Viscount of Vice (4 page)

The short ride to Doctor Emerson's was uneventful, if one did not take too much note of Hervey sitting beside her, giving Flynn warning looks every time he so much as attempted to speak to her. It wasn't as often as she would have liked. He seemed more interested in the streets of Bath than in her. The kiss they'd shared suddenly felt like it had happened a hundred years ago or to someone other than she. Emma knew that wasn't the case, just as she knew she would receive the scolding of her life when Katherine finally caught up to her. Emma would pen a quick note to Katherine at the Emersons', so her sister would not worry. She often dined or took tea with Mrs. Emerson and assisted Doctor Emerson at the hospital. Katherine would not object to her being in their company—except that Emma was supposed to be dancing with prospective suitors at the assembly.

And then there was that small matter of dancing the waltz that had not been a waltz with Flynn. Her sister would have something to say about that—a great many somethings. Emma sighed, thinking about the long, long lecture she could expect. Her poor nieces and nephews. She pitied them for all of the lectures in their futures. Emma had given Katherine quite a bit of practice in lecturing lately.

The hack slowed, and Emma peered through the grimy, tattered curtains. Every window in the Emersons' terraced house was lit. When the jarvey jumped down to open the door, Emma did not wait for Flynn or Hervey to descend and then hand her down. She flew from the conveyance and into the house. Having heard the carriage arrive, the Emersons' housekeeper was already at the door. Mrs. Crane was a tall, thin woman with a shock of curly red hair she managed to pull under her cap but which never stayed tame for long. Frizzy tendrils of it bobbed against her ruddy cheeks as she spoke. “My lady! We were not expecting you!” she said with a quick curtsy. Emma had told her a dozen times she did not need to curtsy.

“Where is the doctor, Crane?” Emma asked. “Do you think I might be of some assistance to him?”

“I believe he has the situation well in hand, my lady. Jane brought him bandages a quarter hour ago, and I believe the doctor administered laudanum.”

Emma nodded. “Good. That will help him sleep.”

But Crane was not looking at her. “Oh my.”

Even without inquiring, Emma knew exactly who Crane was looking at.
Oh
my
was an understatement. She turned and watched as Flynn sauntered to the front door. She did not know if he intended to saunter, but he did so nonetheless. Perhaps that was simply the way he always walked, although she had also seen him swagger. In any case, once she looked at him, it was nigh impossible to look away. He seemed to know this, since he gave her a smirk before turning his attention to Crane.

“I am Viscount Chesham. I believe this lad was looking for me.” He indicated Hervey, who was trotting down the steps outside to enter the house through the basement. He would not have dared enter through the front door of the home, the door reserved for the family and guests.

Crane nodded silently, her gaze fixed on Flynn's too-handsome face. Emma hoped she did not appear quite so enthralled when she looked at him. “Crane?” she prompted.

“Oh, eh… Right this way, my lord.” She led the two of them to the room the doctor used for his practice. Emma knew the way quite well, and she took the chance to peer at Flynn. His jaw was set and his expression grim. Once again she wondered why he had been meeting Sir Brook, and how the investigator had managed to come to such harm. In Bath, no less. This was not London. She rarely heard of such violent attacks occurring here.

Crane tapped on the doctor's door and murmured, “Lord Chesham and Lady Emma to see you.”

A moment later, the door swung open and Doctor Emerson peered out at them. As usual, his white hair stuck up on both sides of his head. He had a habit of scrubbing above his ears when he was deep in thought or particularly busy. He was a short man, about Emma's height, and slim. His wife was always begging him to eat more, and at the moment, Emma could see why. His drawn face looked pale and bony.

“Lady Emma.” He inclined his head toward her. “Did I call for you?”

“No, but I was in Lord Chesham's company when Hervey came for him and thought you might need assistance.” She gestured to Flynn. “Lord Chesham, this is Doctor Emerson.”

“Flynn? Is that you?” a voice called from beyond the door.

The doctor peered over his shoulder then looked back at Flynn. “I presume he means you?”

Flynn nodded. The doctor opened the door wider to admit them, and Emma moved inside and into a corner, out of the way. Flynn approached the bed cautiously, in the manner of one not accustomed to the sickroom. A tall, broad man with blond hair lay in the bed, a sheet pulled to his shoulders. His shoulders were bare, indicating the doctor had removed his shirt and coat, and she scanned the room until she found the discarded garments. The coat was a dark, tattered splash on the wood floor. From its condition, she could ascertain it had been cut off in some haste. She found the shirt as well, white and draped carelessly over the arm of a chair. The crimson stain of blood marred what appeared to be fine linen.

