Never Deceive a Viscount

by Renee Ann Miller

  Yes, by God, I’ll do that as soon as my head stops pounding.

  His gaze shifted to the painting Emma had done of the family strolling through the park. Harris had tasked a footman with hanging it in Simon’s bedchamber. The fact that Simon had taken it with him from Bloomsbury instead of leaving it or giving it to Westfield confounded him more than anything else.

  He strode into his bathing room. The large copper tub contained clean, glistening water. Baines might not be talking to him, but the man wouldn’t neglect his duties. Simon brushed his teeth to remove the wretched taste from his mouth, stripped naked, and slid into the tepid water. After washing his hair, he rested his head on the back of the tub, and closed his eyes.

  A memory of him and Emma making love flashed in his mind.

  Rot it. Even a night of excessive drinking didn’t stop thoughts of her. Grumbling, he crawled out of the tub and wrapped a drying towel about his hips.

  Inside his dressing room, he found his clothes pressed and laid out for him. With sluggish movements, Simon dressed, walked into his bedchamber, and set his shoes next to the bed. He glanced at Emma’s painting again. No wonder he couldn’t stop thinking about the woman, with that deuced thing staring him in the face.

  Tomorrow he’d have it sent to Westfield’s.

  Or next week. Or next month.

  He must be going mad because not only did he miss Emma, he missed her hoyden sister. He would even swear he heard Lily’s voice. Obviously the liquor he’d ingested was still affecting him.

  Yet the voice grew louder, along with fast-moving footfalls.

  “I told you, Miss Lily, I would fetch him,” Harris said. “You must remain in the drawing room and stop following me. His lordship might not be decent.”

  “I don’t care. I must speak with him right now. It’s a matter of life and death!”

  Lily. Had something happened to Emma? Heart pounding, Simon wrenched his bedchamber door open to see the child trailing Harris up the corridor, tears streaming down her pale face. Several feet behind them stood Mrs. Flynn and Baines. The older woman looked as distraught as Emma’s young sister.

  Something had happened to Emma. For a moment, Simon thought he might retch. Lily ran up to him and wrapped her arms about his waist. She talked so fast, he couldn’t make out what she was saying.

  Heart still hammering a steady tattoo, Simon bent on one knee and looked the child in the eyes. “Lily, dear, take a breath and tell me what has happened.”

  “Emma’s gone to Spitalfields, my lord,” Mrs. Flynn interjected. “She went to pay off her brother’s debt to the moneylender they call the Devil of Danbury Street. But after she left the house, Lily found everything Emma intended to pawn in her bedchamber. She doesn’t possess the three hundred pounds to pay him. I don’t know what she plans to do.”

  “Wolf?” Simon asked, his body tense.

  Mrs. Flynn’s head bobbed up and down. “Yes, my lord. We’re frightened what that vile man will do to her when she shows up without the money owed him.”

  “Will you help?” Lily asked. “You love her, don’t you?”

  As much as he’d like to deny it, he did. Simon squeezed Lily’s hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll go and find your sister. Harris, have my carriage brought around and put three hundred pounds in an envelope.” Simon dashed back into his bedchamber to collect his shoes.

  Lily ran after him. “May I go with you?”

  “No, poppet, you must stay here with Mrs. Flynn.”

  “But I need to explain about your ring,” Lily said.

  Simon’s gaze jerked to the child’s pensive face as he dashed out of his bedchamber.

  “Emma didn’t take your ring. I did,” Lily said, trailing him down the corridor.

  For a moment, Simon’s head spun. He rubbed the back of his neck. What was the child talking about? He’d kissed Emma, so did that mean . . . “You’re the blackguard who hit me?”

  A tear trailed from the corner of Lily’s eye, and she nodded. “I did. I thought you were going to harm Emma.”

  “You, young lady, are going to tell me the whole story during the carriage ride to Spitalfields. Are we clear?”

  Lily nodded again.

  “Mrs. Flynn, I wish you to accompany us.”

  Fifteen minutes later, settled in the interior of Simon’s carriage, Lily nibbled on her index finger and said, “And that’s the whole story.”

