Читать книгу The Naked Viscount - Sally MacKenzie - Страница 10

Jane threw herself toward the loveseat. Motton must have been startled by her sudden movement, because he loosened his grip.

That was all she needed. She’d learned early, playing with John and Stephen, to take any opening she was given. In a flash, she’d twisted her wrist and broken free. She fell to her hands and knees to peer under the loveseat, looking for the errant organ.

The Widmores’ regular servants apparently were not much better than the temporary ones—the dust under the loveseat was easily an inch thick. Jane sneezed.

“What are you doing?” Lord Motton sounded extremely annoyed.

Jane spared him a glance. He looked extremely annoyed, too. “I’m searching for something.”

“What?”

She grinned at him. “Pan’s penis, if you must know.”

“What?”

“Wait a minute.” Her fingers brushed over something long and hard. “I think I’ve got it.”

Motton stared at Miss Parker-Roth’s delectable derrière. Had she just said she was searching for a…penis? His personal penis jumped at the thought.

What was the matter with him? He wasn’t usually plagued by such inappropriate thoughts about young ladies. Of course, he wasn’t usually treated to such a singular view of a young lady’s nightgown-clad bottom. It would be so easy to catch the hem of her gown and pull it up to reveal—

No. This was Stephen and John’s little sister who had the delightfully round, entrancing…

He pulled on his hair. “Will you come out of there?”

She grunted and started to back out. Her knee caught the fabric of her nightgown, stretching it tight across her lovely—

He clasped his hands behind his back and looked up to admire the ceiling molding.

“Look what I have.”

He examined the object she was waving under his nose. It indeed looked to be Pan’s once prominent penis.

“Er, yes, I see.” He could not think of anything else to say. Surely she would not try to engage him in a discussion of…anything. “It appears poor Pan is somewhat the worse for wear.”

Miss Parker-Roth shrugged. “I hit the statue with the candlestick when you surprised me. I should have realized then it was plaster and not stone, but I was thinking of other things.”

“Yes, well.” He could not afford to think about what a seductive armful a thrashing Miss Parker-Roth had proved to be. He considered picking the Holland cloth up from the floor and dropping it over her hand and the object she held. “I noticed you’d covered the sculpture.”

She laughed. “Oh, no. Mama’s an artist, remember? I’m inured to such things, but Mrs. Brindle, our temporary housekeeper, is not. I’m afraid she does not appreciate Clarence’s work. The house is dotted with Holland cloth.”

“Ah.” There didn’t seem to be anything else to say to that.

“But look here.” She held the penis out again, her delicate fingers wrapped tightly around the hard length. It was a rather realistically rendered representation—if poor Pan were still connected to it, he’d be a very happy god.

His own organ let him know how delighted it would be to receive similar attentions.

Damn it, he could not be lusting after this woman. And furthermore, most proper young ladies would be swooning, not clutching a bodiless cock with such enthusiasm. “What is it?”

The lady blinked. His voice had sounded rather harsh, but, Zeus, he was sorely tried. She was standing there in her nightgown, for God’s sake, totally naked under that flimsy covering. He knew exactly how her soft breasts felt pressed against his chest and how her bottom filled his hands. He’d tasted her hot, wet mouth, felt her tongue sliding over his, breathed in the musky scent of her desire. And she was standing there holding a fully engorged cock.

He should be lauded for only speaking harshly instead of doing what he’d really like to do—tear off that gown and bury his own cock deep inside her.

And he was sure he should be castrated for entertaining even for a moment such a shocking thought concerning the sister of two of his friends.

If he didn’t get out of here soon, he was going to forget everything except she was a woman and he was a man.

“Look.” She pointed to the organ’s base where it had been attached to Pan’s body. He forced the lust from his mind to examine the spot. Was that a corner of paper? He reached for it—

“No.” Miss Parker-Roth snatched Pan’s penis away, hiding it behind her back. “I found it; I shall look at it first.”

Motton crossed his arms. “Well, look then.”

“I will.” Jane stared defiantly at Lord Motton; the viscount gazed blandly back. Finally, she brought the penis from behind her back. There was definitely a paper there. She grasped the corner that was sticking out and pulled carefully—she didn’t want to tear it.

Lord Motton plucked a candle from the mantel as she spread the sheet on the desk and smoothed the wrinkles out. “It is a sketch. Well, part of one.” Two sides of the paper were ragged—someone had obviously torn it. She bent closer to study the figures. They were jumbled together very oddly. What were they doing?

Lord Motton made a strangled sound and snatched the paper away.

“Hey!” She tried to grab it from him, but he held it above his head. “Give that back.”

