Sally MacKenzie Bundle (208 page)

“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.”

“Begging yer pardon, ma’am,” Jem said, “but I don’t think that’s a good notion.” The man gave Lord Motton what was obviously a Significant Look.

The viscount hesitated a moment and then nodded. “I believe Jem has the right of it, Miss Parker-Roth. It would be wisest for me to accompany you. It can’t take that long to—”

“Aye, it can.”

Lord Motton and Jane both looked to see where the child’s voice had come from. A young lad in livery stood patting one of Lord Motton’s horses. He grinned at them. “Them old nags can’t go above a walk—a slow walk. Not like these sweet goers.”

“And this would be…?” Lord Motton raised his eyebrows and looked at Jem.

“Mrs. Hornsley’s page. She sent him to convey her apologies.”

“Hmm. Do you think she would lend him to us for a little while?”

“I imagine she would.” Jem turned. “Here, boy, Lord Motton wishes to speak to ye.”

“Yes, my lord?” The boy gave the horse one last pat and wandered over—reluctantly, if one judged by the number of longing looks he gave the viscount’s horses.

Lord Motton smiled at him when he finally had the boy’s attention. “What’s your name, lad?”

“Luke, my lord.”

“Well, Luke, I have need of a quick, smart boy. Do you think you can help me?”

Luke threw back his shoulders and stood as tall as he could, which wasn’t very tall. He must have been all of eight years old. “Yes, my lord. Mrs. Argle—that’s Mrs. Hornsley’s housekeeper—says I’m smart as a whip, and even Mrs. Hornsley says I can run like the wind.”

“Splendid. Do you think Mrs. Hornsley will lend you to me just for the time it will take you to run to Motton House and deliver a message?”

“I expect so.” He grinned, showing the big gap between his two front teeth. “She’ll have ye instead, won’t she?”

“Precisely. We’ll make it a trade of sorts then. The message is simple—just tell Mr. Williams, my butler, that there’s been an accident and he should send someone to help Jem with the horses.”

“Right.” The boy started to run off.

“Wait!” Jane couldn’t believe that was all the message Lord Motton had given the boy. It was just like a man not to think of the truly important things.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“And be certain to tell Mr. Williams that the viscount and Miss Parker-Roth are fine and will be home shortly.”

Luke snorted. “Begging yer pardon, ma’am, but if yer riding with Mrs. Hornsley, ye won’t be anywhere shortly.”

“Oh.”

Lord Motton chuckled. “Too true, so tell Mr. Williams we are on our way. And you may wait for us there, Luke, in the kitchen. I imagine Cook can find something for a hungry boy to eat.”

Luke’s grin spread from ear to ear. “Yes, my lord, I ’spect so.” With that, he took off across the grass at an impressive pace.

Lord Motton laughed. “I wager young Master Luke wants to increase the amount of time he has to enjoy Cook’s handiwork.”