Never Deceive a Viscount

by Renee Ann Miller

  Chapter Thirteen

  Simon fought the urge to restlessly roll his shoulders as Emma painted his portrait. She’d been working on it for over a week. A few days ago, she’d put away her sketching pencils and brought out her palette, pigments, and brushes.

  She bent and dipped her brush into her paint, and Simon took the opportunity to study her. She wore a high-collared dress in a drab shade of gray. This afternoon, he’d spent most of his time fantasizing about kissing her.

  Confound it. Perhaps Mrs. Flynn added aphrodisiacs to the delectable treats she baked. It would explain Simon’s wayward mind and his damnable attraction to Emma Trafford. He should go to Clapton’s Boxing Club and allow some pugilist to knock the snot out of him. He inwardly shook his head, clearing his renegade thoughts. He was on a mission, and he needed to remember that.

  As of yet, he’d not gained more knowledge than he had a week ago. During his sittings, no man had called on Emma, leaving him with little idea of who her accomplice was—if Emma was the woman he sought. Frustrated, he rubbed the back of his neck to loosen the sudden tension.

  “Please, sit still, Mr. Radcliffe.” Emma frowned.

  He tried not to scowl. While painting, his timid little mouse turned into a taskmaster. Another vision flashed through his mind—this one of him unclasping the tiny buttons that lined the front of Emma’s gown and drawing one of her clean sable brushes over her naked breasts.

  God, he was hopeless. He definitely needed a bit of afternoon recreation. He should visit his friend Margaret and see if she was interested in a game of lawn tennis . . . or something more stimulating. Yet as lovely as Lady Griffin was, the idea held little appeal.

  “You’re scowling, sir,” Emma said, once again breaking into his thoughts.

  “Forgive me.”

  She smiled, dimpling her rosy cheeks and swirled her brush in a jar of turpentine. Leaning over the table, she grabbed a rag and ran it over the bristles. “You seem rather restless, Mr. Radcliffe, and I’ve somewhere I wish to go, so we shall call it a day.”

  A spark of hope exploded in his gut. Was Emma about to meet the worm Simon hoped to unearth? The bastard who’d cracked a bloody vase over his head? He stood. “Very well.”

  “Can you return at two o’clock tomorrow?” She dipped another rag into the jar of turpentine and rubbed at the paint on her wooden palette. The scent of the solvent had now become as familiar to Simon as the rose water on Emma’s skin.

  “Yes, that will be fine.” He moved to the door. “Good day, Miss Trafford.”

  * * *

  A sense of excitement swirled through Simon as he crossed the street. Inside his town house, he entered the drawing room and watched the front door of the Traffords’ residence, intent on following her. Impatiently he tapped his fingers on the window’s casing.

  “Something amiss, my lord?” Baines asked.

  Simon turned around. The two old goats stood in the doorway staring at him.

  Harris arched a bushy gray brow. “What are you staring at, sir?”

  “None of your concern.” Simon turned back to the window. Emma stepped from her residence, a parasol jauntily angled above her head, shading her from the bright April sun making an appearance on this brisk day. She’d changed out of her drab gray dress and into one similar in style, but in a muted blue color, along with a navy wool cape and a hat with roses on it.

  “I’m going out.”

  “Out?” Baines echoed. “But you just arrived home, and I intend to make roasted chicken for dinner.”

  Simon stifled a groan. Two days ago, Harris had insulted the new cook’s food, comparing it to gruel. In response, the woman had gathered her belongings, asked for her wages, and stormed out. Since then, Baines had decided he cooked as well as anyone they’d find at the local employment agency. Sadly, his valet was incorrect. Everything Baines prepared was overcooked and over-salted. He feared both Baines’s and Harris’s taste buds had mellowed with age.

  “You two go ahead and eat it. I’m not sure when I’ll return home.” Simon snatched his walking stick from the umbrella stand and stepped out onto Great James Street.

  Twenty-five minutes later, his walking stick tapped an even rhythm on the flagstones as he moved up Great Russell Street. Simon watched the feminine sway of the lithe figure walking a good ten yards before him. He’d been following Emma since she’d left her house.

