Chapter Seven
If Mr. Radcliffe is here, I shall not return to the drawing room—was Emma’s last thought before the toe of her left shoe slammed against a lifted flagstone.
She stumbled forward and collided with a hard chest. Strong hands grasped her waist, steadying her. Curling her fingers around the man’s lapels, she glanced up into dark eyes.
“Miss Trafford,” a smooth and masculine voice said.
A shiver raced down her spine. Even if the man hadn’t spoken, Emma would have recognized Simon Radcliffe’s spicy scent and impressive physique, along with the flash of his perfect white teeth.
“Mr. Radcliffe,” she whispered, finding it difficult to speak with her blood pounding a steady rhythm in her ears.
The smile on his face faltered, and his eyes narrowed as though attaining some forgotten memory. His hold around her waist tightened. Painfully so.
Did he now recognize her as the intruder? The already rapid beat of her heart escalated. She swallowed the mint drop dissolving in her mouth. It slid down her throat like a lead weight. “Sir?”
“Yes.” His low voice held a sharp edge.
“You’re holding me too tight.”
“Am I? Forgive me.” His grip eased, but his warm hands remained on her waist. Unblinking eyes locked on hers, then slowly dipped to her mouth.
Unwanted heat flooded her body, and the air between them thickened, making it difficult for Emma to breathe.
The French doors leading from the drawing room to the terrace swung open. Mr. Radcliffe stepped back, setting Emma firmly on her feet.
Chastity Langley stood at the threshold. If Emma thought Mr. Radcliffe’s gaze foreboding, Chastity’s was ferocious. Possessive. She strode toward them, eyes narrowed on Emma.
“Mr. Radcliffe, I’ve been looking for you,” Chastity said and slipped her arm through the crook of his.
Emma’s years of painting faces had taught her to notice genuine expressions of pleasure. The smile he offered the other woman lacked sincerity. He looked like a feral animal thwarted in his hunt. A frightening thought, since Emma feared she might be his prey.
“Aren’t you coming back to the drawing room, sir?” Chastity fluttered her lashes.
“Yes.” He turned to Emma. “Miss Trafford, you are a portraitist?”
She couldn’t lie, not with the other woman staring at her. “I am.”
“Might I call on you to discuss a commission?”
The knot in her stomach twisted tighter. She wanted to say no, but what excuse could she offer? “Of course, sir.”
“Then, I’ll see you tomorrow. Is three o’clock agreeable?” The tone of his voice remained even, yet a warning seemed disguised in its civility.
“Yes,” Emma said, trying to sound calm. She walked toward the French doors, forcing herself to move at an even pace, and not dart away like a scared child.
Inside, she searched for Mrs. Vale and Maddie. She wanted to say goodbye and run home as fast as her legs could move. She spotted both women talking with Mrs. Naples. Maddie was wrinkling her nose at Mrs. Naples’s dog. The disgusted expression on her friend’s face would have been comical, if Emma could dredge up a laugh, or even a smile. But she couldn’t dislodge the fear clawing at her chest that Mr. Radcliffe had somehow recognized her as his intruder—the woman who’d kissed him in that dark bedroom. She glanced over her shoulder.
Mr. Radcliffe and Chastity stood next to the French doors. The man’s gaze followed Emma like a fox closing in on a rabbit. Her pulse throbbed at her temples.
He knows. Nothing else could explain the intensity in his eyes or how firmly he’d held her waist. So tight, she’d thought his massive hands itched to snap her in two. She stepped next to Maddie and forced a smile at the evening’s host. “Thank you, Mrs. Vale, for such a lovely gathering.”
Mrs. Vale blinked. “You’re leaving already? You just arrived.”
“I’m not feeling well.” Emma touched her temple, then her stomach, which still clenched with fear.
Maddie’s expression turned concerned. “Oh dear. I hope you are not catching the collywobbles. Papa has been sick for days with it.”
“No, just a megrim. I’m sure it will pass shortly.” Only to return tomorrow when Mr. Radcliffe called. Maybe she could tell him she had contracted some hideous disease. But then she’d not be able to take on any new clients with him living across the street, watching. No, there could be no avoiding painting him if he wished it.
“I’ll walk you to the door.” Maddie slipped her arm through the crook of Emma’s. “Not that I’m pleased you are unwell, but you have saved me. I was dying there. The smell. I’m not sure what Mrs. Naples feeds her dog, but it should be outlawed. Tell me, how on earth were you able to paint Alfred?”
“I held my breath a lot.”
Maddie chuckled. “You poor soul. You deserved twice your commission, for that alone.”
They stopped and Maddie hugged her. “Do feel better.”
