The Naked Viscount (17 page)

Well! Jane glanced at Edmund; he was being remarkably stoic about Mrs. Hornsley's attentions, though she thought he did look slightly nauseated. She might have been a seat cushion for all the notice Mrs. Hornsley paid her.

She turned to Lady Snuggles. The stupid poodle pulled back her lips, showed her teeth, and then turned away, giving Jane the cold shoulder like her mistress.

All right. She could take a hint. She would observe the people passing on the walkway. The damn carriage was moving so slowly, she could have a conversation with any one of them if she so desired.

Hmm. That man with the large nose. Hadn't she seen him outside the gallery today? And the fellow with the hideous waistcoat…wasn't he the driver of that high-perch phaeton that had almost hit them pulling out of Brook Street? She should ask Lord Motton.

She turned to get his attention, but he was too busy listening to Mrs. Hornsley. And when she turned back, the men were gone.

She was letting her imagination run away with her. The curricle crash had shaken her, that was all, and then Lord Motton had done his best to frighten her with his tales of Satan. She would have a nice bracing cup of tea when she got back to Motton House and all would be well.

“Here we are. So nice to have had the chance to visit with you, my lord.” Mrs. Hornsley waved her fan in front of her face instead of using it to hit Lord Motton as the barouche rocked to a stop. “Quite takes me back to my salad days, having a handsome young man to converse with.”

“It was a pleasure, ma'am.” Lord Motton let himself out of the carriage and extended his hand to assist Jane. “Thank you again for conveying us home.”

“You're quite welcome.” Mrs. Hornsley shifted back and forth so Jane's departure wouldn't block her view of the viscount. “Any time—though of course I hope you don't find yourself in such a situation again.”

Jane reached the pavement and turned to try to bid farewell to Mrs. Hornsley. “I add my thanks to Lord Motton's, ma'am.”

Mrs. Hornsley smiled vaguely in her direction. “Yes, well…” She turned back to the viscount. “We will have to chat again, my lord. Oh, and Lady Snuggles wishes to say adieu as well.” She picked up the poodle's paw and made the stupid dog wave.

Lord Motton nodded and took Jane's arm as Luke came bounding out of Motton House. “Ah, and here is your valiant page. I hope Cook treated you well, Luke?”

“Aye, she did, my lord. Thankee.” He hopped up on his perch, grinning.

“Good day, then.” The viscount stepped back so the coachman could put the barouche in motion.

As the carriage pulled away, Lady Snuggles, her ridiculous bonnet askew, looked back over Mrs. Hornsley's shoulder. Jane couldn't resist. She wrinkled her nose and bared her teeth—and caused Lady Snuggles to so forget herself as to bark and lunge.

Lord Motton raised his eyebrows. “Wasn't that a little childish, Miss Parker-Roth?”

“Yes, it was, and I don't regret it. You probably didn't notice, but Mrs. Hornsley ignored me completely.”

“Believe me, I noticed and thought you very fortunate. I'm sure I'll have a bruise on my knee from her blasted fan.”

Someone cleared his throat and they looked over to see Williams standing in the open doorway.

“Yes, Williams? What is it?”

Mr. Williams stepped aside as Motton led Jane into the house. “My lord, the ladies are anxiously awaiting your and Miss Parker-Roth's arrival in the drawing room. They were quite distressed when the Young Person arrived to say there had been an Accident.”

“Williams, I don't want to be fussed over by the aunts.”

“They have been waiting most impatiently, my lord”—Williams looked at Jane—“as has Mrs. Parker-Roth.”

“Then I imagine there's no escaping?”

“I think not, my lord.”

The question was moot. The drawing room door flew open, and Aunt Winifred and Jane's mother came rushing toward them.

“What 'appened to you, matey?” Theo, perched as usual on Winifred's shoulder, examined Motton from one eye and then the other.

“You look a complete mess,” Aunt Winifred said.

“Are you all right?” Mrs. Parker-Roth looked worriedly from him to her daughter.

