The Naked Viscount (10 page)

“Jane—”

“Don't ‘Jane' me.” She wiggled free of his hold and stepped back. For some reason her chest suddenly felt quite cool. She looked down. “Dear God!” Her bodice was almost at her waist and her breasts…

She whirled around, stuffing herself back in her chemise and yanking up the neck of her dress. “See if you are as good at buttoning as unbuttoning.”

She was going to die, she was so embarrassed. What had gotten into her? She'd behaved like a light-skirt, a fancy-piece, a…a…dolly-mop. What must Lord Motton think of her?

She felt his fingers slowly doing up her buttons. How could his touch feel so ordinary on her back, but so very, very extraordinary—torrid—on her breasts? It was as if lightning had flashed from his fingers to her nipples and on to her—she swallowed—to
that
part of her.

And when his mouth and tongue had, well,
feasted
on her—She covered her mouth to muffle a moan. She had been mindless, mad, willing to do anything—
anything
—to prolong that drenching pleasure.

He'd been taking her body somewhere wonderful, pulling her tighter and tighter with each touch, as if she were a harp string he was tuning. She was sure when he'd brought her to the perfect tension, he would have plucked her and she would have exploded in a clear, vibrating note.

But instead he'd distracted her with that stupid paper, so now she was just…tense. Unfinished. Her breasts still felt overlarge—oversensitive—and
that
place was still throbbing.

“There you go. I've done up all the buttons. Does everything feel, er, secure?”

She adjusted her bodice slightly. “Yes, thank you.” She had better put the activities of the last few minutes behind her. Yes. That's what she would do. Ignore what had just happened. She had important business to attend to. Someone had wanted Clarence's sketch so desperately, he—or she—had trespassed and destroyed Clarence's property.

She turned back to Lord Motton, but she couldn't quite meet his gaze. “Let's look at that paper.”

“No.”

“No?” That did cause her eyes to fly up to meet his. He was looking damned mulish. She could be mulish, too, when circumstances called for it. “What do you mean, no?”

“If it is anything like the other piece of the sketch we've found, it is not at all appropriate for a gently bred woman to see.”

She flushed and raised her chin. “I believe I've just proven I'm not quite so gently bred. You needn't treat me like some blasted hothouse flower, my lord.”

He laughed; he couldn't help it. She looked so adorably prickly and defiant and embarrassed. “Do you think you can rival the Cyprians now?”

She flushed redder and raised her chin higher. “Yes.”

“You are wrong. You are nothing like them, Jane.”

“And I suppose you know many of them
intimately.
” She bit her lip and looked slightly abashed for a moment, but quickly recovered her glare.

“No, but I know more of them than you do.” He'd consorted with a few Paphians in the past. Truth be told, he'd always found those encounters somewhat flat and vaguely distasteful—not unlike his feelings after choking down a meal in the low taverns he'd frequented when he'd been skulking about in London's underworld. The action temporarily assuaged a physical hunger, that was all. It satisfied his cock, not his mind or heart.

Mind and heart? Gad, he sounded like a bloody poet. But it was true. Jane made him feel passion that wasn't merely physical nor, perhaps, temporary.

A good thing, since it looked as though he'd be marrying her. He couldn't treat John and Stephen's sister as he just had and not step briskly into parson's mousetrap. Hell, Stephen would probably have already served him his bollocks in a bowl if he'd any idea what had just transpired.

“Lord Motton, the sketch, please.” Jane held out her hand; she'd clearly decided to pretend the last few minutes had never occurred.

Should he let her see this portion of Clarence's drawing? It was certain to be as pornographic as the other. On the other hand, the sketch was surprisingly lighthearted—and he found the thought of sharing the pictures with her strangely arousing.

Not to mention the fact that she looked as if she'd gladly take his penknife from his desk and remove his bollocks herself if he didn't hand over the drawing immediately.

“Very well.” He opened the square of paper and flattened it on his desktop. He heard a little squeak. “Are you certain you want to examine this picture?”