  She moved up the street at an efficient pace as though time was of the essence. Her steps had slowed only once, when she’d passed the gardens at Bloomsbury Square and observed several children frolicking about the park under the watchful gaze of a stern-faced nursemaid.

  Emma stepped through the wrought iron gates of the British Museum.

  A smile tugged on the corners of Simon’s lips. The museum’s expanse made it a favorite place for clandestine assignations. Did she intend to meet with the bastard who’d struck him?

  She lowered her parasol and walked through the courtyard, past the colonnades, and stepped inside the building. With determined strides, she moved to the west end of the museum and entered the Elgin Room. Simon slipped into the shadowed perimeter behind a large Ionic column with an ancient vase perched atop, away from the light streaming through the skylights above. Emma’s pace slowed as she perused several antiquities. Halfway down the expanse of the long room, she gracefully settled on a bench. For several minutes, she looked at the display before her. She withdrew a rolled piece of paper and a pencil from her reticule, and began to sketch.

  Anticipation furled within Simon as he glanced around and waited for someone to approach Emma. Several times she paused, tipped her head to the side, and appeared to study the marble piece in front of her before her pencil moved again with quick strokes.

  In her studio, from the corner of his eye, he’d noticed her doing the same thing when she sketched and painted him. And he’d been pleased his scarred cheek didn’t face her. How foolish to care what she thought.

  “Lord Adler,” a man said, drawing him from his thoughts.

  Simon turned to see Dr. Trimble standing to his right. He reached out and shook the man’s hand. “Trimble.”

  The doctor gave a lazy smile. “Are you here to view the Elgin Marbles or”—the physician motioned with a nod of his chin toward Emma—“something a little more warm-blooded?”

  Simon glanced over his shoulder. Emma still sat with her head bent over her sketch. Her pencil continued to move across the paper.

  He winked at the man. “The marbles, of course. What brings you here?”

  “The Reading Room. A bit of research.”

  Simon nodded.

  A somber museum employee walked up to them. “We’re closing, sirs.”

  Closing? How long had he stood watching Emma sketch? Simon looked up at the skylights. Dusk was starting to settle.

  “Guess I’ll be shoving off.” Trimble glanced at Emma and grinned. “Good luck.”

  After shaking the man’s hand, Simon turned around. The museum employee chatted with Emma, his earlier somber expression replaced with a genial smile. A bolt of agitation slid down Simon’s spine. Why should he care if the man flirted, or stood so close the scoundrel’s legs practically touched Emma’s skirts?

  She nodded at the attendant, rolled up the piece of paper, and slipped it and the pencil into her reticule.

  The visitors in the gallery moved toward the doorway, and a soft buzz of conversation filled the previously quiet space. Simon stepped back, waited until Emma passed, and fell in with the crowd vacating the room. She walked outside the museum and through the gates with the same steady pace she’d exhibited upon arrival.

  On Great Russell Street two men moved past Simon. Both blokes appeared a bit worse for wear, as if they’d dined on gin. The taller of the two spoke loud, his words slurred, and the shorter man swayed like a seaman jostled on the prow of a ship faring a rough sea. Were they following her? Could either of them be the man he sought? The idea of her associating with such riffraff
angered him even though he shouldn’t give a flying fig.

  A good thirty feet from the entrance, the taller man clasped Emma’s upper arm and violently spun her around. “Whys don’t you come with us, sweeting, and we’ll shows you a grand time.”

  A streetlamp, a yard from where she stood, revealed her startled expression. She tried to shrug her arm loose. “Let go of me!”

  Before he knew what he was about, Simon darted forward and grasped the man’s wrist in a bone-crushing grip. “You heard the lady. Let her go.”

  The ruffian’s face contorted with pain, and his cohort stepped closer.

  Simon cocked a brow at the second bloke. “I wouldn’t suggest it, chum.”

  The shorter man raised his hands, palms out, and walked backward.

  Wincing, the brute released Emma’s arm.

  Simon applied more pressure before letting go of the scoundrel.

  “We weres jush havin’ a bit of fun with her,” the taller man said, rubbing his wrist where Simon had clasped it.

