sophia was the antithesis of his mercenary stepmother. He believed even if Westfield were a pauper, Sophia would love the man, unlike so many of the women Simon met who seemed only interested in his wealth and title.
“Mama is going to read Through the Looking Glass.” Celia slid off her chair.
“Ah, one of my favorites,” Simon replied.
“Truly, Uncle Simon?” Celia’s eyes widened.
“Of course, but I am not as fortunate as you, for I must read it to myself at night.”
The child giggled.
“After reading to Celia, will you join us in the drawing room, Sophia?” Westfield asked.
Something passed between them, some unspoken words.
“No, if you don’t mind, I shall bid you goodnight.” She turned to Simon. “Forgive me, but I feel a headache coming on.”
He’d never known Sophia to suffer with headaches. There appeared to be something afoot. Something Westfield wished to convey in private. “Of course, Sophia. I hope you are much improved by daybreak if not sooner.”
Celia and Sophia left the room.
“Is there a problem with one of our business ventures?” Simon asked.
“No.”
“Surely, whatever you wish to say is not so dire that Sophia feels the need to exclude herself from joining us?”
With a tilt of his chin, Westfield motioned to the door. “Let’s go to my study.”
It appeared dire indeed, Simon reflected as he stepped into the study to find the grate lit, a whisky decanter, and two glasses already set out between the fireside chairs.
Sitting, Simon forced a laugh and attempted to ignore the knot forming in his stomach. “Out with it, old chum, the suspense is killing me.”
Westfield took a long draught of the liquor and lowered his glass. “Your stepmother is in Town.”
Julia. The discomfort in Simon’s stomach intensified. With feigned nonchalance, he brought his glass to his lips and took a slow drink. He concentrated on the taste that filled his mouth before it slipped down his throat to warm his chilled body.
His longtime friend lifted the decanter.
Simon glanced at his glass. Empty. So much for portraying indifference—futile where his stepmother was concerned. “You saw her?”
“No, my sister did. On the Strand this afternoon. Julia mentioned she’d just arrived and is staying at the Langham Hotel.” Westfield refilled both of their glasses.
The exemplary meal Westfield’s French chef had prepared churned in Simon’s stomach as memories of Julia flooded his mind. When he was sixteen, his stepmother had acted inappropriately toward him. Ha! Inappropriate was a kind word—she’d touched him and attempted to seduce him. And when he’d not complied, the witch had told his father he’d groped her and tried to force himself on her. Simon had contradicted Julia’s story with the truth, but for naught. Father, so in love, had not believed him.
How kind he’d thought Julia when his father had returned from London with his young bride. At twelve, Simon had longed for a mother. Someone to fill the void his own mum’s death had left. And at first he’d thought Julia, though only nineteen, would fill that cavernous hole in his heart. She’d acted kindly toward him. Even championed him when his father scolded him.
In retrospect, he realized how Julia’s motherly attention had made it even harder for his father to believe the woman a serpent in disguise. But Simon understood her now. Acting the devoted stepmother during those years had made it near impossible for his father to believe Simon’s accusations. In truth, he doubted Julia ever really cared for his father. She’d all but admitted it, calling his sire pot-bellied, wrinkled, and old.
His father had tossed Simon out—paid for his schooling, but not welcomed him home again. His friends Huntington, Westfield, and Caruthers had opened their family homes to him. But as much as they’d welcomed him, he’d felt out of place, like the poor relation. So, he’d acted out at school, created trouble, hoping to be expelled and sent home. But his father’s fat purse had always soothed the headmaster. It was a testament to the disdain his pious father felt toward him.
Simon turned the glass in his hand. The prisms from the cut crystal reflected the red embers glowing in the grate. “This is from the distillery you, Huntington, and I intend to purchase, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
“It’s bloody awful.”
“Yes, but potent.”
Not potent enough. Simon took a deep breath, tried to release the pressure building up in him. He downed the remainder of his drink.
Westfield held up his own glass, seemed to study the color of the liquid within. “Do you control her purse strings?”
“A solicitor handles her finances. After our falling out, my father made sure I possessed little control where Julia was concerned. I had several barristers look over his will. The besotted fool must have known I would try to bring my wrath upon her; it’s unbreakable.”
