The Naked Viscount (16 page)

“My mother's ills were all in her mind, Miss Parker-Roth. I don't have any siblings because my parents detested each other.”

“No. They must have been in love in the beginning. Why else would they have married?”

He snorted again. She really was naïve. “They married because my mother's father found my mother naked in my father's bed at a house party.”

“Oh.” Jane flushed. “Then they were in lust.”

“No, they were not. My mother wished to be a viscountess, and my grandfather wanted to get rid of the last of his six daughters. I'm sure he was delighted to trap a viscount, but I suspect he would have taken a chimney sweep.”

“Couldn't your father have refused to marry your mother?” Miss Parker-Roth actually sounded angry on his father's behalf. Silly girl. “He should have stood up to them all. He was innocent.”

“Not so innocent. My father was never one to decline an invitation. When my grandfather and half the house party opened the door to his bedchamber, the first thing they saw was his naked arse pumping—” What was the matter with him? There was no need to be crass. “Suffice it to say, there was no question that my parents needed to marry. Fortunately from my father's perspective, I arrived nine months later.” He smiled without a touch of humor. “As long as I managed to keep breathing, dear Papa could disport himself as he wished in as many London bedrooms as he could gain entry to.”

Jane was frowning at him. “How do you know any of this is true, my lord? The only ones who know with certainty are your parents, and surely they never said a word to you.”

He brushed a strand of hair from her face. She was so sweet. He hadn't realized how innocent she was. “They said many words, my dear. Did I not say they hated each other? My father told me the tale each of the few times he saw me. Even when I was a child and far too young to understand his meaning, he recounted the story of my conception, always ending with the admonition to be careful not to die so he wouldn't be forced back into my mother's bed.”

“That's terrible.” She looked furious, her brows meeting in a fierce frown. “What a terrible way to treat you. Why didn't your mother stop him?”

“Why would she? She wanted him in her bed as little as he wanted to be there.” He shrugged, vaguely surprised at how much the sordid memory still hurt. “I heard her side of the story as well, in graphic detail—and since I was forced to live with her until I escaped to school, I heard her story rather frequently. I came not to take her animosity personally. She didn't care for me, but then I think she didn't care for young boys—or males—in general.”

Were those tears in Miss Parker-Roth's eyes? She had far too tender a heart—and he had no heart at all. “I'm sorry. You didn't ask for that.”

“No, but…” She took out her handkerchief and blew her nose. “That's horrible.”

He didn't want her pity. “I had it no worse than many children of the
ton.
Your family is unusual. I take it your parents' union was—is—a love match?” He offered her his arm, and they started walking again.

“Yes, indeed. Mama met Da at her come-out ball, and it was love at first sight. They are still very attached to each other.” She flushed. “We all avoid Mama's studio when she's painting Da. She often gets, ah, distracted.” She glanced up at him. “You saw the painting.”

“Yes.” He'd never met the senior Parker-Roth, but if his wife believed at all in realism, then Bollingbrook was right. Parker-Roth's painted expression bespoke a man well satisfied.

And had Bollingbrook been right about the other, too?
Had
Jane looked at him as if he were a god? He hoped so.

Many women admired his title and pocketbook, and many found him physically attractive, but he'd never had a woman care about
him.
Did Jane? Once they solved Clarence's puzzle and were free of Satan, he intended to find out.

They reached the gallery's front door and came upon Mr. Bollingbrook standing in the entryway, straightening a painting. His eyebrows shot up.

“Where have you two been?”

“Observing the art.” Motton kept his voice level, but he'd wager Jane looked extremely guilty. He could tell by Bollingbrook's expression he'd win his wager. She really would make a terrible spy.

“I see.” Bollingbrook smiled in far too knowing a manner.

Damn it, there was no way he could challenge the man without wading deeper into the quicksand of speculation. “We enjoyed our tour—”

“I'll bet you did.”

“But, sadly, we must leave.” The sooner, the better.

Bollingbrook nodded and looked at Jane. “Your mother was here.”

“Oh?” Jane cleared her throat. “Indeed? I'm sorry we, er, missed her.”

“One wonders how you did. The gallery is not that large.”

Poor Jane was being led to slaughter.

