Never Deceive a Viscount

by Renee Ann Miller

  She stared at the coins for a moment before a broad smile wreathed her face. “Thank ye, sir.” She bobbed up and down.

  The movement drew the attention of MacDonald at the next table. “Are you daft, girl? Wot you be doin’ that for? He ain’t the Queen.”

  Shoving the coin into her dress pocket, the girl turned fully toward the man and flashed him a defiant expression. “I’d lick the man’s feet, MacDonald, at this very moment, if ’e be askin’ me to. So never ye mind.”

  Pressing his palms to the top of the table, MacDonald shifted as if to stand, but glanced toward the cudgel-wielding proprietor standing near the stage. “You’s got a saucy mouth, Molly. I knows for a fact your father wouldn’t be lookin’ so kindly upon you at this moment catering to the likes of those men.”

  “Shows what little ye knows, MacDonald. Me da is goin’ to be as pleased as a doxy spotting a group of sailors on leave when I show him this shiny canary in me pocket.” She gave Simon and Caruthers another flamboyant curtsy and stomped off.

  Simon leaned close to MacDonald. “Fine lass, full of spirit, is she not?”

  The Scot narrowed his eyes and flexed his fingers into a fist. “I’ll be seein’ you after Eliza’s performance.”

  He acknowledged the threat with a grin. Exactly what he wanted. A good round of fisticuffs might stop him from replaying the day’s events in his head like a kineograph and lessen his dark mood.

  Several men at adjacent tables craned their heads. “Bleedin’ nob must have a death wish,” someone muttered.

  “Ay, the Bull’s got a good three stone on the swell,” another added.

  Indeed, the man they called “the Bull” looked capable of sending one to meet his maker, but if he thought Simon would be an easy win, he was about to learn differently.

  A sudden hullabaloo of feet stomping, hand clapping, and cheers commenced. A voluptuous woman with a mop of curly flame-colored hair stepped onto the stage. One could not call Eliza Bird pretty, but Simon presumed many of the men in the concert-room didn’t look any higher than her neck and the short costume made of French tulle which exposed her silk stockings, garters, and the cleavage of her overripe breasts.

  “My God,” Caruthers mumbled. “They weren’t lying. Asphyxiation is indeed a possibility.” Caruthers stuck two fingers in his mouth and let loose an ear-splitting whistle.

  The saucy songstress winked at them.

  Caruthers leaned back in his chair. “Christ, I think I’m in love. What do you think, Simon?”

  He shrugged one shoulder. At the moment, the only woman he could think of had distracted him so a thug could attempt to crack his head open like a coconut. He should just stand still and let MacDonald knock some sense into him.

  Throughout Eliza’s performance, the predominantly male audience whistled, clapped, and verbally haled the woman’s mediocre voice. After she sang several ballads, she exited the stage to a round of hearty applause and boisterous cheers. When it became apparent she wouldn’t take to the stage for an encore, several patrons filed out of the hall at a fast clip. The numerous bordellos that dotted the local streets appeared to be in for a profitable night.

  Caruthers slapped Simon’s back. “Damn fine show.”

  “Yes, if one is tone deaf.” Simon peered at the table next to him. MacDonald eyed him like a finely cooked joint.

  “You weren’t thinkin’ of slithering away, were you now?” the man asked.

  No, he’d thought of Emma throughout the songstress’s performance. A few rounds with the Scot would suit him well. “What, and miss a chance at rearranging your not-so-pretty mug?”

  The hostility seemed to slip away from MacDonald’s countenance and he grinned. “You ain’t no milksop. I’ll give you that.”

  Simon, Caruthers, MacDonald, and the men at his table stepped into the melee that was the exodus and made their way to the street.

  “I’ll wager my friend will be victorious. Do I have any takers?” Caruthers shouted.

  “I’ll bet you a threepence,” said one grizzled man, who looked as if he didn’t have a pot to piss in.

  “Believe me, old man,” Caruthers replied, “you’d do better to wager on my friend’s side than against him. He’s a leftie with a mean uppercut. And I believe he’s pining over a woman and in a rather foul mood. The man’s primed to hit something.”

  Simon narrowed his eyes at his friend. “Sod off.”

  Caruthers laughed.

