Chapter Five
The following day, Simon had no sooner stepped over the threshold of Lord and Lady Westfield’s residence when Celia, Westfield’s nine-year-old daughter, came barreling down the stairs.
“Hi, poppet.” He handed his gloves and top hat to the butler.
Celia leapt off the stairs and into his arms.
He whirled her about.
She giggled. “You’re early, Uncle Simon. You’re always early lately.”
Was he? He set her down. How odd and unfashionable.
“Papa and Mama are getting dressed for dinner. You can come with me to the nursery to say goodnight to Vincent.”
A nursery seemed as appealing as a gathering of debutantes and their overbearing mamas. But Vincent was a pleasant little tot, and his godchild, and as long as he wasn’t required to hold the baby, what harm could come from it?
“Lead the way.”
Celia grabbed his hand and they walked up the stairs. She stopped at the second-floor landing and headed down the corridor. “Vincent sleeps in Mama’s bedchamber. It’s the nursery now. Mama never used it. She’s always slept with Papa.”
That explained the perpetual grin on Westfield’s face since he’d married Sophia nearly a year and a half ago.
They stepped into a room decorated with blue and cream striped walls. In the center was a white iron crib with an elaborate sheer canopy. A nursemaid sat quietly in a chair, her hands folded in her lap. She started to rise, but Simon held up a halting hand.
Celia ran to the crib. Standing on her toes, she peered down. “He’s not sleeping yet. Come see.” The child waved her small hand, motioning him closer.
Simon peered at Vincent, who possessed chubby cheeks, a mass of black hair, and dark eyes that seemed to absorb every movement. The baby grinned, and Simon experienced a jolt somewhere near his heart. No doubt, lingering indigestion from that deuced concoction Huntington had given him.
“He turned seven months yesterday,” Celia said. “He crawls, you know. Right over Papa’s chest when they play on the rug.”
He set his palm on the baby’s warm head. The child smelled like . . . Well, he wasn’t sure, but it was rather pleasant. The urge to pick Vincent up and sniff him nearly overwhelmed Simon. As if burned, he jerked his hand away and touched the back of his head. Ever since that sod had cracked a vase over his head, he’d felt out of sorts.
“Why don’t you have a baby, Uncle Simon?”
Throat suddenly tight, he coughed. “Best to have a wife first, dear.”
“You could marry Papa’s cousin Victoria. Great-uncle Randolph says he needs to find her a husband before she turns him gray.”
Just then, Westfield and his wife, Sophia, laughed in the adjacent room. Neither Celia nor the nursemaid seemed surprised by the sound. The door leading to the other room swung open, and Sophia stepped over the threshold. She was an attractive woman with dark hair and olive-colored skin. Her steps faltered upon seeing him. Then her wide mouth turned up.
“Simon,” she said, her hands outstretched to him. “How are you?”
At one time, their relationship had been uneasy, but he liked the woman, and it appeared the feeling was now mutual. He pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Well, Sophia, and yourself?”
She opened her mouth to reply, but Westfield entered the room. “Simon, I’ll not have you wooing my wife before my eyes, you old s—Oh, Celia, I didn’t see you there.”
Westfield walked over to the crib and set a hand on Celia’s shoulder while he stared at his son.
“He’s a fine boy, Westfield,” Simon said.
Smiling, Westfield glanced at him.
“Papa, do you think Uncle Simon should ask for Cousin Victoria’s hand so they can have a baby?”
Westfield’s smile evaporated.
Simon raised his hands, palms out. “Your daughter’s idea, not mine. Nineteen-year-old debutantes are the last thing I’m looking for.”
Westfield leaned over the crib and pressed a kiss to Vincent’s cheek, then took Celia’s hand, and moved to the door. “Let it rest, Celia. Uncle Simon will find a wife in time.”
Sophia slipped her arm through Simon’s. “If you could see your face, Simon.” She laughed. “Such a lovely shade of white.”
* * *
As soon as Sophia finished her dessert, she rose from the dining table. “Please excuse Celia and me, gentlemen. I have promised to read Celia a bedtime story. We will leave you to your port.” She held out her hand for the child to grasp.
Standing, Westfield kissed his wife and daughter.
Simon stood. His friend was fortunate; his new wife not only loved him, but genuinely cared for her stepdaughter. Perhaps that explained Simon’s fondness for the woman. Sophia was the antithesis of his mercenary stepmother. He believed even if Westfield were a pauper, Sophia would love the man, unlike so many of the women Simon met who seemed only interested in his wealth and title.
“Mama is going to read Through the Looking Glass.” Celia slid off her chair.
