Perhaps she could bear this position a little longer. His fingers felt so good—firm, but not too firm. “I can’t imagine Da leaving the Priory for London.”
“Surely he would if he thought some blackguard had injured his daughter?” Lord Motton sounded rather stern and disapproving. “He loves you, doesn’t he?”
“Oh, yes.” She had no doubt about Mama’s or Da’s love. Their attention, yes—she often doubted she had their attention—but their love? Never.
“Then I’m certain he’d ride ventre à terre to bring me to justice. He’d probably beat me to within an inch of my life before forcing me up the church aisle into parson’s mousetrap.”
Lord Motton sounded amused rather than appalled by that scenario.
“Er, perhaps.” Da would be more likely to write a scathing sonnet, but perhaps she was wrong. Lord Motton was male; he should be more intimately familiar with the male mind.
“I think we’ve probably waited long enough,” he said. “I’ll wager your mother is gone and Bollingbrook is deep in the arms of his muse. Unless you think your mama might linger to look for you?”
“No, I imagine she’s left.”
“Then let’s go. Jem should be back with the curricle.” Lord Motton stood and helped her up. She clutched his hand.
“I can’t see anything, it’s so dark.”
“Hold on to me. I won’t let you stumble.” He started to walk away, but she pulled him back.
“I mean I can’t see anything. It’s like I’m blind.” She heard the panic in her voice and tried for a lighter tone. “I don’t want to slip on Pan’s—er.”
“Don’t worry. Bollingbrook flung that to the back of the closet.”
“How do you know?”
“It hit me.”
“Oh. Well, I still might trip on something else. There’s a lot of…rummage in here.”
“There is, isn’t there? Here, give me your other hand.” He took it and wrapped them both around his waist. “Just hold tight and follow me—step where I step. I won’t let you fall.”
“All right.” She clutched him, his belly hard and flat under her fingers. She rested her cheek against his back as he picked their way safely to the door.
“Wait,” he whispered, loosening her hold. He stepped out of the closet, partially closing the door.
She had to bite her cheeks to keep from panicking. At least he hadn’t closed the door entirely. There was some light in the little room. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
In a moment, he opened the door wide. “Come on out. There’s no one here.”
“Thank God.” She scooted out of the closet. “I must look like I’ve been dragged backward through a bramble bush.”
Edmund grinned at her. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that; however, you do look as though you’ve been cleaning out a very dusty cupboard.”
“Oh, dear.” She put her hand to her hair; it felt as if half her pins had come out. “I must be a complete mess.”
“You could never be a mess, complete or otherwise.” The right corner of his mouth turned up in a half smile, and his eyes had an odd, smoky look. “But you are a bit dusty.”
“I’m certain I am.” Her skirts were covered with lint and cobwebs. She brushed off everything she could reach. “Can you see to my back, my lord?”
“My pleasure.” He ran his hands over her shoulders, waist, and skirts, tracing her outline—especially her derrière—rather more closely than necessary.
“Ah, thank you.”
“I’m not certain I got everything.” He grinned wolfishly down at her.
“I’m sure it will do.” She looked at him repressively. He was still grinning.
“Very well.” He offered her his arm. “Shall we depart, or did you wish to examine more of the paintings?”
“No, thank you. I have seen more than enough.”
“You don’t wish to peek under that drape?” Mrs. Parker-Roth and Bollingbrook had done an excellent job of covering up Jane’s naked father.
She glared at him. “No. Thank you.” She strode out of the blue room without benefit of his guidance.
He caught up to her. “Your mother is to be commended for her dedication to your father.”
“Why? What do you mean?”
He shrugged. “Not every woman would decline Bollingbrook’s offer.”
Jane stopped and wrinkled her nose. “Bollingbrook?”
