Chapter Nineteen
From her studio window, Emma stared through the night’s fog at Simon’s residence. No one appeared to be inside. Two days ago, Mr. Baines had visited and informed her that Mr. Radcliffe had been called away on business. The valet didn’t know when his employer would return for his next sitting.
An hour after delivering this message, both Mr. Baines and Mr. Harris had hastily exited the town house and taken off in Simon’s carriage. She’d watched the vehicle move up the street until it turned onto Theobald’s Road.
Crestfallen, poor Mrs. Flynn now puttered around. The housekeeper wasn’t the only one dejected. Nick, Simon’s daily servant, had sat glum-faced for the second day in a row on the doorstep awaiting his employer’s return. Even Lily acted downcast since the house across the way went dark.
Emma strode back to her easel. Restless, she’d removed Simon’s portrait and replaced it with her mother’s and resumed working on it. The black and white daguerreotype photo of Mama gave no clue to the shade of her gown, so Emma had painted it blue since it seemed to reflect everyone’s mood. Even hers. Yet, she should feel relieved and pray Simon never returned.
She picked up her palette, mixed a bit of white pigment into the rich sapphire color, and added a few highlights to her mother’s dress. Pleased with the outcome, she dipped her dirty paintbrush into the jar filled with turpentine and wiped it clean with a soft linen rag. She tossed the cloth into a bowl and brushed her damp fingers over the front of her trousers. Her mind drifted to thoughts of her brother, who’d left yesterday morning. He’d assured her that nothing was wrong except the examinations were challenging, but an uneasiness lingered within her.
Unable to help herself, she stared at Simon’s unfinished portrait, which leaned against the wall. Somehow it comforted her.
Goodness, how silly. With quick, agitated movements, she lifted her palette, scraped the paint off, and cleaned it. After turning off the three gas lamps, Emma moved down the stairs to the floor below and tiptoed by Lily’s door. Her sister had fallen asleep a couple of hours ago, as had Mrs. Flynn, leaving nothing but the sound of the clocks ticking to fill the quietness of the night.
Emma stepped into her bedchamber. The moonlight streaming through her window highlighted the objects in the room with a blue hue. A bolt of silent lightning flashed in the distance. Her gaze jerked to the window and Simon’s town house. The empty residence afforded her the perfect opportunity to return his ring. If the basement window remained unlocked, she could easily sneak back in and place it on the counterpane, where he’d find it upon his return. She flipped back the hinged lid of Mama’s jewelry box and wiggled her fingers between the torn velvet lining and the wooden sides. She plucked Simon’s ring out and fisted it in her hand. The heat of her skin warmed the gold until it seemed to scorch her palm.
A nervous energy fluttered in her stomach as she slipped the ring into the front pocket of her trousers and made her way to Michael’s bedchamber to get a knit cap and a navy sweater. On soft feet, she made her way down the stairs and drew the sweater over her head, then pulled the cap on and tucked her hair under the knitted wool.
Taking a deep, calming breath, she slipped outside into the night’s fog.
The sound of hooves clopping on Theobald’s Road broke the graveyard silence. Like a mouse in search of crumbs, Emma dashed across the street. In front of her, the white low-lying mist parted as she stepped through it to reveal the wrought iron gate that led to the area below street level. Unlike last time, the heavy gate swung on silent hinges. Holding on to the rail, she made her way down the steep steps.
Drat. The crate she and Lily had used to boost themselves up was gone. A gust of wind displaced the fog. Another flash of lightning lit the sky to reveal a person curled up in a ball in the farthest corner near the house. Heart beating fast, Emma moved to the stairs. As she took the first step, she glanced at the person, whose chest rose and fell, sending small puffs of white air into the cold night.
She stilled. Nick? Yes, she recognized his long brown hair, sticking out from beneath his flat cap. What was he doing sleeping here? Didn’t the child have a home? She turned around, crouched next to him, and touched his hand, which felt as cold as death.
The lad bolted upright and grabbed something from his boot. The cold edge of a sharp blade pressed against her cheek. “I’ll slit you like a rooster at Smithfield Market if you touch me.”
