Chapter Six
Bloody hell, I’ve been ambushed! Simon stifled a curse as he stepped into Mrs. Vale’s drawing room. There wasn’t another male in sight, and all eyes were on him. He felt like a mouse being dangled before a throng of felines.
Apparently, the scar on his face didn’t evoke the same violent reaction from the matchmaking mamas of Bloomsbury as it had from Emma Trafford. Or, more likely, his fine equipage and the possibility he was a man of means overrode the deterrents of those more squeamish.
Mrs. Vale cut a path through the crush. The rose scent of her perfume added to the air already thick with every floral essence known to mankind. “Mr. Radcliffe, I’m so pleased you could make it to my little gathering.”
Little gathering? They were elbow to elbow. It looked like every biddy, mother, and eligible chit from here to Sussex was crammed into the small room.
“Everyone is most anxious to make your acquaintance. Isn’t that marvelous?” The corners of her lips turned upward, lifting her papery skin.
He forced a smile, wondering where Miss Madeline Smyth was, and how long it would take him to get an introduction to the painter.
“May I get you a cup of tea, Mr. Radcliffe, or a glass of lemonade?” Mrs. Vale asked.
Tea? Lemonade? Clearly, God wished to punish him for numerous misdeeds. “Neither, madam, though they both sound . . . refreshing.”
“Mr. Radcliffe!” Mrs. Jenkins waved her handkerchief in the air as she fluttered toward him. “There is someone I wish to introduce you to.” The woman grabbed his elbow and dragged him across the crowded room like he was a recalcitrant child. She stopped in front of a short little chit dressed in pink. “Prudence, may I introduce Mr. Radcliffe? Mr. Radcliffe, my niece Miss Prudence Langley.”
The young woman giggled and shyly peered at him through lashes that were so fair they were nearly invisible. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Radcliffe.”
“Miss Langley.” He inclined his head.
Red-faced, the girl twisted her fingers in her gown.
A movement caught Simon’s attention. A young woman with loose brown hair rushed toward them like an Amazon, pushing the others aside as she approached. She ruthlessly bumped Prudence out of her way.
Caught off balance, the shy woman stumbled backward.
Mrs. Jenkins gasped, but quickly smiled as though nothing were amiss. “Mr. Radcliffe, this is my other niece, Miss Chastity Langley. Chastity is the one I spoke of... the one who paints watercolors.”
Chastity was the opposite of her sister—darker in coloring, bold, and voluptuous. And the way she eyed him, it was clear her parents had not aptly named her.
“Charmed,” she purred, thrusting out her bosom as she ran her tongue over her full lower lip.
Careful, old boy. Don’t encourage this one. He kept his expression bland. “Miss Langley.” He peered beyond her and inwardly groaned. Chastity Langley was the least of his troubles. A swarm of eager mamas and their daughters were forming a line to greet him.
An hour later, he’d met nearly every woman in the room. But not the one he’d come for. He turned to Mrs. Vale. “Is the painter Miss Smyth here?”
“Yes, I saw her earlier.” Mrs. Vale stood on her tiptoes and glanced around the room. “There she is.” The elderly woman lifted a plump finger and pointed to a slender woman who was a good three inches shorter than his thief.
Damnation. Clearly not the woman he sought.
“I shall introduce you, sir.”
Simon inwardly sighed. It appeared he’d have to purchase a painting or at least pretend to be interested in the woman’s art.
“Miss Smyth,” Mrs. Vale said. “Allow me to introduce you to Mr. Radcliffe, our new neighbor.”
The woman possessed a heart-shaped face, brown hair, and crystal-clear blue eyes. She offered a tentative smile and outstretched her hand for him to shake. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Radcliffe.”
“Likewise, Miss Smyth.” Simon shook her gloved fingers.
“Mr. Radcliffe is interested in purchasing some landscapes,” Mrs. Vale explained. “Sir, did I mention that Miss Smyth’s paintings are as lovely as any displayed at the Royal Academy of Arts?”
Miss Smyth’s smile broadened. “You are too kind, Mrs. Vale. If you wish to see some of my work, you are more than welcome to call on my father and myself at number three. Just up the street.”