  The elderly man raised a bushy eyebrow. “A woman’s got under his skin, huh?”

  “Indeed. Nothing else explains his poor mood,” Caruthers replied.

  The old man grinned. “A woman will do that to you. I say threepence the nob wins!”

  “I’ll take that wager,” another man shouted.

  MacDonald slipped off his tattered sack coat and handed it to the bloke who’d sat next to him in the hall.

  Simon followed suit, passed his frock coat and top hat to Caruthers, and loosened his tie. However, before he’d finished removing the garment, a hard right struck his jaw. He stumbled backward. Regaining his balance, he flashed MacDonald a smile. No Marquess of Queensberry rules here.

  Tossing his neckcloth to Caruthers, Simon stepped toward MacDonald and ducked when the other man tried to strike him with another jab aimed at his face.

  MacDonald was about to learn fighting wasn’t solely about brawn; one had to think, to react, and predict an opponent’s moves. Simon knew when it came to those who were heavier, as MacDonald was, that if he ducked and weaved, his opponent would tire. He’d also learned that quick combinations were the most successful in downing a man. A milling crowd formed a circle around the two men and became as boisterous about the fight as Eliza’s performance.

  Simon landed a firm uppercut against MacDonald’s chin, sending a spray of spittle into the air.

  His opponent answered with a sharp left; however, Simon quickly moved and MacDonald’s fist clipped his ear.

  After several minutes, MacDonald’s chest heaved up and down, while his feet dragged on the pavement. At this point the Bull had struck more blows, but most had hit Simon’s arms and chest, whereas he’d caught the man twice squarely in the face, and a gash on his brow was dangerously close to splitting open and trickling blood into the man’s eye.

  MacDonald hit Simon squarely on the jaw. Flashes of light blinded Simon for a minute. He blinked to clear his spotty vision. Jesus! Now he understood why they called him the Bull.

  The man dipped his head, charged like an enraged animal. Simon sidestepped and the man stumbled into the crowd. The Scot emerged with his face red and fist cranked back.

  Unbidden, Emma’s words from today rushed back into Simon’s head. Red-hot anger bubbled to the surface. Simon blocked the punch, rammed his fist into the man’s abdomen, and planted a facer on him.

  Arms flailing, MacDonald stumbled backward, taking several spectators to the pavement with him.

  “Jesus, Mary, Joseph,” one of the Bull’s cohorts said. “He’s out cold.”

  The grizzled old man took his flat cap off, waved it into the air, and whooped.

  Simon looked at his red knuckles. “Drinks are on me,” he said, shaking his hand in the air to remove the sting.

  The crowd cheered and rushed back into the music hall, except for the two men who stayed to lift MacDonald off the ground.

  The bare-knuckled brawl hadn’t made Simon forget about Emma, but perhaps getting drunk would.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “It’s been a week since Lord Adler left. Do you think he will ever return for his portrait?” Lily asked, stretching out on the daybed in Emma’s studio and rubbing her eyes.

  “I don’t think so, dear,” Emma replied as she added highlights to Simon’s likeness. Without forethought, she pressed her free hand to her chest, where, hidden underneath her dress, Simon’s ring hung from a blue satin ribbon. He might not return for the painting, but surely he would return for the ring. Wouldn’t he? She was starting
to doubt it.

  “Then why do you continue to work on his portrait?”

  Emma wasn’t sure. Perhaps it was penance. Looking at it made her heart ache. Twice during the week, she’d contemplated going to Simon’s residence in Mayfair and telling him the whole truth about that night she and Lily had entered his house. But what good would it do? It might prompt him to make the same offer, and she wasn’t sure she’d say no to becoming his mistress. It was better to stay away from him. Better he hate her.

  “He might return for it.” Emma forced her voice to remain even.

  “I miss him and Nick,” Lily said, propping a pillow under her head. “Mr. Radcliffe . . . I mean Lord Adler, was topnotch at rolling a trundling hoop, and I was hoping he’d trounce that braggart Timmy Johnson in a race. And Mrs. Flynn misses Mr. Baines. She says she’s angry at him, but I think if he came back, she’d say all was forgiven.”

  Emma didn’t wish to talk about it anymore. Tears were already welling up in her eyes as she thought of the empty house across the street.