“It is odd, isn't it?” Motton said. “But there you have it. Don't know how it happened. Thank you again for your hospitality.” He took Jane's arm and dragged her out the door.

“Do come again,” Bollingbrook said as he waved good-bye.

Lord Motton helped Jane into his curricle and took the reins. He started the horses down Harley Street toward Mayfair.

“Thank you.” Jane sighed. “I had no idea what to say to Mr. Bollingbrook.”

“Then don't say anything. I learned early on that silence is often the best response. Make your interrogator work for an answer.”

“That is very wise.” But so hard to do—at least for her. John, Stephen, and Nicholas had no trouble playing mumchance, and even her sisters could be mute as fish if doing so would save them from Mama's wrath, but she always let the cat out of the bag. Stephen would never let her in on any of his most exciting adventures, because he said Mama was sure to get every last detail from her. It was most annoying.

Lord Motton had let a bit of the cat out of the bag just now. Poor man—how could he have borne growing up with such heartless parents? Anger coiled tight in her gut. If they weren't dead already, she would cheerfully strangle them. They might hate each other, but how could they have taken their spleen out on a defenseless little boy?

Jane gripped the side of the curricle tightly and glanced at Lord Motton. He kept his eyes on traffic. A good thing. Carriages crowded Harley Street as they made their way down to Cavendish Square, and masses of people traversed the walkways. There were so many more people in London than the country, and so much more noise.

She sucked in her breath as another curricle cut them off, almost clipping their wheels. The grays faltered, tossing their heads, but Edmund kept his hands steady and settled them down quickly. “Well done, my lord.”

He smiled briefly. “Traffic seems worse than usual. Anything happening in Town today, Jem?”

“No, my lord.”

They turned down Henrietta to New Cavendish Street and then to Oxford Street. More carriages and carts and riders pressed around them, but Lord Motton looked as calm as if he were driving his pair down a deserted country road.

They had just passed Park Street when disaster struck.

“My lord! Watch on yer left.”

“I see it, Jem.”

A woman had spilled her cart of vegetables. Turnips and potatoes bounced and rolled everywhere. Traffic ahead of them slowed; people shouted; the woman threw choice epithets right and left. Lord Motton reined in and glanced over at Jane. “Unfortunately, it looks like—”

Two large, mangy dogs darted out of an alley, barking and snarling. They went right for Lord Motton's team. The horses, already spooked by the screaming people and vagrant vegetables, bolted.

“Hang on,” Lord Motton shouted.

Jane was too terrified to make a sound. She clutched the side of the curricle as tightly as she could, but with every bump, she flew up out of her seat. She watched the horses' hooves squash a turnip. If she didn't keep her place in the curricle, she would be under those hooves or the hooves of one of the other horses on the crowded street.

She squeezed her eyes shut as they shot between a phaeton and a hackney. Dear God, how had they missed hitting them? She glanced back to see both drivers shouting at them and making very rude gestures.

It was a testament to Lord Motton's consummate skill with the ribbons that they made it down Oxford Street at breakneck speed without crashing. When they got to Hyde Park, he urged his team through Cumberland Gate and down the gravel carriage way.

The dogs had stopped chasing them, but the horses still refused to slow. “Hang on,” Lord Motton said again. “They'll tire soon. I'll get them to—blast!”

“What?” Jane looked ahead. “Oh.”

Old Mrs. Hornsley and her poodle were coming toward them, taking the air in Mrs. Hornsley's ancient barouche. Mrs. Hornsley's coachman was older than she, stone deaf, and more than half blind. He drove sedately down the middle of the road.

Lord Motton did the only thing he could—he swung his team onto the grass. They thundered up a small rise, brushed past some bushes, and—thankfully—started to slow. Jane let out a long sigh of relief and relaxed her death grip on the curricle. A mistake.

The wheel on her side of the carriage hit something hard; she heard an ominous crack and her seat shifted abruptly. She flew into the air.

“Ah, oh, eee!”

“Jane!”

She heard Lord Motton shout her name just before she landed face-first in an overgrown bush.

“Jane! Jane, are you all right?”

“Mmpft!” Thank God it wasn't windy or she'd be completely mortified. Her skirts hadn't flown up with her fall, had they? At least they were covering her lower half at the moment, but if an errant gust of wind caught her hem…

She struggled fiercely to right herself, but only succeeded in sinking down deeper in the damn bush's leafy embrace.

