Chapter Twenty-Four
The fierce expression on Simon’s face made Emma regret opening the door. He stood on the top step, his coat brushed back, his fisted hands on his lean hips, a nerve jumping a steady beat in his strong, chiseled jaw.
A movement beyond him drew her attention. Simon’s carriage stood before his residence. Was his lover inside? The vehicle pulled away, and Emma noticed Mrs. Jenkins and Mrs. Vale had exited their homes. The two old women watched the goings-on with rapt interest. Emma wouldn’t allow the gossipmongers a front row seat to whatever spectacle would commence. She stepped back, allowing Simon to enter.
Footfalls dashed up the basement steps—the rapid pace proclaimed them Lily’s. Face pensive, her sister stepped into the corridor. “Em, is everything fine?”
Before she could reply, Simon spoke. “Your sister and I need to talk, poppet. Can you give us a moment?” The calm tone of his voice contradicted the storm in his eyes.
Mrs. Flynn came up the steps and stood behind Lily. The protective woman clasped her heavy wooden rolling pin like a billy club.
“You have no need for that, Mrs. Flynn,” Simon said. “You know I would never do anything to harm Emma. I only wish to speak with her.”
The housekeeper narrowed her eyes. “I know Simon Radcliffe wouldn’t harm a blessed soul in this house, but I’m not so sure about Lord Adler.”
“As you now know, madam, we are one and the same.” Simon’s low voice sounded infused with steel. “And not different in many ways.”
The housekeeper narrowed her eyes. “That’s what worries me.”
“As I said before, everything you’ve read in the scandal sheets isn’t always true, madam. Please give Emma and me a few minutes alone.”
Lily’s and Mrs. Flynn’s gazes shifted to Emma.
She wiped her moist palms on the skirt of her dress and nodded.
Still looking unsure, Lily and the housekeeper turned away and made their way below stairs.
Simon clasped Emma’s hand and pulled her into the morning room. He closed the doors behind them. The sound of the lock clicking into place caused her heart to skip a beat.
“I wish to explain . . . about Vivian,” he said.
“No need. It all seems rather clear. Vivian is your current mistress.” She arched a brow at him, daring him to deny the blatant truth.
“She was my mistress, but not any longer.”
“Dismissed like all the others. Poor woman. If the gossip is true, you’ve had a harem of them, Lord Adler.”
“Emma . . .” He strode forward.
Holding up her hands, she stepped back.
Yet Simon kept moving toward her, erasing the distance between them. When a mere two feet separated them, he stopped. “Let me explain.”
“No need, my lord. Though I do wish to ask you one question, if you don’t mind?”
“Anything.” His hand curled about her elbow, sending warmth not only to her arm but the rest of her traitorous body.
“Do high-born gentlemen like you and Charles Neville sit around your fancy clubs discussing your conquests—the foolish women you’ve ruined?” She needed to know if she wore a scarlet letter. Was an easy mark. The possibility made her stomach twist.
“What?” Simon flinched as if she’d cracked her palm against his cheek. “Good Lord, you don’t really think that.”
Warmth heated her cheeks. “I don’t know what to think. I’ve had two liaisons. Both with men of noble birth. And I’m nothing more than a portraitist, and a struggling one at that. It seems a rather strange coincidence.”
He released her elbow. “Emma, you know I didn’t set out to make love to you. It happened. There was no plan. And I’m disgusted Neville breached his promise to marry you. But I’m not him.”
“Do you know him?”
His jaw visibly tensed.
“Do you?” she repeated.
“Yes. I know him. He’s a fool.”
“Well, at least he pretended to want to marry me. What do you intend to do? Ask me to be your next mistress?”
“Would that be so terrible?” His hand settled on her waist and he shifted closer. “I could take care of you and your family. You wouldn’t want for anything.”
“Until you tired of me. Like Vivian?”
She’d never seen Simon blush, didn’t think him capable of it, but red singed his high cheekbones. “My relationship with Vivian was nothing more than an arrangement. With no promises. Those tears she cried today weren’t for me, but for my financial support. We never loved each other. Whereas, you and I . . .” He raked his hands through his dark hair. “We share a connection that cannot be denied.”
A connection? He meant lust. Not love. And the desire between them would fade when it wasn’t so new to him. Hadn’t she learned that firsthand from Charles? How fleeting desire could be. And being a nobleman’s mistress was not what she aspired to. She wished to be an example to her sister. She tipped her chin up. “I’m not interested.”
“Just think about it. You could paint all day without worrying about money, and at night you and I could . . .” His gaze held hers. The air between them grew thick, charged with the passion neither of them could deny. He cupped her face and angled his mouth over hers. His kiss was fierce and demanding. He coaxed her lips open, his tongue plunged, and tangled with hers.
