The Naked Viscount (22 page)

It was two flights down to the outside door. They made it safely down the first flight, but as they reached the small landing before the second, they encountered two of Griffin's burly servants hauling a big, open vat of some liquid. It looked and smelled like ale but with something pungent added. A third servant, who seemed to be supervising the first two, carried a large, ornate chalice. He rested the chalice on his hip and glared at them. “The initiation's upstairs.”

Bloody hell, this wasn't just a servant, it was Helton—Beelzebub himself. “Initiation?” He'd try his Scots accent instead of the French—perhaps that would confuse them if the man upstairs and Helton compared notes. “We're nae here for any initiation.” He pulled Jane forward, pushing her ahead of him so she could make a dash for freedom. The odds weren't horrible. Three to one, yes, but two were burdened by the vat.

He wrapped the chain around his hand, hidden in his robe. Flight would be preferable to confrontation, but if flight wasn't possible, he'd best be prepared.

Helton looked him over. “You're dressed for the initiation.”

“That's a mistake.” He shrugged, smiling in a conciliatory fashion, he hoped. He wished Jane would keep going. He gave her a nudge, but she didn't move. “These are the only costumes I could get—I just found out about the party today.”

Helton grinned in a most unpleasant fashion. “Oh, well, a mistake. My master won't mind as long as he has someone. Come on.”

“Nay. I”—Motton gestured toward Jane—“we have another appointment.” He waggled his eyebrows. “If ye know what I mean.”

Helton narrowed his eyes. “I don't give rat shit about your appointment. More to the point, my master will make me eat rat shit if I don't give him someone to initiate. You're coming with me now.”

Everything happened in a blur then. Helton grabbed Jane's arm and jerked her across his body, but she stumbled and fell heavily against him. He screamed and let her go. She caught the side of the vat as she tumbled toward the floor, tipping it and splashing the brew all over.

Motton didn't need an engraved invitation to take advantage of this situation. He swung his chain, hitting Helton square in the head. The man went down like an oak—and Motton saw the knife he'd given Jane protruding from his side.

“Good girl.” He yanked it out and turned to the servants, but they'd already decided the situation was far beyond their duties. They'd dropped the vat, squeezed past the bodies on the floor, and bolted down the stairs as if all the hordes of hell were after them—which they probably would be once Satan got wind of what had just happened.

He folded the knife up, stuck it in his pocket, and stooped down next to Jane. She was a bedraggled mess, reeking of Satan's brew. “Are you all right?”

She pushed her hair out of her face. Her hood had fallen back, but surprisingly her mask had stayed on. “Yes, I think so. My elbow and ars—er, seat—are sore, and I hope there was nothing poisonous in this liquid because I swallowed a mouthful, but other than that, I think I'm fine.” She frowned and peered over at Helton. “How is he? I didn't k—kill him, did I?”

“No, more's the pity. He—” Motton heard the door at the top of the stairs open and someone—several someones—come into the stairwell.

“Bloody hell!” some man shouted—probably the man plagued with intestinal problems. “Satan will string me up by my bollocks if I've lost those two. Do you suppose they went this way?”

“You'd think Helton would have run into them if they had,” someone else said. “But I guess we'd better look.”

Motton grabbed Jane's hand and breathed by her ear, “Come on, and be as quiet as you can.”

She nodded. He dropped her hood back over her head and started swiftly and silently down the stairs. It didn't hurt that the fellows looking for them were making so much noise he could have set off a rocket and not been heard.

They reached the door—and heard shouts up above. The men had found Helton, and even these idiots would be able to deduce where his attackers had fled. There weren't that many options. They had only seconds left.

They slipped outside. “Ooo.” Jane put her hand to her head. “I feel so odd.”

“It's probably the cooler air. Just hold on a little longer. We're almost out of danger.” At least, he hoped they were. Perhaps they could hide in the foliage, get rid of the robes, and try to leave undetected after the first wave of searchers went by, but it looked as if there wasn't much greenery and Jane was beginning to look rather green herself.

“Ohh.” She moaned again and started rubbing her chest. Hmm. Not rubbing so much as…fondling. What
was
the matter with her?

They had best leave immediately. He looked around. Ah, thank God. Luck had smiled on them. They were right by the gate to the alley where Jem waited with the coach.

He grasped her hand again and ran. They crossed a small gravel yard and darted out the gate. Jem was ready; the carriage rolled slowly toward them. Motton jerked open the door, grabbed Jane around the waist, threw her inside, and vaulted in after her, slamming the door shut the moment his feet cleared the opening. Jem picked up the horses' pace so by the time the servants' door opened again, the carriage was already turning out of the alley.