“No.” The word was a verbal stone wall. Lord Motton looked exceedingly stony himself. His lips were pressed into a tight, thin line and his nostrils flared. “It is an inappropriate scene for you to view.”

“It is?” Now she wanted to see it all the more. She looked up at the scrap of paper again. He was holding it too high; she’d never reach it. She could try grabbing his arm and pulling, but that had never worked with her brothers. Men were just too strong. “Why?”

“It depicts an orgy.”

“Oh.” She considered that. Yes, a few of the figures might have been partially naked, and they had been very oddly arranged. “I’ve never seen a sketch of an orgy.”

“I should hope not.”

She really, really wanted another look at that piece of paper. “I didn’t realize you were a prude, Lord Motton.”

“I am not a prude, I am merely cognizant of proper behavior.”

“You are a prude.”

He glared at her. She’d hoped by teasing him, she’d get him to relent and give her back the paper, but it was clear that wasn’t going to happen. “Is it an orgy of French spies?”

“No.” Lord Motton looked at the sketch, carefully keeping it out of her line of sight. “But I believe this is what Ardley was looking for. He’s here in the picture.”

“He is? What’s he doing?” Jane hopped a little to see if she could catch a glimpse of the scene, but it was hopeless. If only she’d looked more carefully when she’d had the chance, but it had all been so confusing.

“Nothing you need to know about, Miss Parker-Roth.” Lord Motton’s tone was icy now. Oh, if only he weren’t such a prig. He hadn’t seemed so priggish when he’d been kissing her earlier.

“Do you recognize anyone else?”

“Yes.”

She counted to ten. She’d kick him in the shins if she didn’t know she’d only hurt her toes. “You know that’s only part of the sketch.”

“I’m aware of that fact.”

“We should search for the other pieces.”

“No, we should not.”

“What? Why not?”

He shrugged. Miss Parker-Roth looked like she was ready to leap out of her skin. He was certain she was dying to snatch the paper out of his hands. It was completely inappropriate material for a woman such as herself to see, however. He glanced at it again. Completely inappropriate.

“I agreed to look for a drawing of spies, because I was persuaded it might be of some import to the well-being of the country. This”—he held up the paper and then folded it and put it in his pocket—“is merely evidence of peers behaving badly.”

“Don’t you think it must be more than that? Why would Clarence have torn it into pieces and hidden it away? And why would Lord Ardley be so anxious to locate it?”

“As to Ardley, I imagine he would find it extremely embarrassing if this were to show up in any of the London print-shop windows. He is anxious—very anxious—to wed the daughter of a cit, a Miss Barnett. Mr. Barnett is a Methodist. He would not wish to give his precious daughter into the keeping of a profligate.”

“As well he shouldn’t.” Miss Parker-Roth looked horrified. “We must find some way to put a word in Miss Barnett’s ear.”

Surely the woman couldn’t be that blind to the ways of the world? Though now that he considered the matter, he’d never heard of her angling for a title. “Miss Parker-Roth, if the woman weds Ardley, she becomes a countess.”

“So? If she weds him, she’s also saddled with a disreputable husband. At least Miss Barnett should be told of Lord Ardley’s behavior so she can make an informed choice.”

“The world doesn’t work that way.”

“My world does.” Miss Parker-Roth glared quite fiercely at him. “We must find a way to let her know.”

“We?”

“All right, I shall find a way.”

“You can’t tell Miss Barnett about the sketch—we don’t even know that it depicts an actual scene.” The thought of this impetuous woman spreading tales that could ruin Ardley’s marriage plans caused his heart to seize. The earl was reaching point non plus. If he didn’t wed Miss Barnett—and get his hands on her money—he was going to end up in debtor’s prison. He might well lose his estate.

Ardley would not tolerate anyone—especially some young woman like Miss Parker-Roth—interfering.

“I can’t not tell Miss Barnett. I can’t let a fellow female fall into such a terrible trap.”

“Miss Parker-Roth, you don’t understand—”

“No, Lord Motton, you do not understand. I am determined to alert this poor girl.” She stepped closer and poked him in his chest. “Can you truthfully say you’d let your sister, if you had one, marry Lord Ardley if there’s any truth behind Clarence’s drawing?”

Miss Parker-Roth was overreacting. Men—normal, decent men—did sometimes engage in behavior that women would not approve of. Orgies…well, perhaps not orgies. He had been compelled to attend an orgy or two in his days of skulking and listening, but thank God he’d not been required to participate. He did not at all care for the public nature of such an activity. Some things should definitely be conducted in private. In a bedchamber with a locked door and a soft bed…

And he should damn well not be thinking of any private activities with this annoying female, but he was, and in startlingly precise detail. Not as precise as he’d like, of course. He needed to get that nightgown off to see—

No. He would not see. He would not think of privacy and nakedness and Miss Parker-Roth.