Aunt Winifred and Theo had given him the perfect excuse to avoid the aunts. “We had a slight accident with my curricle. We are both perfectly fine, but, as you can see, our raiment is in serious disrepair, certainly not appropriate for the drawing room. If you'll excuse us?”

“Absolutely not.” Winifred stood solidly in front of the stairs.

“Jane, you have scratches on your face.” Mrs. Parker-Roth stepped closer to her daughter. “Are you certain you're all right?”

“Yes, Mama. They are only scratches, truly.”

“Brandy, that's wot they needs.” Theo bobbed emphatically up and down. “Whisky. Blue ruin.”

“How about a nice cup of tea,” Aunt Winifred said, “and a few biscuits and cakes?”

“Biscuits?” Theo stretched to his full height. “Theo likes biscuits.”

“And I'm sure Cook has plenty, though not as many as she had before Luke came by.”

“You met Luke?” Motton asked. Why would the ladies have encountered Mrs. Hornsley's page? He should have gone straight to the kitchens.

“Indeed we did. Cecilia and I were going for a little stroll when we saw him run up.”

“I see.” Why the hell were Aunt Winifred and Mrs. Parker-Roth going out for a stroll together? Planning his wedding to Jane, no doubt.

“He was clearly a boy with an important errand,” Mrs. Parker-Roth said. “So we helped him find Mr. Williams and deliver his message; then we sat with him in the kitchen while he recovered his energy.”

“Cecilia was very good at drawing the boy out, you know.”

“Well, Winifred, I do have six children.” Mrs. Parker-Roth smiled. “Boys can be a little harder than girls to pry information from—I mean, to talk to—but if you go about it the right way, you can usually discover what you need to know.”

Poor Luke. Motton had had no idea what a trial he'd sent the boy to. But perhaps the lad hadn't minded. He must have made serious inroads on Cook's sweets.

“Luke is quite a bright young boy, my lord,” Mrs. Parker-Roth said. “I doubt his skills are fully utilized in the Hornsley household. An inquisitive lad can get into trouble if he's bored, you know.”

Aunt Winifred nodded. “Indeed. Idle hands are the devil's workshop.”

What did the ladies want him to do? Hire Luke away from Mrs. Hornsley? Given her behavior this afternoon, he was afraid the woman would be all too happy to discuss the issue. He'd be lucky if all that got bruised on his person was his knee. “I—”

“When are you going to bring those two in here?” Aunt Gertrude called from the drawing room door.

“Oh, that's right. The other aunts are waiting. Come along.” Aunt Winifred gestured for him to follow her.

“We didn't mean to keep you standing in the entry, especially when you've had such a shock.” Mrs. Parker-Roth put her arm around Jane. “Come in and be comfortable.”

“I'm fine, Mama. I really would like to go up to my room, have a bath, and rest.”

“First a cup of tea, dear.”

Motton eyed the door to his study longingly as they passed it. He could reasonably take refuge there, pleading business—he certainly had letters from his estate manager to answer—but it would be cowardly to throw poor Miss Parker-Roth to the aunties. Cowardly and unwise. The aunts would politely tear her limb from limb, extracting every detail of their outing—including exactly what they were doing while Mrs. Parker-Roth was in the gallery—if he wasn't there to prevent it.

The aunts were almost sitting on the edge of their chairs when they entered the drawing room. Unfortunately, all the pets were elsewhere—he suspected that shortly he'd be eager for a lively distraction or two.

“Sit here, Miss Parker-Roth”—Aunt Winifred indicated a red striped chair in the center of the room—“and I'll get you some tea and a biscuit or two.”

Mrs. Parker-Roth chose the seat closest to Jane. Aunt Winifred, after depositing Theo on the back of a vacant wing chair and getting Jane her tea, chose to share the settee with Aunt Gertrude—leaving the only unoccupied chair the one whose back was occupied by Theo.