“Damn, that was close, but I think we're safe now.” He pushed himself off the floor onto one of the seats, and then took Jane's hand to help her up. He tugged—and she flew into his lap.

He hadn't thought he'd pulled that hard. “Sorry, I didn't mean to—”

Her mouth came down on his, and her hands tore at his robe. She shifted on his lap as though she wanted to climb into his skin. What was this all about? Not that he didn't appreciate her enthusiasm; it just felt too much like desperation.

He flinched. If she wasn't a bit more careful, he wouldn't be able to help her at all. Her knee had been much too close to a very sensitive part of his anatomy.

He took firm hold of her shoulders and pushed her back far enough that he could speak. “What's wrong, Jane?”

She was panting; she struggled against his hold, trying to plaster herself against him again. “I need you. Now. Inside me. Can't wait.”

His cock, already quite interested in the proceedings, snapped to full attention. “Er, yes, well, I'm delighted you are so, ah, enthusiastic, and I would be even more delighted to assist you, but wouldn't it be better to wait until we are home? We should be at Motton House in just a few minutes.”

She tried to lurch toward him again. “No. I can't wait another moment.”

Good God, she was almost wailing. Something was definitely amiss. What? She'd been fine until…oh, God. “How much of Satan's drink did you swallow?”

“I don't know. Why are you talking about that? Why are you talking at all? Get your clothes off.”

His cock was pleading with him to follow Jane's orders. He couldn't very well decline, could he? She was obviously in a very bad way.

He wasn't normally one for copulating in exotic locations, and while a carriage might not be that unusual, he'd never tried it. He'd never seen the point. A bed was so much more comfortable. But Jane couldn't wait for a bed.

“Ohh, I'm so hot.” She was actually moaning. “My skin is burning. The place you were last night is hot and swollen and so wet.” She fidgeted on his lap, bouncing a little. “I need you now. Please?”

Well, there was a first time for everything. “All right, but I have to tell Jem not to go to Motton House.” That would be awkward, having Jem open the door as they were in the midst of a passionate encounter. “Can you keep quiet while I speak to him?” He would rather not give Jem a crystal clear idea of what activity they were engaged in.

“Yes, but make it quick.”

“It will only take a moment.” He knocked on the roof, and Jem slowed the carriage. Motton detached himself from Jane long enough to lean out the door.

“Miss Parker-Roth and I need to discuss a few matters, Jem. Drive around Town until I give you the signal to proceed to Motton House, will you?”

“We're almost there, my lord.”

“Yes, I know, but it can't be helped.” Did he hear another moan coming from the interior of the carriage? Surely there was too much noise outside for Jem to hear it.

“Very well, my lord. As ye wish.”

“Splendid.” He'd swear he heard the sound of fabric tearing behind him. “Carry on, then.” He closed the door and turned around.

Good God. Jane was sprawled on the squabs, completely naked, legs spread wide, hands rubbing her breasts. He had never seen a more beautiful, more wanton sight. “How did you get your clothes off?”

“Quickly.” She moistened her lips and ran one hand down her body. She wasn't going to touch herself, was she?

She was. She ran her fingers over herself and then held her hand out to him. “My skin is so hot, and I'm so wet.”

“Er.” He struggled out of his robe as quickly as he could.

“Get your pants off.” She drew her damp fingers slowly over her belly and then played with the curly patch of hair between her legs. “If I do it, you'll lose all your buttons.”

“Uh, huh.” He was having trouble with his buttons as well. He fumbled with them, opened his fall and jerked his breeches down.

“Yes!” Jane launched herself at him, knocking him back to sit down abruptly on the other seat. Then she straddled him, grasped his cock, and lowered herself onto him. “Yess.”

She rested her head on his shoulder for a moment. He stroked the sides of her breasts. Her skin
was
hot; she was like a little furnace.

He waited; he would let her take the lead. The aphrodisiac in Satan's brew was driving her, not her own desires, and he didn't want to make her do anything she might regret—or blame him for.

Thank God they'd gotten away safely. To think of sweet Jane forced to be like this with all those other men—

“Oh.” She rocked back and forth. “Oh.”

“What is it?” He rubbed his thumbs over her nipples, and she sucked in her breath, arching her back. Then she dropped her head back to his shoulder.

“I don't know what to do.” He heard the frustration in her voice. “I don't know how to make the ache stop.” She rocked her hips again. “Help me.”

He slid his hands to her hips. “Rub yourself up and down on me, Jane. Like this.” He lifted her hips, and then pressed them back down. Up and down. Up and down. “Ah.”

