The Naked Viscount Page 6

  “Yes, yes, I promise.” Jane looked out the window herself. How many carriages were in front of them? Too many. She wanted to get out of the coach immediately to avoid further conversation with Mama—and to get into the ballroom more quickly. Could she suggest the footman let down the steps here?

  No, of course not. That wasn’t done—scrambling out of the conveyance in such a helter-skelter fashion. Mama would haul her back inside and instruct John the coachman to drive directly to Bedlam. She must strive for some patience.

  She took a deep breath and sat back. She tried to appear calm—and ignore Mama’s concerned gaze. The damn coach moved at a snail’s pace when it moved at all.

  Finally they reached the front door and joined the long line of elegantly attired men and women making their way slowly up the marble stairs to the ballroom. The sound of all the conversation was deafening. Was Lord Motton somewhere in the crush? She looked around as casually as she could. There was no sign of him. He must be in the ballroom already, waiting for her. Her stomach fluttered. If only the people ahead of her would hurry up.

  It took forever, but finally they were announced. She stepped into the ballroom and surveyed the crowd. Surely Lord Motton was watching for her. He wouldn’t come up to her immediately, of course—that would be too obvious. They didn’t want to focus the ton’s attention on them. But she would glance around, so she could see where he was and drift in his direction. Then it would look as if they met by accident.

  She frowned. Where was he? She looked again, scanning each corner of the room.

  “Come, Jane, we need to move on,” Mama said. “We are blocking the entry.” She gave Jane a surreptitious push.

  “Yes, Mama. Of course.”

  Damn it all, unless the viscount had suddenly turned invisible, the blasted man was not in the ballroom.

  Chapter 4

  Where was Lord Motton? Damn it, he’d definitely said he’d talk to her at the Palmerson ball tonight. She hadn’t imagined that; she remembered it quite distinctly. He’d said it right before he’d slipped out Clarence’s window.

  “I understand you are, er, staying at the, ah, Widmores’ house, Miss Parker-Roth?”

  “Oh.” Jane jumped and got pricked by a palm frond. She’d forgotten that Mr. Mousingly—or the Mouse, as the wags called him—was standing next to her in the foliage. He was a very forgettable gentleman—short and thin, with slightly hunched shoulders, large ears, and light brown hair that had retreated to the back of his head. “You startled me.”

  The Mouse’s brow furrowed. “I don’t know how I could have. I’ve been standing here for the last ten minutes. Or fifteen. Yes, I do believe it’s been fifteen. But I’m very sorry if I startled you. I didn’t mean to. I’d never startle a woman. I’d never startle a man, either, at least not intentionally. I—”

  “Yes, yes, I’m sure you wouldn’t startle a flea, Mr. Mousingly, and you wouldn’t have startled me if I hadn’t been woolgathering.”

  “Er, woolgathering? Ah. I’m very sorry to have interrupted your thoughts then. I’ll just stand here quietly until you are finished, shall I? Unless that would startle you, too?”

  Jane wanted to scream, but that would certainly startle the attending ton. Heavens, they might think the Mouse was doing something to provoke her scream. How absurd. She giggled.

  The Mouse frowned again. “Did I say something to amuse you, Miss Parker-Roth?”

  “Oh, no, it was just a stray thought. Please, disregard it.”

  “Very well.” The Mouse nodded and continued to look at her as if waiting for a crumb of cheese.

  What did the man want? He’d said something to start this silly exchange. Oh, right. He’d asked where she was staying. What an odd question. Why did he wish to know?

  “Did you ask if we are staying at Widmore House?”

  The Mouse nodded, looking suddenly eager. Odder and odder.

  “We are. Miss Widmore—now Baroness Trent—is off on her honeymoon, and poor Mr. Widmore—”

  The Mouse heaved a gusty sigh redolent of garlic. Jane eased back a step or two. “Yes, poor Clarence. He’s gone aloft, hasn’t he? So tragic.” He cleared his throat. “He was an artist, you know.”

  “Yes. A sculptor.”

  The Mouse nodded. “But he also drew, ah, pictures. Did you know that?” His small—his beady little eyes blinked at her. His expression was meek, deferential—mouse-like—but she’d swear she saw a spark of something else in his gaze.

