Her round face beamed. “Yes. Indeed. I offered to make him a batch of my lemon tarts.”
“Ah, then that would explain his eagerness to go to market.” Simon inhaled the sweet scent permeating the Trafford residence. His mouth watered. “Whatever you’ve already made smells enticing.”
Mrs. Flynn’s smile widened. “I just finished making shortbread biscuits for Miss Emma and yourself to enjoy with your afternoon tea.”
“Madam, you tempt me to throw my bachelor ways aside and sweep you off to Gretna Green.”
She blushed. “I’m old enough to be your mother, sir.”
“Are you? I would never have thought that. Have you ever considered opening a bakery?”
She twisted her hands in her apron. “I don’t have the funds for such a venture, and I wouldn’t want to leave Miss Emma or Lily unless the older Miss Trafford weds.” The woman stared pointedly at him, a mischievous gleam in her eyes.
Good Lord, did she mean to him? He had no interest in the institution. And if he did, it wouldn’t be to a woman who might be a bollock-smashing thief. He held up his hands as if to ward off an attack. “I only have eyes for you, Mrs. Flynn.”
Blushing, she motioned to the stairs. “Miss Emma’s waiting for you.”
As Simon moved up the stairs, the sound of Lily’s atrocious piano playing grew louder. Upon reaching the first-floor landing, he moved to the drawing room. Lily sat at the piano, banging her fingers against the keys as if she wished to cause permanent damage to the instrument.
“At it again, are you?” Simon asked.
The child whipped around so fast, she nearly toppled off the piano bench. She frowned. “You’re quite good at sneaking up on people.”
“You would have heard me if you weren’t creating such a hullabaloo. So, I take it your little plot still hasn’t worked.”
Her narrow shoulders slumped. “Emma must be tone deaf.”
“She must possess a constitution of steel.”
The girl’s bow-shaped lips formed a genuine smile. One day she would break some poor fellow’s heart—if she didn’t snarl at him or drive him mad first. Lily brushed a few loose stands of hair that had escaped her long braid off her flushed cheeks.
“Did you ever think that actually practicing might involve less energy than banging so violently upon the keys?”
“No.”
“Perhaps you should contemplate it.” Simon motioned to the sheet music propped up on the music desk. “What are you playing today?”
“Chopin’s ‘Minute Waltz.’”
“Dear God, I’d never have recognized it.”
“That’s the point.” She grinned. “So you’re familiar with it?”
“I am.”
“Then play it,” she said as if he lied. She slipped off the bench.
Why not? Simon took off his coat and draped it over the back of a chair covered in faded blue damask. He sat and glided his fingers effortlessly over the keys, allowing the waltz to spring to life.
Lily’s mouth gaped. “Blimey! You play even better than Em.”
“You do,” a soft voice said.
His fingers stilled. Emma stood at the doorway, wearing a sapphire-colored gown that made her blue eyes appear even darker. Curse his heart for skipping a beat. “Sorry, wandered off a bit.”
“No need to apologize. I enjoyed listening to you tremendously.”
“Keep playing, Mr. Radcliffe,” Lily instructed. The child grabbed Emma’s hands and pulled her to the center of the room. “My sister and I shall dance.”
Emma shook her head. “Mr. Radcliffe is not here to entertain us.”
Ignoring her protestation, he set his fingers to the keys and played a vivacious Scottish jig with a fast, carefree tempo.
Giggling, Lily twirled Emma about the room.
For the first time since meeting Emma Trafford, her smile appeared natural, not forced. Her pink cheeks glowed and turned rosy, matching the color of her lips. She tipped her head back and laughed. Unable to pull his gaze away, his blasted fingers stumbled on the keys.
Agitated by his damnable attraction to the woman, he rushed through the remainder of the song and jerked to his feet. As he slipped on his coat, he silently chastised himself. He had come here to learn the truth and recover his ring. He was allowing Emma’s attractive face to derail him.
“That was beyond wonderful, Mr. Radcliffe,” Lily said, her cheeks red from dancing.
