Sally MacKenzie Bundle

by Sally MacKenzie

  “Are you feeling quite the thing, my lord?” Perhaps his high-handedness was all due to being in queer stirrups. “You look overheated.”

  “Er.” He cleared his throat. “I’m, ah, fine, but we should definitely return to the ballroom. The gossips will be starting to talk.”

  “Lady Lenden and Lady Tarkington certainly will.” Jane had never been a topic for the gabble-grinders before; she found she did not care for the prospect, especially when the speculation would include Viscount Motton.

  “No, I don’t think the ladies will be quick to bruit this about. They will not want to direct any attention to their activities, even in this tangential fashion. Whatever we are dealing with has been carefully hidden from the ton for some time.”

  “Right.” Jane allowed Lord Motton to hold back the bushes so she could leave Pan’s clearing without adorning herself with more leaves and twigs. She took his arm when he offered it. Her anger had dissipated.

  “Getting back to Thomas’s report,” he said as they started strolling back to the main path.

  Perhaps her anger hadn’t dissipated. “Yes, let’s get back to that. Why did you set your servants to spy on us?”

  He frowned down at her. “They weren’t spying; they were protecting you.”

  She glared back at him. “Oh, really? Then why did they allow thieves to enter Clarence’s house?”

  “Because they knew you were here with me. I assure you, if you’d been home they would have alerted me and half a dozen of my footmen.”

  “Hmph. That still doesn’t make me feel very secure.” She stopped to untangle her foot from a vine. How would she ever be able to sleep in her bed at Widmore House again? To think she’d been bored and wanting an adventure! Adventures were quite overrated.

  And why hadn’t she felt this disquiet after Lord Motton had appeared in Clarence’s study uninvited? Perhaps she’d best not consider that question too closely. “Who broke into the house?”

  “I don’t know yet. I’m hoping Jem can discover the answer.”

  “What about the servants? Was anyone hurt?”

  “No. The intruders kept to the study; the servants were all in their quarters, since you and your mother were out.”

  “Ah, well, that’s good, then.” Things could have been worse. But still, strangers had been in the house…Her stomach twisted. “I think…I mean, I’m not certain…I doubt I can bear to stay…”

  “You won’t be staying in Widmore House another night.”

  “Oh.” She felt a tremendous wave of relief. She didn’t have to worry about the intruders returning. She’d be safe. She’d be…where? There were no suitable houses standing vacant. The Season had begun; everything was full. She and Mama would be lucky to find rooms in even a second-rate hotel.

  They reached the main path and turned back toward the terrace. She looked up at Lord Motton.

  “But where will we stay? Do you think we should return to the country?” Oddly, that thought wasn’t appealing.

  His expression brightened, but then he frowned and shook his head. “No. Normally I would suggest that, but until we know what’s afoot…” He blew out a long breath. “I think it best you stay here where I can keep an eye on you.”

  She did not care to be viewed as a chore or an assignment. “You must know my father does not keep a house in Town. In past Seasons we’ve taken rooms at the Pulteney Hotel, but I’m sure that isn’t possible now. We might be able to move in with one of Mama’s artist friends—”

  “You’ll move in with me.”

  “What?” She stopped dead in the center of the path.

  “Good God, woman, will you keep your voice down? We don’t want the entire ballroom rushing out to see if you’re being murdered.”

  Jane knew her mouth was agape, but there was no helping it. She was too busy trying to grasp Lord Motton’s meaning to bother with something as minor as a dropped jaw.

  He wanted her to move into his house. Eat at his table. Sleep in his bed—

  Heat flooded her, provoking enough awareness to prompt her to finally close her mouth. Not his personal bed, of course—not the bed he was currently occupying. Simply one of the beds he owned.

  She was having some difficulty breathing. Her stomach was somersaulting in a truly scandalous fashion. Ha! Her most scandalous reaction was happening a bit lower than her stomach.

  To be in bed with Edmund…naked…

  “You needn’t look so shocked.” He was scowling at her. “My aunts are all in residence. And your mother will be there as well, of course. We will be more than adequately chaperoned. The society cats will have nothing to sharpen their claws on.”