“Do sit, Edmund.” Aunt Winifred smiled at him. “I know you don't mind Theo.”

“Thank you, Aunt, but I prefer to stand.”

“You look like you should sit,” Gertrude said. “You're a mess. What happened to your coat, for God's sake?”

“I'm surprised you're in the drawing room in all your dirt, sir.” Aunt Louisa frowned at him. “It is not what I am used to.”

“I'm quite aware of that. Miss Parker-Roth and I both wished to retire to our rooms and make ourselves more presentable, but we were advised that our presence was required here.”

“And it is,” Gertrude said. “Don't be silly, Louisa.”

Louisa sniffed and sat back while Dorothea muffled a snigger. Gertrude shot them both a glare and then turned to Miss Parker-Roth, damn it. Gertrude knew she'd much better odds at getting information from Jane than from him. “Do tell us what happened, dear.”

Surely Jane wouldn't do that? At the moment she was gripping her teacup and a biscuit, looking warily back at Aunt Gertrude.

Mrs. Parker-Roth leaned forward to touch Jane's knee. “I was worried, Jane. I stopped by the gallery to look for you. Mr. Bollingbrook said you'd been there. Where did you go?”

Damn. Jane flushed scarlet, looking guilty as hell, and stuffed the biscuit in her mouth.

All the feminine eyebrows in the room—except Jane's, of course—shot up, and all heads swiveled as one to stare at him.

“Yer in big trouble, matey.”

Leave it to Theo to state the obvious. Of course, he
was
a parrot. Deep insight was not part of his makeup.

Mrs. Parker-Roth's brows snapped back down into a scowl; he had to squelch the involuntary urge to protect his privates. The woman would not attack him in his own home—or at least not with witnesses—would she?

Whom was he fooling? All these women would support Jane's mother. He stepped behind the vacant wing chair. Theo moved over to give him room.

Aunt Winifred was smirking, damn it.

“We went for a drive,” he said. “It's such a fine day, it seemed a shame to spend it all inside.” Thank God the weather was pleasant—he'd be hard-pressed to come up with another excuse.

Mrs. Parker-Roth's scowl relaxed slightly. She obviously suspected there was more to the story, but she was willing to accept his explanation for now. Her children may have sharpened her ability to detect verbal evasiveness, but he'd had years of practice perfecting his technique.

“But how did you lose control of your team?” Winifred asked. “Luke said you came tearing down the carriage-way at Mrs. Hornsley's barouche as if you were being chased by demons.”

“We were.” Jane had managed to swallow her biscuit and take a sip of tea. “Two vicious dogs attacked the carriage on Oxford Street. Lord Motton should be commended for his handling of his horses. We could have ended up…we might have…we almost…” Her tea cup rattled in her saucer and she put it down quickly on a side table. “If Lord Motton hadn't been so skilled, we might have crashed in the traffic on Oxford Street and been trampled.”

Blast. Jane was now white as a sheet. She'd been so brave all day—hiding in the closet, riding in a runaway carriage, facing his aunts—of course it would all catch up to her eventually.

“Jane, dear, perhaps you would like a sip of brandy,” Mrs. Parker-Roth said.

Brandy was all very well. He would like a glass of the stuff himself—hell, he'd like a bath of it—but what Jane needed was a little peace. He stepped over and touched her arm.

“Would you like to retire now, Miss Parker-Roth?”

She looked up at him—the poor girl appeared to be completely exhausted—and smiled. “Yes, thank you.”

He helped her rise. “If you'll excuse us, ladies?”

“Huzzah!” Theo squawked as Edmund opened the door for Jane. “You show 'em, matey.”

“Is there anything more ye'll be needing tonight, Miss Jane?”

Jane could tell Lily's fingers were itching to braid her hair, but it was still a little damp. “No, Lily, thank you.”

“Are ye
sure
ye don't want me to do yer hair?”

