Sally MacKenzie Bundle (206 page)

“Taught a lesson?” He’d been teaching her a lesson? No. The lesson he’d most like to teach her required a locked door and a nice soft bed.

“You know—about being cautious.”

“Ah, yes. Cautious.” She should be far more cautious with him, but he wasn’t about to say that. In fact, an insistent part of him would like to urge her to throw caution to the wind.

He shook his head in a largely vain attempt to dislodge his lust. He needed to focus on the subject at hand. This was the perfect opening to stress the danger of their situation—the danger that had nothing to do with soft beds. “You
do
need to be cautious, Jane. Things could get even more dangerous if we find”—he didn’t want to mention their goal, even though he trusted Jem—“what you think we will.”

“I’m sure we’ll find it.” She smiled and then looked off to the right. “Oh, see. There’s the gallery.”

Lord Motton pulled up and gave Jem the reins. Then he swung down and went to help Jane. As soon as her feet touched the pavement, she strode up to the gallery door and rapped soundly with the knocker. Nothing happened.

The viscount took the knocker from her and pounded harder on the door. They waited. “Your mother said the gallery was open today, but only a deaf man could not have heard my knock.”

“Mama also said Mr. Bollingbrook might be in the studio painting. I’m sure he’ll be here shortly.”

Lord Motton huffed impatiently and clasped his hands behind his back. “I don’t care for this exposed position.”

“What?”

“We are standing here on the street for anyone to observe. It is not safe.” He looked at his watch. “We’ll give this Bollingbrook fellow a few more minutes and then we are leaving.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, will you—”

The door swung open. A hunchbacked bald man in a smock glared up at them. He had a long green streak across his forehead and a blue splotch on the side of his nose.

“What do you want?” he snarled. “Speak up. Paint’s drying. I’ve got no time to waste.”

“Mr. Bollingbrook?” Jane spoke quickly before Lord Motton could vent his obvious spleen.

“Aye. And who are you?”

“Sir—” The viscount looked as if steam were going to emerge from his ears. Jane stepped in front of him and raised her voice.

“Jane Parker-Roth, Cecilia Parker-Roth’s daughter, and—”

“Oh.” Mr. Bollingbrook nodded and stepped aside so they could enter. “Why the hell didn’t you say so in the first place?”

“Now see here, sir—”

Mr. Bollingbrook was already walking away. “Close the door behind you,” he said over his shoulder. “And you can let yourselves out when you’re done.”

Jane made the mistake of looking up at Lord Motton. His expression was an interesting mix of anger and stupefaction. She slapped her hand over her mouth, but couldn’t muffle her giggle completely.

He looked down at her and joined her laughter. “That man is very odd.”

Jane shrugged. “He’s an artist.”

Lord Motton pulled the door firmly shut and took her arm. “Your mother is not odd.”

“She can be when she’s deep in the midst of creating.” Jane let Lord Motton direct her into the first room, which was painted a muted yellow. This gallery had originally been a town house, so, unlike the Royal Academy, the paintings here were hung in a series of regular-sized rooms. She glanced around. No Pan. Damn.

“Life at the Priory is very interesting when Mama has a new painting and Da is in the middle of writing a sonnet,” she said. “Poor John. He often had to act as father and mother for the younger ones, because Mama and Da were off communing with their muses.”

They strolled past a painting of a bored-looking child with a large, ugly dog.

“John has always struck me as very serious,” Motton said. “Perhaps it’s his nature to take charge.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps he had to become serious to deal with the chaos around him.” Jane glanced up at Lord Motton. “Were you a serious child, my lord?”

“Yes, I suppose I was.” There had been nothing to be lighthearted about in his youth.

“You don’t have any brothers or sisters, do you?”

“No, nor any parents any longer.” He forced himself to smile. “But plenty of aunts.”

Jane smiled back at him. “Definitely plenty of aunts—but they don’t live with you normally, do they?”

“No, thank God.” He inspected a rather pedestrian depiction of a fruit bowl. “I would probably strangle them in short order if I had to spend more than a few weeks with them.”

“But you love them.”

It wasn’t a question. And Jane was right—he did love his aunts, no matter how maddening they were. They—especially Winifred—had provided the occasional bright spots in his mostly grim upbringing.