“Stop wiggling. I've got you.” A strong arm wrapped itself around her waist and lifted, pulling her free of her prickly prison. “Are you all right?” Lord Motton set her on her feet and plucked a twig from her hair.

“Mmph.” She removed a leaf from her mouth and rescued her bonnet from where it dangled on the back of her neck. “Yes. I think.”

He held her by her shoulders and looked her up and down, a worried crease between his brows. “You look a mess.”

“Thank you. You're not too natty yourself, you know.” Though he must look far better than she. He'd lost his hat somewhere in their mad dash and one coat sleeve had parted from his shoulder, but other than that he looked remarkably unscathed. “Weston will be dancing a jig of delight at the tailoring bill you're going to be running up. That's the second coat you've ruined in as many days.”

He shrugged. “It doesn't matter.” He pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed at her cheek. “You've scratches all over your face. Are you certain you're all right?”

“Besides the fact that apparently my visage will be giving small children and the fastidious members of the
ton
nightmares, yes, I really am fine.”

“My lord.” Jem came up then, looking a bit worse for wear as well. He had a big scrape on his cheekbone and his livery would definitely need to be replaced. “Mrs. Hornsley sends word that she is very sorry for the trouble and would be happy to convey ye and the lady to yer destination.”

Lord Motton ran his hand through his hair. “That would certainly help—I'd like to get Miss Parker-Roth home as soon as possible—but I don't wish to leave you alone with the wrecked curricle and the horses.”

“I'll be fine, my lord. Ye can send help when ye get back to Motton House.”

Edmund raised his eyebrows. “Given Mrs. Hornsley's equipage and coachman, that could take hours, you know.”

Jem snorted. “Aye, I know.”

“I can go by myself.” Jane wasn't eager to leave Lord Motton—she still felt quite wobbly and his presence was very sustaining—but surely she could manage to sit in a barouche, especially Mrs. Hornsley's, without the viscount at her side and proceed at a snail's pace the few blocks to Motton House. “You stay and sort things out here, my lord.”

“Begging yer pardon, ma'am,” Jem said, “but I don't think that's a good notion.” The man gave Lord Motton what was obviously a Significant Look.

The viscount hesitated a moment and then nodded. “I believe Jem has the right of it, Miss Parker-Roth. It would be wisest for me to accompany you. It can't take that long to—”

“Aye, it can.”

Lord Motton and Jane both looked to see where the child's voice had come from. A young lad in livery stood patting one of Lord Motton's horses. He grinned at them. “Them old nags can't go above a walk—a slow walk. Not like these sweet goers.”

“And this would be…?” Lord Motton raised his eyebrows and looked at Jem.

“Mrs. Hornsley's page. She sent him to convey her apologies.”

“Hmm. Do you think she would lend him to us for a little while?”

“I imagine she would.” Jem turned. “Here, boy, Lord Motton wishes to speak to ye.”

“Yes, my lord?” The boy gave the horse one last pat and wandered over—reluctantly, if one judged by the number of longing looks he gave the viscount's horses.

Lord Motton smiled at him when he finally had the boy's attention. “What's your name, lad?”

“Luke, my lord.”

“Well, Luke, I have need of a quick, smart boy. Do you think you can help me?”

Luke threw back his shoulders and stood as tall as he could, which wasn't very tall. He must have been all of eight years old. “Yes, my lord. Mrs. Argle—that's Mrs. Hornsley's housekeeper—says I'm smart as a whip, and even Mrs. Hornsley says I can run like the wind.”

“Splendid. Do you think Mrs. Hornsley will lend you to me just for the time it will take you to run to Motton House and deliver a message?”

“I expect so.” He grinned, showing the big gap between his two front teeth. “She'll have ye instead, won't she?”

“Precisely. We'll make it a trade of sorts then. The message is simple—just tell Mr. Williams, my butler, that there's been an accident and he should send someone to help Jem with the horses.”

“Right.” The boy started to run off.

“Wait!” Jane couldn't believe that was all the message Lord Motton had given the boy. It was just like a man not to think of the truly important things.