  “Yes. Of course.” But once the aunts and Mama were asleep…She opened her fan and waved it in front of her face. It was exceedingly warm this evening.

  She should not be considering sleeping chaperones and nocturnal assignations. Lord Motton saw her as an annoying responsibility, that was all. He was not interested in reenacting any of the activities they’d—she’d—enjoyed in Clarence’s study. No. Of course not. She was being absurd.

  Lord Motton offered her his arm again and she laid her hand on it. They resumed their progress to the terrace as if nothing out of the ordinary had just occurred—as if she weren’t suddenly burning with lust for the man.

  As if she didn’t have part of a pornographic sketch stuffed in her bodice.

  She’d forgotten about that in the heat of her anger…and other emotions. She glanced down. Nothing showed. Nothing should show—she’d shoved the paper in as far as she could. She felt it pushing up against the underside of her right breast.

  “I’ll speak with Stephen,” Lord Motton was saying. “He’ll agree with my plan.”

  “Oh?” Her stomach sank a few inches. He sounded so matter-of-fact, as if he were discussing the storage of a valuable necklace or painting. And if Stephen agreed with him…Stephen might be the King of Hearts—he might be exceedingly nimble at getting in and out of ladies’ beds—but when it came to her, he was very much the protective, straitlaced older brother. He would never countenance anything that would expose her to unwanted—or wanted—attentions of a lascivious nature.

  “Yes. It’s unfortunate he’s leaving the country so soon, but he knows I am perfectly capable of safeguarding you.”

  “Ah.” Was he going to lock her away in the attic then?

  “I can’t post an adequate guard on two houses, so moving you and your mother into my home is by far the best course of action. My men know how to protect Motton House, and should anyone manage to slip by them, I will be there to deal with the problem. You will be perfectly safe.”

  She did not want to be locked away. “But you’ll need my help.”

  He frowned down at her. “Your help?”

  “Yes.” Why was he looking at her as if she’d just escaped from Bedlam? “You would never have found either part of Clarence’s sketch without me.”

  He grunted. “The first incident was an accident.”

  “An accident that wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t entered Clarence’s study.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Assuredly. Come, Lord Motton, be truthful. You would not have smashed the statuary if I hadn’t surprised you.”

  “I didn’t smash the statuary.”

  “My point exactly.” The minx grinned up at him.

  He laughed reluctantly. “All right, I admit you had a hand in discovering the first part of the sketch, but I’m sure I would have found the second if I’d spent more time studying the drawing.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “So you say. I disagree, but we’ll never know for certain, will we?”

  “No, but—” Wait a minute. They had found the second part of the sketch. Where was it? He’d seen Jane pull it out of Pan’s penis, but he hadn’t seen where she’d put it. Thomas had arrived just then, and he’d been distracted by that and then by his concern for Jane’s safety—and her mother’s as well, of course. How could he have so co
mpletely forgotten about the drawing? Damn. Was he losing his touch? He’d never been so careless before. “What did you do with the paper? Is it in your reticule?”

  They’d almost reached the terrace, so there was enough light to confirm that Jane blushed. “No,” she said. “It’s not in my reticule.”

  “Then where is it?” Why was she embarrassed? And, more to the point, where had she hidden the sketch if not in her reticule? Good God! A terrible thought punched him in the gut. If he’d been distracted by Thomas’s arrival, perhaps she had, too. He stopped her, but had enough self-control to keep himself from grabbing her shoulders and shaking her. “You didn’t lose it, did you?”

  She scowled at him. “Of course I didn’t lose it. Do you think I’m a complete widgeon?”

  Frankly, he didn’t know what to think, but he had a well-enough developed sense of self-preservation not to say so. She looked as if she was capable of slapping him soundly, and while he could defend himself easily, he didn’t care to entertain the ton with the spectacle of Viscount Motton grappling with Miss Parker-Roth.

  Grappling in private, however…

  Where the hell had that thought come from? “Of course I don’t think you a widgeon. Just give me the paper. I’ll put it in my pocket.”