“You are a master at the keys,” Emma added. She arched one shapely brow at her sister. “Lily, if you practiced, you could play just as divinely. You have the talent to do so.”
Lily harrumphed. “I’d rather listen to others play. Do you know any duets, Mr. Radcliffe?”
“Yes, a few.”
“Papa and Em were so very good at them.” Lily averted her face and peered out the window. When she turned back, her expression looked forlorn.
Emma draped an arm over the child’s shoulders. The affection the woman possessed for her young sister was palpable. If she was whom he sought, was that why she’d struck him? Was she desperate for funds? This room, like the morning room downstairs, was absent knickknacks and personal items, as if stripped bare. He gave himself a mental slap. He would not feel sorry for Emma Trafford. Not if she’d distracted him so her accomplice could attempt to crack his skull open like an egg. She could have killed him. He needed to remember that.
“What was that rousing song you and Papa used to play?” Lily asked her sister, pulling Simon from his thoughts.
“Brahms’s Hungarian Dance number five. If you practice you could learn it. Then you and I could play it together.”
The child sighed. “I do so long to hear it again. Do you know how to play it, Mr. Radcliffe?”
The normally brash child sounded melancholy and vulnerable—anything but resilient.
“I do.”
“Would you be good enough to play it with Em? I’d be much obliged.”
“Mr. Radcliffe’s playing far surpasses mine,” Emma said. “And I’m sure he doesn’t wish—”
“I’d enjoy the duet.” The words had flown from his mouth before he could halt them. What the hell ailed him? Why should he care about the child’s melancholy?
For a moment, Emma’s gaze met his. He thought she would refuse, but she strode to the bench. Her fingers plucked absently on the edge of her sleeve. “I have not played the piece in quite some time. I fear I might botch it up.”
“I doubt that.” He slipped his coat off again, and set his hand on the small of her back. Her skin felt overly warm beneath the thin cotton dress. An image of his hands gliding over her heated body, the swell of her breasts, while he settled between the softness of her thighs flashed in his mind.
“Mr. Radcliffe? Sir?” Emma’s soft voice interrupted his wayward thoughts.
“Ah, forgive me. Did you say something?”
“I asked if you preferred to play the primo or secondo?” Emma motioned to the piano.
“Which do you prefer?”
“Father always played the low notes.”
“Then I shall do the same.”
Emma took her place on the bench, and he sat to her left. The scent of roses drifted to his nose.
Lily set the sheet music before them and stepped back.
He nodded at Emma, and they began. Her fingers danced across the keys. She played the piece well, but a bit too slow for his liking, and he picked up the tempo. She stumbled once or twice to catch up, but laughed. A light tinkling that complemented the sound of the keys. Unable to stop himself, he grinned.
They struck the last notes, and she turned to him. Her eyes shone bright with mirth; her rosy lips smiled. “That was quite wicked, Mr. Radcliffe, playing the piece so fast. What did you think, Lily?” Emma peered over her shoulder. “Oh, she’s gone!”
Indeed, the girl was nowhere in sight. “Yes, it appears we were ill-used.”
The pink on Emma’s cheeks darkened. “My sister is incorrigible. I fear sh
e concocted this plan so she could avoid practicing. I do apologize.”
“No need. I enjoyed the duet.” As much as he’d like to say it was a lie, it was not. How long had it been since something as simple as playing the piano left him feeling lighthearted? Was it the music or the temptress beside him?
Simon’s gaze settled on her lush mouth. God help him, but he wanted to kiss her. He shifted closer.
Emma’s eyes grew wide, turning her pupils into dark circles in a sea of blue, yet she didn’t pull back.
Anticipation coiled tight within him. His jaded heart beat double time.
His lips were only inches from hers when the front door slammed closed.
* * *
Emma gasped and stood so fast, her hand knocked the sheet music onto the piano bench.
Gracious. Had she been about to let Mr. Radcliffe kiss her? Doubtful he would realize who she was from such an act, but she needed to be more careful. The man unleashed something in her that was beyond reckless. Without looking at Simon, she moved to the center of the room.