  “We best get going, dear.” Simon offered Emma his arm.

  She blinked, but wrapped her hand about his sleeve. They walked up Great Russell Street in silence.

  “Thank you, Mr. Radcliffe,” she said as they passed Bloomsbury Square.

  “Think nothing of it, Miss Trafford.” He felt her gaze on his face. They moved by a gas streetlamp. Her cheeks were flushed.

  “How fortuitous you were close by. Were you at the museum?” The narrowing of her eyes was nearly imperceptible in the gloom.

  Did she question the coincidence? Yes, she trusted him as much as he trusted her. Very little. “I was.”

  “Were you using the Reading Room?” She tipped her head to the side.

  “No, just walking about. And you?”

  Her expression softened; a muted smile formed on her soft lips. “My father was a curator at the museum. He even lived there before marrying my mother. Every Friday, an hour before closing, I’d walk there. Sketch a bit, then walk home with him. Old habits are hard to set aside.”

  “You miss your father?”

  Her regard shifted from Simon to somewhere in the distance. “He wasn’t around a great deal at times, but I do. We both shared a love of art.”

  He understood her loss—what it felt like to lose one’s father, though he’d lost his long before the man had died.

  She returned her attention to him. “What of your family, sir?”

  “My parents died years ago, and I have no siblings.”

  Her hand on his arm tightened as though she wished to comfort him.

  The contact not only sent heat through his veins, it lessened the discord speaking about his father always brought on.

  “I got the impression that your father and you were not always close.”

  How did she know that?

  His face must have reflected his bewilderment for she said, “You mentioned how he would not have read your letters while you were away at school.”

  Ah, so he had. Odd, he rarely talked about that part of his life. “We had a misunderstanding.”

  “It couldn’t be resolved?”

  “No. The rift was too great.”

  Once again, her grasp on his arm tightened. “I’m sorry.”

  He was, as well.

  As they made their way to Great James Street, in companionable silence, the sound of voices behind them interrupted the steady cadence of Simon’s walking stick tapping on the pavement. He glanced over his shoulder. The two drunkards from the museum were following them.

  Bugger it. He took Emma’s hand and quickly pulled her around a street corner.

  “Mr. Radcliffe?” Her voice held an anxious edge.

  Setting his hands on her upper arms, he propelled her backward into a narrow alley between two buildings.

  Her blue eyes widened and her mouth parted as if she intended to scream. He pressed his finger to the plump surface of her lips. “The two men from the museum are following us. I want you to stay here while I continue walking up the street. Whatever happens, don’t come out until I return for you.”

  Simon turned to walk away. Emma’s delicate hand clasped his arm, halting his movements. She stepped close to him. The scent of roses filled his nose.

  “But there are two of them,” she said.

  If she was his little thief, she probably thought him incompetent after what she and her accomplice had done to him. Doubtful either man would distract him with a kiss. “I shall be fine.”

  She nodded and released his coat.

  He moved back to the pavement and strode up the street. He’d traveled a good five yards when the men’s voices grew louder. The bounders turned the corner and were moving past where Emma stood. Good, come on, chums, follow me a bit more. Yes, that’s it.

  * * *

  “Ish that him?” Emma heard a slurred voice ask. “Wersh the woman?”

  “Are you looking for me, gents?” Mr. Radcliffe’s voice sounded civil, almost jovial.

  “Where’s the pretty bird?” one of the men asked.

  “Flown away,” Mr. Radcliffe replied.

  Footfalls grew louder. Emma’s heart beat fast. Two shadows passed by the opening to the alley. Were the men going to engage in some misconduct? Even brawl?

  A dull thump resonated in the air, followed by an owf, confirming her fear. Two against one wasn’t fair. She couldn’t stand idly by while they struck Mr. Radcliffe. She lifted her folded parasol above her head and crept down the narrow, stygian path. Another thud and owf. Then shuffling of feet and more grunts.

  She neared the opening to the pavement when Mr. Radcliffe chuckled. She froze and lowered her makeshift weapon. Was she mistaken? Surely, a man pummeled would not sound so blithe.