“Ah, so you think your mother’s answer might have been different if a different gentleman had been asking?” The thought disappointed him, though why it should was a mystery. Mrs. Parker-Roth was beyond the age where she could present her husband with a cuckoo. If she wished to amuse herself when she was away from home, that was her business. She came to London every year for the Season while her husband stayed home. They probably had an arrangement. At least they spent the rest of the year together, which was more than his parents had done.
“No, of course not. Mama would never—” Jane twisted up her face as if she’d bit into a lemon. “She’d never do that with anyone but Da. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“There’s nothing ridiculous about it. You’ve been in Town long enough to know such things are quite common.”
“Not with Mama. Not with Da.” She frowned at him. “Er, I don’t mean to pry, but…well, your aunts said something, but I didn’t completely understand…ah, that is, I take it your parents did not have a happy marriage?”
He snorted. Not have a happy marriage? Hell, they hadn’t really had a marriage at all. “My father had a string of London mistresses. My mother stayed in the country and spent her days in bed, but with medicines, not men.”
“Is that why you don’t have any brothers or sisters? Because your mother was ill?” Jane touched his arm gently, her eyes full of compassion.
Blast it! How stupid could she be? He shook off her hand and turned to stare at a pack of hounds tearing a fox to pieces. The painting suited his sudden mood perfectly.
“My mother’s ills were all in her mind, Miss Parker-Roth. I don’t have any siblings because my parents detested each other.”
“No. They must have been in love in the beginning. Why else would they have married?”
He snorted again. She really was naïve. “They married because my mother’s father found my mother naked in my father’s bed at a house party.”
“Oh.” Jane flushed. “Then they were in lust.”
“No, they were not. My mother wished to be a viscountess, and my grandfather wanted to get rid of the last of his six daughters. I’m sure he was delighted to trap a viscount, but I suspect he would have taken a chimney sweep.”
“Couldn’t your father have refused to marry your mother?” Miss Parker-Roth actually sounded angry on his father’s behalf. Silly girl. “He should have stood up to them all. He was innocent.”
“Not so innocent. My father was never one to decline an invitation. When my grandfather and half the house party opened the door to his bedchamber, the first thing they saw was his naked arse pumping—” What was the matter with him? There was no need to be crass. “Suffice it to say, there was no question that my parents needed to marry. Fortunately from my father’s perspective, I arrived nine months later.” He smiled without a touch of humor. “As long as I managed to keep breathing, dear Papa could disport himself as he wished in as many London bedrooms as he could gain entry to.”
Jane was frowning at him. “How do you know any of this is true, my lord? The only ones who know with certainty are your parents, and surely they never said a word to you.”
He brushed a strand of hair from her face. She was so sweet. He hadn’t realized how innocent she was. “They said many words, my dear. Did I not say they hated each other? My father told me the tale each of the few times he saw me. Even when I was a child and far too young to understand his meaning, he recounted the story of my conception, always ending with the admonition to be careful not to die so he wouldn’t be forced back into my mother’s bed.”
“That’s terrible.” She looked furious, her brows meeting in a fierce frown. “What a terrible way to treat you. Why didn’t your mother stop him?”
“Why would she? She wanted him in her bed as little as he wanted to be there.” He shrugged, vaguely surprised at how much the sordid memory still hurt. “I heard her side of the story as well, in graphic detail—and since I was forced to live with her until I escaped to school, I heard her story rather frequently. I came not to take her animosity personally. She didn’t care for me, but then I think she didn’t care for young boys—or males—in general.”
Were those tears in Miss Parker-Roth’s eyes? She had far too tender a heart—and he had no heart at all. “I’m sorry. You didn’t ask for that.”
“No, but…” She took out her handkerchief and blew her nose. “That’s horrible.”
He didn’t want her pity. “I had it no worse than many children of the ton. Your family is unusual. I take it your parents’ union was—is—a love match?” He offered her his arm, and they started walking again.
“Yes, indeed. Mama met Da at her come-out ball, and it was love at first sight. They are still very attached to each other.” She flushed. “We all avoid Mama’s studio when she’s painting Da. She often gets, ah, distracted.” She glanced up at him. “You saw the painting.”