Westfield nodded. “It’s been seven years since your father passed. Why would she come to London now?”
Simon shook his head. Years ago, he’d given up trying to figure out Julia’s twisted mind. “Most likely boredom.”
“Will she call upon you?”
Simon stood and tried to tame the restlessness coursing within him. “I don’t know. You saw her at my father’s funeral. She put on a show. The bereaved widow who lamented her dead husband, all while acting the perfect stepmother.” Simon remembered the nausea that had rolled in his stomach when Julia had touched his arm in that crowded room. He’d not even waited for all the guests to leave before ordering both her and her things brought posthaste to the dowager house. What a show she had put on, acting hurt for all to see. His father’s old cronies and Julia’s friends had thought him a cruel, heartless bastard.
Westfield’s voice drew him from his thoughts. “Simon, don’t do anything foolish.”
Foolish? In truth, he’d thought about wrapping his fingers about Julia’s neck more than once. He touched the scar on his face. His father and he hadn’t spoken a single word to each other after Julia poisoned the man’s mind against him. How terrible to be so in love with a woman that you believe everything she says—allow her to manipulate you. He would never put himself in such a position.
“I’m angry, Westfield, not mad. And as they say, time heals all.” With a bitter laugh, he set his glass down. “Did you tell Sophia about Julia?”
Westfield shook his head and clamped a hand on Simon’s shoulder. “I love Sophia. I have shared everything from my past with her. But this secret is not mine to share. You told me about your stepmother in confidence. I wouldn’t break your trust, Simon. I only asked that Sophia give us some time alone to discuss something in private. Nothing more.”
Sometimes Simon regretted telling both Westfield and Huntington, his closest school chums, what his stepmother had done. But after his father had all but cast him aside, their friendship had brought him through the darkest time in his life. “Thank you.”
Westfield nodded. “Did you read the newest loan contracts Ned Baring sent over yesterday?”
“Yes, but I want to go over them one final time before signing them. I should head home and do that now.” At the door, he glanced over his shoulder at Westfield, who was putting the stopper back on the decanter. “I forgot to tell you, I’ll be staying at my Bloomsbury residence for a few days.”
Westfield’s brows drew together. “Why?”
“I wish to find that woman.”
Westfield shook his head. “Why don’t you let the police look into it?”
“Because I intend to handle this in my own way.”
“Sounds like you’re looking for trouble.”
<
br /> Simon jerked the door open. “No, trouble found me . . . I’m just going to return the favor.”
* * *
Pain seared Simon’s cheek as he stumbled backward from the blow to his face. Warm blood trickled down his skin. He bit back the pain and stared into his father’s angry eyes. The man’s fist remained clenched, as if he wished to strike him again.
Simon’s gaze shifted to Julia standing in the corner of the drawing room. His stepmother’s eyes shone with triumph.
With an explosive breath, Simon bolted upright in bed. He set a hand to his cheek, expecting to touch blood from the impact of the signet ring tearing open his face.
His fingers slid across the healed, raised scar as he glanced around the dim room. He wasn’t sixteen years old, nor was he at Adler Hall in Hampshire. He skimmed his damp palms over the silk sheets. He was in Bloomsbury—the residence he’d purchased for Vivian.
A nightmare, then.
He settled against the pillows. Sleep wouldn’t come quick; it rarely did after that particular dream, yet it had been seven years since he’d had it. Not since his father’s funeral. The last time he’d seen Julia. He reached for his signet ring.
Gone.
He should be glad, considering the scar on his cheek. For the hundredth time, he questioned why he’d not ducked or blocked his father’s punch. He could have. Perhaps he’d felt it his due for trusting Julia so completely, for not realizing that a pretty face could mask an evil soul. The ring reminded him to be careful whom he trusted—that giving a woman your heart, as his father had, wasn’t wise.
The small brass clock on the mantel chimed five times. With quick movements, he shoved the bedding off his naked body, allowing the chilled night air to bathe his overheated skin. He walked to the window. Great James Street remained quiet. He’d intended to come here in the morning. However, restless at his normal haunts, he’d found himself instructing his coachman to convey him to Bloomsbury near midnight.
Why? Had he hoped his little intruder would return tonight? That he would catch her?
Never Deceive a Viscount Page 5