“What the devil happened to you?” Flynn asked.

“Feinted left when I should have gone right,” the blond man said. “But, listen, I have something to tell you. I—” He paused, peering at the others standing in the room. Emma felt her cheeks heat. She had been leaning forward, eager for the information the wounded man had been about to impart.

“Might we have a moment alone?” Flynn asked, not looking at them.

“Of course,” the doctor said and moved toward the door, sweeping Emma and Crane with him. Once outside, he closed the door behind him. “My lady wife is in the drawing room, Lady Emma. May I escort you and have Crane bring tea?”

“Yes, please,” Emma said, “and if it is not too much trouble, I would like pen and paper. I should dash a note to my sister. I left her quite unexpectedly.”

“Certainly.” The doctor motioned for her to accompany him, and Emma started for the stairs, looking back only once at the closed door of the patient's room, where she could hear the low murmur of men's voices.

“I saw him,” Derring was saying. It took Flynn a moment to comprehend the words. He could not seem to stop staring at the white sheet covering the investigator's body. The man looked well enough. Beneath the sheet, was there a gaping wound where a knife had plunged into flesh?

“Flynn, are you listening?”

Flynn blinked. “Yes,” he lied.

“I saw your brother. I told him you were here to see him.”

“And he did this to you?” Flynn indicated the sheet.

“No. The situation is more complicated than I told you initially.”

“Is it now? What a surprise.”

Derring ignored the sarcasm. “I found your brother in an opium den in a rather unsavory area of Bath known as the Dolmeades. He was eager to see you when I mentioned your—”

“An opium den?”

Derring nodded patiently. “Yes. He's quite addicted, poor sod. I haven't pieced the entire story together, but I believe what befell your brother is not entirely uncommon. There are men who create gangs of thieves comprised mainly of boys. Young boys are valued because they can be trained, are quick, and if caught, are often treated more leniently than men. I believe your brother was taken by the leader of such a gang.”

Flynn held up a hand. He had heard of these thieving rings, but his brother had not been some street urchin. There were plenty of orphans and homeless children for the gangs to prey upon. He had never heard of them abducting a child from a good family. “Is that usual?” he asked.

“For these gangs to take the sons of the nobility? No. They may have made a mistake or thought to ransom him. In any case, your brother was not as malleable as they had hoped. I believe the leader of the gang employed opium to make your brother more agreeable.” Derring went on, but Flynn did not hear.

Opium. A lifetime of opium. Flynn had never touched the stuff, but he was not unaware of its popularity with certain sets, or of the effect of ingesting too much. He had a vision of men in dark rooms, reclining on chaise longues in various states of consciousness.

“But he's alive,” Flynn said, interrupting whatever Derring had been saying.

“He is,” Derring said with a nod.

“Then why did he not come with you?”

Derring's lips thinned. “I believe he would have, if he hadn't been prevented.” Derring indicated his injured side. “The leader of the gang—his name is Satin—is not yet ready to part with Mr. Flynn.”

“This Satin stabbed you?”

“A minor wound.”

It was serious enough that the man looked pale and the doctor had thought to administer laudanum. Derring wouldn't be leaving this house that night. Flynn inhaled deeply. “Tell me where the leader is. I'll convince the bastard.”

“I bloody well knew you were going to say that.” Derring tried to straighten and winced at the pain.

“That's why you brought me here.”

“I didn't intend to send you in alone, but there's nothing for it now. If we do not move, Satin will relocate Robert. We may never find him again.”

Flynn tugged at his cravat. It felt quite tight suddenly. “I'll go now. Where are these Dolmeades?”

“That's where I found him, but he lives on Avon Street. You'll more likely find him there. The location is understandably hidden. If you would have one of the servants fetch me paper and a quill, I'll draw you a map.”

“I'll return momentarily.” Flynn started for the door, then glanced back over his shoulder. “Don't die until after you've drawn the map.” He opened the door to the sounds of Derring's curses. Outside the room, he paused to consider where he might find paper and pen. No servants waited without, so Flynn opened the first door he came to. A quick glance inside told him it was the morning room.