  She turned even redder, if that was possible. “I can’t give it to you.”

  “Why the blood—why not?” Good God, if she had lost the paper, they’d never discover whatever Clarence’s secret was. It must be important, since half the ton were apparently quite anxious to discover it as well.

  Damn. If Stephen was correct and the secret had some connection to a hellfire club…Ardley, the Mouse, and the ladies were not real threats, but there must be other people involved who could be very dangerous indeed, especially if they became frustrated or desperate. It was not inconceivable that Satan himself had a role. “Are you completely certain you haven’t lost it?”

  “I haven’t lost it.” It sounded as though Miss Parker-Roth was speaking through clenched teeth. Well, he felt very much like clenching his teeth—or gnashing them—too.

  “So where is it?” He managed to speak slowly and not raise his voice…very much.

  “In a safe place.” She wouldn’t meet his eyes. That must be a bad sign.

  “What safe place?” All right, now he was yelling. He took a breath and tried for control. “If it’s not in your reticule, where can it be?”

  She mumbled something.

  “Miss Parker-Roth—” Damn. He had to lower his voice. He just hoped he hadn’t attracted the attention of anyone on the terrace. “Miss Parker-Roth, you are not making any sense. We have spent all our time in the garden. Where is this safe place?” Another thought intruded. “Good God, you didn’t stick it back in Pan’s—that is, you did get it out of the statue, didn’t you?” The girl couldn’t be so harebrained she’d left the sketch behind, could she?

  John and Stephen were bright—rather more than bright—but he didn’t know their sister. Mrs. Parker-Roth had an admittedly odd reputation—perhaps lunacy ran through the distaff branch of the family.

  She was glaring at him now. “If you must know,” she hissed, “it’s in my bodice.”

  “What?” He couldn’t help himself—his gaze dropped to her dress. Well, not her dress precisely. To her…he bit his lip.

  She had such lovely small breasts. He remembered with a jolt of painful clarity how they had felt through her nightgown in Clarence’s study. He’d love to touch them now without any distracting cloth in the way; he’d love to lift them out of her dress and run his fingers over her smooth, silky skin—

  He jerked his attention back to her face. “Oh. I see, er, that is, ah, you can show me them—I mean it—you can show me it when we get to Motton House.”

  She lifted her chin. She was remarkably flushed. “Perhaps I won’t.”

  He was definitely dealing with a lunatic. “No, I must see them—it—immediately. Er, that is, soon. This evening. When we can be private—ah, I mean when we don’t have a terrace full of the ton staring down at us.” On further reflection, perhaps he was the mad one. Reality as he’d always known it was especially elusive this evening. “I expect I’ll be able to discover the identities of a few other members of the ton who are involved in this situation, and I’m hoping Clarence has drawn another clue that will lead me to the third Pan.”

  “Lord Motton, you say ‘I’ and ‘me’ as if you are intending to continue this search by yourself. I thought we had already addressed that issue. You need my help.”

  Now what was the matter with her? “Your help? I don’t believe I agreed to your help—and I don’t need it.”

  “You don’t need it?” She almost spat the words. “As I said before, you would never have found anything without my help. I expect to be included in every step of the search. We will look at the sketch together and solve the puzzle as a team.”

  “My God, you are a Bedlamite!”

  “Ooh!” For a split second he truly did think she was going to slap him, but she stamped her foot instead and then thrust her index finger into his waistcoat. “You are the biggest coxcomb I have ever had the misfortune to meet.” She poked him to punctuate each characterization of his idiocy. “You are a colossal cod’s-head”—poke—“a beef-witted, mutton-headed clodpoll”—poke—“an unbelievable—”

  He believed he’d had more than enough of her spleen. He captured her hand against his chest. “Miss Parker-Roth—”

  “Lord Motton”—she waggled the index finger on her free hand in his face—“I will not give you this piece of the sketch if you do not give me your word you will include me in all your efforts.”

  Did she intend to force him to her will? She obviously did not know him well. “By God, woman, you are trying my patience. Surely you must know I can have that piece of paper from you whenever I choose.”