Simon liked the artist. She wasn’t flighty or pushy or, apparently, in want of a husband. “Thank you, Miss Smyth.”
He glanced about the room, hoping to see a woman as tall as his thief. Several were of similar height. Perhaps if he heard their voices.
“If you’ll excuse me, ladies. I think I see someone I know.” A lie, but a plausible one.
Simon edged around the room, listening to the conversations. He stopped near a tall young woman who listened as a matron chatted about a vicious goose that chased her for a quarter mile while she was visiting her brother in Kent last month.
“I shall never return,” the older woman exclaimed in a high-pitched tone that sounded like the screech of an injured bird.
Simon cringed. With a grating voice like that, most likely the woman’s brother had trained the fowl, hoping for such an outcome.
“Geese are such vile creatures,” the taller woman replied in a thick Scottish accent. Definitely not the she-devil he sought. He continued walking, stopping a couple yards shy of where Mrs. Jenkins stood. The older woman whispered something to the two matrons she conversed with.
All three women tittered like schoolgirls.
“Viscount Adler? Do tell, what wickedness did his lordship engage in now?” one of the women asked, fanning herself in an excitable manner.
Simon’s ears perked up.
“Yes, do,” the third woman said, her eyes wide.
Mrs. Jenkins paused as if wishing to heighten anticipation. Then, as though imparting a national secret, she glanced around the room.
Simon cocked his head closer.
“Did you read the on-dit in the newspaper about Lord A rowing on the Thames with barely a stitch of clothing on?”
Both women nodded.
“I saw the rascal. It was Lord Adler,” Mrs. Jenkins said.
The lying old crow!
One of the women gasped. “You did?”
Mrs. Jenkins bobbed her head. “Indeed. The newspaper omitted some of the details.”
“Yes?” the two biddies prompted in unison.
Mrs. Jenkins smiled like a cat with a wren in its belly. “He wore only a top hat and his trousers while waving the Union Jack at those on the banks.”
What rubbish!
“How shocking,” the third woman said. She didn’t sound shocked at all; in fact, she sounded enthralled. “Where?” She wet her lips. “Do you think he will do it again?”
Her companions’ gazes swung to her.
She flushed. “Well, I’ve never seen the man, and I’ve heard he is in possession of a fine physique. Though, they say his face is scarred. Were you close enough to see it, Mrs. Jenkins?”
“I was. It runs from his forehead all the way to his chin.”
Another lie. Simon rolled his eyes.
“Did you notice our new neighbor’s scar?” the second woman asked, obviously not realizing his proximity to her. “He looks rather piratical. All Mr. Radcliffe needs is a patch over his eye and a sword.”
Mrs. Jenkins spotted him and rammed her elbow into the woman’s ribs.
“Ouch! Goodness, Mrs. Jenkins. What are you about? I shall be bruised.”
The gossip tipped her head in Simon’s direction and arched a gray brow.
The woman turned around. The color in her cheeks dissolved.
“Madam,” he said.
“M-Mr. Radcliffe, I-I hope you are enjoying yourself?” Her voice quivered.
“I am,” he lied. God, was there anything worse than gossiping biddies? Yes. Mrs. Naples and her colicky dog were heading toward him. He looked for an escape. A green velvet curtain hung at a doorway not far from where he stood. On the other side, if fortuitous, would be a means to leave this tedious affair, if only for a brief respite.
Simon inclined his head. “If you’ll excuse me, ladies.” Mrs. Jenkins opened her mouth, but he turned away before she could forestall him.
As he moved toward the curtain, he noticed the gazes that followed him, both blatant and covert. He had nearly reached the curtain when the cacophony of voices grew. He peered over his shoulder to see a young man step into the room from the entry hall.
Fans fluttered and whispers grew as the women noticed the newcomer. Like vultures, several swooped closer, as if spotting a carcass. On careful examination, he realized the poor fellow looked no more than twenty-one. A veritable babe in the clutches of these predators. Poor unsuspecting sod.
Simon took the opportunity afforded him to slip behind the curtain. There was a narrow corridor and at the end of it a door. Salvation—if it led outside where he could enjoy a cigarette.