“I will.” She just needed to be away from here. Away from Mr. Radcliffe’s perceptive gaze. Oh, why had Lily taken his ring?
* * *
The hairs on the back of Simon’s neck stood on end. The moment Emma Trafford had spoken in the dark, while her hands clasped his lapels, he’d experienced a feeling of déjà vu. And the scent of her minty breath only heightened the sensation. Was she his femme fatale? And if so, who was the man who’d hit him over the head?
Chastity’s fingers skimmed up his arm, pulling him away from his thoughts. “Are you sure you wouldn’t care for a glass of lemonade, Mr. Radcliffe?”
“I’m afraid I must take my leave, Miss Langley.”
“Must you really?” Chastity’s lips formed a pout.
“Yes.”
“Before you leave, would you care to accompany me to my aunt’s residence next door? I could show you my watercolors.”
The clingy woman was on the hunt for a well-to-do husband. He didn’t doubt that if he accompanied her, she’d lead him into a private bedchamber, and her aunt would walk in on them and insist he do the honorable thing.
“Thank you, but I really must be leaving.”
Her lower lip protruded, and he thought she might stomp her foot. “Well, I do hope you might call on my aunt the next time I visit with her in London.”
He nodded, keeping his gaze on Emma Trafford, who was engaged in conversation with Miss Smyth. She stood near a wall sconce that highlighted her blond hair styled in a prim chignon. How innocent she looked in her high-buttoned dress of navy wool with its simple lace collar, adorned with only an ivory cameo.
As if she sensed his regard, she glanced at him, but quickly averted her gaze.
It didn’t seem possible that this timid creature might be the vixen who’d kissed him with such abandon. She was either a consummate actress or she danced to the tune of an overbearing man, a scoundrel capable of leading her into thievery and violence. He would find out the truth, and if it was the latter he’d extract his retribution on the man, but if the former, Emma Trafford would pay for her misdeeds, especially if he didn’t recover his ring.
Mrs. Jenkins rushed to his side. The twinkle in the elder woman’s eyes reflected her pleasure at seeing her niece standing beside him.
“I must be going, Mrs. Jenkins. Where is our hostess?” Simon asked.
The elder woman’s jovial expression faded. “You are leaving, sir?”
“Yes, I bid you a most pleasant night, Mrs. Jenkins, Miss Langley.” He spotted Mrs. Vale across the room and strode to her. “Madam, you didn’t mention that Miss Trafford is an artist, as well as Miss Smyth.”
The woman tipped her head to the side. “But you said you wished for a landscape artist. Miss Trafford does portraits.”
“Indeed, I did. I wish to thank you for inviting me. It’s been a most entertaining evening.”
“Mrs. Jenkins will host our next gathering in two weeks. You must attend.”
He’d rather be thrown from a horse and trampled. He lifted Mrs. Vale’s hand and brushed his lips against her gloved fingers. “I shall try.”
She blushed and tapped him on the arm with her fan. “Mrs. Jenkins is correct; you are a scoundrel, sir.”
If she only knew.
He moved to the entry hall and passed Miss Trafford still conversing with Miss Smyth. He stepped behind her. “Until tomorrow, Miss Trafford,” he whispered, allowing his warm breath to fan against her nape.
She turned to face him. Her blue eyes were large. Her cheeks flushed.
His gut tightened. She really was a remarkably beautiful woman.
“Y-yes, see you then, sir.”
He nodded and made his way to the door, where a plump little maid handed him his overcoat. He stepped out of Mrs. Vale’s house and walked the short distance to his residence. Both Harris and Baines were peering out a front window. They smiled and waved at him.
He didn’t feel like suffering through another inquisition. He turned around and headed toward Theobald’s Road.
His front door flew open. The two manservants rushed after him. “Where are you going, my lord?” Harris asked.
“To my club. I might get exceedingly drunk.”
Baines tsked. “Have a care, sir. I’ve read liquor is a detriment to a man’s health.”
“Well,” Simon said, continuing to walk as the two men followed him like two goslings trailing their mother, “then I might seek the company of a woman and convince her to do wicked things with me.”
Both men gasped.
“I do hope you’re not going to visit a house of ill-repute,” Baines said, uttering the last word in a hushed tone. “You might catch a disease.”
Simon stopped and peered at the two men. “If you continue to follow me, I’m going to insist you both accompany me. I’ll get you each a young, frisky woman, perhaps two.”
Both men pivoted, and as fast as their old legs could travel, scurried back into his house. The door closed with a heavy thud. Simon continued up Great James Street to Theobald’s Road, intent on finding a hackney to take him to Mayfair.
