Sally MacKenzie Bundle (191 page)

“Gertrude is right, Edmund.” Cordelia had put a hand on his arm. “You know it took your grandpapa more than a dozen years to get an heir. And your papa, though fortunate to have you so quickly, had no other sons.”

Gertrude’d snorted. “Well, there’s no secret why
that
was. I never understood why he married Dorcas. She was such a milk-and-water miss.”

Louisa laughed. “It was crystal clear why he married the girl—he had no choice. He was caught with his breeches down, literally. And as it turned out, she was increasing with Edmund here.”

“And she
was
very beautiful,” Cordelia said.

“If you like china dolls.” From her tone, it was clear Louisa did not.

Ah, yes, Motton thought, shaking his head to dispel the memory of the aunts’ arrival, his father and his mother. He took another swallow of brandy. Theirs had been a marriage made in hell, not heaven. His father had been pushed up the church aisle just as the aunts seemed determined to push him.

He’d be damned if he ever let himself be trapped the way his father had been—though that had been partly his randy papa’s fault. If the man hadn’t always been ruled by his cock…

He took another swallow of brandy. His cock had been rather insistent over in Widmore’s study just now. He hadn’t done Miss Parker-Roth permanent damage, but if word did get out, she’d be as compromised as if he had.

Surely she wouldn’t tell Winifred—that had to have been an empty threat.

Damn it all, he did not want a marriage like his parents’. He would rather have his title revert to the Crown. Papa had lived in Town, drinking and whoring; Mama had languished in the country, quacking her imagined ills with pills and potions. When Motton was sixteen, Papa died of apoplexy in his current mistress’s bed, and then Mama took a touch too much laudanum to finally end her ills, real and imagined. No, he’d have no part of that kind of marriage.

He ran his hand through his hair. Why did he keep picturing a certain annoying neighbor? Hell, when Winifred had been listing all the young ladies of the
ton,
he’d been thinking only of Miss Parker-Roth. Winifred had mentioned her, but in passing—and he’d had to bite his tongue to rectify that oversight.

Was he completely mad? That would have been like waving a red flag inches from a bull’s face.

He’d been amongst the
ton
too much recently—he was acting out of character. First he’d agreed to Ardley’s ridiculous request, and now he was lusting after a respectable young woman. He might as well start looking for a comfortable cell in Bedlam. He needed to get away, avoid the jollities of the Season. He would—

No, he wouldn’t. This time he couldn’t disappear from the
ton
’s ballrooms as he had in the past. There were the aunts to consider, but more importantly, there was Miss Parker-Roth. She’d clearly taken the bit in her teeth on the issue of Miss Barnett; she’d run straight into disaster if someone didn’t grab her reins. As he was the only person aware of the issue, the responsibility must fall to him.

And that thought should not be so damn pleasant.

He should tell Stephen, dump the whole blasted mess in his lap. Miss Parker-Roth was his sister; she was his responsibility, at least in the absence of her father or John.

But Stephen was leaving on another one of his plant-hunting expeditions in a day or two, this one to Iceland of all places. Didn’t sound like the best spot to muck around looking for greenery, but then what did he know? He couldn’t tell a rhododendron from a rutabaga.

In any event, all the arrangements had been made months ago, before John had gotten the crazy notion to attend Baron Tynweith’s house party. Stephen couldn’t delay his departure. John was supposed to come up to London shortly, but not in time to keep Miss Parker-Roth out of mischief. It was unlikely her mother would keep an adequate eye on her.

This was not a job for a female in any event. Ardley had sounded desperate—and there was that bungled attack in the garden.

Motton frowned at his brandy glass. In his experience, amateurs were the most dangerous. Professionals knew how to achieve their goals unobtrusively and efficiently, but amateurs…They were so clumsy. Someone invariably got hurt.

He did not want Miss Parker-Roth getting hurt. He had no choice—he would have to make her his project.

And he was
not
smiling about it. She was certain to be headstrong and opinionated and defiant and completely annoying.

He leaned back in his chair. How had he overlooked the woman all these years? Yes, yes, he hadn’t been in the market for a wife—and he still wasn’t, no matter what the aunts thought—but he hadn’t been blind, either. Had it just been the fact she was John and Stephen’s sister?