Jane nodded. This was the upper right corner of the sketch. Two women were dancing on a table, their dresses—if that's what they were supposed to be—merely sashes around their waists. Everything—
everything
—else was exposed, and they were touching each other in a very odd fashion.

“Oh! Is that Lady Lenden and Lady Tarkington?”

Lord Motton leaned closer so his arm brushed against hers. “I believe so. Now we know why they were so interested in us this evening.”

“They were interested in you.”

His lips curved slightly, his lips that had been so recently fastened around her—No! She drew in a sharp breath. She would not think about where his lips had been and what they'd been so busy doing.

He lifted an eyebrow, the scoundrel, and gave her a very knowing look. “Are you warm, Miss Parker-Roth? You look a bit flushed.”

She sniffed and ignored him.

He grinned. “And they were not interested in me; they were interested in getting their hands on this paper.”

“They certainly have their hands in peculiar places.” Peculiar? Rather more than that. Lady Lenden was touching Lady Tarkington's bosom, and Lady Tarkington was touching—

Jane averted her eyes from the ladies' activities, only to encounter an equally odd drawing of Mr. Mousingly. Clarence had written “Moloch” across the Mouse's thin chest.

“Moloch? Mr. Mousingly is anything but warlike. Just look. The man behind him has him trapped…oh.” The man's hands were on the Mouse's—Jane felt herself flush. “Who is that?”

Edmund's voice was harsh. “Walter Helton.”

She looked at Mr. Helton more closely, carefully avoiding his hands' activities. Clarence had drawn him so thin as to be almost skeletal, with a long sharp chin and nose, horns, a tail—and no breeches. It looked very much like Mr. Helton and the Mouse…She gaped up at Edmund. “That's a capital crime, isn't it?”

Edmund, frowning down at the picture, shrugged. “Beelzebub is a master at avoiding punishment.”

“Beelzebub?”

“His nickname—from Milton's
Paradise Lost.
He's been implicated in countless crimes, but he always manages to wiggle free—or, rather, rumor has it Satan frees him.”

“What?” Lord Motton looked completely serious—grim, even. “Good heavens, surely you don't believe that? I mean, I suppose I do believe in Satan, but only in a general sort of way. I don't think he directs people's actions, and I certainly don't believe he intervenes in the British courts.”

“What are you talking about?” The viscount looked at her as though she were a lunatic. “Satan is a nickname, like Beelzebub.”

“Oh. Yes, of course.” How foolish of her not to have realized that. “What is Satan's real name?”

He looked back at the sketch and scowled. “No one knows. He could be a duke or a dustman.”

“No one knows?” Perhaps she wasn't the foolish one. “So why do you think there is such an individual? Couldn't Mr. Helton be working by himself?”

“No. Helton doesn't have the connections or the intelligence to carry off most of what he's been charged with. He definitely has someone telling him what to do.”

“Oh.” She looked down at the drawing, too. Now that she had gotten over the shock of seeing such scandalous goings-on, she noticed something else. “What's this?” She pointed to a dark arch, almost like a monk's cowl, on the torn edges of the paper. In the shadow under the cowl, Clarence had drawn two small, very sharp-looking horns, but the head to which they were attached—or, more importantly, the head's face—must be on the other parts of the drawing.

“It looks like—Zeus!” There was barely controlled excitement in Edmund's voice. “I think Clarence may have drawn a portrait of Satan, and if he has…” He straightened, looking almost exultant. “Once I have the entire picture, I'll be able to identify the man at last.”

Once
he
had the entire picture…Edmund wasn't back to excluding her, was he? “When
we
find the other parts,” she said. “Where do we look for the next section, do you think? Did Clarence give us another clue?”

His brows snapped down. “
We
don't look anywhere, Miss Parker-Roth. With Satan involved, it is far too dangerous for you to be involved any further. Satan is not to be trifled with. He's thought to have a controlling interest in the worst brothels and gambling hells in London, if not in England. He kills with impunity.”

“Kills?”
Surely Edmund was exaggerating.