Twenty minutes later, Simon sank into one of the two leather chairs set before a warm grate inside Hayden Westfield’s library.
His oldest chum, standing next to a sideboard, motioned to a decanter. “Whisky?”
“No, I’m fine. Sorry to call you away from Sophia at this late hour.”
“My wife is with our son. Rocking him. I was doing nothing more than watching them from the doorway.”
“How is my godchild today?”
“Thirsty.” Westfield grinned and sat in the adjacent chair. “You look in a fine mood. What brings you here? I thought you’d be at the club or at some card table.”
“I think I might have found her.”
“By her, am I to presume you refer to the woman who broke into your Bloomsbury residence?”
“Yes.”
Westfield leaned back in his chair. “You sly devil. How?”
Simon waved his hand in the air. He didn’t feel like explaining it all. “She is different than I expected.”
Westfield laughed. “Foolish to stick your tongue in a woman’s mouth in the dark. Did the light of day reveal a toothless hag?”
He envisioned Emma Trafford’s lovely face—her bow-shaped lips, pink cheeks, and blue eyes with their long lashes. No, far from it. She looked innocent and sweet and unsoiled by life’s darker twists of fate. Yet, he’d learned long ago, beauty could mask many sins. He remembered the first time he’d met his stepmother. How Julia had smiled and clasped his hands before hugging him and calling him son.
“Miss Trafford is quite attractive. She’s a portraitist.”
“A portraitist and a thief. What an interesting combination.”
“I’m going to commission her to paint me.”
A furrow formed between Westfield’s eyebrows. “Are you mad? If this is the woman who robbed you, have you forgotten her accomplice tried to crack open your skull? Why don’t you just go to some East End lodging house and flash a few banknotes about? I’m sure some guttersnipe will slit your throat if you’re looking for trouble.”
“I don’t have a death wish.”
“Wouldn’t know it by the way you’re acting. Dr. Trimble should have been summoned to attend to you. Obviously you’re suffering some trauma from that blow to your head.”
“I want my ring returned.”
“Then have a couple of constables cart her down to the police station and question her.”
“And my proof? What should I say? That I recognize the touch of her hands? The scent of her minty breath? It sounds dashed foolish even to my own ears.”
Westfield leaned forward in his chair and laughed. “That’s your evidence?”
Simon folded his arms over his chest. “Laugh all you want, you bloody sod, but I’m almost sure I have the right woman.”
“I see there will be no dissuading you. Be careful.”
Simon smirked.
“What do you find so humorous?” Westfield asked.
“You. At one time, you threw caution to the wind like a cat with nine lives. But now, you are truly a mother hen. You’re as bad as my two manservants.”
“What rubbish. No one can be as bad as Harris and Baines.”
Simon stretched out his legs, clasped his hands behind his head, and studied his friend. The man had changed so much over the last year. He smiled more, and there was a look of contentment in his eyes. What would it be like to cherish someone as dearly as Westfield did his wife? To capture a woman’s sincerest regard? Not because he purchased her whatever she wished for, but because of a strong affection. Because of love. Simon realized he was touching the scar on his face. He slowly returned his hands to the armrests.
“Simon—”
“I must be shoving off.” He stood. God knew what type of comment his friend would make.
“Wait,” Westfield said. “Did you read over the loan agreement from Baring Brothers again?”
“Yes. If you haven’t signed the documents, go ahead. The financial terms are precisely what we want. We need to act fast. Get Huntington to read over the papers. Otherwise all of Finch’s holdings will become the property of that bloodsucker he borrowed money from.”
Westfield rubbed the back of his neck. “Finch’s great-great-grandfather started that distillery. The old man must be turning over in his grave. I don’t understand how Finch allowed himself to fall into the clutches of an East End moneylender such as Mr. Wolf. The man is ruthless and dangerous. He deserves his moniker, the Devil of Danbury Street.”
Simon knew what it was like to lose nearly everything. “Should we lease the business back to Finch?”
“You know he’ll only strip it raw of all the machinery and start gambling again,” Westfield said. “We didn’t force the young buck into the gambling hells. In truth, we are saving him. After we buy his company, he’ll have enough funds to pay off his debts and keep his town house. That moneylender would have left him with little more than a pot to piss in. He should never have borrowed from such a scoundrel.”
“Yes, you’re right. No, it’s better this way,” Simon said.
“The solicitor is sending me the final documents on the purchase tomorrow. I’ll bring them over for you to sign right after. Then Huntington needs to approve them. Where will you be?”
“Bloomsbury. I’ve an appointment with my little painter.”
Westfield shook his head. “Don’t turn your back on the woman.”