She melted against him. She wanted him like a drunkard craved another bottle of gin, knowing it was nothing more than a short reprieve from the insidious thirst that would return with a vengeance. But she wouldn’t become his lover just to be discarded. That would be worse than what happened between her and Charles. That would be social ruin. Everyone would know. And how would her neighbors like Mrs. Jenkins and Mrs. Vale treat her after Simon cast her off? Worse, she might get with child. Any children they had would be bastards. A nobleman’s by-blows. And despite their father’s blue blood, society would scorn them.
It was time to put an end to this. And she knew just how to do it. She pushed him away and took several steps back. Fearful she’d change her mind, Emma quickly reached into the pocket of her skirt, pulled out Simon’s ring, and held it in her outstretched palm.
His gaze narrowed on the shiny metal. He blinked, as if trying to dislodge an illusion, then stepped back as if kicked in the gut.
Swallowing the lump in her throat, she struggled to find her voice. “We’ve both had secrets, Simon.”
If she’d thought him angry before, it was nothing compared to the fury in his eyes now. She could almost taste the betrayal swirling within him, more powerful than her own.
“You lied?” His hands clenched like he wanted to shake her until her teeth rattled.
“I did.” She fought the urge to explain it all to him, sensing he would forgive her, but that wouldn’t send him away. And right now she feared herself more than him. Feared if he kissed her again, she’d say yes to his proposal.
“I guess the game is up.” Casually, as if it meant nothing, she tossed the ring toward him.
He didn’t even try to catch it. It bounced on the rug and landed by his feet. “I could have you arrested.”
“But you won’t, will you, because it would just be another sordid tale in the scandal sheets.” Panic tightened her airway. She hoped her assumption was correct. “Isn’t that why you didn’t involve the police in the first place? You might pretend you don’t mind your name in the scandal sheets, but I think you do.”
The slight clenching and unclenching of his jaw proclaimed she’d guessed right.
“Tell me the name of your accomplice. The bastard who hit me.”
“I will never tell you.”
“Good Lord, Emma, you could be arrested if caught. Are you willing to risk your freedom for such a blackguard? Do you love him?”
“Yes.”
His hands flexed.
“Go back to your fancy house in Mayfair, my lord. I’ve enjoyed our little game, but I think it is time we put an end to it.” Emma tried not to blink, fearing if she did she might cry.
Without picking up the ring, Simon turned around and strode from the room. He closed the front door so hard, the walls shook.
And only then, did Emma allow her tears to fall.
* * *
“Full house,” Caruthers said, a broad grin dimpling the man’s left cheek.
With a flick of his wrist, Simon tossed his pair of fives facedown onto the table.
“Distracted, eh, my friend?” Caruthers swept up his winnings and meticulously stacked the coins.
Simon picked up his glass of whisky and took a long sip. He glanced around the private room in the gentlemen’s club. Once again, he wondered why he’d come here after leaving Emma’s residence instead of seeking out female companionship. Most likely, because he intended to get pissing drunk. And if the way he was letting Caruthers rake him over the coals was any indication, he was already halfway there.
Caruthers snapped his fingers in Simon’s face. “Daydreaming again, old chum?”
“Damn, you, Caruthers. Just deal the bloody cards.” Simon downed the remaining contents of his glass in one gulp and glanced at Huntington. The marquess sat at an adjacent table in the private room, writing something on a sheaf of paper. Probably a tally of all those that had turned their backs on him since his wife’s unfortunate accident. Poor bloke.
“Simon!” Caruthers snapped.
“What?” Simon straightened in his chair and peered across the table.
“I said it’s your bid.” Caruthers tossed his cards on the table. “Bloody hell. There is no joy in winning when you aren’t even paying attention. How about we go to Ferguson’s Music Hall?”
“In Spitalfields? Why?” The rookery in the East End wasn’t one of their normal haunts.
“I hear there is a new songstress, Eliza Bird, who’s been blessed with breasts large enough to suffocate a man.”
Without looking up from his writing, Huntington snorted.
Simon wasn’t sure that was the way he wanted to die, but he needed a distraction, and there was always a fight to be had if one looked hard enough in the East End. He placed his cards on the table and stood.
“How about you, old boy?” Caruthers eyed Huntington. “Care to join us? I hear the songstress is looking for a wealthy protector. And if anyone needs a good tupping it’s you, my friend.”
For the briefest moment, Huntington appeared to be considering it. The perpetual motion of his pen stopped, then moved again. “Go bugger yourself, Caruthers,” Huntington said.