  Good God! Could the Mouse know about the sketch? Could he be in the sketch?

  The thought of Mr. Mousingly participating in an orgy was both ludicrous and appalling.

  “I believe sculptors often draw their subjects before they begin work on statues,” she said.

  The Mouse shook his head. “But Clarence drew pictures. Scenes. Er, details.”

  Jane took another step backward. “I’m sure he did. Few artists work solely in one discipline. My mother paints, but she also draws.” Could she steer the conversation away from Clarence? “Mr. Widmore’s sister is a very accomplished painter, you know. She’s—”

  “Have you seen any of Clarence’s sketches lying about?” The Mouse stepped closer; Jane stepped back once more—and onto someone’s foot. She heard a grunt of pain as two gloved, male hands steadied her.

  “Oh! I’m so sorry. Please excuse me.” Jane turned quickly and almost bumped into an elegant black waistcoat embroidered with silver threads. She looked up. Viscount Motton smiled down at her.

  Oh, my. Her heart slammed into her throat, and her mouth turned as dry as a field in the middle of a summer drought. He was so close. She drew in a deep breath and inhaled his scent—clean linen, eau de cologne, and…male.

  He’d been incredibly handsome last night, but he was impossibly handsome now, dressed so elegantly in waistcoat, coat, and cravat.

  “L—Lord Motton.”

  “Miss Parker-Roth.” His gaze was so intent. He made her feel as if she were the only woman in the room. No, more than that. As if everything else—the orchestra, the ton, everything but the two of them—had faded away.

  His eyes grew sharper, hotter. What was he going to do? She held her breath…

  He dropped his hold on her and stepped back.

  Oh. She wanted to cry with disappointment or frustration or…something. But the extra space between them freed her from her stupor. Awareness and sanity rushed back.

  They were in the middle of Lord Palmerson’s ballroom, and she would have kissed the viscount right there in front of half the ton if he’d offered her the opportunity. Good God!

  “Well, well. If it isn’t Motton and my little sister.”

  Her head snapped around. Damn! Stephen was sauntering toward them, a glass of champagne in his hand. She hoped he hadn’t noted her stupefaction. If he had, she’d never hear the end of it.

  “Stephen.” She tried to smile. He was her favorite brother most days. John tended to lecture her far too much, and Nicholas was still up at Oxford—and still too young and full of himself to be pleasant company.

  But Stephen was not her favorite brother this evening. “You should be surprised to see me. You were supposed to stop by Widmore House and escort Mama and me to this ball, you know.”

  If Stephen had arrived as he was supposed to, she wouldn’t have been subjected to Mama’s worried gaze. It would have been a much pleasanter trip—as long as Stephen hadn’t made note of her distraction. On second thought, she’d take Mama’s worry over Stephen’s teasing any day.

  “I do know, and I give you my deepest apologies.” Stephen bowed slightly, looking properly contrite—except for the teasing light in his eyes. “But I see Mama managed to drag you here without my help.”

  Jane laughed. She could never stay angry with Stephen. “Yes.” No need to mention there’d been no dragging involved. She angled a glance at Lord Motton. Fortunately, he was looking at Stephen, and Stephen was now looking at…Oh, she’d forgotten Mr. Mousingly. The man was still
lingering amidst the greenery.

  “What are you doing hiding in the palms there, Mousingly?” Stephen asked.

  The Mouse executed a small, jerky bow. “I, ah, was just having a pleasant, brief, er, conversation with Miss Parker-Roth when Lord Motton arrived.”

  “Oh? And what were you discussing?”

  Heavens, Stephen’s voice had an edge to it. What did he think she’d be discussing with the little man? She opened her mouth to tell him to stop being absurd, but the Mouse was already speaking.

  “Nothing. Just this and, er, that. I was on the point of leaving, actually. If you’ll excuse me?” The man bobbed his head and darted off through the palms without giving them the opportunity to reply.

  Stephen snorted. “What were you doing hiding in the foliage with that rodent, Janey?”

  Why did Stephen sound so accusatory? She looked at Lord Motton; he was frowning as well. “I was not hiding with the man. I was standing here, and he came up to speak to me. Things like that happen at a ball.”