  “What fun this is,” Mr. Radcliffe said in a lighthearted tone as if they were taking tea and playing a robust game of cards.

  Someone grunted. Once, twice, a third time. Thump.

  “Are you cozy now?” Laughter tinged Mr. Radcliffe’s voice.

  “Hhrrmm. Hhrrmm.”

  “Well, yes, glad to hear it, then.” Mr. Radcliffe chuckled again.

  Goodness, what were they doing? She moved to step out of the alley. Someone appeared in front of her in the dark space. She gasped, lifted her parasol, and brought it down with all her might.

  The person’s hand shot out to halt her makeshift weapon’s downward momentum.

  “Damnation, woman, I told you to stay put. What do you think you’re about?”

  Mr. Radcliffe. Thank God! The air in her lungs eased through her teeth. “I didn’t know what was going on. I thought you might need a bit of assistance.”

  “No. Everything has been tidied up quite well.” He backed out of the alley and scooped up his top hat from the pavement. As he set it on his head, he picked up his walking stick, which leaned against the building.

  Someone gave a muffled grunt to her right. She pivoted toward the sound, but Mr. Radcliffe stepped before her, blocking her view.

  His eyes lit with mischief. He set his hands on her shoulders and turned her in the opposite direction. Stepping next to her, he offered his arm. “Shall we?”

  The grunting continued. Her curiosity got the better of her, and she peered over her shoulder. In the gloom, she could see the two men tied together with their neckcloths. Some article of clothing was stuffed in their mouths. Both men’s trousers were about their ankles, though they still wore their small garments. She sucked in a quick breath.

  “I told you not to look,” Mr. Radcliffe chastised.

  “I didn’t expect anything so . . .” Her face heated, and a small laugh bubbled up her throat. “You have a wicked sense of humor, sir.”

  “Yes, but they deserve much worse than the public humiliation they will encounter in the morning.”

  She twisted to glance over her shoulder again.

  Mr. Radcliffe tsked. “Eyes forward, Miss Trafford. Eyes forward.”

  As they walked up the street, Emma studied Simon Rad
cliffe. His presence filled her with a sense of safety. How odd, since she’d just witnessed the brute strength he could inflict. How had he learned to fight like that?

  He glanced down at her. The moonlight caught his chiseled features. How handsome he was in a dark and dangerous way. Shouting caused them both to turn. A uniformed constable stood on the pavement before the two men. The shrill sound of the policeman’s whistle rent the air.

  “Dash it all.” Mr. Radcliffe grabbed her hand and pulled her up the street.

  “Shouldn’t we stay and tell him what happened?”

  “He may find little humor in my brand of justice.”

  “True, I had not thought of that,” she said as they darted up the street.

  “And if the men are arrested, we’ll be dragged before the magistrate to testify. Sure to be a long, drawn-out affair, and I don’t wish for the scrutiny.”

  “I see what you mean. Your business acquaintances might hear of it.”

  “Yes, indeed, my business acquaintances.” He peered over his shoulder and slowed his steps. A broad smile spread across his face. “The bobby has given up his chase.”

  Breathing heavily, she nodded.

  “Rest a bit, and catch your breath.”

  “No. I’m fine.” She wished she could say the same for her parasol. The metal ribs were bent where he’d clasped it. The dashed thing would never open again. A small price to pay for his assistance. Thank God, Mr. Radcliffe had been at the museum—even if he’d been following her. Those dirty, drunken men had meant to . . . Without thought, she tightened her grasp on his hand.

  He held her gaze for a moment, and then glanced at her parasol. “I shall buy you another.”

  “No need, sir. I appreciate you coming to my aid.” The heat coming off his body warmed the cooling night air.

  “Do you really think it wise to walk alone at this time of day?” Her hand was still clasped tightly in his. He released it and placed it atop his sleeve—very proper and all.

  “I’ve never encountered a problem before, but maybe you’re right.”

  “You should take a hackney home from the museum until the sun starts setting later in the day. Unless you walk with someone who can protect you.” His dark eyes peered at her. “Do you have such a person?”