“Find your own rhythm now.”

“Yes.” She rose and fell, head back, hair streaming over her shoulders. She was beautiful, and her tight, wet passage felt wonderful sliding over his cock. He'd almost reached the point of release—but she hadn't.

“Ohh. I can't…why won't…”

“Shh. Here, let me.” He grabbed her hips to stop her increasingly frantic motion. Then he touched the small, sensitive place just in front of her opening.

“Oh!” She looked at him. She was panting, desperation yet hope in her eyes. “Oh.”

He smiled and rubbed his thumb lightly, teasingly, over the hard little nub.

She panted faster and squirmed, making little breathy, needy noises that got higher and higher. He thrust up sharply with his hips, pressed with his thumb—and she stiffened and screamed. He felt her body contract around his cock as he poured his seed into her.

“Oh.” She collapsed, sweaty, boneless, into his arms.

“Better?” He ran his hand down her back.

“Mmm.” She kissed his jaw. “Much better.”

They lay that way for a few moments. He listened to the clop of the horses' hooves, the rattle of the carriage wheels. He should tell Jem to turn for home. He would in a minute.

Or maybe he wouldn't. Jane was fidgeting…

“Again.” She sat up. “I need to do it all again.”

Jane hunched over her teacup and breathed in the fragrant steam. Her head throbbed, her brain felt cloudy, and her mouth tasted evil, like cheese someone had forgotten and left sitting in the sun for days.

Last night hadn't really happened, had it?

Ohh. She squeezed her eyes closed. It must have. The place between her legs was so sore. And the memories…Some were hazy, but many were startlingly clear. She'd begged him to take her again and again, and he had—on his lap, on her back, from behind, with his mouth, with his fingers.

What must Edmund think of her? Thank God her mother and the other ladies were off visiting by the time she finally dragged herself out of her room and down to Edmund's study. She must have “jezebel” written all over her.

She took a sip of tea in the hopes it would quiet her stomach and help the pounding in her head. Where was Edmund? He'd told Lily he wished to see her, but he wasn't here—something she was quite thankful for. How could she bear to face him? But she would have to face him—she was living in his house.

Ohh. She put down her teacup and rubbed her temples. He had been so kind to her in the carriage; he could have been rough and demanding, but he'd been as thoughtful and gentle as possible in the circumstances. If she'd been forced to drink that nasty stuff in Lord Griffin's ceremonial chamber—

She swallowed quickly and pressed her hands over her eyes. No, she couldn't think about what would have happened then. It was far too horrifying. She'd never have—

“Are you all right?”

“Eek!” Jane screamed and threw up her hands, almost knocking over her teacup and the teapot.

“Sorry,” Edmund said. “I thought you heard me come in.”

“No.” She glanced up at him and then dropped her head back into her hands. “I, ah, d—didn't.”

He'd never seen Jane so despondent. During this whole crazy situation, she'd been determined, optimistic, energetic.

She'd certainly been energetic in the carriage last night. He grinned. He'd tried to rise to the occasion, but by the fourth time, he couldn't rise at all. She'd worn him out.

The damn aphrodisiac hadn't made her ill, had it? “
Are
you all right?”

She shook her head, keeping it buried in her hands. “I'm so m—mortified.” She sniffed twice and then burst into tears.

“Jane.” He'd swear he felt his heart twist in his chest. The poor, sweet girl. He grasped her shoulders and pulled her out of her chair and into his arms. “Don't be embarrassed. No one knows what happened except me.” Well, he'd wager Jem had an excellent idea, given the knowing look the man had shot him when they'd finally stopped at Motton House and he'd carried Jane, sleeping and disheveled, out of the coach. And, truth to tell, he'd been more than a little disheveled himself.

“But you do know. How can you bear to touch me?”

“Jane.” He led her over to the settee and sat down with her, gathering her back into his arms once they were settled. “You're not making sense. Why wouldn't I want to touch you?” He kissed her forehead. “I very much enjoyed touching you last night. I thought you were magnificent.”

She
had
been magnificent. Their time in the carriage had been a fantasy he hadn't had the imagination to conceive before—but now he could. “I'd be delighted to do it all again”—he chuckled—“though perhaps not all at once again. I was quite exhausted by the time you fell asleep.”

She buried her face in his shoulder. “I was so wanton.”

“You weren't.” He grinned, remembering in vivid detail exactly how she'd behaved. The thought was reenergizing his poor, tired cock. “Well, perhaps you were.”