“Ah, one of my favorites,” Simon replied.
“Truly, Uncle Simon?” Celia’s eyes widened.
“Of course, but I am not as fortunate as you, for I must read it to myself at night.”
The child giggled.
“After reading to Celia, will you join us in the drawing room, Sophia?” Westfield asked.
Something passed between them, some unspoken words.
“No, if you don’t mind, I shall bid you goodnight.” She turned to Simon. “Forgive me, but I feel a headache coming on.”
He’d never known Sophia to suffer with headaches. There appeared to be something afoot. Something Westfield wished to convey in private. “Of course, Sophia. I hope you are much improved by daybreak if not sooner.”
Celia and Sophia left the room.
“Is there a problem with one of our business ventures?” Simon asked.
“No.”
“Surely, whatever you wish to say is not so dire that Sophia feels the need to exclude herself from joining us?”
With a tilt of his chin, Westfield motioned to the door. “Let’s go to my study.”
It appeared dire indeed, Simon reflected as he stepped into the study to find the grate lit, a whisky decanter, and two glasses already set out between the fireside chairs.
Sitting, Simon forced a laugh and attempted to ignore the knot forming in his stomach. “Out with it, old chum, the suspense is killing me.”
Westfield took a long draught of the liquor and lowered his glass. “Your stepmother is in Town.”
Julia. The discomfort in Simon’s stomach intensified. With feigned nonchalance, he brought his glass to his lips and took a slow drink. He concentrated on the taste that filled his mouth before it slipped down his throat to warm his chilled body.
His longtime friend lifted the decanter.
Simon glanced at his glass. Empty. So much for portraying indifference—futile where his stepmother was concerned. “You saw her?”
“No, my sister did. On the Strand this afternoon. Julia mentioned she’d just arrived and is staying at the Langham Hotel.” Westfield refilled both of their glasses.
The exemplary meal Westfield’s French chef had prepared churned in Simon’s stomach as memories of Julia flooded his mind. When he was sixteen, his stepmother had acted inappropriately toward him. Ha! Inappropriate was a kind word—she’d touched him and attempted to seduce him. And when he’d not complied, the witch had told his father he’d groped her and tried to force himself on her. Simon had contradicted Julia’s story with the truth, but for naught. Father, so in love, had not believed him.
How kind he’d thought Julia when his father had returned from London with his young bride. At twelve, Simon had longed for a mother. Someone to fill the void his own mum’s death had left. And at first he’d thought Julia, though only nineteen, would fill that cavernous hole in his heart. She’d acted kindly toward him. Even championed him when his father scolded him.
In retrospect, he realized how Julia’s motherly attention had made it even harder for his father to believe the woman a serpent in disguise. But Simon understood her now. Acting the devoted stepmother during those years had made it near impossible for his father to believe Simon’s accusations. In truth, he doubted Julia ever really cared for his father. She’d all but admitted it, calling his sire pot-bellied, wrinkled, and old.
His father had tossed Simon out—paid for his schooling, but not welcomed him home again. His friends Huntington, Westfield, and Caruthers had opened their family homes to him. But as much as they’d welcomed him, he’d felt out of place, like the poor relation. So, he’d acted out at school, created trouble, hoping to be expelled and sent home. But his father’s fat purse had always soothed the headmaster. It was a testament to the disdain his pious father felt toward him.
Simon turned the glass in his hand. The prisms from the cut crystal reflected the red embers glowing in the grate. “This is from the distillery you, Huntington, and I intend to purchase, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
“It’s bloody awful.”
“Yes, but potent.”
Not potent enough. Simon took a deep breath, tried to release the pressure building up in him. He downed the remainder of his drink.
Westfield held up his own glass, seemed to study the color of the liquid within. “Do you control her purse strings?”
“A solicitor handles her finances. After our falling out, my father made sure I possessed little control where Julia was concerned. I had several barristers look over his will. The besotted fool must have known I would try to bring my wrath upon her; it’s unbreakable.”
Westfield nodded. “It’s been seven years since your father passed. Why would she come to London now?”
Simon shook his head. Years ago, he’d given up trying to figure out Julia’s twisted mind. “Most likely boredom.”
“Will she call upon you?”
Simon stood and tried to tame the restlessness coursing within him. “I don’t know. You saw her at my father’s funeral. She put on a show. The bereaved widow who lamented her dead husband, all while acting the perfect stepmother.” Simon remembered the nausea that had rolled in his stomach when Julia had touched his arm in that crowded room. He’d not even waited for all the guests to leave before ordering both her and her things brought posthaste to the dowager house. What a show she had put on, acting hurt for all to see. His father’s old cronies and Julia’s friends had thought him a cruel, heartless bastard.
