The Naked Viscount. Sally MacKenzieЧитать онлайн книгу.
know of the problem, but he couldn’t fault the man for wanting to keep his own rooms. He’d like to do the same—the aunties were driving him mad. Winifred had arrived today with her parrot and monkey, so now all five of his paternal aunts and their pets were in residence. Zeus. Bedlam might be quieter than his town house at the moment. The worst of it was the women were convening to mount an attack on his single state. Aunt Winifred’s arrival was especially alarming. She was a wily campaigner. He would have to be extremely alert until she returned to the country.
He surveyed the room. Damn, it would help if he’d been given a hint where to look. Searching through every book for this mysterious sketch of French spies the Earl of Ardley wanted would keep him here until tomorrow. The Parker-Roth ladies would not be out that long.
He opened the nearest book and ruffled its pages. If he wasn’t Widmore’s neighbor and hadn’t been so damn bored, he would have politely—or not so politely—declined Ardley’s request. The man was a pompous ass with a decidedly odd kick to his gallop. But when Ardley had cornered him at White’s, he’d been in the doldrums. The jollifications of the Season were wearing very thin and even his extracurricular activities—tracking down and eliminating underworld vermin—were proving painfully frustrating.
If only he could discover the identity of the man behind so much of London’s criminal activity, but he’d been stymied at every turn. Everyone knew the miscreant only as “Satan.” He was beginning to believe the fellow was indeed the incorporeal spirit of evil.
He put the book back on the shelf and picked up another. Nothing about this little errand made sense. Paunchy, balding Widmore, a French spy? In all the years he’d lived next door to the fellow, he’d never once seen any evidence he was working for the French. Widmore had been odd—no question about that—but odd and treasonous were not synonymous.
Hell, if one were considering odd associations, Ardley’s connection with Widmore would be at the top of the list. Ardley had been at Lord Wolfson’s estate when Widmore had met his untimely end, landing bare-arsed on a nest of adders.
What Widmore had been doing capering about naked was not a question he wished to contemplate.
And why had Ardley associated with Widmore at all if he’d suspected him of treason? Or, more to the point, why did he suddenly care about a supposed sketch of some French spies when Widmore was dead and the war was long over?
He put the book he’d been examining back. He’d start with the desk instead. It didn’t look promising—the wooden surface was as bare as a windswept moor—but perhaps something had got stuck in the back of a drawer or, better, perhaps there was a hidden compartment or two.
Here was something interesting. Most people did not decorate their work areas with an object about two feet high draped in Holland cloth. The white fabric billowed in the breeze from the open window, giving it a rather ghostly appearance. Unlikely it had anything to do with what he was looking for, but he’d leave no stone unturned. He plucked off the cloth…
Good God.
He stared down at a statue of the god Pan—a very, er…excited Pan.
Miss Jane Parker-Roth sighed as she closed Frankenstein. It was always hard to finish a book one enjoyed—it was like leaving a good friend. She’d pleaded the headache so she could stay home from the Hammershams’ musical evening and read. Mama must have suspected her malady was feigned, but she hadn’t argued, thank goodness.
She put the novel on the bedside table. One of the best things about coming to Town was the lending libraries. Oh, the Priory had an extensive book collection to be sure, but only a few were novels. Da had his poetry books; Mama had her art books; John and Stephen, her older brothers, had their horticultural books; but novels? No.
One would think a painter and a poet would have very liberal ideas on what their children could read, but such was not the case. Lucy, the baby, was already thirteen and had virtually memorized A Vindication of the Rights of Women, yet Mama still would not let her read even Miss Austen’s stories. Lucy was a resourceful girl, however, and had managed to smuggle into the house an impressive assortment of novels.
Thankfully, Mama had given up on her when she’d made her come-out, and now, at the ripe old age of twenty-four, she could read whatever she wished, at least when she was in London.
What should she read now? She didn’t want to start a new book immediately, but she liked to have her next selection ready. Anticipation added to the delight.
Hmm. She’d been meaning to read Waverley for the longest time. She was quite a fan of Mr. Scott’s stories, but she’d never read his first. She glanced at the clock. It was far too early to go to sleep. She’d just slip downstairs and see if by chance the book was in the Widmores’ collection. Perhaps she’d even take a quick look at its opening pages…
Jane climbed out of bed. Mama wouldn’t be home for hours yet. Not that she’d been looking forward to the “infernal caterwauling,” as she’d put it, of the Hammersham twins, but she’d been greatly anticipating seeing her artist friends. She’d surely go off into a side room with them and catch up on all the art gossip. She might not come home before the sun rose.
Jane put on her slippers. Her wrapper, unfortunately, was off to be washed—she’d spilled chocolate on it this morning. No matter. She’d only be a moment, and the servants were all in their quarters, celebrating the housekeeper Mrs. Brindle’s birthday.
She stepped into the hall. As she’d suspected, it was deserted. She made her way toward the stairs.
If only she could spend all her time in London at the lending libraries and museums, but Mama had other plans, of course. It was the Season and she was still unwed. She couldn’t plead a headache every night—Mama would have the physician at the door in a pig’s whisker. The woman took her children’s every twinge, every sniffle, very seriously.
She sighed. So Mama would drag her to as many society events as she could, hoping her eldest daughter would inspire undying ardor in some gentleman’s breast.
Mama was living in air castles. When was she going to face the truth? This was her—damn. Jane grabbed the banister and stopped on the top stair. Could it be? She counted on her fingers to be certain…Yes, this was the beginning of her eighth Season.
She wasn’t just on the shelf; she was stuck to it like a leaky glue pot.
Which was just fine with her. She started down the stairs. She’d met all the eligible—and some not so eligible—society gentlemen and had found them all completely boring.
Well, not all. There was Viscount Motton—six feet of elegantly attired muscle, with sapphire blue eyes, chestnut brown hair, and a damn dimple in his left cheek.
Not that she’d noticed.
She snorted. The man certainly hadn’t noticed her, or if he had, he only thought of her as John and Stephen Parker-Roth’s younger sister. He’d never once asked her to stand up with him at any ball or assembly. She’d barely exchanged two words with him all these years.
Of course, he didn’t attend many social events. He came—briefly—to the first few each Season and then vanished. And she’d wager she wasn’t the only woman who’d made note of his habits in that regard.
She glared at a plaster cherub discreet enough to have avoided Mrs. Brindle’s Holland cloths. Lord Motton didn’t get dragged to every ball and breakfast, oh no. He was a man. He had the freedom to choose the path his life would take. He could stay on his estate like John, or go off to foreign lands like Stephen. When he finally decided it was time to start his nursery, he would just pick one of the many aristocratic girls displayed for his inspection on the Marriage Mart.
Faugh! A man’s life was so much better than a woman’s. Men could have adventures, while women must sit home, darning socks and tending children. It was not fair.
She reached the bottom of the stairs and looked around. There was still not a servant in sight. She’d just slip down the hall and into the study. With luck,