“Ohh.” She tried to pull away, but he wouldn't let her.

“It wasn't your fault, Jane. It was the drink you swallowed when the vat got dumped on you. It must have contained a powerful aphrodisiac. Once it took hold of you, you no longer had control of your, er, urges.”

She relaxed a little. “No?”

“No.” He stroked her back. Last night in the carriage, her skin had been so soft. His cock stirred again. He'd so like to have her now, but slowly this time. Fast and frantic had its place, but slow and thorough…mmm. He would definitely enjoy that.

But it was out of the question. She must ache from all their activity last night, especially as she'd only just got over losing her maidenhead. And they did have other, more pressing matters to attend to. Satan must be furious his ceremony at Griffin's had been ruined; he would be out for blood and likely be happy to take theirs, whether he knew they were responsible for the mêlée or not. They'd best solve this puzzle immediately before he dealt with them in an unpleasantly permanent fashion.

Motton would like to keep Jane out of it, but she was in too deep now. “Let me get the sketch pieces out of my safe, and we'll see what the completed picture looks like.”

Jane took out her handkerchief, blew her nose, and raised her chin. “Yes, of course. I'm very eager to solve Clarence's puzzle.”

Edmund arranged all four pieces of the drawing on his desk, while Jane took a steadying breath. She could do this. She would focus on the puzzle and not last night. Once her body stopped aching, it would be easier.

She was so aware of Edmund. Perhaps it was a residual effect of the wretched brew she'd ingested. When he'd held her just now, she'd wanted to rub her body against his. If she hadn't been so sore, she might even have done so.

The moan escaped before she could clamp her teeth on it.

“Is something hurting you, Jane?” Edmund laid his hand on her upper arm, and she felt the imprint of each of his fingers as if she were as naked as she'd been in the coach. If he moved just a little, he'd graze her breast.

She would
not
moan again. And she would not tell him what was hurting—her breasts now as well as the place between her legs. She stepped a little away from him, pretending to get a slightly different angle on the sketch, but mostly just so he had to drop his hand. “I think I'm still feeling a little ill from that nasty drink.”

“Would you like more tea?”

“No, thank you.” She'd like him to be quiet. His voice was torturing her, too. And his scent. Damn. If she didn't stop being so sensitive, she would go mad.

She tried to concentrate on the sketch. It was disappointing, to say the least. The last piece hadn't added much at all. It completed the shadowy figure, but kept his—or her—identity secret, hidden behind a grotesque mask. “Oh, blast it all. Why didn't Clarence draw Satan's face?”

“That would be too simple, wouldn't it?” Edmund leaned over to look at the sketch more closely. “I wonder if Clarence even knew Satan's identity.”

Jane's stomach lurched. She pressed her hand to her mouth and swallowed to be sure the tea she'd just drunk stayed down. They couldn't have been on a wild-goose chase these last few days—especially last night.

Had Clarence merely sketched another bawdy picture to hang in print shop windows, giving the
ton
something else to laugh and gossip about?

No, it
had
to be more than that. Why would he have torn it up and hidden the pieces? “He
must
have known who Satan is.”

“Maybe not. Very few people can know Satan's identity—and many people know of this sketch. Ardley, Mousingly, Lady Lenden, and Lady Tarkington are all looking for it. Likely Satan knows of it, too—and he'd never have allowed Clarence to draw an identifiable portrait.”

Edmund shook his head. “Maybe there's no point to this. Clarence was known to be an odd bird. He could have designed this all as a game—or a joke—and maybe one he thought he'd be here to see. If he's in a position to observe our efforts now, I'm sure he's completely delighted at how he's forced us to go all over London, searching out his ridiculous Pans.”

Jane scowled at the sketch. Damn it, it was possible Clarence was laughing his arse off in heaven—or, more likely, hell. Even Mama had thought the man exceedingly peculiar, which was saying a lot coming from a fellow artist.

No, she was not ready to—she could not—accept that all her and Edmund's efforts had been for naught. “Satan must be worried we might learn something or he wouldn't have devised our disaster on Oxford Street.”

Edmund shrugged. “I suppose that could have been a bizarre confluence of coincidence.”

She was far too stubborn to accept that. She'd scrambled in the greenery, hidden on a closet floor, been tossed into a bush, lost her virginity, and attended a shocking party with even more shocking results, all because of Clarence's bizarre sense of humor? No. She would never swallow that willingly—she'd have to have the evidence that it was true shoved down her throat.