  Good Lord, was the child telling the truth? Simon recalled how Lily had mumbled the word murderer the first time he’d met her. The child was telling the truth. He would have laughed out loud, if not for the fear over Emma having gone to Spitalfields.

  “I didn’t know, sir. Um, I mean, my lord.” Mrs. Flynn twisted her hands in her lap. “Lily just told me the whole story on the way over here.”

  “Do you forgive me?” Lily asked in a small voice.

  “I shouldn’t,” Simon said sternly. The tears that trailed down Lily’s cheeks made that damnable ache near his heart start again. “Yes.” He patted the child’s hand and peered at the housekeeper. “Mrs. Flynn, when we get to Spitalfields, will you make sure Lily stays in the vehicle? She is not to enter Mr. Wolf’s place of business. He has some rather unsavory characters working for him.”

  Mrs. Flynn grasped Lily’s hand and held it tightly. “She’s not going anywhere, my lord. I’ll sit on her if I have to.”

  “You won’t have to do that, Mrs. Flynn. I’ll behave. I only want Emma home, safe and sound.”

  So did Simon. If Emma married him, he was going to set rules for Lily. His heart stuttered in his chest. Marry? Good Lord, had he just thought that?

  Yes. If she’d have him.

  * * *

  At one time, the grand town houses that lined Danbury Street in Spitalfields would have housed prosperous Huguenot silk weavers, but now they were mostly overcrowded lodging houses. Children in threadbare clothing played on the pavement. A woman in a sweater and dirty skirt plucked a chicken while a bald man sat on a step smoking a pipe, his fingers gnarled with age. Emma strode by a house where two men stood awaiting admittance.

  One of them tugged on the tips of his wide moustache and leered at her. “You coming here, my sweet, for a bit of slap and tickle?”

  She wasn’t sure what the man meant, but the way he leered at her made her stomach knot.

  The other man set his hands on his rounded belly and laughed. “She looks a bit too high-and-mighty for the likes of you, Clark. Best stick to one of Mrs. Greyson’s whores, if she ever answers the bloody door.”

  Pulse racing, Emma pulled her shawl tighter about her shoulders and hastened her steps. She stopped at number fifteen—a brick Georgian with green shutters. A big brute of a man stood in front of the door, his thick arms folded over his wide chest, barring anyone’s entrance.

  “Sir, I’m here to see Mr. Wolf,” Emma said, forcing her voice to remain calm.

  The man’s gaze slid a blatant path down the length of her body, then made its way back up, slowing at her bosom, before settling back on her face. “You’ve a fine-looking face, lass, but if you’re ’ere to peddle yer flesh, best save yourself the trouble and ’ead home. Me employer likes his women with a bit more meat on them.”

  Why, she’d never . . . Anger momentarily replaced her fear. Emma straightened her spine and tipped her chin in the air. “I’m here on a matter of business, sir, and it has nothing to do with my body.”

  One corner of the man’s mouth twitched. He stepped aside and opened the door, motioning with a jerk of his chin to follow him.

  Emma wasn’t sure what she’d expected to see, but surely not such opulence. The entry hall sported a black and white marbled floor, scrubbed to a near mirror shine. The polished mahogany woodwork was buffed, and the scent of beeswax filled her nose. It was a dichotomy to the world bustling about outside. She followed the big fellow up a winding stairway with wrought iron spindles, to the first floor.

  As they strode down a long corridor, she thought of the two t
hugs who’d come to her residence. Would either of those slimy fellows be here? Would she have to deal with them? She ran her hand over her arm where the little runt had scraped her skin with his metal toothpick. Swallowing down her fear, she squared her shoulders, but couldn’t halt the queasiness in her stomach or the rapid beats of her heart.

  Emma passed a room where a maid wearing a mobcap, navy uniform, and white pinafore dusted the wood of a massive billiards table. It looked like what Emma imagined one would see in some grand residence or a gentlemen’s club.

  They strode through a doorway and into an office where three men sat at counting desks. A fourth man with spectacles perched on his razor-thin nose sat at a more substantial desk with ledgers stacked on it. He peered up at the bulky man standing next to her and shoved his glasses up his nose with his index finger. “Shouldn’t you be at your post at the front door, Douglas?”

  “I brought this little peach in to see the boss, Wimple.”