“Yes, ma'am?”

“And be certain to tell Mr. Williams that the viscount and Miss Parker-Roth are fine and will be home shortly.”

Luke snorted. “Begging yer pardon, ma'am, but if yer riding with Mrs. Hornsley, ye won't be anywhere shortly.”

“Oh.”

Lord Motton chuckled. “Too true, so tell Mr. Williams we are on our way. And you may wait for us there, Luke, in the kitchen. I imagine Cook can find something for a hungry boy to eat.”

Luke's grin spread from ear to ear. “Yes, my lord, I 'spect so.” With that, he took off across the grass at an impressive pace.

Lord Motton laughed. “I wager young Master Luke wants to increase the amount of time he has to enjoy Cook's handiwork.”

Jane frowned. “Do you think Mrs. Hornsley doesn't feed him?” The boy had looked perfectly fit, but appearances could be deceiving. Mrs. Hornsley was quite elderly; perhaps she wasn't aware of a young boy's needs.

“I imagine she or the estimable Mrs. Argle is quite aware of how much a boy his age can eat. Have you forgotten what enthusiastic trenchermen your brothers were when they were young?”

She laughed. “Yes, you are right—and they can still eat me under the table; especially Nicholas, who is only twenty. Now that they are so much bigger than I am, I don't think it remarkable, but when they were boys…I did wonder where they managed to put all the food they stuffed in their gullets. They never gained an ounce, of course.”

“Of course.” He looked over at Jem. “Will you be all right? I don't like leaving you alone.”

Jane frowned. Why did Lord Motton sound so concerned? They were standing in Hyde Park in the middle of the day. Surely he didn't expect brigands or highwaymen or some other nefarious individuals to accost Jem? Why would they? They might make off with the horses, but Jem was a servant. He had nothing of his own to tempt them.

“I'll be fine, my lord.” Jem shrugged. “Should anything odd happen, well, I'll not play the hero.”

Good heavens, did Jem also think there was danger here? What was the matter with them both? Perhaps they'd gotten their heads knocked when the carriage had crashed. She examined them more carefully. They both looked unharmed.

“Good.” Lord Motton clapped Jem on the back. “I know I can rely on you. Miss Parker-Roth?” He offered her his arm. “Shall we go?”

They walked down the lawn. “You don't believe what just happened was an accident, do you?”

Lord Motton gave her a long, considered look and then shook his head. “No, I don't believe it was an accident.”

“Why?” Jane heard the strident note in her voice and took a deep breath to try again, more calmly this time. “Bad things happen, my lord. It is regrettable, but true. You can't be seeing bogeymen behind every bush.” She shrugged. “It's a wonder, with all the noise and hubbub of London, that more horses don't bolt.”

“A London horse grows immune to noisy crowds and large, unpredictable mobs, Miss Parker-Roth. My team is very well behaved under normal circumstances.”

Oh, dear. She certainly hadn't meant to insult his horses or his handling of them. “But what about that upended vegetable cart? Or those dogs? You can't say it's a regular occurrence for horses to have to dash through wayward vegetables pursued by vicious animals.”

“No, indeed. It's very unusual”—he looked ahead to where Mrs. Hornsley awaited them in her barouche—“but not unusual enough to raise suspicions.”

She let out a short, impatient breath. “Now what do you mean by that mysterious remark?”

He looked back at her. “It's not mysterious at all. If we'd been injured or even killed just now, everyone would have thought the accident merely a tragic sequence of events—a twist of fate—bad luck. No one would have suspected it was planned—the vegetable woman placed just so, the dogs let go at precisely the right moment.”

“Don't be absurd. How could that all have been planned?” She shook her head and tried to shake off the chill Lord Motton's words sent skittering down her spine. He must be wrong, because if he was right…how could someone have that much power and be capable of such careful, evil plotting?

“Satan has his fingers everywhere, Miss Parker-Roth. He has eyes and ears at every street corner and every social gathering, be it in Seven Dials or Mayfair. I think it's clear he wants us to stop looking for the pieces to Clarence's puzzle.” His face hardened. “Or he wants us to stop, period. I assure you he would not have shed a tear if we hadn't survived our little adventure just now.”