  “Don’t be saucy with me, sister mine. I know what happens at balls. And let me ask you this—at how many balls have you seen the Mouse?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t pay attention to the man. He’s very forgettable.”

  “I can tell you how many,” Stephen said. “None. Zero.”

  “What do you mean? I see him everywhere.” He’d been in Town for at least as many Seasons as she had.

  “Everywhere but balls.” Stephen shot a significant look at Lord Motton. The viscount’s face was carefully blank.

  The men obviously knew something they weren’t sharing with her. How annoying. She snapped open her fan. It was getting infernally hot in here. “So are you going to tell me why he doesn’t go to balls?”

  Stephen shrugged, but he wouldn’t meet her eyes. “He doesn’t dance.”

  Lord Motton made an odd noise that sounded like a laugh turned into a cough. Jane scowled at them both and plied her fan faster.

  “Zeus, Janey, are you trying to start a gale in here? You’re going to blow us clear across the Channel.”

  She’d like to blow Stephen into the Channel. Perhaps she’d just break her fan over his head. She hated being kept in the dark. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Nothing.” Stephen pointed his finger at her. “But here’s something I am telling you—stay away from the Mouse.”

  Jane pointed her finger back at him. “Don’t be ridiculous. He’s harmless.”

  “Oh, no he’s not.” Stephen glared at her.

  Lord Motton cleared his throat. “If I may interrupt this little sibling squabble?” He turned to Jane. “I do believe your brother is correct in this case, Miss Parker-Roth. You should most definitely avoid the man.”

  “Why?” Trust the men to band together.

  “Because,” Lord Motton said, “I have evidence someone—or several someones—are taking a marked interest in Clarence Widmore’s work.”

  “Oh?” This was interesting. “Who besides Lord Ardley?”

  The viscount looked as though he was grinding his teeth, but Stephen was the one who hissed at her. “Will you keep your voice down?”

  “What, the palms have ears?” But she did glance behind her. No one looked to be within earshot.

  “Precisely.” Stephen’s eyes narrowed. “What exactly was the Mouse chatting with you about?”

  “Er…” Oh, dear. Perhaps Stephen and Lord Motton did have a point. “Clarence and, well, his drawings.”

  “That’s odd. Clarence was a sculptor mainly,” Stephen said.

  “Right. But he also drew.” Lord Motton reached into his pocket. “I was looking for you tonight partly to show you this.”

  He handed the scrap of paper over to Stephen. Jane tried to steal a look, but Stephen was careful to shield it from her. His eyebrows shot up and he gave a low whistle. “I guess old Clarence did draw once in a while. That’s Ardley and Lady Farthingale.”

  “Obviously. And you’ll note this is only part of the full sketch,” Lord Motton said. “There must be other members of the ton depicted.”

  “Like the Mouse?” Jane asked. That was the only logical explanation for the man’s questions.

  Lord Motton nodded. “He’s not in this portion of the drawing, but, yes, it would seem so. Do you have any idea who else might be involved, Stephen?”

  “No, sorry. I’ve heard rumors about a new club—well, not new, precisely. More an old club that’s changing. No one will say much—never more than a word or two, and then whoever is speaking stops, looks around, and changes the subject.”

  “Damn.” Lord Motton glanced at Jane. “Your pardon, Miss Parker-Roth.”

  Jane waved her hand dismissively. “Please, my lord, don’t regard it.”

  He smiled briefly and then turned to point something out to Stephen. “What’s that, do you know?”

  Jane tried again to see the drawing, but Stephen held it up, out of her sight.

  “It’s a rather well-done rendering of Magnolia grandiflora.” Stephen handed the sketch back. “Clarence was obviously very talented in a number of areas. He could easily have drawn for Curtis’s Botanical Magazine had he wanted to.”

  “I see.” Lord Motton put the paper back in his pocket. “And do you happen to know where I could find one of these plants?”

  Stephen laughed. “You might try the garden here. Last time I looked, Palmerson had an excellent specimen.”