And it was not empty.

Lady Emma sat at a small, feminine desk, holding a quill and a sharpening blade in her ungloved hand. She looked up suddenly when he opened the door, and exclaimed, “Don't you knock? You startled me. I almost cut my finger off.”

Flynn stepped inside, closing the door behind him. His every instinct warned him to turn back. Being alone with her in a room was not a wise decision—not after what had happened between them earlier.

That
kiss
. His gaze dropped to her lips, and he could taste their sweetness again. All the more sweet because she was no practiced widow or courtesan. She was an innocent.

And she was not for him.

He knew this logically, but he was not resigned to the fact. How could he be when she sat there, looking at him with a slight scowl that made her only more beautiful? A scowl should not have that effect. Perhaps it was the rosy flush her indignation brought to her cheeks or the way her dark eyes flashed, but he wanted to kiss the scowl away.

“What are you still doing here?”

She indicated the paper on the desk before her. “Penning a note to my sister. She will have noticed my absence from the ball.” Some servant had taken her cloak, and he took in the picture she presented. Her deep pink gown had a profusion of ruffles at the round neck, which emphasized the creamy exposed skin of her shoulders. She'd removed her gloves to write, and thus there was even more flesh on display—more flesh he wanted to touch, to kiss, to rip ruffles away from and lick.

As though sensing the direction of his thoughts, she put a hand to her heart, and over the ruffles concealing the swell of her breasts. “Has Sir Brook taken a turn? Should I call for Doctor Emerson?”

“Derring is fine. I've come to fetch a quill and paper for him.”

“Of course. Take my quill.” She held it out, and he stepped closer to take it. He tried in vain not to breathe too deeply, but he still caught the scent of flowers. Was it in her hair? If he took the pins out and allowed it to tumble about her shoulders, would the scent wash over him? If he buried his face in that glorious hair, buried himself in her, would the scent imprint itself on him permanently?

“There's more vellum here,” she said, rising and pulling the drawer open. “Mrs. Emerson's drawing room is quite dark, and she conducts all of her correspondence here. I believe she has foolscap as well, if you prefer.”

He said nothing. How he wished this were a different place, a different time. How he wished he were another man. A man who could court her, woo her, win her. But he could never have her. Her brother would never consent.
Henry
Flynn
, a husband? Who would marry the Viscount of Vice?

“I'm talking too much,” she said, pulling a sheet of vellum from the desk and pressing it into his hand. “I… I suppose you make me nervous.”

He looked down at the paper. He should take it to Derring now. His brother was waiting. And yet Flynn did not move. “What are you afraid I will do?”

She opened her lips, those sweet pink lips, then closed them again. Her small tongue darted out to wet them, and he felt a stab of desire pierce his gut. Her dark eyes rose to meet his gaze. “Perhaps I am more afraid of what you
will
not
do.”

Before he had time to make some humorous quip, she pressed a hand to her abdomen, and said, “Did Sir Brook find your brother? Is he here? In Bath?”

“Yes.” His gaze lowered to her hand, held tight against her abdomen. He explained what Derring had told him, but he was hardly aware of what he said until she gasped and wrapped her hand around his wrist. Her touch silenced him. Her small hand was white and cold, and he realized no fire burned in the hearth. He resisted the urge to pull her close and warm her.

“But no wonder Sir Brook was injured! You cannot go to Avon Street. Not at this hour. It's not safe.”

“I shall take care.” It felt strange for him to say the words. He could not remember the last time anyone had expressed any concern whatsoever for his well-being.

“Flynn, you must listen to me. It is far too dangerous. Wait until tomorrow. Promise me.”

He had no qualms about lying under most circumstances, but for whatever reason, he could not lie to her. “My brother needs me, Lady Emma.”

“He needs you alive!”

“He needs me tonight,” Flynn said.

She blinked up at him. “You really do hold yourself responsible, don't you?”

He tried to back away, but her light touch on his wrist held him rooted in place. Her gaze unnerved him now. It was as though she could see down deep into his black soul.

“You're not, you know? Responsible. You were a child—”

“Emma.” He put a finger over her lips, causing her hand to fall away from his wrist, and her dark eyes to round into saucers. He was not certain what he had intended to say but, he heard himself say, “Good-bye.”