Westfield’s voice drew him from his thoughts. “Simon, don’t do anything foolish.”
Foolish? In truth, he’d thought about wrapping his fingers about Julia’s neck more than once. He touched the scar on his face. His father and he hadn’t spoken a single word to each other after Julia poisoned the man’s mind against him. How terrible to be so in love with a woman that you believe everything she says—allow her to manipulate you. He would never put himself in such a position.
“I’m angry, Westfield, not mad. And as they say, time heals all.” With a bitter laugh, he set his glass down. “Did you tell Sophia about Julia?”
Westfield shook his head and clamped a hand on Simon’s shoulder. “I love Sophia. I have shared everything from my past with her. But this secret is not mine to share. You told me about your stepmother in confidence. I wouldn’t break your trust, Simon. I only asked that Sophia give us some time alone to discuss something in private. Nothing more.”
Sometimes Simon regretted telling both Westfield and Huntington, his closest school chums, what his stepmother had done. But after his father had all but cast him aside, their friendship had brought him through the darkest time in his life. “Thank you.”
Westfield nodded. “Did you read the newest loan contracts Ned Baring sent over yesterday?”
“Yes, but I want to go over them one final time before signing them. I should head home and do that now.” At the door, he glanced over his shoulder at Westfield, who was putting the stopper back on the decanter. “I forgot to tell you, I’ll be staying at my Bloomsbury residence for a few days.”
Westfield’s brows drew together. “Why?”
“I wish to find that woman.”
Westfield shook his head. “Why don’t you let the police look into it?”
“Because I intend to handle this in my own way.”
“Sounds like you’re looking for trouble.”
Simon jerked the door open. “No, trouble found me . . . I’m just going to return the favor.”
* * *
Pain seared Simon’s cheek as he stumbled backward from the blow to his face. Warm blood trickled down his skin. He bit back the pain and stared into his father’s angry eyes. The man’s fist remained clenched, as if he wished to strike him again.
Simon’s gaze shifted to Julia standing in the corner of the drawing room. His stepmother’s eyes shone with triumph.
With an explosive breath, Simon bolted upright in bed. He set a hand to his cheek, expecting to touch blood from the impact of the signet ring tearing open his face.
His fingers slid across the healed, raised scar as he glanced around the dim room. He wasn’t sixteen years old, nor was he at Adler Hall in Hampshire. He skimmed his damp palms over the silk sheets. He was in Bloomsbury—the residence he’d purchased for Vivian.
A nightmare, then.
He settled against the pillows. Sleep wouldn’t come quick; it rarely did after that particular dream, yet it had been seven years since he’d had it. Not since his father’s funeral. The last time he’d seen Julia. He reached for his signet ring.
Gone.
He should be glad, considering the scar on his cheek. For the hundredth time, he questioned why he’d not ducked or blocked his father’s punch. He could have. Perhaps he’d felt it his due for trusting Julia so completely, for not realizing that a pretty face could mask an evil soul. The ring reminded him to be careful whom he trusted—that giving a woman your heart, as his father had, wasn’t wise.
The small brass clock on the mantel chimed five times. With quick movements, he shoved the bedding off his naked body, allowing the chilled night air to bathe his overheated skin. He walked to the window. Great James Street remained quiet. He’d intended to come here in the morning. However, restless at his normal haunts, he’d found himself instructing his coachman to convey him to Bloomsbury near midnight.
Why? Had he hoped his little intruder would return tonight? That he would catch her?
Kneading the muscles in his neck, he moved back to the bed. Even in the subdued light, the red drops of claret Vivian had spilled on the bedcover stood out. He tugged the thick counterpane to the foot of the mattress and lay faceup on the sheets. He stared at the night’s shadows dancing across the white ceiling while he took several slow breaths.
Baines and Harris, along with the cook and maid, were to arrive early today. He closed his eyes, hoping he might fall back asleep before the two manservants showed up and started another inquisition.
It seemed only minutes later when an annoying voice filtered through Simon’s foggy head.
“You’ll catch a cold sleeping like that.”
Simon opened his eyes. Morning light bathed the room.
Baines stood at the foot of the bed staring at him. “Gave the new maid a fright, you did. Came in this morning to fill the grate and returned below stairs babbling like a fool.”
Simon followed his valet’s gaze. Damnation, not a stitch of clothes on and his cock piss-proud to boot. “Shocked her, did I? Have Harris offer her a year’s wages, then send her on her way.”