“Yes, Jane—kills. This is not someone like Ardley or the Mouse. The man has an extensive, highly disciplined criminal network—and discipline among thieves and murderers is maintained by sheer terror. The fact that no one knows his name is proof he rules with an iron fist.”

“Oh.” Suddenly this adventure was far more complicated than saving Miss Barnett from a dreadful marriage—but that didn't mean she was going to turn into a pudding-heart. “Well, you can't face this miscreant by yourself. You need my help.”

“I do not need your help.” Edmund started to fold up the sketch, but Jane slapped her hand down on it.

“You do, too.”

Edmund stared at her, his face incredulous before his brows snapped down again and his look turned stony. “No. Disabuse yourself of that notion immediately.”

“But—”

“The situation is far too dangerous. Good God, Jane, Satan would squash you like a bug.”

That was an exceedingly unpleasant thought. “What makes you think he won't anyway?” She wasn't a fool or foolhardy, but she'd rather do
something
than wait patiently for Satan's heel to come down on her neck.

“He has no reason to connect you with the sketch.”

“No? Are you certain? You know the Mouse approached me at the ball this evening, asking if I'd seen any of Clarence's drawings.”

“Perhaps the man merely admired Clarence's artistic talent.”

“You don't believe that, my lord. Clarence was a sculptor. Sketching was not what he was known for.”

Lord Motton's face was impassive; he clearly was not going to admit she was right. “Perhaps the Mouse was confused.”

And perhaps you are grabbing for straws.
“Oh, please! Besides the fact the Mouse appears in the sketch, the way he asked the question was telling as well. He was very secretive and repulsive.”

“The Mouse is often secretive and always repulsive.”

She refrained from rolling her eyes, but just barely. “Even if my encounter with the Mouse was unrelated to Clarence's drawing, there are a host of other connections. I'm staying in Clarence's house—or was until now. Lord Ardley sent you to look for the sketch, and suddenly, after years of not acknowledging my existence, you spend time with me this evening—a lot of time if anyone was paying attention, which Lady Lenden and Lady Tarkington certainly were.”

“I realized you existed.”

Jane raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You hid your awareness very well then.”

“To my regret.”

She did roll her eyes then. The viscount had better not try to distract her with sweet words. “And now you take me and my mother into your house.”

“I'm your brothers' friend.”

She couldn't stand it. She poked the man in the chest. “Don't be obtuse. There is something important about this sketch, and a number of people are suddenly very anxious to find it. I for one would like to know
what
I am dealing with even if I can't know
whom.
”

Jane had a point, but the thought of Satan having any interest at all in her made his blood run cold. “I'll stay away from you. I'll make it clear you are only a houseguest. You'll go everywhere with your mother or my aunts. And you most definitely won't look for the other Pans.”

Jane poked him again; he caught her hand to save himself from further attacks. “If anyone was watching,” she said, “they saw you show Stephen the first bit of Clarence's drawing at the ball when I was standing there, obviously part of the conversation.”

Bloody hell, she was right about that. How could he have been such an idiot? “There's no reason for anyone to remark on that. It was a very brief event. The chances someone noticed it are minimal.” He tightened his hold on her hand. That was a lie. If people were purposely watching him, they would have noticed, and if Satan was indeed involved…well, the man left nothing to chance.

Jane's eyes widened and her face paled. “Dear God, Mama is Cleopatra's friend. These people may think she knows something—she may be in danger as well.”

He put his hands on her shoulders. “Don't worry. I'll have men watching both of you whenever you're outside this house. You and your mother will be safe.”

“If this Satan is as evil as you say he is…” Jane shook her head and took a deep breath. “I don't believe you can guarantee anyone's safety, my lord.”

Damn it, she was right, of course. But he had to find a way to protect her. If anything happened to Jane—

Anger, fear, and frustration roiled his gut. “If you stay in the house—”

She shrugged off his hands and reached for the sketch. “I can't stay in your house forever.”

“Er.” Damn. He had a sudden vision of her doing just that, her belly big with his child. What the hell was the matter with him?

“The sooner we find out what this is all about, the better. There really is no time to waste.” She studied the sketch. “Do you have the other piece?”

