Chapter Twenty-Three
Simon paced the floor of his bedroom and let out a slow breath. Why was he nervous? It wasn’t as if he’d never dined with a beautiful woman before. Though he couldn’t recall ever inviting one’s sister. Not true. There was that one time in France, but they’d been twins, dancers, and his reasoning a bit wicked.
He stepped in front of the mirror in his dressing room, buttoned his blue silk waistcoat, and straightened his gray tie, a shade lighter than his trousers. The only thing good about Baines taking over the kitchen was the tranquility of dressing without the valet hovering over Simon like a doting nursemaid.
Releasing another slow breath, Simon shrugged into his charcoal-gray coat and stepped out of his bedchamber. The pleasing scent of savory and sweet cooking filled the air. God bless Mrs. Flynn. As Simon took the last step into the entry hall, the knocker sounded against the front door. Harris, standing by it, reached for the handle.
“I’ll get it.” Simon waved the butler away and rushed forward.
The man blinked. “Really? I must say, sir, you appear as anxious as a cat about to be bathed. Are you sure you’re not more enamored with Miss Trafford than you realize?”
“Go away!” he snapped, realizing the man touched on an emotion Simon didn’t wish to examine.
The butler grinned.
Trying to control the scowl on his face, Simon opened the door. Lily peered at him with a mischievous expression, while Emma offered a slow, hesitant smile.
A place close to his heart clenched.
His gaze drifted over her blue silk gown. Unlike the high-collared dresses she normally wore, this gown revealed more of her luscious skin. He wanted to drag Emma upstairs and nibble every inch of her soft, rose-scented body.
As if she could read his wicked thoughts, her pink cheeks darkened.
“Hello, Emma, Lily. Welcome.” He moved aside and they stepped into the entry hall.
Emma, still looking uncomfortable, held her sister’s hand like a lifeline. “Good evening, Simon. We thank you for the invitation to dine with you.”
“I should be thanking you. Mrs. Flynn is a godsend. My house hasn’t smelled this good since . . . Well, I cannot recall it ever smelling this wonderful.” He winked. “But don’t tell Baines that.”
Lily turned and saw Harris standing behind her. The child jumped back and squeaked.
Simon bit back a laugh and motioned to the drawing room. “Please have a seat. I’m sure dinner will be ready shortly.”
Inside the room, Lily stopped in front of one of the chairs and rubbed her finger over the embroidered flamingos, then giggled. “You like birds, Mr. Radcliffe.”
Those damnable chairs. “Not particularly.”
Emma shot her sister a stern glance. “Lily, please sit.”
Exhaling a heavy sigh, Lily strode to the settee. The child squealed with delight as she passed the table with Simon’s copy of Inspector Whitley’s Crimson Lord. She snatched it up, plopped down on the cushions, and started flipping the pages. “Did you read it, Mr. Radcliffe? Isn’t it wonderful?”
Wonderful wasn’t the word he would use to describe it. “Whitley certainly has a flair for the dramatic.”
Lily nodded enthusiastically.
“Good gracious.” Emma peered at him, the pensive expression on her face replaced with mirth. “Don’t tell me you’re reading that drivel, as well.”
Simon grinned. “I was curious.”
Harris stepped into the room and cleared his throat. “Dinner is ready.”
Lily sprang to her feet. “Good, I’m starved. Can I bring the book with me?”
“No, you may not. Please leave it here,” Emma said.
Simon offered Emma his arm, and she rested her hand on it. A jolt of warmth shot through his body. Strong. Powerful. Disconcerting.
As they stepped down the corridor, Emma leaned close to him. “Simon, after dinner I need to speak with you.”
That pensive expression returned to her face. His gut tightened. “Is something wrong? We can step into my office and you can tell me now.”
She nibbled her lower lip. “No, we will talk after dinner.”
Something was definitely troubling her. Perhaps she was still worried over her brother.
Lily scrunched up her nose when they stepped into the dining room.
Understandable. The wainscoting was a putrid green and the upper half of the walls were done in pink and orange stripes. He’d have it painted. He could ask Emma to suggest a color. Simon frowned. What was he thinking? He owned a lovely home on Curzon Street. Did he intend to stay here?
“You sure like pink, Mr. Radcliffe, and this green looks like pea soup,” Lily said, drawing Simon from his thoughts.
“Lily,” Emma chastised.
Simon chuckled. “No, she’s right. It does look hideous. What color would you both suggest?”
“I like emerald, and Emma’s favorite color is blue.” Lily glanced nervously at Harris as the butler pulled out a chair for her.