“Em!” Lily’s fast footsteps moved up the stairs.
The legs of the piano bench scraped against the wooden floor, alerting her to Mr. Radcliffe’s movement. The heat of his body almost singed her back when he stepped behind her. She should move away, but her feet felt glued in place.
His breath fanned against her nape.
Desire settled in her belly. She forced herself to take a step away from him.
Lily darted into the room.
Mr. Radcliffe moved to the chair and silently slipped his arms into the sleeves of his coat and shrugged it over his broad shoulders.
“Where did you go, Lily? You are supposed to be practicing,” Emma said, pleased her voice remained even.
“I went outside to roll my trundling hoop. Then Mr. Radcliffe’s tall, pinch-faced servant came out and peered down his long nose at me like I was an ant he wanted to stomp on. Scared the dickens out of me, he did.” The child gave an exaggerated shudder.
“That’s Harris. He’s harmless,” Mr. Radcliffe said.
The jutting of Lily’s chin conveyed her doubt. “I shouldn’t have left you alone anyway.” Her eyes turned into tiny slits as she stared at Mr. Radcliffe.
Ignoring Lily’s glower, Mr. Radcliffe motioned to the doorway. “Shall we go to your studio, Miss Trafford?” He looked impatient to get her alone again.
Emma’s heart fluttered. She didn’t trust him. Worse, she didn’t trust herself.
“Of course.” She walked to the ottoman and picked up the book on geography she’d borrowed from the lending library.
The heat of Mr. Radcliffe’s gaze followed her like a low-flying hawk sighting a rabbit he intended to swoop down on.
She handed her sister the thick tome. “Lily, you will read this in my studio while I sketch Mr. Radcliffe. That way I can make sure you are doing as asked.”
Lily frowned and exhaled a heavy breath.
A nerve visibly ticked in Mr. Radcliffe’s jaw. For a long moment, he held her gaze. Then one corner of his sensual mouth hitched up.
Yes, Mr. Radcliffe, you scoundrel, I realize you’re trying to lower my guard. You might have succeeded in momentarily turning my brain to mush, but I’ll not allow it to happen again. The rabbit wasn’t as stupid as he thought.
As they entered the studio, Lily dragged her feet on the wooden floor as if being forced to read about geography was tantamount to purgatory. With a heavy sigh, the child plopped herself on the daybed and opened the book.
Emma picked up her sketching pencil as Mr. Radcliffe sat in the chair before the easel. She felt the warmth of his intense gaze. A tingling sensation filtered through her body.
“You must center your eyes on the painting hanging on the wall, Mr. Radcliffe,” she chastised, attempting to veer her mind to the task at hand, not on the memory of his warm body next to her on the piano bench, and surely not on how she’d wanted him to kiss her.
Mrs. Flynn entered the room and waved an envelope in the air. “A letter from Michael just arrived in the post.”
Excitement bubbled up in Emma. Letters from Michael were becoming scarce. She took the envelope with her brother’s distinctive bold script. “Thank you, Mrs. Flynn.”
“I’ve made some shortbread to serve with your tea this afternoon.” The housekeeper smiled at Mr. Radcliffe.
He didn’t seem to notice. His focus remained locked on the missive in Emma’s hand as though it might be a clue to what he sought—her guilt.
“I love shortbread.” Lily scooted back on the daybed and rested her head like she intended to nap.
“You’ll get some after you read,” Emma replied. “And tonight I shall quiz you on the Western Hemisphere.”
Grumbling, Lily flipped a page.
“I’ll bring your tea and biscuits in about an hour.” The housekeeper exited the studio.
“Mr. Radcliffe, if you don’t mind, I wish to read this letter from my brother now,” Emma said.
“Not at all. Go ahead.” He braced his forearms on his thighs and leaned forward.
She opened the envelope.
Dear Emma,
I hope both you and Lily are in fine health. I received your letter. I assure you all is well.
I’m busy learning about Homer and the Greeks. Thank you for the biscuits. The ones I brought back to school after Easter holiday barely lasted a week. The food here is abysmal.
