Tempted by the Viscount

by Sofie Darling

  “Something like that,” he said, his lips ticking up to the side.

  Fanny sucked in a deep breath, further enhancing her breasts. In a whispery voice, she asked, “Wha’ canna git’cha?”

  “A single sticky?”

  “I can git’cha more ‘n that, guv.”

  “Awright, Fanny, to tha back wi’ ye.” The baker shooed Fanny away, but not before she flashed Jake one last toothless smile. The baker shook his head in mournful fashion. “Sorry ‘bout that, guv. She gits like that ‘round yer lot. Mem’ries o’ days spent ‘round the street corner, if ya catch me drift.”

  Jake set a coin on the window ledge. “Will this do?”

  “And then some if ye can wait for a few hot crosses,” the baker said, pocketing the coin and shoving a sticky bun into Jake’s hand. “Tha missus won’t mind seein’ the front o’ ye agin, tha’s one thin’ for sure!”

  The baker’s parting words were lost to Jake’s retreating back, the entirety of his attention now fixed on the not insubstantial task of managing the sticky bun. True to its name, it right and truly stuck to his fingers, a bit on the lapel of his dove gray overcoat, a drop on the top of his right boot. As soon as he was out of sight of the baker’s storefront, he tossed the thing into an alley and appraised fingers shiny with caramelized sugar.

  Well, there was nothing else for it: he began licking. He had no intention of sticking to everything he touched all day. By the time he reached his third finger, he was distracted by the sensation of sugar-coated fingers in a way he hadn’t been since he was a tot in leading strings.

  His footsteps slowed, and he felt . . . pleasure. The sort of simple pleasure he hadn’t experienced in years. Here, on a street where no one knew him, he could luxuriate in the freedom of a simple pleasure.

  A smile, wide and unruly, played about his lips, and his eyes blinked open. When had they drifted shut?

  The question was destined to remain forever unanswered as his brain registered a sight he’d had no way of anticipating. A nondescript woman, her head down, with no concern for any but her own forward trajectory, about to charge directly into him. Between the tick and the tock of his pocket watch, time did a funny thing and elongated, even as it compressed and intensified. He had only a blink to brace himself for impact.

  The instant their bodies bounced off each other, the woman’s round, blue eyes met his and clung to him in speechless shock. A heartbeat later, the heat of recognition thrummed through Jake.

  This small-scale typhoon was none other than Lady Olivia Montfort.

  His right hand shot out when it became apparent that Lady Olivia wasn’t only bouncing backward, but backward into a street full of late-morning traffic in the form of fast-moving carriages and delivery carts. His hand clamped around her forearm and jerked her upright to safety.

  A loud, “Oof!” whooshed from the parted “O” of her lips as a sheaf of papers flew out of her hands and scattered across the fetid East End sidewalk. A confused moment followed as their bodies pressed full-length against each other—chests heaving, breaths mingling—for a heartbeat too long. Her head tipped back, and her eyes met his.

  Gone was last night’s measured reserve. Now the primitive emotion that came from having cheated death blazed across their blue depths. A spark of lust shot straight through him, and his hand dropped from her arm as if scorched.

  Her eyebrows knit together, and her head canted to the side. “Why on earth are you—” she began before stopping short. Her face animated in wide-eyed panic. “My sketches!” She sprang away and began weaving through annoyed passersby in a desperate attempt to retrieve the sheets of paper strewn haphazardly across the sidewalk. She cut him a sharp glance. “Are you going to stand there all day, or help me?”

  Jake found himself following her lead as he blindly crouched his way through a forest of tetchy legs and impatient feet. A few filthy minutes later, every sheet was accounted for.

  Eyes slinging arrows his way, Lady Olivia closed the gap between them and snatched the sheets from his hands. “A bit of advice?” she began. “You should watch where you’re walking.”

  He cocked his head. An air of expectancy hung about her. It was trying to tell him something . . .

  It hit him. She expected an apology.

  “I should watch where I’m walking?” he asked, astounded by the cheek of the woman.

  “You mustn’t go around knocking ladies into the street. Or is that yet another social nicety neglected in your education?” She drew herself up in a show of righteous indignation. “I could have been killed.”

  “You very nearly were,” he replied. “But ‘tis you who must be careful. A narrow London street in the East End might not be the most inviting location for a lady’s daily stroll.”

  “You know nothing about me”—Her demeanor returned to its familiar state of studied calm. A pang of loss flashed through him for the other Lady Olivia he’d glimpsed, the one who blazed with emotion, primitive, raw, and open—“or where I should be . . . strolling.”

  She glared at him from below, her fullest height no more than a few inches over five feet, her hair styled in a severe chignon. If they hadn’t collided, he would have walked right past her without a second glance. Impossible that the curves he’d glimpsed last night hid beneath the drab, serviceable overcoat that camouflaged her like some sort of slum chameleon. He couldn’t decide if the overcoat deserved a funeral pyre or a medal of honor.

  As he watched her shuffle through the sketches, examining them one by one, a wisp of memory tickled at the back of his brain. He’d seen these sketches before or, at least, this subject. The material itself was typically representative of Japanese motifs—a serene depiction of nature both botanical and animal—but a specificity lay within these sketches that extended beyond their familiar subject matter.