Jane kept herself—just barely—from looking over her shoulder. Soon she'd be imagining the trees and bushes had eyes. Lord Motton was wrong—he had to be. “I still think you are jousting at shadows.”

He stopped, so she had to stop as well. “Do not take this lightly. I've dealt with Satan's handiwork for years. He is very clever and very dangerous. I'd wager he was behind all the problems we encountered going to and from the gallery—the reckless drivers, the toppled carts, our final crash—as well as the near collision with the dandy-horse yesterday.”

“Oh.” What was she supposed to say to that? Panic was settling into her chest. The viscount must be wrong. This was London, not the wilds of America. Certainly there was crime, but not such organized lawlessness. But he looked so dead serious. She glanced away—and saw Mrs. Hornsley waving from the barouche.

“I think Mrs. Hornsley is becoming impatient, my lord.”

“What? Ah, I see.” He waved back. “We should not keep her waiting.”

“Yes, I would prefer not to walk back to Motton House.”

Lord Motton snorted. “You might arrive sooner if you did, and with less aggravation.”

“What? You don't find Mrs. Hornsley congenial company?”

Lord Motton gave her a look and paused just out of the woman's hearing. “I'm serious about the danger, Miss Parker-Roth. Do not take the risk lightly.”

“I don't suppose I'll be able to, with you throwing the long shadow of doom over me.”

“Lord Motton, Miss Parker-Roth, do come along,” Mrs. Hornsley called. “Lady Snuggles wants her tea.”

“Her tea?”

Jane choked back a giggle. “Mrs. Hornsley drinks the tea; the dog eats the cakes—off the good china.”

“Good God.” Lord Motton smiled at the elderly woman when they reached the carriage. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Hornsley.”

“Good afternoon, my lord.” Dear heavens, the woman was batting her eyelashes at the viscount. “I hope you don't mind letting yourself in. Usually my page would do the honor”—she frowned—“but he's gone missing.”

“I'm afraid we borrowed him, ma'am. I needed a good, quick lad to take the message to Motton House that my tiger needs help with my horses. I hope you don't mind terribly.” He gave her a blinding smile and opened the door to the carriage, folding down the stairs and helping Jane in. “I offer myself as his replacement until you can collect him at my home.”

“Oh, well, I suppose we can make due.” Mrs. Hornsley fluttered her eyelashes so furiously, Jane was sure she felt a breeze. “What do you think, Snuggy?”

Lady Snuggles barked what Jane assumed was her agreement as the viscount vaulted into the barouche and shut the door. The carriage lurched into motion.

“You know, my lord, you were driving far too quickly just now.” Mrs. Hornsley tapped Lord Motton playfully with her fan. “You gave my poor coachman quite the start.”

“My abject apologies, Lady Hornsley. I certainly did not mean to startle anyone.”

Mrs. Hornsley shook her head, setting the assortment of plumes in her rather garish bonnet swaying. It looked as if she were hosting an ostrich soiree on her head. It was a very good thing the woman had a dog and not a cat, Jane thought, or she'd have a feline amongst the feathers. And few cats would let themselves be forced into the ridiculous outfit Lady Snuggles was wearing—a pistachio coat and tiny bonnet to match her mistress's.

“You young men, always showing off with your fast carriages!” Mrs. Hornsley tittered. “Why, even my dear departed husband was known to ‘spring 'em' on occasion.”

Mrs. Hornsley was fond of attributing all sorts of interesting behavior to her deceased spouse, and since the man had shuffled off this mortal coil close to fifty years earlier, few members of the
ton
could dispute her. Frankly, more than one person doubted the gentleman had ever existed.

“Lord Motton did not intentionally drive so recklessly, Mrs. Hornsley,” Jane said. “His team was chased by two large, vicious dogs.”

“Really?” Mrs. Hornsley blinked at her, smiled vaguely, and then returned her attention to the viscount. “Your valet will not be very pleased with you, sir.” She tapped him again with her fan. “Your coat is much the worse for wear.”

“Yes, well, my curricle did end up in pieces.”

“Oh, you poor thing. Mr. Hornsley was so unhappy if one of his carriages got even the smallest scratch. You must be in a terrible fit of the dismals.” She patted him on his knee. “How can we cheer up Lord Motton, Snuggy?”