  The man called Wimple, who looked to be a secretary, sighed. “What’s your business here, miss?”

  Emma wet her dry lips. “I-I wish to speak with Mr. Wolf.”

  “In reference to?” Wimple sniffed and drew a white handkerchief under his thin nose.

  “Repayment of a loan.”

  Wimple flipped open a ledger and dipped his pen into an ink jar. “No need to speak to him. Just give it to me along with your name.”

  The rapid pace of her heart escalated. She couldn’t give him what she didn’t have. She peered beyond Wimple into an office where a man with dark hair, a square jaw, and sizable shoulders sat at a desk. His white shirt was crisp and bright and his waistcoat a maroon damask. His clothing appeared as costly as Simon’s. From this distance, he looked no more than thirty years old. Could this man, who looked like a wealthy merchant or barrister, be the moneylender?

  “Is that him?” Emma asked, pointing at the well-dressed man.

  The bespectacled man nodded.

  “I will only give the funds to him.”

  “That’s not how it works.” Wimple inhaled deeply as if his patience was running thin. “Now—”

  Swallowing her fear, Emma dashed by the man’s desk toward the office where Mr. Wolf sat.

  “You bloody fool, Douglas, grab her,” the secretary hissed. “Or you’ll have the devil to pay.”

  Emma felt her shawl being grabbed. She released her hold on it. The garment slid off her shoulders and into Douglas’s grasp. Pulse echoing in her ears, she ran into the office, closed the door, and leaned her weight on it while turning the lock.

  A dog’s growl rent the air.

  Every muscle in Emma tensed. Cold sweat prickled her skin as she slowly turned around.

  A massive black dog crept up to her, looking as if he wished to tear out her neck.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The dog hunched low, as if ready to pounce, and bared incisors sharp enough to chew through a sizable branch, or worse, human bones.

  Heart pounding, Emma clasped her neck and fought a scream.

  “Lucifer, heel!” Mr. Wolf stood and braced his palms on his desk.

  Without blinking an eye, the massive beast sat, yet his nostrils flared as if deciding whether she’d be a tasty afternoon treat.

  Emma swallowed the scream still grappling for purchase in her throat.

  “To your bed, Lucifer,” the moneylender said in a firm voice with a trace of cockney accent.

  The dog walked through a pair of open pocket doors into an adjoining room furnished with tall bookcases and a sofa. The animal settled his powerful body on a large brown velvet pillow with gold-colored tassels.

  “Stay,” Mr. Wolf commanded. He turned to Emma and motioned to the pair of chairs facing his desk. “You, come here and sit.” He spoke like a person used to having his orders followed. There was a hard, almost ruthless edge to his voice.

  She contemplated turning tail and running, but the men on the other side of the door were banging on it as if intent on breaking it down. She needed to either deal with the devil or his minions. She’d come this far, she’d not turn back. On wobbly legs, Emma moved to the chairs the man indicated and sat in the closest one.

  Mr. Wolf strode to the door and flung it open. Emma couldn’t see his face, but by the way Wimple and Douglas cowered, she realized the moneylender’s expression must be lethal.

  “S-sorry, boss. She’s a slippery one. I’ll toss her out right now.” Douglas’s eyes narrowed to slits as he stared at her.

  The moneylender held up a halting hand. “Never mind. I might as well learn what this is all about.” Leaving the door open to the anteroom, the man walked back to his desk.

  “Should I pat her down, boss?” Douglas asked.

  Pat her down? Did he mean touch her person? Her fear shifted to anger. She would kick him if he tried.

  “No need. She looks rather harmless.” Mr. Wolf pinned her with his green eyes. “Do you carry a weapon?”

  “A weapon?” she echoed.

  “Do you have a knife? A pistol? Are you intent on blowing my head off?”

  “Of course not. I only wish to talk to you.”

  He waved the men away and folded his exceedingly tall frame into the chair behind his desk.

  Trying to relieve the tightness in her chest, Emma released a tense breath. “My brother—”

  “Of course, it’s always a brother, or father, or a lover. How much does he owe me?”

  She swallowed. “Three hundred pounds, but I have a-a proposition.”