  It was in the brush strokes. A delicate, feathery quality characterized much Japanese art. But not these pieces. Here were brush strokes dense and bold, too singular to be ordinary or forgotten. Indeed, he’d seen these pieces before, but the context eluded him.

  He caught Lady Olivia watching him. How had she, of all people, come by such a subject long enough to sketch it?

  The baffling woman narrowed her eyes. “I would thank you, Lord St. Alban, but for what, I’m not precisely certain.”

  “For saving your life?”

  “When you are also the same who introduced the danger into it?” she shot back in that soft, yet steely, voice of hers.

  He nodded once and allowed her the last word. Lips pressed in a firm line, she rolled up the soiled sketches and hailed a hackney with a short, sharp whistle. Lady Olivia surprised at every turn.

  As soon as a hackney stopped, he tipped his hat and made haste to keep his appointment, resisting his body’s urging for a single backward glance. He’d gone only a few steps when out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed a shock of white amidst the sidewalk’s sea of grime. In three quick strides, he stood over the sheet of paper and snatched it off the ground. She’d miscounted and forgotten a sketch.

  He started toward the carriage to return it when a detail at the bottom left corner caught his eye. A tall girl standing apart from a small group of other girls.

  He stopped dead in his tracks. Context crashed down on him with the violent force of a hurricane, memories of when and where he’d seen the original paintings slamming through him.

  Fifteen years ago. The Kimura compound in Nagasaki. Her, captured reading a book, a sliver of light catching the lines and angles of her face, immortalized in a priceless set of Japanese Kanō paintings.

  At the time, he’d barely questioned how she’d come to be part of that painting, in that particular room. Six months later, he’d known exactly why. But, by then, it had been too late.

  Another memory asserted itself: this set of pa
intings had been stolen in the dead of night, shortly after his departure from Dejima with Mina. The Kimura family had tried to hush up the details, to ensure they didn’t leave the Bay of Nagasaki, but word had leaked out anyway.

  How had the paintings surfaced here in London? How was it possible that this piece of a long-buried past had followed him and Mina all the way to England? That someone else held the key that would unlock Mina’s secrets?

  With the certainty and efficiency of a ship captain, Jake’s mind worked out a course of action. He must locate the original paintings and determine how much their “owner” knew about Mina. He didn’t know for certain that the person now in possession of the paintings stole them, but he did know that person, by virtue of owning them, was connected to the theft. It was safest to consider that person dangerous and a threat to Mina. It was possible this person—the thief, for expediency’s sake—intended to trade on her connection to the paintings and her true heritage. Her Japanese descent was obvious, but that only scratched the surface of the story.

  Further, she wasn’t merely the daughter of Jakob Radclyffe, but of the Viscount St. Alban, exalted peer of the realm. With a few well-chosen words in the wrong ears, the thief of those paintings could destroy the new life Jake was constructing for his daughter.

  He wouldn’t fail Mina the way he’d failed her mother. The truth must never find its way to the surface . . . or to the wagging tongues of Society. He would silence the thief.

  His head whipped around. Lady Olivia . . . She was connected to the thief somehow. And he’d just let her go.

  He pivoted and sprinted down the sidewalk against the flow of foot traffic, ignoring cries of half-hearted protests. On the run, he scanned the carriages lining the street, all black and ominously the same. He must reach her before she slipped away.

  He caught a glimpse of wispy blonde hair showing through a back carriage window, making its way up Ludgate Hill and onto Fleet Street. His feet slowed before coming to a defeated stop, his heart an unrelenting hammer in his chest.

  What did Lady Olivia know about the stolen Kanō paintings? His mind raced as the full import of the discovery crashed in on him.

  Even if she was a walking scandal, Lady Olivia remained a glimmering jewel of Society. A lady with no business navigating London streets like a shop girl. She had the power of a dukedom behind her, quite the opposite of a shop girl who could be plied with a trinket or a night on the town. A literal fortress surrounded the blasted woman, likely a moat, too.

  How could he get close enough to a woman like her to unlock her secrets? As soon as the question formed, two answers revealed themselves: The Duke of Arundel and The Progressive School for Young Ladies and the Education of Their Minds.

  Immediately, he dismissed the idea of the school. Along that path lay too many unknowns.

  But the Duke was an altogether different matter. The dukedom wasn’t the obstacle, but rather the key. It would place him directly inside her home as the Duke of Arundel’s protégé, allowing him access to her. Access to the paintings and the thief was only a step removed.

  The uncertain and scandalous future he feared for Mina began to recede into a more manageable state.

  Lady Olivia would provide him the information he needed.

  It wasn’t a matter of if, but when.

  Chapter 5

  Next day

  Olivia settled into her seat at the breakfast table and considered the letter resting beside her coffee and croissant. It looked official.

  Another morning, she might allow this letter to sit unopened until she’d considered all of its possible consequences. This morning, she hadn’t the time to be patient. Lucy and the Duke would be joining her in a few minutes. Without further ado, she took up her butter knife and sliced open the missive.