He removed her finger from his chest. The woman was correct on one point. He would not want his sister, if he had one, marrying Ardley. “I—”

Blast! Was that the front door? And damn, he heard steps in the hall. Miss Parker-Roth must hear them, too. She inhaled sharply.

“Mama’s home early.”

“Damn—” He swallowed his curse and took hold of her shoulders, holding her gaze with his. He spoke as authoritatively as he could, and having been raised to the viscountcy—having been the viscount since he was sixteen—he knew something of authority. “Miss Parker-Roth—Jane—you cannot, you must not tell anyone about this sketch. Not your mother or your brother or especially Miss Barnett. No one.”

“I have to do something. I can’t stand idly by while a young woman ruins her life.”

He thought she was greatly overstating the case. Most women would put up with a lot to become a countess, but Miss Parker-Roth clearly believed Miss Barnett was in peril. He could feel the tension in her shoulders. “I’m not asking you to. I’m just asking you to wait until we can discuss this further.”

“Jane, are you down here?” It sounded as if Mrs. Parker-Roth was just outside the study door.

He shook Jane slightly to emphasize his point. “Wait. Please?” He looked over at the door—the knob was turning. “I have to go.”

“When will I see you?”

“At the Palmerson ball tomorrow night.”

Jane watched Lord Motton slip out the French window and disappear into the shadows just as Mama came into the study.

“Were you talking to someone, Jane?” Mama removed her cape.

“Er.” Jane was a terrible liar.

“Good heavens, what happened to poor Pan?” Mama stared down at the plaster pieces on the rug.

“I’m afraid I knocked him over.” Jane clasped her hands to stop her fingers from pleating her nightgown nervously. “I came down for a book.”

Mama smiled. “Finished Frankenstein, did you?”

Jane nodded.

“You were probably a little jumpy. And Mrs. Brindle will be happy. She did not care for Pan’s, ah, exuberance.”

“I hope Cleopatra will not be upset when she returns.” Jane started picking up the biggest pieces and putting them on the Holland cloth.

“Oh, don’t worry about that. I think Clarence went through a phase where he made a lot of those statues. If Cleopatra truly misses this Pan, I’m sure she can find another.”

Jane paused. There were other Pans? “Oh? Do you know who has the statues?”

“No. Probably any number of Clarence’s friends.”

“Ah.” She would tell Lord Motton tomorrow. She smiled at one of Pan’s hooves. She was going to have a private conversation with Lord Motton tomorrow.

“What is so amusing?” Mama handed her Pan’s horns.

“Nothing.” Jane brushed off her nightgown and stood. “How was your evening? Were the Hammershams in fine voice?”

Mama snorted. “The Hammershams are never in fine voice. I spent the evening discussing oil paints with Hermione Littledon. She has developed a very interesting technique.” Mama paused and frowned at the French window. “Did you open this?”

“Er, I was hot.”

Mama closed the window tightly. “You must be careful. This is London, you know. You are no longer in the country. I don’t mean to alarm you, but you never know what manner of riffraff might be hanging about.”

“Ah. Yes. I’ll remember, Mama.” Was Lord Motton still within earshot? It would serve him right if he was. She glanced out the window, but it looked as if the terrace was deserted.

Mama was halfway to the door. “Coming, Jane? You can look for a book in the morning when the light is better. You need to get your rest.”

“I do?” She wished she could catch one more glimpse of Edmund. Had he really been in this room, kissing her? It seemed like a dream now—but there were the shattered pieces of Pan to prove at least some of it had happened.

“Yes. The Palmerson ball is tomorrow night. Don’t think I’ll let you hide in your room with a book and miss that.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to miss the Palmerson ball, Mama.”

“You wouldn’t?” Mama looked momentarily delighted, but she quickly frowned, examining Jane closely. “Did I hear you correctly? You are actually expressing some enthusiasm for a society event?”

Jane shrugged and avoided her mother’s gaze. “The Palmerson affairs always have excellent lobster patties.”

“True.” They left the study and climbed the stairs. “Though by far the best lobster patties are the Duke of Alvord’s, you know, with their lovely flaky crust brimming with tender lobster…” Mama sighed. “Pity he’s in the country this Season, anticipating the birth of his second child.”

They parted in the corridor, Mama off to dream about the duke’s lobster patties perhaps, and she—Jane grinned—if she managed to calm down enough to sleep, she’d dream of something, someone, much more delightful.