“Yes, I'm sure. I hate going to bed with it damp—it will dry better loose.” Jane looked at herself in the dressing-table mirror. Most of her scratches had already faded; if the one on her forehead was still noticeable by tomorrow night, Lily could dress her hair in a slightly different style to cover it. And if she went out during the day, her bonnet would conceal the problem.

If she went out…She glanced at the door connecting her room to Lord Motton's. Hmm. Where would the next piece of Clarence's puzzle take her? There was no time to waste…

Lily frowned at her in the mirror. “Ye'll be a disaster in the morning if ye don't do something with yer hair now, ye know.”

“I'll braid it myself when it's dry.” Was Lord Motton in his room? Lily would know—but Jane couldn't ask. She didn't want Lily speculating as to why she was interested in the viscount's whereabouts.

Lily headed for the door, muttering “tangled mess” and “knotted past saving” and “scissors.”

“Lily?”

The maid stopped with her hand on the doorknob. “Yes, miss?” Her face lit up—she must think Jane had reconsidered the braiding issue.

Jane hated to disappoint her, but she hated the notion of damp hair more. “Did everyone else go to Lord Fonsby's musical evening?”

Lily's face collapsed into a scowl. “Yes, miss, they did.”

Ah. She bit her lip so she wouldn't grin. She could slip into Lord Motton's room while he was out and see if she could find the part of Clarence's sketch they'd discovered at the gallery today. She'd been too exhausted when they'd got home to discuss it with him. After they'd left the drawing room, she'd taken a nap. Then Mama had come up with a dinner tray and had tried to pry information out of her. She thought she'd managed moderately well—she hadn't told Mama anything incriminating and Mama had been somewhat appeased, at least enough to leave her in peace and let Lily help her with her bath. Now she was in her nightgown, ready for bed. But first she had a little poking around to do. She'd—

“The ladies, that is. Lord Motton stayed home.”

Damn.
“I suppose he must be tired from our adventures.” He should be. He'd had the physical and mental strain of handling his runaway team. “He's gone to bed, has he?”

“Oh, nay. He only stopped in his room to change his coat after he saw ye to yer door. He's been too busy to rest. Had his dinner on a tray in his study, poor man. He's still there, I expect.”

“Ah.” She tried to sound properly sympathetic while her gut was doing the fandango. Hurrah! If she was quick about it—and stayed alert—she should be able to search the man's room. He'd put the sketch in the pocket of his coat, hadn't he? If she was lucky, he hadn't yet removed it. Or if he had, he hadn't had much time to hide it. “I hope he finishes his tasks”—
but not too quickly
—“and can get some rest.”
When I'm finished looking around.

“Aye.” Lily nodded. “Ye know, yer mama thinks his lordship would be a good match for ye.”

Oh, Lord. She did not need to listen to this, though how was she going to free herself? Lily had a determined, almost mulish, expression.

And she would
not
look at the door to Lord Motton's room. Lily would notice. But she didn't have all night to listen to a lecture. The clock was ticking. The viscount might come upstairs at any minute. “At this point, Mama thinks almost anyone in breeches is a good match for me.”

Lily nodded. “And she's right.”

“Lily! I am not that desperate.”

“Well, ye should be. Yer not getting any younger. Each year yer just that much older than the new crop of girls.”

“Those debutantes look like children. Reasonable men can't be interested in them.” Though many men married those young girls each year.

Surely she hadn't appeared that young when she was seventeen? She examined her face in the mirror again. And she didn't look old now…did she?

“Year after next Juliana makes her come-out,” Lily said.

“No, Juliana is only…” Good God, surely her little sister wasn't…

“Aye. She's fifteen. And Lucy, the baby, is thirteen. Are ye still going to be a spinster when Lucy comes to Town?” Lily snorted. “Ye can chaperone Juliana and Lucy and save yer mama dragging herself to all the social events.”

Damn. She did not want to sit with the chaperones. “Well, that's four years away. A lot can happen in four years.”