  “Really? Then I think we should—”

  “Why, look who’s here!” Lady Lenden came up in a rustle of silk and a choking cloud of lily of the valley, Lady Tarkington behind her. She appeared completely unaware that she had just interrupted the viscount. “Lord Motton and Mr. Parker-Roth! How wonderful. We don’t see enough of you gentlemen, do we, Bella?”

  “No, indeed. I believe this is the first time I’ve laid eyes on you two all Season.”

  Jane rolled her eyes. It was not as if the women had had many opportunities to encounter Lord Motton and her brother—the Season was barely underway.

  Lady Tarkington tapped Stephen on the arm with her fan. “Are you just back from foreign climes with crates full of exotic plants, sir?”

  Neither of the women had yet even blinked at Jane. Had she vanished? She looked down. She could still see herself. She reached out to brush one of the palm fronds. It moved. So she hadn’t turned to vapor and disappeared.

  “No, Lady Tarkington,” Stephen was saying, “I’ve been here since the Season opened; I suppose our paths just haven’t crossed.”

  “Ah, well, we will have to fix that, won’t we, sir?” Lady Tarkington dimpled up at him.

  Stephen shrugged. “Unfortunately I leave shortly for Iceland.”

  “Oh, dear. What a tragedy! What can we do, Lydia?”

  “I don’t know.” Lady Lenden put her hand on Lord Motton’s arm and stroked it. “You aren’t going away as well, are you, Lord Motton?”

  Jane had never liked Lady Lenden, but she truly detested her now. The woman had just passed her thirtieth year. She was forty years younger than her husband, the earl, and had done her duty promptly, presenting him with his heir and spare in the first three years of their marriage. She had been amusing herself with other men ever since. It was common knowledge her third child, a daughter, was the product of her liaison with Mr. Addingly.

  Lord Motton removed his arm. “Not from London, but I’m afraid I must leave this little group. I was just about to ask Miss Parker-Roth to stand up with me for the next set.” He turned to Jane. “Would you care to dance, Miss Parker-Roth?”

  Jane grinned at him. She had lov—admired him for years, but he’d just risen even higher in her estimation. “Why, thank you, yes, my lord. That would be very pleasant.”

  “Miss Parker-Roth?” Lady Lenden laughed. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you standing there among the palm fronds.”

  Was the woman blind? Jane nodded and smiled politely. She could afford to be gracious—she was going to be danci
ng with Viscount Motton in a moment.

  “Yes, Miss Parker-Roth, how nice to see you.” Lady Tarkington had a slight edge to her overly sweet voice. “We made our come-out together, didn’t we? Seven—no, I suppose it’s going on eight Seasons ago, isn’t it?” She laughed. “Dear me, and I’ve been married to Tarkington six years already—how time does fly!” She paused, adopting a vaguely pitying look. “You never did marry, did you?”

  A host of replies occurred to Jane, but she realized they would all make her sound like a harridan. She had sisters, though. She knew how to play this game. She smiled as pleasantly as she could. “I haven’t sworn off the wedded state, Lady Tarkington. I just have not been as fortunate as you in finding true love.”

  Ha. Tarkington was a fat, old, ugly spider of a man, whose only redeeming feature was his title.

  Lady Tarkington’s smile turned brittle. She was clearly trying to think of a suitably caustic rejoinder she could sugarcoat sufficiently so the men wouldn’t notice its acidity. Lady Lenden came to her assistance.

  “Time marches on, Miss Parker-Roth, as I’m sure your looking glass has told you. Not all of us can wait for love.”

  Jane raised her eyebrows and looked Lady Lenden in the eye. “I know, but I do admire how you’re making the best of things.”

  Lady Lenden and Lady Tarkington both sucked in their breath; Stephen turned his sudden bark of laughter into a cough.

  Lord Motton smiled briefly. “If you’ll excuse us? I believe the next set is forming.” He took Jane’s hand, placed it on his arm, and directed her toward the dance floor before the ladies could recover from her effrontery.

  “Are we actually going to dance?” Miss Parker-Roth looked surprised when they did, indeed, join the couples gathered on the ballroom floor.

  “I think it advisable, don’t you? We did tell the ladies that was our intention. No need to further ruffle their feathers.” Ah, excellent. A waltz. He put his hand on her back. She blushed and dropped her eyes to his cravat.