He racked his brain, but he couldn’t produce one clear memory of Miss Parker-Roth at a single society function. Had she spent all her time hidden away in the potted palms? Surely not. Yet how could he have so completely missed her beauty, her…animation?

It was a mystery, but there was no way he could ignore her now that he knew how she felt…and tasted. How much fire she had in her—

He sat up abruptly. Enough woolgathering. He should try to make sense of the mystery at hand—which was not Miss Parker-Roth, but the drawing in his pocket.

He spread it out on his desktop. It was only the top left corner of the sketch. Clarence had been good with his pencil, he’d grant him that. There was Ardley, breeches down around his ankles, a glass in one hand and a brandy bottle resting on Lady Farthingale’s broad, naked bum, which was resting—well, resting was probably not the proper word—on Ardley’s lap. Clarence had scribbled “Mammon” on Ardley’s chair and had drawn a bubble, giving him the words “I’ve no farthings in my pocket; I’m in Farthing’s pocket.” Lady Farthingale’s response was “La, my lord, you are so greedy! Have some more, do.”

Lord Farthingale would not be happy. He might be in his seventies, but he was still a deadly shot. Ardley had bigger problems than Mr. Barnett’s displeasure. And Lady Farthingale might find herself in unpleasant circumstances as well—word was the marquis was becoming disenchanted with his wayward wife.

Hmm. There was a naked knee to the right of Lady Farthingale’s head and a slippered foot rested on the table by her elbow, the attached body presumably sprawled on the floor. At least two other people—and probably more—might be very interested in the other pieces of this drawing. In the bottom right corner, arching from one torn edge to the other, was a dark, shaded curve. It looked very much as if Clarence had torn the sketch so that some central image had been divided. He would need all the sketch pieces together to see what it was, damn it.

Why had Widmore torn the picture and hidden this piece? Where was the rest of the drawing? Who were the other actors in this orgy?

Too many questions. He hated not knowing who his enemy was. Hell, in this case he didn’t even know how many enemies he had. The villain—or villainess—could be anyone from a duke of the realm to a scullery maid. How was he going to protect the aunts and the Parker-Roth ladies? He would need to secure both his and Clarence’s houses.

Impossible. He would have to move the Parker-Roth ladies into Motton House—they were no longer safe next door. It paid to be overly cautious until he knew what they were facing and, frankly, two more females in the house at this point would not make much difference, even though one of those females was the annoyingly fascinating Miss Jane Parker-Roth.

He took a sip of brandy and rolled it around on his tongue. He’d have the chit under his roof. In his home. In his bed—

No, not his bed. What was he thinking?

He shifted in his chair and spread his legs. His breeches were suddenly uncomfortable.

All right, it was clear—painfully clear—what he was thinking. It should be no surprise. He was a healthy male. He’d just had a pleasant, titillating, erotic encounter with the woman. Of course his thoughts had headed for the bedroom.

He had long ago learned to control his base urges. Miss Parker-Roth would not have to worry; he had no intention of trying to seduce her or to take any liberties at all. He was too much of a gentleman—and he did not want to find himself in his father’s position.

Well, and he had too many aunts—not to mention Mrs. Parker-Roth—in the house as chaperones. He was tripping over them constantly. If he had any lewd inclinations, he would not have the opportunity to put them into action.

A pity…No! Excellent. Having the aunts about, in this case, was a blessing.

Now how was he going to convince Jane’s mother that she and her daughter needed to move into his house? It was certainly an odd request. Mrs. Parker-Roth would want an explanation, but what could he tell her? He didn’t want to discuss Clarence’s artwork. The fewer people who knew about that, the better.

He would just have to take it up with Stephen. Stephen would understand without Motton having to spell out every detail—though on second thought perhaps he should confide at least some of the particulars. Stephen might have some useful insights. For someone so infrequently in England, the man was amazingly well-informed. He should have been a spy—he knew every last scrap of gossip.

Motton pulled a candle closer and examined the sketch again. Clarence had gone to a lot of trouble to hide it—or this part of it. Why? What was its significance?