Fondest regards,
Your loving brother, Michael
The letter was brief. Too brief. Her heart sank. Usually Michael gave a full account of how his classes were going. An unsettling sensation overcame her. Was he not taking his schoolwork seriously?
When home at Easter, he’d talked nonstop about Ernest Montgomery, a baron’s son, whom he’d befriended at school. She didn’t like the idea of him hanging around with the boy. The nobility lived by their own set of rules. She’d learned that firsthand, and when they acted wicked, society looked the other way. But Michael wouldn’t receive the same treatment if caught engaged in some boisterous activity with the boy.
She sighed. She was overreacting—letting her own experiences with Charles color her perception of the situation. Michael was smart. He’d not partake in reckless antics. Surely, his infrequent letters and the brevity of this one reflected how busy he was at school, nothing more.
“Is there a problem?” Mr. Radcliffe asked, breaking into her thoughts.
She smoothed out her worried expression and forced a smile. “No. Everything is fine.” She folded the parchment and set it on the table.
Mr. Radcliffe’s gaze remained on the letter.
If he read it, he’d realize it contained nothing nefarious. And perhaps he could offer some insight. She picked it up and handed it to him.
He looked puzzled.
She glanced at Lily. The child was preoccupied, trying to balance the geography book on her head. “My brother’s letter is very brief, and they have become less frequent. I’m worried something might be wrong at school. Might I ask your opinion?”
His bewildered expression deepened. “I’m not that familiar with children.”
“Michael is nearly a man. Surely, you have some insight.”
“Well, yes, I . . .” She’d never seen Mr. Radcliffe flounder, but her request to help with this family matter seemed to send him off balance.
He opened the missive and smiled. “He’s complaining about the food. Definitely sounds like a typical lad at school. And quite understandable after enjoying Mrs. Flynn’s cooking.”
“Yes, I’m probably worrying about nothing.” She returned his smile.
“Your brother is fortunate to have someone who worries about him while he’s away.” There was unmistakable sadness in his voice.
“Did you attend boarding school, sir?”
“I did.”
“Were you homesick? Did you send letters frequently?”
His jaw tensed, then relaxed. “Sometimes I did long for my
childhood home, but if I’d sent letters, my father wouldn’t have read them.”
His candid response startled her.
Sporting a bland expression, he motioned to her easel. But she could see the pain in his eyes. “Shall we get on with the painting?”
“Yes. Of course.”
Two hours later, even after their afternoon break for tea and shortbread, Simon Radcliffe was as restless as a big cat in a cage. He’d acted that way ever since they’d conversed about family and his father.
“Em.” Lily scurried off the daybed. “I need to use the water closet,” she whispered into Emma’s ear.
“I think we will call it a day, Mr. Radcliffe.” Emma set her pencil down.
Bracing his hands on his thighs, he stood. His long fingers massaged the muscles at the back of his neck. The sight of his hand flexing against his skin made her body hum. The memory of how he’d acted only a few hours ago in the drawing room—like he intended to kiss her, replayed in her head. It wouldn’t have created a problem if she hadn’t wanted him to, but she did.
“Em!” Lily wiggled next to her. “I really have to go.”
She didn’t want to be alone with Mr. Radcliffe, but she couldn’t make her sister wait any longer. “Okay, dear.”
Lily dashed from the room. Her slippered feet thumped loudly on the wooden floor of the corridor and down the stairs.
Mr. Radcliffe gazed at Emma like a predator just released from his cage and let out to prowl for his dinner. She motioned to the door. “After you, sir.”
He grinned. “No, after you.”
She opened her mouth.
“I insist,” he said.
As she moved by him, his hand settled on the small of her back, sending sparks through her body. She stepped away from him and descended the stairs at a less-than-ladylike speed. She needed to remember he was on a mission to find his thieves, not a beau interested in her.
Mrs. Flynn stood in the entry hall. “What is the matter, dear? You are moving like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Not a ghost. Someone more dangerous than that—the man who could send her to prison.
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