  “You don’t say. If I took on all the women who offered their bodies in lieu of payment, I’d never get out of my bed. Sorry, love, but I’m not interested.”

  Her face heated. “That’s not the type of proposition I meant,” she said stiffly.

  One side of his mouth hitched up. “Then what is it you have to barter?”

  “I have nearly seventy-five pounds, and to settle the remainder of the amount, I could paint you. I’m a portraitist.”

  He leaned back in his chair, scrubbed his hand over his jaw, and contemplated her with astute eyes. “That’s a damn heavy price to pay for a painting. And how do I know you’re any good?”

  “Right now I’ve been commissioned to paint a nobleman.” It wasn’t a lie. Simon had commissioned her.

  As if that held little weight, he frowned.

  “I could paint you, and if you’re pleased you could accept the portrait as payment. You have nothing to lose.”

  A commotion in the anteroom drew their attention.

  “Let me by,” a man demanded.

  Emma sucked in a startled breath. Simon. Goodness, what is he doing here? Had he gone to her house to collect his ring and Mrs. Flynn told him what was going on?

  The big, bulky fellow stood in front of Simon. “Crikey,” Douglas said. “If it ain’t the nob from Ferguson’s Music Hall. I ain’t never seen a man knock MacDonald out cold before. I should have known that woman in there was yours. She’s got a good set of bollocks, she does.” The man slapped his knee and burst out laughing at his own comment.

  “Damnation,” the moneylender grumbled. “What type of place am I running here? Why don’t you just offer his lordship some tea and crumpets?”

  Red-faced, Douglas stiffened. “Sorry, boss.” He turned back to Simon. “He’s busy right now. Have a seat and wait your turn.”

  “I have the payment Miss Trafford’s brother owes you.” Simon removed a thick envelope from his inside coat pocket and held it up for the moneylender to see.

  “Let him by,” Mr. Wolf said.

  Simon strode into the room and tossed the envelope onto the desk. “That settles Michael Trafford’s debt. Now come along, Emma. We are going home.”

  Lord knew she wanted to leave as quickly as her feet would take her, but Simon had no right to command her. What else would he demand of her for settling the debt? That she become his mistress? Emma squared her shoulders and stood. “I’m not going anywhere with you, Lord Adler. And I don’t ne
ed your funds. I’ve got the matter in hand. I’m going to paint Mr. Wolf.”

  “You’re what?” A nerve danced in Simon’s jaw. Emma thought she heard his molars grinding against one another.

  “You heard me.” She turned to the moneylender. “Isn’t that so, sir?”

  The moneylender opened the envelope.

  She knew by the look in his eyes that he’d rather have the funds. “I’m an excellent portraitist.”

  “Wimple, get in here,” Mr. Wolf said. He handed the money to the bespectacled secretary. “Sorry, love, but payment on the loan has been rendered.”

  Though relieved she’d not have to return to this place, she didn’t want to be indebted to Simon. “I’ll pay you the funds as soon as I have the money, Lord Adler.” She strolled out of the room.

  Without saying a word, Simon followed her. She exited Mr. Wolf’s residence and walked up the pavement.

  “Emma, where are you going? Get in my carriage.”

  She glanced over her shoulder. The thought of returning home in Simon’s vehicle instead of walking through the East End to the Liverpool Street station held immeasurable appeal, but being cloistered alone with him wasn’t wise. Her mind seemed to forget propriety when they were together. Already her body grew warm.

  “No, I’d rather take the rail,” she lied.

  “Your sister and Mrs. Flynn are inside my carriage.”

  Her feet faltered. She spun around. What were they doing in there? Obviously, they’d begged him to help her.

  Simon opened the vehicle’s door.

  Lily popped her head out and waved.

  Emma strode back to the carriage. “They shouldn’t have involved you.” She lifted her skirts and settled inside the vehicle.

  Simon climbed in and sat next to her. As usual, he smelled like spicy soap and his skin sent out waves of tantalizing heat. The brush of his thigh against hers sent sparks fluttering in her stomach.

  She narrowed her eyes at the turncoats sitting across from her. “I said I could handle it. You didn’t need to involve his lordship.”

  “But you didn’t have enough money,” both Lily and Mrs. Flynn said in unison.