He would have walked away then, but he saw her gaze dip from his eyes to his lips, and he knew what she wanted. He wanted it too—one last kiss, one last taste. If he did not fare better than Derring, perhaps his last kiss ever.

He lowered his mouth to hers, slowly, giving her time to move away if that was what she desired. Instead, she leaned into him, her soft body pressing into his chest as she rose on tiptoes to meet his lips with hers.

She was so soft, so sweet. He could feel the fullness of her breasts where her body met his, and he could not stop himself from cupping her face and rubbing his thumbs along her velvet cheeks.

“Stay,” she whispered as he lifted her chin and angled her mouth so he could brush his lips across it. The order was tempting, so tempting. He wanted to stay with her. He did not want to go out into the night, to travel across town in search of opium dens and a brother he no longer knew. Flynn had never been one for duty—or at least the impulse in him had been well and truly buried—but deep down he felt his better instincts shaking off the rubble of neglect. He could not stay.

He would release her and say farewell—right after he kissed her just one more time.

Flynn slid his hand to the back of her neck, cupping the base of her head and threading his fingers into her thick, dark hair. She melted into him, offering no resistance, her eyes fluttering closed as he, once again, lowered his mouth to hers. He slid his lips over hers, reveling in the softness of her skin, the scent of flowers, and the small sigh she gave at the contact between them. With one hand splayed across her back, he could feel how warm she was now, and her heat infused him as he allowed his lips to explore hers.

It was not the brotherly good-bye he should have given her, and he moved to pull away. But just as he did so, he felt one of her hands settle on his chest and slide upward to curl around his neck. The gesture was unintentionally seductive, and the flare of desire that flashed through him was more than Flynn could resist.

His need for her took over, and he slanted his mouth over hers, taking her completely. The moment their tongues touched, he felt as though the entire room tilted. He had thought there was something in the air earlier, muddling his head outside that assembly room where they'd first kissed, and now he felt it again.

He could not say what it was. He had kissed many women—more than he cared to count—and yet he had never felt so affected by a kiss. Never felt as though he could not get enough of the woman in his arms. She was no seductress. Her kisses were unpracticed and tentative. He could teach her so much. He would have, if he were not saying good-bye, but for the moment he reveled in those novice kisses, feeling once again like a youth deep in the first flush of arousal.

He was going to put her aside. In only a moment, he would break the kiss and walk away, but the thought made him pull her hard against him and deepen the kiss. He could not remember ever wanting a woman so much, wanting to strip her clothes off, piece by tantalizing piece, kissing every inch of bared flesh slowly until he'd explored every inch of her. And then he would lay her down and worship her slowly, so very slowly, so as to prolong their pleasure until it became the most exquisite torture.

His chest tightened with desire, with the need slamming through him, and he forced his hands to his sides and gently pulled back. He had to stop now or, God help him, he did not know if he would ever be able to leave her. She wobbled, and he put a hand on her elbow to steady her. Her face was flushed, her lips swollen, and her eyes hazy with desire. He wondered what thoughts turned 'round in her mind. Did she want him inside her as much as he wanted to take her? Did she have enough experience to think of such a thing?

Disgusted with himself, he released her elbow and stepped back.

Her hand caught his sleeve. “Do not stop.”

He shook his head. “Do you know what you are saying?”

“Yes. Stay with me tonight. Take me”—she gestured vaguely to the city beyond the walls of the house—“somewhere we can be together.”

He stared at her. “Lady Emma—”

“No. I'm just Emma. I'm just a woman, and I want you, Flynn.”

The world had definitely tilted. “Your brother would murder me if I even dared to consider—”

“Andrew will never know.” She waved a hand.

He caught her hand. “No.”

“Why?” She stepped closer, her dark eyes bright with challenge. Was she really arguing with him? “Because I am a virgin? Must I give myself to someone else before you will have me?”

“Emma!” The thought of her with another man made his chest tight and his fists clench. She was not his, but by God, he would not think of her with someone else.

“What must I do to make you want me?” she asked, her expression intent. He could all but picture her as a student, with quill poised above paper, ready to take notes.

He shook his head. If only she knew how much he wanted her, how desperately.

“You think I'm a child,” she said. “You think I do not know what I am saying, but I do know. I've known ever since we first met, in the drawing room at Ravenscroft Castle. You entered the room, and I knew. I knew I loved you before I even knew your name. I know you felt something too.”