“Nick,” she croaked, trying not to move too much. “It is Miss Trafford. Lily’s sister.”
The boy rubbed a fisted hand against one of his heavy-lidded eyes and tucked the knife back into his boot. “I thoughts you were a man, miss. Your clothes.”
“Understandable. I’m sorry to have frightened you.” She pulled the knitted hat off. Her pinned-up hair came loose in several places and tumbled over her shoulders.
“What’s you doing out here, miss?”
Standing, she slipped her hand into her trouser pocket to touch Simon’s ring. She couldn’t tell the lad the truth. “Um, I thought I saw Mr. Radcliffe’s white cat roaming about. I came to fetch him. In this pea soup the animal could be run over by a carriage.”
The child nodded. “Why’s you dressed like a man?”
Her heart skipped a beat. She couldn’t afford to have him repeat that he’d seen her dressed this way. “Sometimes when I paint I dress in my brother’s old clothes, so as not to ruin my gowns, but I hope you won’t repeat what you have seen. I’d hate to be gossiped about.”
Another bolt of lightning lit the sky. The air held the scent of an oncoming storm. The child could not remain here during the cold, bone-chilling night. Emma wrapped her arms about herself. “What are you doing here, Nick? Don’t you have a place to sleep? A home?”
Nick stood and smacked the dirt off his trousers. “I was waiting for Mr. Radcliffe and the old gents to return. They told me they’d be back in a few days.”
His averting her question answered it as clearly as if he’d affirmed it. The child was homeless. Thunder rumbled in the distance. “You cannot stay here. A storm is about to split the sky open, and you’ll end up drenched. You might take on a chill and get sick. My brother, Michael, is away at school and you may spend the night in his bedroom.”
The lad blinked. “You are inviting me to sleep in your home?”
“Yes, of course, come.”
He shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked on his heels.
Several small drops of rain fell from the sky. Pulling the knit cap over her hair, Emma climbed up the narrow stairs. “Nick, if we wait much longer, I fear we will get caught in a deluge. We must hurry.”
“I ain’t lookin’ for no handouts. If I go, I need to earn me keep.”
“You shall. In the morning after we eat eggs and bacon, you will have to sweep the doorstep and help Mrs. Flynn in the kitchen scrub the pan she used to bake the warm muffins in. You like buttered muff ins, don’t you?”
Nick licked his lips and nodded.
Emma smiled to herself. “Then we have a deal.”
* * *
The following morning, Nick shoveled three hardboiled eggs into his mouth in quick succession. Obviously, the boy hadn’t eaten much since Simon left.
Lily wrinkled her nose and opened her mouth.
Emma shot her sister a warning glance.
Little good it did, for Lily asked, “Do you always eat so fast, Nick?”
Nick wiped his sleeve across his chin and drew back his shoulders. “I’m a man. Men eat faster and more than women.” He squeezed the small muscle in his upper arm.
The expression on Lily’s face didn’t bode well. Emma gave Lily another don’t-you-say-a-word glare, again to no avail.
“Mr. Radcliffe doesn’t eat like that, and he’s broader in the shoulders than any man I’ve met. I bet he could catch a cannonball, like that strongman John Holtum does.”
“Yes, but Mr. Radcliffe is older.” Emma nudged her sister’s foot under the table. “Nick’s body is still developing at a very quick pace. He needs to eat more at his age. Might I ask how old you are, Nick?”
“Fifteen, miss.”
“Yes, that’s what I thought. Fifteen is a most important age for eating.” Emma shoved the plate with the last rasher of bacon toward the lad. “I’m not in the mood for bacon today. You are more than welcome to eat mine.”
Mrs. Flynn frowned. “You not feeling well, miss?”
“I am quite well, thank you.” Emma picked up a muffin and spread marmalade on it.
After the dishes were cleared away and washed, Mrs. Flynn handed Nick a broom and sent him outside to sweep the doorstep.