“Clarence was just being devious. I'm sure if we look closely, we'll find more clues to Satan's identity.” She jabbed her finger at the picture. “Why would Clarence have drawn Satan holding this peculiar staff? It has the same pattern as the robe.” A pattern that still looked maddeningly familiar. It was like having a word on the tip of her tongue—she could almost remember where she'd seen it before…almost, but not quite. “And why did he draw this dog by Satan's feet? It's just sitting there. All the other animals are—” She flushed. She wasn't about to say what activity the other animals were engaged in. “Doing something.”

“Hmm.” Edmund nodded and leaned closer. “It is a rather large and unpleasant-looking animal.”

“I'm sure Satan would only have a vicious dog. Do you suppose that's a clue?”

“Perhaps. We'll have to ask Aunt Louisa. She's certain to have identified every London pet.” He pulled a magnifying glass from his desk and examined the right lower corner. “Hmm. Poor Clarence apparently suffered from an attack of Gothic fantasy.”

He passed the glass to Jane and she peered through it. This little part of the sketch
was
rather grisly. A skeleton dangled from a wall, and in the skeleton's bony fingers was a quill. Next to the quill was a book.

“See? The book has the same pattern as the robe and the staff,” Edmund said. “Clarence has added what looks to be some sort of stone in the center. It would help if he'd used color—”

“A ruby.” Jane sucked in her breath. No, it couldn't be, but it looked like—

“What?”

“I think the stone is a ruby.” She stared at the picture. “But it can't mean anything. It's too unbelievable.”

“What can't mean anything?” Edmund sounded exceedingly exasperated. “What's unbelievable?”

“The pattern. It must be something Clarence saw once and duplicated by accident. Or perhaps it's just a decorative touch.”

“Jane.” Edmund leaned on the desk and pinned her with a very pointed look. “I sincerely doubt Clarence was aimlessly drawing a pretty pattern. He included everything else in this sketch for a purpose. Why do you think when we get to this crucial detail Clarence went on a mental holiday?”

“Er…” It did sound ridiculous when Edmund put it that way.

“So do you recognize this pattern?”

“I—I think so. But I'm probably misremembering. I must be. It can't—”

“Jane!”

“You don't have to shout.”

“My apologies.” Edmund took a deep breath, obviously trying to hold on to his temper. “Why don't you tell me where you think you might have seen it?”

“Very well.” She wished she hadn't said anything; she had to be wrong, but clearly Edmund was going to insist she tell him her nonsensical notion. “In Baron Wolfson's cravat.”

“What?”

“You're shouting again.”

“Sorry.” He straightened and ran his hand through his hair. “So you saw this pattern on Baron Wolfson?”

“Yes. In his cravat pin. It's very distinctive. A ruby surrounded by gold filigree in this pattern. But it can't mean anything. Lord Wolfson is old—he must have at least sixty years in his dish. He couldn't be involved in anything like what we saw at Lord Griffin's last night.”

“Jane, he's old—he's not dead.”

“Yes, but…Lord Wolfson?”

“If Satan walked around with horns and a tail, he wouldn't be hard to spot, would he?” Edmund tapped his finger on the sketch. “I'll wager this animal isn't a dog, but a wolf.”

“Oh.” The creature
did
look rather wolfish.

Edmund gathered up the sketch pieces and put them back in his safe. “It was at Wolfson's estate Clarence met his unfortunate end, remember. And there have been vague rumors about the man for years.”

“But he's so…boring.” Perhaps Satan wouldn't wear horns, but surely he should appear at least a little dangerous. “And he's accepted everywhere. I was dancing with him at Lord Easthaven's just the other night.”

“You were?” Edmund frowned as he closed the safe's door. “I thought Wolfson was as wedded to the refreshment table as Spindel. Have you ever danced with him before?”

“N—no, I don't believe I have. I'm not sure I've ever even spoken to him before.”

“And what did you talk about?”

What
had
they talked about? She'd been more focused on his breath than his words. Eew. She could almost smell the garlic again. And then she'd been studying his pin…he'd been somewhat perturbed that she'd not been listening to him…“He wanted a tour of Clarence's house.”

“Hmm. Amazing how the
ton
have become so fascinated with Widmore House, isn't it?”

“Y—yes.” Jane pushed a wisp of hair behind her ear. Her face was pale, and she had dark circles under her eyes. The poor girl looked almost burnt to the socket.

He gathered her into his arms. She stiffened slightly, but then relaxed against him. She felt so good. He rubbed his hand up and down her back, and then cupped her jaw so he could study her face. “You should rest today. Tomorrow we'll brave Lord Wolfson's weekly soiree along with your mama and my aunts and see what we can discover, all right?”