He made his way down the passage and stepped outside onto a back terrace. Most of the flagstones lining the ground were cracked and uneven with moss curling over them, making them treacherous to navigate. If the garden had ever been lush, those days were long past. It seemed doubtful any of the ladies would venture out here. He sucked in a deep breath of cool air, redolent with the earthy scents of spring.
The terrace was dark except for the light streaming from the set of French doors in the back of the drawing room. One of them swung open, and Chastity stuck her head out. He stepped back into the shadows between an outcropping of two chimneys.
“Mr. Radcliffe, are you out here?” the young woman whispered. “Mr. Radcliffe?” She waited. When she didn’t receive a reply, she uttered a blasphemy and stepped back inside.
He leaned against the building, reached into his inside breast pocket, and withdrew his cigarette case. He should return to Mayfair tomorrow. This was ridiculous. He didn’t even know what his thief looked like.
The doors opened again, and two slender women moved carefully across the uneven stones, their heads bent close as they conversed.
Bugger it! He slipped his case back into his pocket and crossed his arms over his chest.
The shorter of the two women turned to her companion. The light from the French doors illuminated Miss Madeline Smyth’s face. “I wondered if you had changed your mind about attending. I know you don’t enjoy either Mrs. Vale’s or Mrs. Jenkins’s little neighborhood gatherings.”
Clearly, the taller woman possessed a sensible mind.
“Maddie, you know I wouldn’t attend at all if not for the fact I am looking for new clients.”
“Mrs. Naples has been singing your praises. She is quite pleased with your work and has told everyone.”
Simon nearly laughed aloud. Mrs. Naples believed her dog to be her dead husband. Not the soundest endorser, unless the woman was a psychic.
“I think it’s your finest work,” Miss Smyth said. “When others see the portrait, I do not doubt you shall have more clients than you could wish for.”
Simon straightened. Portrait? The woman painted? Her height matched his intruder’s. He narrowed his eyes and tried to see her face.
“I pray you are right, Maddie.”
Miss Smyth shifted, allowing the interior light shining through the doors to illuminate the other woman’s face. Good God, it was Miss Trafford. But he had already dismissed her as a possibility. The weak-minded woman couldn’t be the she-cat he sought.
“Emma,” Miss Smyth said, “perhaps our new, very virile neighbor would like to have his portrait painted.”
Even from a distance, he noticed Miss Trafford stiffen. “Mr. Radcliffe? I hope not.”
“Yes, he does exude a dangerous air. I’m not sure how Mrs. Vale persuaded him to attend, but it is a coup.”
“Attend? He is here?” Miss Trafford’s voice suddenly sounded like the high-pitched squeak he recalled.
“Yes, didn’t you see him when you arrived?”
“No.”
“But you have met him?”
Miss Trafford pressed her fingers to her temples. “Yes, and I made a complete cake of myself.”
Simon nodded in agreement.
Miss Smyth moved to the French doors and peered inside. “I don’t see him. He might have already left.” She turned back toward her companion. “Do tell about your inauspicious meeting.”
“Too dreadful to repeat.”
“Really?”
“If only you knew,” Miss Trafford replied.
Laughing, Miss Smyth pulled her shawl tighter about her shoulders. “Shall we return? It’s too cold for me out here.”
Miss Trafford shook her head. “You go ahead. I shall join you in a bit.”
“Don’t dawdle, Emma. Not if you wish to garner more business.”
Miss Smyth opened the door. The cacophony from the room briefly seeped out onto the terrace before the door closed, muffling the sound.
As soon as Miss Smyth left, Miss Trafford paced the uneven surface. In the dark, her abrupt movements looked familiar—quite similar to his thief’s. He shook his head. Impossible that such a timid mouse could be whom he sought.
She reached into her pocket, extracted a tin, and placed something in her mouth. Was she an opium eater? It would explain a great deal. She pivoted and started walking toward him. He pressed his back more firmly against the wall. Several feet from him, the woman’s foot snagged on a lifted flagstone and she stumbled forward.
Damnation. He stepped out from the shadows to catch her.