Emma followed him. The money Simon had paid for the painting he’d purchased, along with what she would charge him for the portrait, had eased her financial burdens and put food in their larder and cupboards. Surely, enough that she could offer this poor lad a place to stay in exchange for a job, though if he continued to eat like a growing boy did, her money would run out sooner than she hoped. “Nick.”
He turned and looked at her as though worried she was about to send him on his way. “I’m sorry, ma’am, if I ate too much, but Mrs. Flynn is a fine cook. And I’ll work hard to earn that food. I’ll even shimmy down your chimney to clean it, if you wish.”
“Oh heavens, no. I would never ask you to climb up on our roof, and you are too large to scoot down the chimney. You might get stuck. And I’m not displeased. In fact, I was thinking . . .”
The sound of hooves on the pavement and the appearance of a grand equipage with yellow wheels turning onto Great James Street made Emma’s stomach heave upward as though it wished to take residence in her throat. The familiar carriage slowed and stopped in front of Simon’s residence.
A smile wreathed the bottom of Nick’s face. “Mr. Radcliffe has returned.”
“So it seems.” Emma placed her hand over her queasy stomach as pleasure and nervousness battled for precedence within her.
The carriage lurched to the side as an occupant disembarked. Simon’s tall form appeared on the pavement. He made his way around the back of the vehicle. He wore another fashionable gray suit, a crisp white shirt, and a silver four-in-hand tie, but no hat. His dark hair shone under the morning sun. The unreadable expression on his face as he crossed the street made her question whether their heated kiss had been an erotic dream brought about by a fever she didn’t recall. No, it was real—another ploy by him to lower her defenses.
He stepped before her and bowed his head congenially. The way his gaze took a leisurely path down her body, evaporated any fanciful idea that she’d dreamt of his touch or the pleasure it bestowed on her.
“Emma, how are you?”
“I am well, sir.”
“Is your brother still visiting?”
“No, he stayed only until the morning after he arrived.”
“Were you able to find out what’s bothering him?”
“He assured me it’s nothing. Just the pressures of school and examinations, leaving him a bit on edge.”
He glanced at Nick holding a broom. “What are you about, lad?”
Nick stared at his feet. When he glanced back up, his cheeks were red. “Miss Trafford offered me a bed and a meal if I done some work for her.”
“A bed?” Simon asked, his regard returning to hers.
“Nick,” Emma said, sensing the boy’s discomfort, “would you ask Mrs. Flynn if she will be good enough to make me a list of groceries she needs this week?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The door clicked closed behind the child.
“He has no home?” Simon’s dark eyes held hers.
She shook her head. “I don’t believe so.”
“And you have taken him in?” Simon cupped his shaved chin.
“Yes, for the night in exchange for him completing a few chores. I was about to offer him a live-in position when you returned.”
A furrow creased the smooth skin between his dark brows. “Why?”
“Why?” she echoed.
“Yes, why are you willing to take him in?” Again he held her gaze as if he couldn’t comprehend her actions. Understandable, since he believed she’d robbed him.
“Because I think he’s an orphan. And he’s not much older than my sister. I cannot fathom what it would be like to live on the streets. To sleep in the cold and worry where one’s next meal is coming from. He sat on your step for two days awaiting your return.”
Simon’s jaw tensed. “Blast it. I did not know. He told Harris he lived on Theobald’s Road. But I should have realized something was wrong. I shall offer him a permanent position.”
Simon Radcliffe was compassionate. And that knowledge made her heart squeeze in her chest with the same nitwit longing she’d felt for him while he was away. “He’ll be pleased. Will you be sitting for your portrait today?”
“I will. Is two o’clock a convenient time?”
“It is.”
He leaned close. His masculine, heady scent filled her nose. She tried but failed to stop her toes from curling in her shoes. His gaze dropped to her mouth. Like the quickness of the storm last night, she remembered the feel of his lips on hers. The heat of his skin. And the wicked way he’d touched her. And she wanted to experience it all again.
Simon Radcliffe was dangerous in more ways than one.
“Then I shall see you at two o’clock.” She turned on her heel and entered the house, her stomach full of butterflies and anticipation.