“Yes.” He’d never met the senior Parker-Roth, but if his wife believed at all in realism, then Bollingbrook was right. Parker-Roth’s painted expression bespoke a man well satisfied.
And had Bollingbrook been right about the other, too? Had Jane looked at him as if he were a god? He hoped so.
Many women admired his title and pocketbook, and many found him physically attractive, but he’d never had a woman care about him. Did Jane? Once they solved Clarence’s puzzle and were free of Satan, he intended to find out.
They reached the gallery’s front door and came upon Mr. Bollingbrook standing in the entryway, straightening a painting. His eyebrows shot up.
“Where have you two been?”
“Observing the art.” Motton kept his voice level, but he’d wager Jane looked extremely guilty. He could tell by Bollingbrook’s expression he’d win his wager. She really would make a terrible spy.
“I see.” Bollingbrook smiled in far too knowing a manner.
Damn it, there was no way he could challenge the man without wading deeper into the quicksand of speculation. “We enjoyed our tour—”
“I’ll bet you did.”
“But, sadly, we must leave.” The sooner, the better.
Bollingbrook nodded and looked at Jane. “Your mother was here.”
“Oh?” Jane cleared her throat. “Indeed? I’m sorry we, er, missed her.”
“One wonders how you did. The gallery is not that large.”
Poor Jane was being led to slaughter.
“It is odd, isn’t it?” Motton said. “But there you have it. Don’t know how it happened. Thank you again for your hospitality.” He took Jane’s arm and dragged her out the door.
“Do come again,” Bollingbrook said as he waved good-bye.
Lord Motton helped Jane into his curricle and took the reins. He started the horses down Harley Street toward Mayfair.
“Thank you.” Jane sighed. “I had no idea what to say to Mr. Bollingbrook.”
“Then don’t say anything. I learned early on that silence is often the best response. Make your interrogator work for an answer.”
“That is very wise.” But so hard to do—at least for her. John, Stephen, and Nicholas had no trouble playing mumchance, and even her sisters could be mute as fish if doing so would save them from Mama’s wrath, but she always let the cat out of the bag. Stephen would never let her in on any of his most exciting adventures, because he said Mama was sure to get every last detail from her. It was most annoying.
Lord Motton had let a bit of the cat out of the bag just now. Poor man—how could he have borne growing up with such heartless parents? Anger coiled tight in her gut. If they weren’t dead already, she would cheerfully strangle them. They might hate each other, but how could they have taken their spleen out on a defenseless little boy?
Jane gripped the side of the curricle tightly and glanced at Lord Motton. He kept his eyes on traffic. A good thing. Carriages crowded Harley Street as they made their way down to Cavendish Square, and masses of people traversed the walkways. There were so many more people in London than the country, and so much more noise.
She sucked in her breath as another curricle cut them off, almost clipping their wheels. The grays faltered, tossing their heads, but Edmund kept his hands steady and settled them down quickly. “Well done, my lord.”
He smiled briefly. “Traffic seems worse than usual. Anything happening in Town today, Jem?”
“No, my lord.”
They turned down Henrietta to New Cavendish Street and then to Oxford Street. More carriages and carts and riders pressed around them, but Lord Motton looked as calm as if he were driving his pair down a deserted country road.
They had just passed Park Street when disaster struck.
“My lord! Watch on yer left.”
“I see it, Jem.”
A woman had spilled her cart of vegetables. Turnips and potatoes bounced and rolled everywhere. Traffic ahead of them slowed; people shouted; the woman threw choice epithets right and left. Lord Motton reined in and glanced over at Jane. “Unfortunately, it looks like—”
Two large, mangy dogs darted out of an alley, barking and snarling. They went right for Lord Motton’s team. The horses, already spooked by the screaming people and vagrant vegetables, bolted.
“Hang on,” Lord Motton shouted.