  6 April 1825

  To the Estimable Lady Olivia Montfort:

  We would like to thank you for considering our services for your estate acquisition needs. However, we deeply regret to inform you that our staff will be unable to assist you in this undertaking. As long-standing retainers of the Montfort Family, it would be a conflict of interest to act in any way contrary to and/or without the Earl of Surrey’s explicit instruction.

  Furthermore, we would caution you to reconsider pursuing any line of action which does not involve your gracious father’s express consent. As you are presumably aware, he and the Countess are not expected home from Italy until autumn. Until such a time, we strongly advise that you remain under the protection of the Duke of Arundel.

  Your faithful servants in all, but this,

  Wortham, Netheram, & Howell

  Olivia slapped the letter down. The cheek! What right had these . . . men! . . . to put her in her place? She was the possessor of a significant fortune in her own right, the Duke having returned her dowry after Percy’s “death.” How dare they insinuate that she needed a man’s name to obtain her townhouse?

  She needed no man’s “protection,” or anyone else’s for that matter. Mariana would assist her, as surely would her parents, but that wasn’t how she desired to achieve this end. She wanted to accomplish it alone, only then would the life she attained be entirely her own.

  She bit down on flaky croissant with more force than necessary. This wouldn’t do. She hadn’t the faintest idea when Percy would return from the Continent, but he would, someday. And she would be firmly established in her own home before that eventuality occurred. She’d clung to the Duke’s safe harbor for too many years. It was time for her to venture out on her own. Why wouldn’t these . . . nodcocks! . . . let her?

  She reached for the London Diary to her left and began skimming its vacuous pages in the hope that they would calm her. She hadn’t gotten far when Lucy bounded into the room, followed by the more sedate pace of the Duke.

  “Good morning, Mum.” Lucy landed a fat kiss onto Olivia’s cheek and plopped into her usual seat to Olivia’s right.

  From the corner of her eye, Olivia watched Lucy pick up the unopened letter that lay beside her place setting. Her mouth pinched tight and released before she half slid it under her plate, seal intact.

  It was another letter from Percy. And like every other letter he’d sent his daughter these last six months, it had suffered the same fate of utter disregard. At least, outwardly. Inside, Lucy must feel pained and confused. But Olivia must wait for Lucy to broach the subject when she was ready.

  Across the table, the Duke took his customary place. “I trust all is well with you this morning?”

  “Thank you, Your Grace, all is well,” she replied, relieved by the welcome distraction of routine.

  Lucy, familiar mischievous glint returned to her eye, reached out and lifted the London Diary from Olivia’s hands. “Let’s have a little gossip for breakfast, shall we?”

  Olivia couldn’t resist an indulgent smile at her daughter. And judging by the smile tipping up the Duke’s lips as he perused his serious Morning Chronicle, neither could he. Doubt, subtle and sly, wormed its way into her goals for her future independence. The Duke doted on his granddaughter so . . . Wouldn’t it be easier to stay?

  No. She couldn’t allow uncertainty to undermine her resolve.

  “What have we here?” Lucy began, thumbing through the pages. “A few changes to Almack’s . . . Lady Jersey said . . . boring, boring, and more boring . . . Ah, this is a new feature,” she said, her tone growing bright. “It’s a haiku.” She cleared her throat before reading aloud:

  Returned to Albion

  How to Orient himself?

  Breath held, ladies plot.

  “Who could it be?” Lucy stared off into the distance, eyes narrowed.

  The Right Honourable Jakob Radclyffe, Viscount St. Alban.

  Olivia knew it instantly and with a certainty she would rather not consider. It hadn’t t
aken long for thinly veiled riddles about him to start popping up in the gossip rags now that he’d officially entered Society.

  Two days, it turned out.

  “Oh, I know,” Lucy cried out. “This must be the dashing new viscount everyone is talking about.”

  “Everyone?” Olivia asked, unable to resist.

  “Oh yes, everyone,” Lucy confirmed, but a faraway note sounded in her voice, indicating she’d lost interest in the subject.

  Their dance with its talk of bodies, essences, and scents wedged itself into Olivia’s mind, softly insinuating that, indeed, everyone found Viscount St. Alban irresistible.

  She gave herself a mental shake. The haiku was simply a few lines written in a rag. He was nothing to her.

  A little more than nothing.

  The memory she’d been suppressing since yesterday refused to be subdued any longer: her collision with him on Ludgate Hill as she’d been returning from Jiro’s studio. While she tried to dismiss it as mere curiosity—what had the dratted man been doing in the East End anyway?—her body overrode all the intellectual considerations she threw at it.

  Perhaps the high drama of the moment explained her reaction. After all, the instant her footing had slipped out from beneath her, and her body had begun to fall backward into the street, the thought had flashed across her mind that it might be the end for her.

  Instead of the inevitable impact of a horse’s hoof against her skull, she’d been snapped upright into full—there was no other word for it—carnal contact against Lord St. Alban, the insistent pressure of his body against hers. She’d only wanted to soften against the long, rigid length of him.