They wandered into the next room, this one a light green. He did a quick survey. No Pan. Jane stopped to study a misty painting of the Thames.

What would it have been like to have been part of a large family like the Parker-Roths? To have numerous sisters and brothers and parents who liked their children and one another?

His parents had been completely disinterested in his existence. No, that wasn’t strictly accurate. They definitely wanted him to keep existing, else they’d be put to the great inconvenience of getting another heir. But as long as he kept breathing, neither his father nor his mother had much cared what happened to him. His father was too busy whoring in London; his mother, too enamored of her pills and potions and other quackery.

He’d always wanted a brother, or even a sister, but he’d learned early on—it was probably one of the first lessons he’d learned—that there was no point in hoping for the impossible. No one got to choose his family.

He looked down at Jane, who was now frowning at a painting of a fat cherub and an emaciated hermit. He couldn’t choose his birth family, but he could choose a wife and make a new family with her. With Jane?

The thought was seductive.

“I suppose we should hurry along, shouldn’t we?” she said. “We aren’t really here to admire the artwork.”

“Shh.” He glanced around. Fortunately there was no one else in sight. Still, the hard floors and walls would carry the sound. It was possible, though unlikely, someone else was in the gallery. “We don’t want to raise anyone’s suspicions,” he murmured by her ear. Mmm. She smelled of lemon.

She raised her eyebrows and looked around the deserted room.

“Remember, it pays to be cautious.” If he leaned just a little closer, he could brush her cheek with…

Cautious. He was supposed to be cautious—and alert. He took Jane’s arm again and urged her into the next chamber.

She stopped on the threshold. “This is the blue room.” Her voice sounded odd—almost shocked.

He looked at the walls. Yes, they were painted blue, but it was a pleasant enough shade. “What’s the matter?”

“Mama told me to avoid the blue room. She was quite adamant about it.”

“Oh?” He looked around again. It was just another room with paintings. No sculpture—no Pan.

“Yes.” Jane walked into the room—she was apparently not the most obedient daughter. “Something about this room—oh, no!”

“Jane!” What the hell was the matter? Jane was staring—gaping, really—at a large painting. She turned bright red, then deathly white. Then she made a strangled sound and ran for the nearest exit. There were two closed doors—she jerked one open and disappeared through it.

“Jane!” He looked at the painting that had so disturbed her. Yes, it was of a naked man, but half the paintings in the gallery depicted the human figure in partial or total undress. Jane was not a prude—she’d certainly not reacted with such consternation when she’d encountered the Pan statues, and they were far more salacious than this.

He stepped closer and examined the work more carefully. This man looked to be older than most of the gallery subjects—in his late fifties, perhaps. He was reclining on a sofa, facing the viewer, one hand supporting his head, the other resting on his left knee. His legs were flopped open—and the artist did not believe in fig leaves.

Hmm. Motton focused on the face, since obviously he’d not be acquainted with any of the fellow’s other body parts. The man did look oddly familiar. He’d swear they’d never met, but something about him…Was it the eyes? The shape of the face? The painting reminded him of—

Good God!

He looked—yes, the work was signed: C. Parker-Roth.

This must be Jane’s father.

Oh, damn. He’d best see how she was—if she wasn’t already halfway home. He frowned. Surely she wouldn’t have left without him? He strode toward the door, threw it open—and almost collided with Jane.

“It’s a closet,” she said.

“I see that. Are you all right?”

She nodded. “It was just a shock seeing Da that way. I mean, I’ve been in Mama’s studio at home—though I usually do avoid it—so I probably saw that painting while she was working on it.” Jane turned bright red. “Well, not
while
she was working on it, obviously—while Da was actually, er, posing. They lock the door then, thank God.” She took a deep, shuddery breath. “I just wasn’t expecting to see it in public, if you know what I mean.”

“Yes, and your mother must have known, too, since she told you to stay out of this room. I do think she should have told you explicitly what the problem was though, so you weren’t taken unawares.”

“I suppose she should have, but Mama is oddly reticent about some things. She probably didn’t want me to know the painting wasn’t still tucked away in her studio.” Jane shook her head. “I wonder if Da knows? Though perhaps he doesn’t mind. Men are different from women, are they not?”