Was it some kind of elaborate joke—or had Clarence felt endangered? Given his odd method of death, perhaps the man had had good reason to be concerned for his safety.

He had heard whisperings of a new group, a sort of hellfire club, but he’d heard those rumblings from time to time over the years. He’d thought the most recent rumors merely the boastings of some bored peers who’d held a few wild parties. Perhaps he should have listened more closely. Once in a while such drunken revelries took a darker turn. Still, neither Ardley nor Lady Farthingale struck him as the type to be involved in violence.

He rubbed his temples. He was beginning to get a headache. He couldn’t come to any conclusions until he found the missing pieces of the sketch and saw the completed picture. How the hell was he going to find a few scraps of paper in all of London? Blast it, Clarence could have scattered the pieces all over England—all over the world for that matter.

No, that didn’t make sense. Widmore must have wanted the sketch found or he would simply have thrown it away. Perhaps he was overlooking some clues in the drawing.

He examined the scrap of paper once more. Could he identify the room, maybe puzzle out where the orgy had occurred? The wallpaper was a vaguely floral pattern. It didn’t look familiar, but that proved nothing. He’d be hard pressed to describe the wallpaper in his own house. There was a window with equally nondescript curtains. Hmm. Clarence had drawn the view from the window—a garden with a rather careful rendering of some flower. It had to be a clue. He would show it to Stephen. The man traveled the world looking for exotic plants; surely he’d be able to identify something growing in English soil. He would just—Wait a moment.

Behind the flower, drawn small but clearly visible, was…He pulled his magnifying glass from his desk drawer and held it over the area to be sure. The figure leapt into focus. Yes, it was what he’d thought.

In the garden was another lusty Pan.

Mama leaned forward and touched Jane’s knee. “Are you feeling quite the thing, dear?”

Jane pulled her attention from the carriage window and her effort to will the conveyance to move faster. “Yes. Of course. I’m fine.” Mama had been giving her sidelong glances ever since this morning when she’d asked what time they were leaving for the Palmerson ball. “Why do you think I’m sickening?”

Mama furrowed her brow. Jane furrowed hers back.

Mama laughed. “Because I have never in all your Seasons, with the possible exception of your very first ball, seen you show the slightest interest in society events. Yet today you’ve been unable to sit still. From the moment you got up, which was earlier than usual, I might add, you’ve been checking the clock, drifting from room to room, looking out the windows”—Mama gave her a dreadfully knowing look—“most often the one facing the walk in front of Viscount Motton’s house. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were almost beside yourself with excitement.”

“I am not!”

“I didn’t think so. That’s why I asked if you were feeling quite the thing.”

“Of course I am. I’m fine.” Jane bit her lip. She would not pull caps with Mama. “Excitement is not a sign of illness.”

“No, but since you are never excited about balls, I decided your agitation must be due to some other cause.”

Silence was surely the best reply. Jane shrugged and looked back out the window.

Thankfully, Mama let the subject drop. Jane felt Mama’s eyes on her and had to struggle not to add a few more protests and explanations. She had a tendency to natter on when she was nervous or challenged, and she definitely did not want to reopen this subject. She would only get herself into further trouble if she did.

She gritted her teeth and kept her face turned firmly to the window. In a few moments—though it felt like an eternity—she heard Mama sigh and shift position. She shot her a quick glance. Mama was now directing her attention out the other window, thank God.

Jane went back to watching the people and carriages passing on the street—and to wishing the coachman would hurry along.

Perhaps she
had
been looking forward to this evening’s gathering rather more than usual. It was no surprise. For once she had something to anticipate beyond standing among the potted palms listening to the pompous—and the portly and the priggish and the pedantic—old peers prate on about completely boring topics. Tonight she would converse, at least for a short time, with Viscount Motton.

She had lust—She had
admired
him from afar from the moment she’d first seen him at her come-out. She’d been so silly back then—she’d been only seventeen and in London for the first time. Her head had been stuffed full of fairy tales, even though she had three brothers and knew very well that men rarely, if ever, bore any resemblance to the storybook heroes who slew dragons and rescued maidens. Real males were far more likely to tell the maiden to rescue herself, they had a cricket match to play.