“Yes.” He'd never thought of having a child with a woman before. A child suckling at Jane's breast…

Her eyes flashed up to meet his. “So? Are you going to get the other piece or simply stand there like a great looby?”

Damn. Think with your head, not your cock, Motton.
“I have it here.” He pulled it out of his pocket. Jane made an exasperated sound and laid the pieces together on the desk.

“I do wonder why Clarence tore the drawing and hid the pieces in different places,” she said.

“He was probably afraid. I tell you, Satan is not a person to be trifled with.”

Jane shot him an annoyed look. “You have made your point, Lord Motton, but no matter how you try to frighten me, you are not going to persuade me to go hide under the bed.”

Oh, damn. Why the hell did she have to mention beds? And why the hell couldn't he keep his randy brain under control? He should not be thinking what he was thinking—having Jane naked in his bed.

She turned back to the sketch. “Clarence definitely drew a figure in the center of this. The two pieces fit together perfectly. It does look like a person's head—a person in a monk's garb, hunched over so his face is shadowed by his hood.” She pushed her hair back out of her face. “Unfortunately we'll have to find the other pieces to learn the person's identity.”

“Ah, yes. Indeed.” He'd love to see her hair spread over his pillow—

“Look, there's another Pan.” She pointed to the corner over Beelzebub's left shoulder.

Motton wrenched his mind from lascivious images of Jane and beds. “I see it.” He took out his magnifying glass and held it over the area. This Pan was just as excited as the others—if anything, his phallus looked even more impressive. The statue appeared to be in a room with a black-and-white tile floor. Behind it were several framed pictures. Had Clarence drawn a copy of this sketch? He moved the magnifying glass to get a better view.

No. Only one drawing was clearly rendered and that was of a half-eaten apple and two lopsided pears.

“That's one of Cleopatra's paintings,” Jane said. She grabbed the glass and pushed him aside. Her breast pressed up against his arm. She smelled of lemon—sweet, but tart. “That tile looks familiar.” She shifted so her bottom pushed up against his hip. Was she trying to drive him mad with lust? No, she seemed oblivious to her effect on him.

“Oh?” He tried to focus through the fog of lust clouding his brain. “Can you tell where it's hung?” If Clarence kept to pattern, that would tell them the next Pan's location. “It's not one of the rooms in Widmore House, is it?”

Jane shook her head and a few errant wisps of hair floated briefly across his face. The lemon scent intensified.

Focus, Motton. You are not going to write a treatise on Miss Parker-Roth's hair.

“No, I don't think so. See, he's drawn all these other paintings as if they were in a gallery.”

“Hmm. So could it be the Royal Academy? Is it Somerset House?”

“No, I'm almost certain Cleopatra never exhibited there. It's a bit of a sore point with her. In fact, she was complaining about the academy the last time we saw her, just before she went off on her honeymoon.”

“All right, so if it's not the Royal Academy, where is it?”

Jane straightened and looked at him. “It must be the private gallery Mama and a few of her friends set up on Harley Street. She dragged me there once. I think at least one of the rooms has a black-and-white tile floor.”

“Splendid.” Motton folded up the sketch pieces. “Give me the street number and I shall go there tomorrow.”

She was frowning again. “I will not. If you go, you will go with me.”

Why did she have to be so pigheaded? “Miss Parker-Roth, we discussed this. With Satan quite possibly involved, it is far too dangerous for you to participate in the search any longer.”

She stuck her damn little nose in the air. “I'm not aware that we discussed anything, Lord Motton; you merely blustered about like a misguided male protecting a weak little female.”

He wanted to shake her. “And what is wrong with protecting females? You are most definitely weaker than I am.” And if Miss Parker-Roth didn't start acting sensibly, he would be delighted to give her a demonstration of his strength. He could easily immobilize her and have his wicked way with her if he wanted to. Which he didn't, of course. Well, not without her enthusiastic cooperation.