Motton should have heard the man the moment he’d left Widmore’s terrace—would have if he hadn’t been contemplating a certain annoying miss’s behavior…and appearance…and taste. And wondering how other parts of her delightful person would look and taste and feel.

He hadn’t been expecting to be set upon in Widmore’s back garden, but that was no excuse, he thought, as he finally realized the thrashing in the underbrush was not some wayward animal. He was fortunate the fellow was so inept. Even a moderately skilled spy could have killed him five times over by the time he’d awakened to his peril. As it was, he sidestepped this fellow’s attack easily and had the ruffian’s arm twisted high up behind his back and a knife at the man’s neck before the big lobcock realized what was happening.

“Are you alone?” Motton scanned the garden—he’d instinctively placed the wall at his back. He didn’t see any other motion.

“Urgle.” The man was shaking like he had the ague.

“Are you alone? You’d best give me the truth or I’ll have your throat slit before anyone can come to your aid.”

“Ah, ah, ah.”

Motton looked down and saw an ominous stain spreading over the man’s crotch. Wonderful. He must be a footman or a servant from the country. A denizen of London’s stews wouldn’t be such a milksop. “Who sent you?”

“Ooo.”

Blast it! Surely the man’s bowels wouldn’t release as well? He wanted answers, but if he pushed the fellow too hard, the pudding-heart might swoon. He took his knife away from the man’s neck and turned the fellow to face him, keeping a grip on his arm—and a safe distance from his breeches.

“Who sent you, man? Answer quick, and I’ll let you go.”

“But it’ll mean my position iffen I spill the soup, milord.”

“It’ll mean your life if you don’t.” Not that he’d actually kill the fool, but clearly the man thought he would.

“Oh, please, take pity.” The fellow clasped his hands in supplication; he was almost crying. “I has a wife and babe to support, I do.”

“Then tell me who sent you—and why—and you’re a free man.”

“But ’er ladyship would throw me out—me and me wife and babe and—”

Motton held up his hand before the man could add half a dozen other dependents. “I don’t suppose you work for Lady Farthingale?”

The fellow staggered, He was either an incredible actor or Motton’s guess had hit the mark. “Aye, but please, milord, don’t tell ’er I told ye—I didn’t. Ye guessed.”

“Just tell me why she sent you, and my lips are sealed.” He’d give the man credit for loyalty, but more likely he was just too frightened and slow-witted to manage a quick answer. He brought his knife back to the idiot’s throat to encourage him.

“She wanted a paper. Said ye’d have it after ye left that house.”

Lady Farthingale must have spoken with Ardley—not surprising, in light of the drawing in his pocket. The two were apparently quite close.

“Lady Farthingale has let her hopes outrun her sense. There are hundreds of books in that study; countless places where a man might hide a thin sheet of paper.”

“So ye didn’t find it?” The man sounded worried.

“No, I didn’t.” And that was true—Miss Parker-Roth had discovered the sketch, not he.

“But what shall I tell milady?”

“The truth, I imagine. I didn’t find it; you don’t have it.” He touched the edge of his blade to the man’s neck and watched him pale again. “And you might want to suggest she stop her ill-considered efforts. Tell her Lord Motton would be extremely”—he pressed slightly on his knife for emphasis—“extremely upset if the ladies currently residing in Clarence Widmore’s house are disturbed in any way at all.”

“Y—yes, milord.”

“Good.” Motton wrinkled his nose. Damn, the fellow had soiled himself. He kept his knife clearly in view and stepped back. “You may go.”

The man disappeared before he’d finished speaking.

Hmm. What was going on here?

He slipped out Widmore’s back gate into the alley and back into his own garden, keeping a more attentive eye out for any problems this time. All was quiet, but until he understood what was afoot, he’d best put a few men on patrol. He’d hire one or two to keep watch on the Widmore place as well. He should have a word with Parker-Roth—Stephen would want to know if his sister and mother were in danger—but at this point he didn’t know what to say.

He let himself into his study through his French window. He’d better secure this and all the other entrances to the house. He’d have Williams, his butler, look into—

“Where have you been, matey?”

Damn. He should have had Williams bar the door to his study.

“Yes, Edmund. Where have you been?”

He lit a candle and then turned to face his aunt Winifred and her large gray parrot, Theo. They were standing just inside his study door, looking at him most accusingly. Theo kept turning his head, perhaps to determine if he looked better from one eye or the other.

He silently counted to ten. He was a grown man. This was his house. He did not need—he did not want—to explain anything to Aunt Winifred. “Out. I have been out.”

Aunt Winifred sniffed. “That’s obvious.”