“Already done. Did you have trouble sleeping?”
Simon covered his eyes with his forearm and grunted his response. “What bloody time is it?”
“Ten.” Baines rolled the cart with Simon’s breakfast tray and freshly pressed copies of the daily papers closer to the side of the bed. “The arrival of your trunks and the staff early this morning has drawn quite a bit of attention by two old biddies who have repeatedly walked by your residence.”
“I should stand at the window. Do you think my nudity would scare them away, Baines?”
“Might. Then again, might draw a crowd—or a constable.”
Despite his weariness, Simon laughed. “I knew there was a reason I kept you around, you old curmudgeon. Must be your dry wit.”
“My lord, might I ask if the woman who resides here is to return, or have you cast her aside?”
Baines acted as if he uttered the word mistress aloud, he’d combust. “Why?”
“The décor, sir, is beyond hideous. I’ve never seen so much pink, purple, and magenta, along with a green which looks like something one purged after a night of debauchery. The only room that is not godawful is this one.”
The valet was right. Vivian’s taste was abysmal. When he’d insisted no pink or gewgaws in the master bedchamber, she’d pouted. Sadly, he’d given her carte blanche in all the other rooms. A mistake of grand proportions.
When she returned he needed to cast Vivian off, but the thought of her theatrical reaction caused his head to throb. Simon swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Leave it be. Hopefully, we will not be here too long.”
The man stared at him for several heartbeats, as if waiting for an explanation as to why they were here at all. He wouldn’t give one, or perhaps he actually couldn’t give one. This was a foolish venture, like looking for a needle in a haystack, yet his thief’s sultry voice whispering the word repentance had once again replayed in his mind as he’d fallen asleep.
Baines continued to stare at him.
“What is it?”
“Your signet ring, my lord. I hesitate to ask what has become of it. Please tell me it wasn’t lost at some gaming hell.”
Simon touched the bump on the back of his head. He should be offended by the valet’s question. He was a damn good card player. A sharper, many would say, who never bid more than he had at the ready.
After his father had all but disowned him, he’d used his skill at the tables to relieve those wealthier than he of their heavy purses. He’d invested those winnings wisely— amassed a fortune greater than any his father had ever possessed.
“You know I’m skilled at the tables, and I wouldn’t gamble the ring away. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to eat without further interrogation.”
“Very well, my lord.” At the door, Baines pivoted back. “Your name is mentioned in the Globe.”
Simon reached for the paper and scanned the front page. Last week, he’d given a rousing speech in the House of Lords in favor of prison reform. He scanned the front page.
“The scandal page, my lord,” Baines said.
Gritting his teeth, Simon flipped the pages.
It appears Lord A must have some Siberian blood. It’s rumored the Scandalous Viscount was spotted rowing down the Thames wearing little more than a smile.
What cock and bull. He’d gone rowing in Putney with three other members from his rowing club, but not nearly naked. Too bloody cold. One would freeze their bollocks off in this April chill. He sighed. The news that his father had all but cut him off, along with his own antics, had made him notable—the newspapers had made him notorious. And when there was nothing noteworthy to print, they published Banbury tales, titillating stories about the infamous Lord A, in an attempt to attract readers.
Most of the time, at least as of late, except for his string of mistresses, he was a rational man. When younger, he’d suffered some youthful indiscretions—acted the scamp. He’d drunk a bit too much in an attempt to anger his staid father, a man so in love he’d been blind to all that transpired right under his nose. But the man was dead and the memories . . . well, they were just that, memories. And like the sky, they appeared clearer on some days than others.
What was more damaging than the on-dits in the newspapers were the lies whispered about him throughout the ton. The word deviant had been mentioned more than once. He presumed Julia spread that malicious lie to discredit him, so if he ever told the truth about what caused his fallout with his father, the ton wouldn’t believe him.
Mothers who truly cared about their daughters steered them away from him, leaving only those interested in his title and wealth. Simon blew out a breath in frustration. What did he care? He didn’t wish to marry.
“I should have your tailor make you some long woolen drawers,” Baines said, drawing Simon from his thoughts. An expression of reproof was plastered on the manservant’s face.
“I don’t need them. It’s untrue.”
“Of course, my lord.” Clear doubt dripped from his valet’s voice.
He narrowed his eyes at the man and pointed at the door. “Out!”
* * *
Two hours later, Simon exited his Bloomsbury residence. His feet had just touched the pavement when the door of the town house next to his flew open. Two rotund, gray-haired women, both dressed in dark lavender, rushed forward, their heels clicking a quick staccato.