  The room grew shadowed as the sun began to set. She glanced at Lily, who’d grown surprisingly quiet. Her sister appeared to have drifted off to sleep. Quietly Emma washed her tools and moved to the water ewer to clean her hands, only to find it empty.

  She draped a blanket over Lily and exited the room with the pitcher. As she descended the steps, the knocker struck the front door.

  Simon? Her stomach fluttered. Emma set the ewer on the entry hall table and took several deep breaths. She smoothed her skirt with her damp palms and opened the door.

  Two men in wrinkled plaid sack suits stood on the top step. The tall one sported a wide moustache and muttonchops. The setting sun reflected off the man’s hair, slick with pomade. He flashed a gap-toothed grin.

  The other caller was shorter, with several days’ worth of stubble and a metal toothpick clamped between his teeth. Without smiling, his gaze traveled a leisurely path down Emma’s body. A licentious grin turned the corners of his lips upward.

  Wretched man.

  She folded her arms. “May I help you, gentlemen?”

  The man with the muttonchops combed his fingers through the coarse hair on his jaw. “Indeed, you may,” he replied with a thick cockney accent. “Is this the residence of Michael Trafford?”

  What could these two men want with her brother? “It is. May I ask what this is about?”

  The second man scraped the toothpick between his two front teeth. “Is ’e ’ome?”

  “No, he’s at . . .” An unsettling feeling gripped her stomach as she thought about Michael’s odd behavior. Best not to reveal where Michael attended school. “No, he’s not, but if you leave me your calling card, I’ll make sure he receives it.”

  The fellow with the muttonchops stepped closer to her. The scent of strong cologne and perspiration wafted to her nose. “Now you wouldn’t be lying to us, would you?” He motioned to the man next to him with a jerk of his thumb. “Me friend ’ere don’t take kindly to liars.”

  The shorter man plucked the toothpick out from between his lips and ran the sharp, pointed edge down the left sleeve of her dress, applying enough pressure that the edge scraped her skin.

  Fear gripping her, Emma started to close the door. The taller man set his hand against the wood, halting its progression.

  Mrs. Flynn’s heavy footfalls moved up the steps from below stairs. She strode into the back corridor, which ran from the front door to the rear of the residence. “Who’s at the door, miss?”

  Emma swallowed. If Mrs. Flynn thought these men meant Emma any harm, the elder woman’s protective claws would come out, and she doubted the housekeeper was a match for these two brutes. “They have the wrong address. I’m giving them directions. I’ll be downstairs in a minute.”

  The housekeeper’s retreating footsteps made the air held tight in Emma’s lungs exit on a heavy exhale.

  The man lowered his hand from the door and flicked a piece of lint off his sleeve. “Tell your brother we’ll be back, and he best have the money, ’cause Mr. Wolf ain’t take kindly to those who don’t pay ’im back.”

  Her throat too tight to speak, Emma nodded and slammed the door closed. Knees wobbling, she slumped against the hard surface. What type of man had such unsavory characters working for him? And how had Michael come to owe the man money?

  A noise jerked her gaze to the frosted glass window at the end of the corridor. A dark, shadowy figure stood outside, trying to wrench the lower pane up.

  Heart pounding fast, Emma pulled Papa’s old walking stick out of the umbrella stand and raced down the corridor.

  The lower sash slid up a couple of inches. A clearly male hand reached in to grasp the bottom of the window. The thundering in Emma’s chest made her ribs hurt. She raised the cane and swung, striking the man’s thumb.

  “Hell and fire,” the voice hissed.

  She froze. “Michael? Is that you?”

  Her brother peered through the opening. His face ashen.

  “You all but scared me to death,” she scolded, shoving the sash up. “What’s going on? Who is Mr. Wolf, and why do you owe him money?”

  Her brother climbed through the window and grasped his injured thumb. “I’m in trouble, Em.”

  “Yes, I realize that. What have you done?”

  He scrubbed his hands over his boyish face. “Gambled. Every cent I had and some I didn’t.”

  Good Lord. Her temples began to throb. “And now you owe this Wolf fellow?”