“Nothing, exactly. It's the condescending, patronizing, superior attitude that goes with it. The feeling that because you are physically bigger and stronger than I am, you are also more intelligent.” She snorted. “More intelligent? Ha. Why deal with roundaboutation? Men far too often treat me as if I had feathers for brains.”

He smiled in spite of his annoyance. “Surely your brothers never made that mistake?”

She grinned at him. “Not more than once. I was not shy about correcting them, even if it required a good wallop with a hard object.”

He would like to have seen Jane trying to educate John and Stephen—and the younger brother as well. “I understand that, Jane, but
you
must understand this situation is completely different.” Maybe if he tried again, the message would get through her hard head. “I cannot stress enough how dangerous Satan is.”

“Oh, you've frightened me quite well, my lord, but that won't deter me. And it will cause less comment if I appear at an art gallery than if you do. My mother
is
an artist.”

“And you always accompany her to the galleries, correct?”

“Er, well, perhaps not.” Damn, he had a point.

“How many times have you taken in our artists' offerings, Miss Parker-Roth?”

“This Season?” The man was going to make her grovel, wasn't he?

“Yes.”

“Ah, well, this Season has barely begun. I still have plenty of time to view a gallery or two.” Perhaps she could still wriggle out of this bind she'd got herself into.

“All Seasons, then. How many times since your come-out have you attended any sort of art display with your mother?”

Blast, he had her. “I can't recall.”

He raised his eyebrows. “The truth, Jane.”

“Oh, very well. I went with her once to the Royal Academy and once to the Harley Street gallery. I have enough of paintings and pictures at the Priory. I don't need to stare at more art in London.”

The damn man smirked and crossed his arms. “So your attending the gallery will be as odd—odder, actually—than my doing so. I am quite the connoisseur, I'll have you know.”

He was quite the unconscionable prig. If there were a Pan handy, she'd bash him over the head with it. “I am not going to let you go alone. You know you need my help; you are just too stubborn to admit it.”

“I do
not
need your help.” He was gritting his teeth again.

“You do, and if you don't take me with you, I will go on my own.”

The thought of Jane looking for the sketch by herself turned his blood to ice. She had no experience with villains; she couldn't even begin to understand the precautions she should take. And if it truly were Satan he was dealing with, he couldn't afford to split up his men, having some guard Jane and others watch his back. “Don't be ridiculous.”

“You may rage at me all you like, but unless you intend to lock me in a dungeon or tie me to my bed, I am going.”

Tie her to her bed…

Focus.

He scowled at her. She scowled back and raised her chin. She clearly did not intend to let herself be persuaded—or bullied.

He knew when to throw in the towel. “Very well, you win.” She tried to repress her grin of triumph, the minx, but she wasn't quite successful. Well, he was going to demand some concessions in return. If she insisted on being involved in this, he would insist on keeping a very, very close eye on her. “But to keep you safe, I need to stay by your side—so I shall pretend to be courting you.”

“What?”
Jane lifted her hand to her chin to ascertain her mouth wasn't hanging open. Courting her? What did he mean by that? Yes, they'd just engaged in some rather heated exchanges, but that wasn't courting, that was Lord Motton taking what she had shamelessly offered him. He was a man. He wasn't going to turn down such opportunities. Even her brother John had a mistress.

Not that Lord Motton would ever cross the final line with her—of course not. But, well, men were just very different from women.

And she must not forget he'd managed to ignore her for more than seven years. She might have been longing for him, but he had definitely not been doing the same for her.

“It's not so shocking,” he was saying. “I think the
ton
will believe it. As you point out, I spent a good bit of time with you tonight. People may already be speculating about my intentions. The aunts certainly are.” He grimaced. “They have made it their mission to see me wed.”

“Ah.” Now she understood. “So this playacting is for your benefit as well.”

“Partly, I suppose. But it is mostly for your safety.” His expression was serious. “Even though you scoff, Jane, you do need protecting. You've never dealt with a black-hearted bastard like Satan. You can't handle him.”

She tilted her chin. Lord Motton was back to frightening her—and he was doing an excellent job—but she refused to be frightened. “And you can?”