“Halloo,” the first matron called, waving a white handkerchief enthusiastically in the air.
Hell and fire. He could spot a gossipmonger a mile away, especially when they moved in pairs. There’d be no avoiding them.
“I am Mrs. Jenkins.” She pointed a plump finger at the town house they’d sallied from. “We are neighbors.” She imparted this information as though it were akin to a blood relation. “And this is Mrs. Vale.” Mrs. Jenkins pointed at the residence next to her own. “She is your neighbor as well.”
Simon forced a smile. “If I had known the beauty one could find in Bloomsbury, I would have taken residence sooner.”
Both women tittered, and Mrs. Jenkins smacked him playfully on the arm with a force that would have knocked a less hearty man to his knees.
“I fear you are a flatterer, Mr. . . . ?”
“Radcliffe.”
“Radcliffe.” Mrs. Jenkins repeated his name as if he’d fed her a tasty morsel. “Will we have the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Radcliffe soon?”
“No, madam, I am not married.” Obviously, they both retired early, if his late-night visits to Vivian had gone undetected.
“Was the woman who lived here a relation to you? We have not seen her in a couple of days.”
“An acquaintance of mine, but she has gone on holiday, and I have taken over the residence.” He took out his watch and flicked it open. His good friend Margaret, the widow Lady Griffin, having heard of Vivian’s holiday, had invited him to call on her today for luncheon and lawn tennis, and a bit of recreation.
Smiling, both women nodded.
“It was a pleasure, ladies, but if you will excuse me, I am in need of my afternoon . . . constitutional.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” Mrs. Jenkins replied. She batted her lashes at him. “It has served you well.”
“You are gracious, madam.” He tipped his hat. “I bid you good day.”
He thought himself free of their claws when Mrs. Vale said in a small voice, “Mr. Radcliffe, I-I wish to invite you to a small gathering I’m having tonight.”
Not bloody likely. “No, I’m—”
“Nothing too grand,” Mrs. Jenkins added. “Just a few neighbors.”
“I’m sorry, but I must decline your kind invitation.” He tipped his hat again, took two steps, and stopped. These two tabbies probably had their fingers on the pulse, if not the jugular, of every resident on the street, probably all of Bloomsbury.
He turned back to them. They were both staring at him with crestfallen expressions. “Perhaps you lovely ladies could help me.”
Their countenances brightened.
“I wish to purchase some artwork for my new residence. Do either of you know of any local painters that do landscapes?”
“There is Mr. Dubois,” Mrs. Vale replied.
Mrs. Jenkins scrunched up her nose. “But he is French, and you know how temperamental the French are, especially artists. My niece does some lovely watercolors.”
“I’m more interested in oils.”
“There is Miss Madeline Smyth,” Mrs. Vale said. “She does landscapes. Mostly of the English countryside.”
Mrs. Jenkins scowled at Mrs. Vale. “But my niece’s watercolors are more refined.”
He turned his brightest smile on Mrs. Vale. “Miss Smyth? Does she reside on the street?”
“Indeed, she resides with her father at number three.”
The door of the residence across the street opened and the child he’d met yesterday, Miss Trafford’s younger sister, came out of the house with a trundling hoop. She stared at him for a long moment before she rolled the toy up the pavement.
Mrs. Jenkins narrowed her eyes at the girl. “Do guard your shins, Mr. Radcliffe. Those hoops are vile toys that the authorities should ban. Only last week, I heard one nearly maimed a horse. Why Miss Trafford allows her sister to engage in such an activity is beyond me.”
Simon had never owned a hoop. His father, like Mrs. Jenkins, had thought them frivolous. “I shall, Mrs. Jenkins. You said her sister allows . . . am I to assume they are orphaned?”
“Yes, their mother died quite some time ago, and their father three years past. Miss Trafford does do her best to contain the child, but Lily’s a bit of a hoyden.”
He glanced at the girl. She was staring at him again. What an odd child. He looked back at Mrs. Vale. “Will Miss Smyth be in attendance tonight?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Jenkins exclaimed.
“I might be able to alter my plans and attend.”
Mrs. Vale’s round face glowed. “Oh, how splendid!”
Mrs. Jenkins’s hand settled over her rather ample bosom as she turned to Mrs. Vale. “Nine o’clock, right, Bea?”
Mrs. Vale nodded enthusiastically, sending a gray ringlet tumbling from her coiffure. “Yes, nine o’clock.”
“I look forward to tonight, ladies,” Simon replied, more than anxious to meet Miss Smyth.