  Michael stared at the floor and rubbed the toe of his shoe against the dull and scratched wooden planks. He glanced up. Her brother’s face flushed red. “Yes. Some call him the Devil of Danbury Street.”

  Emma clutched the bodice of her dress. She now recognized the name. Owing a merciless creditor was frightening enough, but the Devil of Danbury . . . Oh heavens. She’d read about the unsavory man in a recent article in one of the daily papers. It proclaimed him ruthless. Two days after the newspaper published the article, a suspicious fire caused extensive damage to the publisher’s offices. Even the police were leery of the moneylender.

  “How much do you owe him?”

  Without looking at her, Michael rubbed at his thumb. “Three hundred pounds.”

  Her heart skipped several beats. A king’s ransom as far as they were concerned. An unattainable amount.

  Fast-moving footsteps charged down the stairs. Lily rubbed at her heavy-lidded eyes and squealed, “Michael! I thought I heard your voice.” The child ran to their brother and wrapped her slender arms about his waist.

  Emma took a deep breath and fought the urge to wrap her hands around Michael’s neck, or grab his shoulders and shake him until his eyes rolled in his head. What had he been thinking, gambling such a staggering amount of money? Obviously, he’d not been thinking at all. They didn’t possess such a sum.

  “Hey, poppet.” Michael returned Lily’s embrace and kissed the top of her golden head.

  “Lower your voices.” Emma stepped into the morning room and pulled the front shutters closed. The two thugs might still be lurking around out front.

  Holding Lily’s hand, Michael followed.

  “What’s the matter?” Lily frowned.

  Mrs. Flynn appeared. Wiping her hands on her apron, the housekeeper stepped into the room. Her gaze volleyed from Michael’s pale face to Emma’s, which was most likely even paler. “What’s wrong?” she asked, a nervous pitch to the older woman’s voice.

  Everything. Emma paced. “Lily, please go upstairs for a bit.”

  Lily set her hands on her hips. “Why?”

  “Because I need to speak to Michael. Alone.”

  “But I want to know what’s going on. Why is he home from school again?”

  “Come, dearie.” Mrs. Flynn grasped Lily’s hand. “Let your sister talk to your brother in private.”

  Grumbling about how unfair Emma was acting, Lily allowed Mrs. Flynn to pull her into the entry hall. The housekeeper closed the double doo
rs behind her.

  Emma spun toward her brother. “How long do you have, to get the three hundred pounds to this moneylender?”

  Michael shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and stared at his shoes. “I was supposed to pay him yesterday. I came home to warn you that he might send a couple of his thugs here.”

  “Indeed, he already did.” She rubbed her arm, which still stung from where the little runt had scraped his metal toothpick down her sleeve.

  “Blast it! Did one of them hurt you, Em? I’ll kill them!” Michael rushed to her side.

  She stepped away and strode to the other side of the room. “No, I’m fine. I bumped my arm this morning.” She spun back to face him. “Do they know where you attend school? Are you safe there?”

  “I believe so.”

  Thank God. But the two men would return here. She was sure of it. Then what would she do? Her knees wobbled. Emma sank into a chair and momentarily buried her face in her hands, frightened not only about how she would get the money, but terrified of the harm this wretched Mr. Wolf could inflict on her family.

  “I’m sorry, Em,” Michael said, drawing her from her tumultuous thoughts.

  She glanced up. “When did this happen? Did you go to a gaming hell?”

  “I stopped there on my way back to school after Easter break. My friend . . . you know the one I told you about, Ernest Montgomery. He told me of a pub on St. George Street in Stepney. There’s a back room where one can play cards.”

  Goodness! Emma had known Michael getting mixed up with some highborn lad would cause problems. Boys like that lived off their father’s wealth. They didn’t worry where their next coin would come from.

  “I thought I’d try my hand at it,” Michael continued. “I did well at first. Doubled my money. Then my luck changed . . . ran dry. A tall man approached me; told me he could see I was a fine player and offered to give me a loan. Said his boss did that for those he thought a good bet. Like him, I was sure my luck would change. Em, if I could have twenty-five pounds, maybe I could win it all back.”

  Emma clenched her hands. It appeared Mama had dropped all three of her children on their heads. She stood and jabbed her finger against Michael’s chest. “Promise me you will never gamble again. You were set up.”