* * *
An hour later, Simon and Caruthers weaved through the throng of patrons in the smoky East End music hall. The shabby concert-room was a far cry from the opulent Alhambra or any West End venue. This place boasted sooty lamps and gold-colored wallpaper that had lost its sheen years ago.
Nevertheless, there were few vacant tables. And most of the empty seats were along the back and side walls. Simon spied one unoccupied table a stone’s throw from the stage. As they moved toward it, several men, already seated and laughing heartily at the antics of the comedian on stage, shifted in their chairs and gawked at them. The tailored attire Caruthers and he wore proclaimed them persona non grata—as welcome as a rat in one’s larder. This Spitalfields establishment catered to laborers, dockhands, and the petty thieves who lived here and in the neighboring rookeries. Tonight, the mostly male crowd appeared a bit rougher than normal.
Upon reaching the table, the low hum of voices escalated around them. “Bleedin’ nobs,” one grungy man seated at the adjacent table hissed. “Go home. We ain’t want ye kind ’ere.”
A second, oversized bloke, seated at the same table, stood and reiterated that opinion before spitting into his beefy palms and rubbing his chafed and reddened hands.
“Sit your arse down, MacDonald, or I’ll sit it for you.” A tall, redheaded man approached the table, a wooden cudgel thicker than a policeman’s billy club in his hands. “I’ll be havin’ no ruckuses in me establishment.”
The man named MacDonald shot Simon a contemptuous look before slumping back into his chair and picking up his muddy-colored pint of ale.
A plump serving girl with a pretty face, who looked no more than sixteen, approached them. “What can I get ye?”
“I’ll take a pint of ale,” Caruthers said.
“Make that two,” Simon added.
Her eyebrows rose. A frown settled over her freckled face. “I bet me cousin two pence ye was going to order champagne.”
“Did you now?” Simon asked.
“I did,” she responded, looking vexed.
“Do you serve champagne?”
“Gorblimey, no.”
“Then how is he to know that initially we didn’t order it?” Simon asked.
Her eyes narrowed, furrowing the smooth skin between her brows, and her face brightened. “Well, I’ll be. Ye make a fine point.”
She marched to a tall, lanky lad wearing a soiled white apron who stood by the bar. She spoke to the boy before setting one hand on her hip while extending the other, palm up. The lad shot both her and them a severe scowl before placing the coins in her hand. She all but tossed her hair in his face as she walked away, a definite spring in her step.
The comedian left the stage, and the crowd applauded heartily. The serving girl returned and placed two pints of dark ale on the table. “That’ll be a threepence each.”
Simon reached into the pocket of his damask waistcoat, withdrew a sovereign and a sixpence, and handed it to the girl.
She stared at the coins for a moment before a broad smile wreathed her face. “Thank ye, sir.” She bobbed up and down.
The movement drew the attention of MacDonald at the next table. “Are you daft, girl? Wot you be doin’ that for? He ain’t the Queen.”
Shoving the coin into her dress pocket, the girl turned fully toward the man and flashed him a defiant expression. “I’d lick the man’s feet, MacDonald, at this very moment, if ’e be askin’ me to. So never ye mind.”
Pressing his palms to the top of the table, MacDonald shifted as if to stand, but glanced toward the cudgel-wielding proprietor standing near the stage. “You’s got a saucy mouth, Molly. I knows for a fact your father wouldn’t be lookin’ so kindly upon you at this moment catering to the likes of those men.”
“Shows what little ye knows, MacDonald. Me da is goin’ to be as pleased as a doxy spotting a group of sailors on leave when I show him this shiny canary in me pocket.” She gave Simon and Caruthers another flamboyant curtsy and stomped off.
Simon leaned close to MacDonald. “Fine lass, full of spirit, is she not?”
The Scot narrowed his eyes and flexed his fingers into a fist. “I’ll be seein’ you after Eliza’s performance.”
He acknowledged the threat with a grin. Exactly what he wanted. A good round of fisticuffs might stop him from replaying the day’s events in his head like a kineograph and lessen his dark mood.
Several men at adjacent tables craned their heads. “Bleedin’ nob must have a death wish,” someone muttered.
“Ay, the Bull’s got a good three stone on the swell,” another added.
Indeed, the man they called “the Bull” looked capable of sending one to meet his maker, but if he thought Simon would be an easy win, he was about to learn differently.
A sudden hullabaloo of feet stomping, hand clapping, and cheers commenced. A voluptuous woman with a mop of curly flame-colored hair stepped onto the stage. One could not call Eliza Bird pretty, but Simon presumed many of the men in the concert-room didn’t look any higher than her neck and the short costume made of French tulle which exposed her silk stockings, garters, and the cleavage of her overripe breasts.