“Is blue your favorite, Em?” Simon asked, thinking about the necklace he’d purchased for her as he pushed her chair in.
She glanced over her shoulder and smiled. “Yes.”
The door to the dining room opened and Baines walked in carrying a silver tray and soup tureen.
Hopefully, Mrs. Flynn had made whatever was in it.
Emma leaned close and grinned. “You look almost as green as the walls.”
“You think yourself a wit. You won’t be laughing if Baines made it,” he whispered, returning her cheeky expression.
“Oh, now you have me frightened.”
“You should be,” Simon replied with a laugh.
Baines lifted the lid and the scent of rosemary and thyme floated through the room.
“I think that smells like Mrs. Flynn’s herb soup,” Emma said, a hopeful tone in her voice.
Baines nodded. “It is, miss, but I added a few additional spices to it.”
Everyone seated at the table stiffened.
Without thought, Simon slipped his hand over the white tablecloth and grasped Emma’s fingers briefly and gave them a squeeze. Somehow sitting next to her felt right, even with Lily staring at him like she wanted to stick her fork in his hand.
* * *
The warmth of Simon’s fingers grasping Emma’s made her heart beat a little faster. She’d experienced the same flutter when he’d answered the door. Guilt continued to plague her over lying to him. She slipped her finger into the pocket of her gown and clasped the warm metal of Simon’s ring. After dinner, she would tell him everything—trust him. If he cared for her, he’d understand. Her stomach knotted. It was a leap of faith, but she needed to take it.
Baines stepped next to her with the tureen. Emma pulled her hand from her pocket to ladle herself some soup. “It smells wonderful, Baines.”
Smiling proudly, the man finished serving, set the tureen on the sideboard, and exited the room.
“You try it first,” Lily said to Simon.
Tentatively Simon dipped his soupspoon into the creamy broth and brought it to his mouth. The tense expression on his face eased. “It’s delicious.”
Lily tasted it. “Mmmm.”
Emma lowered her spoon into the soup. Raised voices in the corridor stilled her hand.
“See here, miss, you can’t go in there. The master is entertaining,” Harris said in his stiff baritone.
“We’ll just see about that, we will, you clodpoll,” a woman screeched. The sound of glass shattering rent the air, followed by fast-moving footsteps.
Simon paled. Mumbling a blasphemy, he stood with such force, his chair toppled backward. With a white-knuckled grip, he caught it before it crashed against the floor. The dining room door burst open. A redheaded woman, wearing a costly gown of sea-green silk with layers of tasseled fabric, stood on the threshold.
“Vivian,” Simon said.
Lily sucked in an audible breath. Her hand clutched Emma’s arm. “She’s not dead,” she mumbled.
No, not dead, and the woman’s hurt expression, anger, and obvious confusion clearly stated Simon had not severed his relationship with the redhead. Emma’s stomach rolled. A strong wave of nausea followed. She’d been foolish once again.
The woman, whom Simon called Vivian, set the back of her hand dramatically to her forehead. “Simon, what is going on? That lummox at the door tried to stop me from coming inside and . . .” The woman’s gaze shifted to Emma before falling back to Simon like a pendulum. The redhead’s shoulders stiffened, and her eyes shot daggers. “Is this why you sent me on holiday? You rutting dog! Has this scrawny light-skirts taken my place? A bloody dancer, no doubt!” The woman looked at Lily. “And this one’s no more than a child!”
Heat colored Simon’s high cheekbones. His hand flexed. “You think I would touch a child?”
As if oblivious to his anger, the woman continued, “Where are my things? Have you packed them away?” Before Simon could answer, the woman plucked the ladle from the soup tureen and threw it at him.
He sidestepped. The ironstone utensil clacked against the wall and tumbled to the floor. Soup splattered around the room.
Emma lifted her napkin and wiped her cheek.
Grinning, Lily used her sleeve. “This is better than one of Inspector Whitley’s books.”
Something bumped Emma’s leg. She peered under the table to find the cat cowering beneath. Kismet’s ears were plastered down on his head. His hair stood up straight on his back. The animal made a mad dash out of the room and past Harris, who stood gaping like a beached fish.
It seemed like a comedy—a farce one would see on a rowdy East End stage, yet the unsettling sensation that Emma had been nothing more than a diversion to Simon while his lover was away rendered laughter impossible.
Mrs. Flynn and Mr. Baines appeared in the doorway. Their startled gazes traveled from Simon to the enraged woman, then to Emma.