  “Oh, really?” She narrowed her eyes and jutted out her chin in a distinctly challenging fashion. “I should like to see you try.”

  “You would, would you? Well, then, Miss Parker-Roth, I’ll just—” Blast and damn! He’ll just what?

  He couldn’t help it—his gaze dropped back down to her bodice. It would take but a moment to spear his fingers in between her lovely, rounded…

  Mmm. A moment was far too short. Once his fingers touched her skin, he would not be thinking of bits of paper. He’d be thinking of touching and kissing and tasting and licking and sucking.

  Her bosom had turned a lovely rosy shade. She drew in a sharp breath and made her tempting bodice rise, her delightful breasts swell.

  One of his organs was swelling to uncomfortable dimensions.

  “Er.” Her voice sounded breathy and uncertain. His eyes flew back up to her face. Yes, her bravado was gone; she looked adorably confused. A slight bit of intimidation might be an excellent notion—only to remind her that she was a woman and so weaker than he. She needed to be guided by him—protected.

  He stepped a little closer so their bodies were almost touching. “Shall I take it from you, Jane? Now?”

  “Er…”

  Did he see a shadow of fear in her eyes? She should fear him—he was dangerous. But he didn’t want her to fear him. He wanted her to lov—

  Damn and blast. His head snapped up and he took a quick step backward. What the hell was he thinking? Aunt Winifred must have addled his wits with her talk of marriage.

  “I, ah”—he swallowed—“that is, well…” What should he say? What could he say? He should apologize for causing her discomfort, but hell’s bells, she was causing him discomfort—acute discomfort—at the moment. Thank God his nether region was in deep shadow. And the shock of his behavior with regard to Miss Parker-Roth was working rapidly to decrease the size of his…problem. “I didn’t mean—”

  “What didn’t you mean?”

  Motton’s head snapped around. Stephen was striding up the path from the terrace.

  Miss Parker-Roth jumped back. She caught her heel on her h
em and started to fall; Motton caught and steadied her. “Must you sneak up on people, Parker-Roth?”

  Stephen snorted. “You were only surprised by my arrival because you were far too focused on my sister.” Stephen frowned at Miss Parker-Roth. “As you were far too focused on Motton here, Jane. The idiots on the terrace were getting quite the eyeful. What were you thinking?”

  “Ah.” Miss Parker-Roth shrugged. “Er.”

  Stephen’s eyebrows shot up. “Damn it, Janey, you don’t have a tendre for Motton, do you?”

  Miss Parker-Roth closed her eyes as if in pain. “Stephen, when do you leave for Iceland?”

  Stephen laughed. “Friday. And yes, I do realize I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “Thank God for that,” Motton said. It was definitely time to change the subject. “Stephen, I was going to come looking for you. There’s been a break-in. It’s time to move your sister and mother to my home.”

  “You must be exhausted.” Lord Motton’s Aunt Winifred—Miss Winifred Smyth—grasped Jane’s hand and patted it in a comforting fashion. Miss Smyth had just accompanied Jane to a lovely bedroom painted a very restful shade of blue. It could have been painted bright orange; restfulness was not a state Jane was going to achieve anytime soon.

  “I don’t know what I am.” Jane gently detached herself. She was too agitated to be comforted; she was too agitated to stand still. She wandered over to the dressing table. Lily, the maid she and her mother shared when they came to Town, had dumped all Jane’s things in a mish-mash there, complaining vociferously all the while how London was such a heathen place that ruffians would break in to a gentleman’s house.

  Clarence’s study had looked horrible—books torn and scattered everywhere, the drawers of his desk pulled out and thrown on the floor, anything breakable smashed into hundreds of pieces. “How could anyone be so destructive?”

  “They were obviously looking for something, my dear, and had little time to find it. They had to choose the most expedient method. And of course they did not care about Clarence’s things. They might even have enjoyed destroying them, I suppose.” Miss Smyth shrugged. “I can understand how men who live in desperate situations, in the darker parts of London, might have little patience for such fripperies as books.”