The Naked Viscount (4 page)

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.”

Thank God!
The door closed securely behind Aunt Winifred and Theo. Motton blew out a long breath and poured his third glass of brandy. This one he could savor in blessed solitude.

His aunt had spent the last twenty minutes cataloguing every bloody girl on the Marriage Mart. He'd thought she would never leave.

He held a mouthful of brandy on his tongue and let the fumes fill his mouth. Why had she come to Town this Season? She'd left his marital state alone up to this point, contenting herself with an occasional pointed comment. Why suddenly appear on his doorstep now with a list of potential wives?

He swallowed the brandy. The answer was obvious. She was here because the other aunts had descended upon him. She'd been off with her friend Lady Wordham at Baron Dawson's estate celebrating the christening of Dawson's second child. Winifred considered herself an honorary grandmother as she'd been instrumental in bringing the baron and his wife—the former Lady Grace Belmont—together. But once she got wind that the other aunts were in London—well, she was not going to leave such an important task as selecting the next Viscountess Motton to her sisters.

It would be damn nice if they'd all leave that task to him, however.

He leaned back in his chair and chuckled. God, the look on Williams's face the other day when he'd announced the aunts—minus Aunt Winifred—in this very room. Well, it must have mirrored his. Horror, that's what he'd felt when he'd seen them all standing behind his butler. He was certain Williams had tried to park the ladies in one of the parlors, but the aunts clearly were having none of that. They'd probably surmised—perhaps rightly—that their loving nephew would have bolted out the back.

Aunt Gertrude, the oldest at seventy-six, hadn't waited for the poor fellow to get her name out. “Good Lord, man,” she'd said, pushing past him, “I had your master's puke all over my shoulder when he was only days old. I don't think you need to announce me.”

Cordelia, Dorothea, and Louisa had made various noises of agreement. At least they'd left their pets in the carriage; he hadn't been treated to
that
cacophony, too. They'd followed Gertrude like a flock of aggressive geese; Williams had given him a weak, commiserating look and fled.

He'd been trapped here, behind his desk—he wasn't quite bold enough to walk out on the aunties. Bold, hmm…brave was probably a better word. He'd be exiled from his house—hell, he'd be exiled from London…from England…if hetried such a trick.

He'd stood, of course, the moment he'd seen them. He'd heard the baby puke comment before; he very much hoped he could get through the interview without Gertrude dredging up any other distasteful memories of his infancy.

“Aunt Gertrude…and Aunt Cordelia, Dorothea, and Louisa, what a, er, pleasant, ah, surprise. Are you in London for the Season?” he'd said.

“Well, we certainly aren't in London for our health.” Gertrude had coughed and glared at him. “How anyone can bear to live in this filthy place is beyond me. I swear it can't get any dirtier each time I come up to Town, and each time I'm proven wrong again. How can you stand it?”

“Only with the strictest fortitude. The soot and noise are not at all what you are used to. I suggest you return to the country posthaste.”

Dorothea laughed. “Nice try, Edmund. We didn't come up to see the sights, you know.”

“Or attend all the balls and parties and other frivolous entertainments.” Louisa had looked as though she'd bitten into a lemon. If she had a sense of humor, he hadn't yet discovered it.

“Ah. Then why have you come to Town, ladies?” He knew the answer, but he was hoping he might be mistaken.

He wasn't.

“To find you a wife, of course.” Gertrude'd wrinkled her brow. “You ain't usually a lobcock, Edmund. Must be all this dirt—it's clogged up your brain.”

He'd tried to laugh. He suddenly knew what it must be like to be a fox encircled by hounds. Death—or marriage—was beginning to feel inescapable. “I didn't know I needed a wife.”

A colossally stupid thing to say—he'd recognized that the moment the words escaped his lips.

Gertrude snorted; Cordelia snickered; Dorothea laughed; Louisa merely rolled her eyes.

“You need an heir, Edmund.” Gertrude had spoken slowly as if she were addressing a complete slow-top. “So, of course, you need a wife.”

“But I don't need an heir immediately. Not now. Not this year.” He'd taken a deep breath. He was a grown man. The aunts could not force him into parson's mousetrap. “I have plenty of time for such things.”

“You don't know that,” Louisa said. “You could step outside this afternoon and be run down by a carriage.”

“Thank you for the warning, Aunt Louisa, but I've managed to navigate London's highways and byways successfully so far.”

“It's only a matter of time; London's traffic is dreadful.”

“Yes, well, gruesome considerations aside, you still can't shilly-shally any longer,” Gertrude said. “You're past thirty, aren't you?” She'd looked down her nose at him—a good trick as he was a half a foot taller than she.

“Ah…”

“You're thirty-three, Edmund,” Louisa said.

“Exactly.” Gertrude nodded. “We gave you an extra three years.
I
wanted to have this discussion on your thirtieth birthday, but Winifred persuaded me to wait.”

Thank God for small favors.

“Where
is
Winifred?” He'd try anything to change the subject.

Aunt Gertrude just stared at him. “Away. Now about your marriage.”

“Aunt Gertrude, I do not wish to discuss marriage.”

“You must discuss it. There is no time to waste.”

“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.