Without a word, Simon moved to the redhead, set his hand on the woman’s back, and ushered her to the doorway. Mrs. Flynn, Baines, and Harris parted like the Red Sea before Moses.
Simon glanced over his shoulder. A nerve twitched in his jaw, a steady tattoo. He stared at Emma for a long minute. Or was it no more than a couple of seconds? Time had grown sluggish. “Carry on. I shall be but a moment.”
Carry on. Was he mad? His lover had returned and he expected her to sit here and eat soup.
He strode from the room. The woman shrieked in a tone painful to one’s ears. Baines and Harris followed.
“I knew all along he’d not murdered her. Simon is too nice to be a true villain,” Lily said.
It appeared her sister was as poor a judge of men as Emma was.
“Come, Lily. I think it best we return home.” Emma stood on wobbly legs and clasped her sister’s hand.
“But Simon said to wait,” Lily complained. The child’s eyes grew round. “Do you think they left to engage in those wicked games again?”
The thought made Emma’s eyes burn.
Mrs. Flynn dashed to Emma’s side. “Who is she? What’s happened?”
“I believe his paramour,” Emma whispered into the woman’s ear.
The housekeeper gasped.
Still holding Lily’s hand, Emma moved down the corridor. The butler and the valet now stood outside the drawing room, their ears pressed to the closed doors. They straightened upon seeing her.
Inside the room, the woman was sobbing in earnest.
“Vivian,” Simon said. “Stop crying and let me explain.”
The scoundrel was trying to talk his way out of this mess. Vivian was more than welcome to him.
“Explain?” the paramour yelled. “I should have known a scoundrel like Lord Adler could not be faithful to one mistress! I should have accepted Lord Fairmount’s offer.”
“Lord Adler?” Emma repeated, her heart beating so fast she feared it would cease from exhaustion. She peered at the two manservants. They both flushed like truant schoolboys caught playing in the park.
“Is it true?” Emma heard herself ask in a small voice.
The red on Baines’s cheeks deepened. “Well, um, yes.”
Suddenly looking paler than normal, Harris nodded.
“Gorblimey,” Mrs. Flynn said. “I knew he looked familiar. I’ve seen his caricature in Punch magazine.”
“Lord Adler,” Lily mumbled as if still processing it all.
“Come, dears.” Mrs. Flynn wrenched the front door open.
“You’re leaving?” Baines asked, looking like he wanted to weep. “But we still haven’t served the roast and parsley-topped potatoes.”
Mrs. Flynn narrowed her eyes and jabbed her index finger into Baines’s chest. Once, twice, three times. “I hope Lord Scandal chokes on it.”
Harris stepped up to Emma. “Please wait, Miss Trafford, I believe his lordship has a gift for you.”
A gift? For services rendered? What a fool I’ve been. Again.
“He can take his gift and shove it up his . . . nose,” Mrs. Flynn said.
Lily dug her heels into the entry hall rug. “I wish to stay. I want to know where the woman has been.”
“It’s none of our concern.” Emma pulled her sister outside. The cool air felt too thick to draw into her taut lungs.
“Come, dearies,” Mrs. Flynn said, prompting them to cross the street.
Once inside her house, Emma slumped against the closed door.
Mrs. Flynn stared at her but said not a word.
“Can you believe it, Em?” Lily said. “He’s a nobleman. . . just like Charles, and he was living right across the street from us.”
Just like Charles. The words felt like a perverse taunt. Tears filled her eyes, then trailed down her face.
Lily’s eyes grew wide. “What’s the matter, Em?”
“Come, child.” Mrs. Flynn took Lily’s hand and drew her down the corridor and below stairs. “Let’s leave your sister alone for a bit. You can help me make dinner. She’ll feel better with a bit of food in her stomach.”
Emma couldn’t eat. The thought of food intensified the nausea gripping her stomach. So it seemed they had both been keeping secrets. She reached into her pocket and clasped the ring. Goodness, Lord Adler. A favorite subject of Mrs. Jenkins’s tattles. And if the gossipmonger spoke the truth, his lordship was a libertine who’d possessed a bevy of mistresses. And none had lasted very long.
A pounding on the door startled Emma. She straightened.
“Emma, open the door!” Simon yelled.
“Go away, Lord Adler. I do not wish to speak to you right now.”
“Open the door, Emma, or I’ll break it in.”
The sharp tone in his voice implied he wasn’t kidding. She squared her shoulders and grasped the door handle. It was time they both revealed their secrets.