“My God,” Caruthers mumbled. “They weren’t lying. Asphyxiation is indeed a possibility.” Caruthers stuck two fingers in his mouth and let loose an ear-splitting whistle.
The saucy songstress winked at them.
Caruthers leaned back in his chair. “Christ, I think I’m in love. What do you think, Simon?”
He shrugged one shoulder. At the moment, the only woman he could think of had distracted him so a thug could attempt to crack his head open like a coconut. He should just stand still and let MacDonald knock some sense into him.
Throughout Eliza’s performance, the predominantly male audience whistled, clapped, and verbally haled the woman’s mediocre voice. After she sang several ballads, she exited the stage to a round of hearty applause and boisterous cheers. When it became apparent she wouldn’t take to the stage for an encore, several patrons filed out of the hall at a fast clip. The numerous bordellos that dotted the local streets appeared to be in for a profitable night.
Caruthers slapped Simon’s back. “Damn fine show.”
“Yes, if one is tone deaf.” Simon peered at the table next to him. MacDonald eyed him like a finely cooked joint.
“You weren’t thinkin’ of slithering away, were you now?” the man asked.
No, he’d thought of Emma throughout the songstress’s performance. A few rounds with the Scot would suit him well. “What, and miss a chance at rearranging your not-so-pretty mug?”
The hostility seemed to slip away from MacDonald’s countenance and he grinned. “You ain’t no milksop. I’ll give you that.”
Simon, Caruthers, MacDonald, and the men at his table stepped into the melee that was the exodus and made their way to the street.
“I’ll wager my friend will be victorious. Do I have any takers?” Caruthers shouted.
“I’ll bet you a threepence,” said one grizzled man, who looked as if he didn’t have a pot to piss in.
“Believe me, old man,” Caruthers replied, “you’d do better to wager on my friend’s side than against him. He’s a leftie with a mean uppercut. And I believe he’s pining over a woman and in a rather foul mood. The man’s primed to hit something.”
Simon narrowed his eyes at his friend. “Sod off.”
Caruthers laughed.
The elderly man raised a bushy eyebrow. “A woman’s got under his skin, huh?”
“Indeed. Nothing else explains his poor mood,” Caruthers replied.
The old man grinned. “A woman will do that to you. I say threepence the nob wins!”
“I’ll take that wager,” another man shouted.
MacDonald slipped off his tattered sack coat and handed it to the bloke who’d sat next to him in the hall.
Simon followed suit, passed his frock coat and top hat to Caruthers, and loosened his tie. However, before he’d finished removing the garment, a hard right struck his jaw. He stumbled backward. Regaining his balance, he flashed MacDonald a smile. No Marquess of Queensberry rules here.
Tossing his neckcloth to Caruthers, Simon stepped toward MacDonald and ducked when the other man tried to strike him with another jab aimed at his face.
MacDonald was about to learn fighting wasn’t solely about brawn; one had to think, to react, and predict an opponent’s moves. Simon knew when it came to those who were heavier, as MacDonald was, that if he ducked and weaved, his opponent would tire. He’d also learned that quick combinations were the most successful in downing a man. A milling crowd formed a circle around the two men and became as boisterous about the fight as Eliza’s performance.
Simon landed a firm uppercut against MacDonald’s chin, sending a spray of spittle into the air.
His opponent answered with a sharp left; however, Simon quickly moved and MacDonald’s fist clipped his ear.
After several minutes, MacDonald’s chest heaved up and down, while his feet dragged on the pavement. At this point the Bull had struck more blows, but most had hit Simon’s arms and chest, whereas he’d caught the man twice squarely in the face, and a gash on his brow was dangerously close to splitting open and trickling blood into the man’s eye.
MacDonald hit Simon squarely on the jaw. Flashes of light blinded Simon for a minute. He blinked to clear his spotty vision. Jesus! Now he understood why they called him the Bull.
The man dipped his head, charged like an enraged animal. Simon sidestepped and the man stumbled into the crowd. The Scot emerged with his face red and fist cranked back.
Unbidden, Emma’s words from today rushed back into Simon’s head. Red-hot anger bubbled to the surface. Simon blocked the punch, rammed his fist into the man’s abdomen, and planted a facer on him.
Arms flailing, MacDonald stumbled backward, taking several spectators to the pavement with him.
“Jesus, Mary, Joseph,” one of the Bull’s cohorts said. “He’s out cold.”
The grizzled old man took his flat cap off, waved it into the air, and whooped.
Simon looked at his red knuckles. “Drinks are on me,” he said, shaking his hand in the air to remove the sting.
The crowd cheered and rushed back into the music hall, except for the two men who stayed to lift MacDonald off the ground.
The bare-knuckled brawl hadn’t made Simon forget about Emma, but perhaps getting drunk would.