Jane was too terrified to make a sound. She clutched the side of the curricle as tightly as she could, but with every bump, she flew up out of her seat. She watched the horses’ hooves squash a turnip. If she didn’t keep her place in the curricle, she would be under those hooves or the hooves of one of the other horses on the crowded street.
She squeezed her eyes shut as they shot between a phaeton and a hackney. Dear God, how had they missed hitting them? She glanced back to see both drivers shouting at them and making very rude gestures.
It was a testament to Lord Motton’s consummate skill with the ribbons that they made it down Oxford Street at breakneck speed without crashing. When they got to Hyde Park, he urged his team through Cumberland Gate and down the gravel carriage way.
The dogs had stopped chasing them, but the horses still refused to slow. “Hang on,” Lord Motton said again. “They’ll tire soon. I’ll get them to—blast!”
“What?” Jane looked ahead. “Oh.”
Old Mrs. Hornsley and her poodle were coming toward them, taking the air in Mrs. Hornsley’s ancient barouche. Mrs. Hornsley’s coachman was older than she, stone deaf, and more than half blind. He drove sedately down the middle of the road.
Lord Motton did the only thing he could—he swung his team onto the grass. They thundered up a small rise, brushed past some bushes, and—thankfully—started to slow. Jane let out a long sigh of relief and relaxed her death grip on the curricle. A mistake.
The wheel on her side of the carriage hit something hard; she heard an ominous crack and her seat shifted abruptly. She flew into the air.
“Ah, oh, eee!”
“Jane!”
She heard Lord Motton shout her name just before she landed face-first in an overgrown bush.
Chapter 13
“Jane! Jane, are you all right?”
“Mmpft!” Thank God it wasn’t windy or she’d be completely mortified. Her skirts hadn’t flown up with her fall, had they? At least they were covering her lower half at the moment, but if an errant gust of wind caught her hem…
She struggled fiercely to right herself, but only succeeded in sinking down deeper in the damn bush’s leafy embrace.
“Stop wiggling. I’ve got you.” A strong arm wrapped itself around her waist and lifted, pulling her free of her prickly
prison. “Are you all right?” Lord Motton set her on her feet and plucked a twig from her hair.
“Mmph.” She removed a leaf from her mouth and rescued her bonnet from where it dangled on the back of her neck. “Yes. I think.”
He held her by her shoulders and looked her up and down, a worried crease between his brows. “You look a mess.”
“Thank you. You’re not too natty yourself, you know.” Though he must look far better than she. He’d lost his hat somewhere in their mad dash and one coat sleeve had parted from his shoulder, but other than that he looked remarkably unscathed. “Weston will be dancing a jig of delight at the tailoring bill you’re going to be running up. That’s the second coat you’ve ruined in as many days.”
He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.” He pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed at her cheek. “You’ve scratches all over your face. Are you certain you’re all right?”
“Besides the fact that apparently my visage will be giving small children and the fastidious members of the ton nightmares, yes, I really am fine.”
“My lord.” Jem came up then, looking a bit worse for wear as well. He had a big scrape on his cheekbone and his livery would definitely need to be replaced. “Mrs. Hornsley sends word that she is very sorry for the trouble and would be happy to convey ye and the lady to yer destination.”
Lord Motton ran his hand through his hair. “That would certainly help—I’d like to get Miss Parker-Roth home as soon as possible—but I don’t wish to leave you alone with the wrecked curricle and the horses.”
“I’ll be fine, my lord. Ye can send help when ye get back to Motton House.”
Edmund raised his eyebrows. “Given Mrs. Hornsley’s equipage and coachman, that could take hours, you know.”
Jem snorted. “Aye, I know.”
“I can go by myself.” Jane wasn’t eager to leave Lord Motton—she still felt quite wobbly and his presence was very sustaining—but surely she could manage to sit in a barouche, especially Mrs. Hornsley’s, without the viscount at her side and proceed at a snail’s pace the few blocks to Motton House. “You stay and sort things out here, my lord.”
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