“Not much has happened in the last eight, has it? Yer still as virginal as ye were when ye were seventeen. And if ye don't bestir yourself, ye'll die a virgin.” With that pronouncement, Lily left, slamming the door behind her.

Well. There was nothing the matter with being a virgin. John would let her stay at the Priory once Mama and Da passed on. It was large enough she could stay out of John's way—and his wife's way, if he ever had a wife. Perhaps something interesting
would
happen at Lord Tynweith's house party.

Why couldn't Mama focus solely on John, at least until she got him into parson's mousetrap? She should want Jane to stay single, so Jane could be her companion in her old age.

Gaa! Jane wrinkled her nose at herself in the mirror. Da was Mama's companion, and she hoped that wouldn't change anytime soon. When—if—something happened to Da, she couldn't imagine Mama wanting her permanently underfoot. Nor did she want to be the spinster aunt to her siblings' children.

And did she want to be a virgin forever?

She might have said yes once. The mechanics of deflowering sounded painful and messy, and no gentleman had ever made her doubt that assessment—except Lord Motton. And their encounters in the last few days…

What was she thinking? She had a puzzle to solve, and, if she wasn't very alert, she'd wager Lord Motton would cut her out of the search in the misguided notion he should protect her from the danger he saw around every corner. She'd best get into his room and see if she could find that new piece of Clarence's sketch. She only hoped the man hadn't taken it downstairs with him.

She snuffed all her candles and cracked open the door to the viscount's bedroom. Then she held her breath and listened. It would be beyond embarrassing if she walked in on his valet.

She didn't hear a thing. Either the room was empty or Mr. Eldon moved as quietly as a ghost.

She
would move as quietly as a ghost. She opened the door farther—thank God the viscount kept the hinges well-oiled—and slipped through.

She was in a dressing room area. There was a clothespress to her right, a wardrobe to her left, a small table, and a chair with Lord Motton's damaged coat thrown over it.

She pounced on the coat. Could this really be so easy? Mr. Eldon must be busy elsewhere, or ill—she wasn't questioning God's grace here—because surely otherwise he would have dealt with this ruined garment immediately. She didn't know him well, of course, but she couldn't imagine the viscount keeping a valet who was incompetent or inefficient.

She shook out the coat. It weighed down her hands. Mmm. It still held the viscount's scent—eau de cologne, linen, leather, and…man. Edmund. She closed her eyes and buried her face in it. She'd had her cheek pressed against this cloth all those minutes they'd been hiding from Mama and Mr. Bollingbrook in the gallery closet. She'd felt so secure then, so protected. It had been more than a physical sensation, though it had been very physical, too. Edmund had been so hard and big—she flushed. His body—
all
his body—was so much harder and bigger than hers.

He wasn't noticeably larger or stronger than John or Stephen or Nicholas, but the sense of safety he gave her was so different. Her brothers would guard her from harm—at least, she thought they would—but…well, there was an…excitement with Edmund. Being pressed up against one of her brothers in a closet would have been very annoying. She would have been scrambling to put more space between them—and she surely wouldn't be sniffing their dirty old coats afterward.

And she should not be sniffing Lord Motton's. He could be on his way upstairs even now. She did not have an unlimited amount of time to find the newest part of Clarence's sketch.

She searched all the pockets quickly and then again, more carefully. Nothing. They were completely empty. Damn. The viscount must have taken the paper out and put it somewhere else. Where? Perhaps he'd hidden it amongst his socks.

There was something rather intimate about going through a man's clothes.

She looked in the wardrobe and clothespress, pushing breeches and coats aside, lifting socks and shirts, cravats and waistcoats and—she blushed and put that particular stack of clothing down. Nothing. Where else might he hide a scrap of paper quickly? He hadn't had much time. Lily had said he'd just taken off his coat and then had gone back downstairs.

She peered around the door to the bedchamber proper. Hmm. The desk was the most obvious place to look. Too obvious? Perhaps, but she'd start there and then move on to the drawers of his cabinets and the bedside table. She might get lucky. After all, he was in his own home. He had his men guarding the place. He must feel secure, maybe secure enough not to go to great lengths to hide something. The paper might even be lying on the desktop.