“Er, yes.” He’d not care to have his cock on display for anyone and everyone to gawk at, but—he looked over Jane’s shoulder. What was that in the shadows? Something white…

Jane straightened her bonnet and sighed. “I think I am ready to return home, if you don’t mind. I must have misinterpreted Clarence’s drawing, though I was so certain—”

“Jane.”

“What? Are you going to let me out of this closet or not?” She felt very…she wasn’t certain how she felt. Embarrassed. Annoyed. Confused. Would it have been better if she hadn’t been with Lord Motton?

What was she going to say when she saw Mama—or Da?

“Look behind you, over by that ripped canvas.”

She sighed. “Oh, very well.” She turned and scanned the shadows. There was a stool, a ladder, a broom, a broken frame…ah, and there was the canvas and beside it, barely visible, something white, something that looked like a hard round knob, just like the head of—“Pan’s penis!”

She lunged and grabbed the knob, pushing the old canvas out of the way. Pan grinned up at her. “I was right—he
is
here.” She grasped his member with both hands and turned. This penis came off more easily than the one in Lord Palmerson’s garden, probably because it hadn’t stood out in the rain and the wind and the dirt for who knows how long. She reached down inside, slid out a folded paper, and held it up triumphantly. “Lo—”

Lord Motton clapped his hand over her mouth. “Shh. Listen.”

She listened. Footsteps, coming toward them.

The viscount pulled the closet door shut. “Give me the paper.”

She didn’t want to give up her prize, but it was suddenly so dark, she was afraid she’d drop it. It was probably safer in his pocket. She felt for his hand—it truly was pitch black in the closet—and gave him the sketch. She heard rustling—he must be putting it in his pocket—and then his hand found hers again. He pulled her to the very back of the closet.

“Ow.” She stubbed her toe on something hard. “How can you see where you’re going?”

“
Will
you be quiet?” Lord Motton hissed in her ear. The words tickled; she had to swallow a giggle—and how she could even consider giggling in such a situation was a mystery. They might be discovered at any moment—and she did not care for enclosed, dark spaces in the slightest.

Apparently being enclosed with a large, warm man made the situation more bearable.

“I have excellent night vision.” He was still whispering in her ear. She’d like his lips to move to her cheek and her lips and—“We’ll hide as best we can behind the canvas and other debris. Hurry.” He pulled her down with him.

“Ohh.” She lost her balance, knocking something crashing to the floor and landing on top of Lord Motton.

“Oof.”
He flinched. His hand pushed her knee away; it had landed between his legs…high between his legs…maybe on a very sensitive spot.

“I’m so sorry.” She tried to scramble off, but his arm came around her to clamp her against him.

“Be still.” He shifted a little so his body now shielded hers from the door—she thought. She really couldn’t see her hand in front of her face. “It’s all right. You didn’t hurt me.”

He must be telling the truth or else he had superhuman control. She’d never forget the time she’d accidentally hit Stephen in the crotch with a cricket ball. He’d fallen to the ground writhing in agony, unable to utter a word—but the look in his eye told her she’d best not be within sight when he recovered.

“Oh, er, I’m glad. I really am so sorry.”

“Don’t give it another thought.”

“Are you certain you aren’t hurt?”

“I’m fine.”

She nodded and tried to quiet her breathing. “Do you think they heard the thing I knocked over?”

He actually chuckled! “Unless they’re deaf, they did.”

“Ohh, damn.”

“Shh.” He cupped her head and pressed it against his chest. How could he be so calm? His heart was beating slowly and steadily, as if he were sitting in the drawing room, while hers was trying to leap out of her body. It was a wonder the people in the gallery couldn’t hear it, too.

Oh, God. What was going to happen when they opened the door and found her? How was she going to explain being sprawled on a closet floor, tangled up with Lord Motton like this? She’d—

The doorknob rattled. Oh, damn, oh, damn, oh, damn. She bit her lip to keep from making a sound. She must be still, like a statue. So still—

The door opened.

“I swear I heard something, Albert.”

Her head jerked up. “That’s—”

Lord Motton’s mouth came down on hers, cutting off her words—and any desire to speak or think or worry about the fact that her mother was standing just a few feet away.