“Obvious. Obvious. Clear as the nose on my face.”

He hated it when Theo turned supercilious. “You don’t have a nose, Theo.”

Theo fluffed his feathers. “Aw, don’t be nasty, mate.”

“Exactly.” Aunt Winifred looked at him reproachfully. “It really is beneath you to argue with Theo, Edmund. He is only a parrot, you know.”

“I know.” He took a deep breath. He would not argue with Aunt Winifred either. “I thought you were going out with the other aunts to some musical evening.”

“Oh, no. I wanted to stay home and be certain Theo and Edmund were settled in their new surroundings.”

“Edmund.” Motton looked cautiously around the room. He didn’t see Aunt Winifred’s monkey, but it could be hiding in the drapery. “Where is Edmund?”

“Up in my room. The poor thing was exhausted from our travels.”

“Ah.” Too bad the damn monkey couldn’t stay exhausted. His house was already a bloody zoo with Cordelia’s cat, Dorothea’s two little yappy poodles, and Louisa’s greyhound. Adding a parrot and a monkey was more than any man should be asked to bear. “I imagine you are tired, too. Are you off to bed then?”

“No.” Winifred settled into one of his wing chairs. Theo perched on the chair back and glared at him.

His heart fell. He’d dearly love a glass of brandy, but then he’d have to offer Winifred something and chances were she’d take it and be here even longer. Perhaps if he remained standing, she’d be encouraged to come to the point quickly.

She came to the point immediately. “It’s time you married, Edmund.”

He sat down and poured himself a large brandy. To hell with good manners. “Married?” He cleared his throat. “Oh, there’s plenty of time for that. I’m barely thirty.”

“You’re thirty-three, almost thirty-four.”

“That’s not so old.”

“It is if you consider your history.”

He took another gulp of brandy. What the hell could Aunt Winifred mean? He thought he’d been rather discreet in his liaisons over the years. “My history?”

“Well, perhaps I should have said pedigree. Your father’s father didn’t get an heir until his sixth child, and your father, though prompt in getting you, only had one child—though no one thought he tried to get any more.”

“Aunt Winifred!” Motton rubbed his forehead. He did not want to discuss—he did not want to think about—his deceased parents’ conjugal relations or lack thereof.

Aunt Winifred sniffed. “Well, the point is, we have no time to lose.”

He had a sudden horrifying image of his aunt—all his aunts—supervising his wedding night. “I am quite capable of managing the issue—every aspect of the issue—myself.” He looked her in the eye and spoke slowly and distinctly. “I do not need your help.”

“Of course you need my help. Better mine than Gertrude’s. She’s already picked out Miss Elderberry for you.”

“Aldenberry, Aunt. The girl’s name is Aldenberry.”

“Well, it should be Elderberry. She’s only twenty-six, but she looks like she’s forty-six. Scraggy, with no bosom to speak of.”

“Aunt, please. You are putting me to the blush.” He swallowed another gulp of brandy. Georgiana—George, as she was called by everyone—was painfully thin and angular. And dour. He’d never seen her smile, let alone laugh, in all the years he’d known her. How could Gertrude think she’d be an acceptable bride for him?

Simple. Miss Aldenberry had six brothers.

“Pshaw. I’m sure it takes more than a little plain speaking to make you blush.” She tapped the edge of his desk. “You can be certain I set Gertrude straight. Men like breasts, I told her, the bigger the better.”

He dropped his head into his hands. “Aunt.”

“Dandy diddies, that’s what ye need, matey. Big bubbies. Two—”

“Theo!” He and Aunt Winifred shouted simultaneously.

Theo hung his head. “Just having a bit o’ fun, matey.”

“Don’t you have a Holland cloth or something we can drop over that bird’s head to make him go to sleep, Aunt?”

“No. Don’t be ridiculous.” She glared at Theo. “I’ll lock you up in the brig, sir, if you don’t behave. Confine you to my room, you mark my words.”

Theo ducked his head between his wings and turned away so all they saw was his hunched, feathered back. He looked suitably cowed.

Aunt Winifred nodded and then turned back to Motton. She tapped his desk again. “Now, about your marriage—”

“Aunt Winifred.” He would try to look at her as sternly as she had looked at Theo. “I have already told you, I don’t need your help. I don’t want it; in fact, I’m offended—”

Aunt Winifred was not as easily cowed as Theo. She raised her hand to stop him. She now had more than seventy years in her dish, but age had hardly slowed—and had not dimmed—her will.

“Of course you don’t need my help with the actual getting of an heir. What you need is someone to give you a good swift kick in the breeches to get you moving toward the altar. That’s the aid I’m here to furnish.”