It wasn't. Jane slid into the desk chair. She shivered. This was where Edmund sat to write at least some of his correspondence—perhaps his private letters. Whom did he write to? He had no parents, no siblings. Did he have friends with whom he shared the events of his days, his thoughts? Did he perhaps keep a journal?

He didn't keep a terribly neat desk, though. The surface was gritty—he must have sanded a letter and not cleaned up properly afterward. She brushed the residue into a basket and opened a drawer. Paper. Could he have hidden the sketch here? She ruffled through the sheets—nothing. She opened another drawer—penknife, quills, sand, blotting paper, sealing wax, magnifying glass—nothing of interest here either.

She peered in every drawer, even the very small ones, and looked in every nook and cranny. She found a few balled-up bits of paper, some stray blobs of sealing wax, a broken stub of a pencil, and lots of dust.

There was no sign of a journal; no letters to answer; no bundle of missives saved to be reread. The desk was completely impersonal. Why even have a desk in your room if you were going to ignore it like this? The man must do all his correspondence in his study.

She sighed and got up. Perhaps he'd stuck the paper in one of the drawers of the cabinet in the corner. She looked there and in the pages of some books on a shelf. No scrap of paper. Where in the world had the man hidden it? Could he have just put it in the pocket of his new coat? She'd look in the drawer of his bedside table and then she would have to give up in defeat. Surely Lord Motton was planning to share the drawing with her anyway, wasn't he? He wouldn't really cut her out of the hunt.

She didn't believe that for a moment. If his silly male brain thought keeping her in the dark would protect her, that's exactly what he would do.

She pulled open the drawer by his bed. It made a scraping sound…

Wait. Had that sound come from the drawer or from…?

She whirled around. Damn! The doorknob on the door to the corridor was turning. In a second someone else would be in the room. She had to hide, but where?

The door was opening. Her time was up. She had only one choice.

She dove under Lord Motton's bed.

“My lord, you should have come up hours ago.” That was Mr. Eldon's voice. Jane heard him sniff. “I regret to inform you that you…ahem…stink.”

“I was hoping that might keep you and other people from interrupting me.” Lord Motton's voice sounded muffled, almost as if he were taking off his shirt.

There was more commotion from the direction of the door. Then a procession of feet passed by her hiding place, stopping on the hearth. A copper slipper tub appeared with a dull thud and then there was the sound of water splashing.

“My lord, it is my duty—my pleasure—to serve you even when you smell like a pig.”

“Oh, surely I'm not
that
ripe, Eldon,” Lord Motton said as the footmen departed and he moved to the chair by the fire. “Though I suppose my feet might be. Help me off with my boots and then you can go to sweeter-smelling climes.”

“Very funny, my lord.” Mr. Eldon's hands appeared and grasped Lord Motton's right boot. They yanked it off and moved to the other. A heavy, musty smell wafted Jane's way. She pinched her nose closed. “Of course I will stay to assist you with your bath.”

Lord Motton's fingers made short work of his stockings. “You will not. I can bathe myself, you know.”

“I do not know. I'm sure your back was wrenched in the accident.”

“Why the hell do you think that?” Lord Motton stood. He had blunt, strong-looking feet.

“It might have been. You should have come up right away and soaked it. I will have Cook prepare—”

Lord Motton's breeches dropped to cover his feet. He stepped out of them, and his hand swooped down to scoop them up. It sounded as if he threw them at Mr. Eldon.

“You'll get your sorry arse out of here, Eldon. I do not want you fussing around me like my old nurse.”

“Now, my lord—”

“Now, Eldon, if you have this sudden desire to put your hands on my naked person, you can just walk out that door and keep going.”

“My lord! Of course, I have no desire…that is not my intent at all…I merely wished to…how can you imagine—”