The Naked Gentleman. Sally MacKenzieЧитать онлайн книгу.
you hear me?” The marchioness stepped toward him.
“Just a minute!”
His mother had perfected that tone with six children. Miss Peterson’s sister stopped immediately.
“That’s my son you’re calling a blackguard.” Mother stepped up close to the marchioness. She was an inch or two taller than Miss Peterson’s sister, but Lady Knightsdale was probably a stone heavier and twenty years younger. Still, Mother was not one to back down easily, especially if one of her children was threatened. If they went foot to foot, it would be a close call who’d come out the victor.
“And that’s my sister your bounder of a son has his hands on.”
“I have got to get that shawl,” Miss Peterson muttered.
“Yes, I quite agree. Do you suppose you could ask your sister to fetch it for you?”
Miss Peterson glanced over her shoulder.
“She looks rather occupied at the moment. She won’t hurt your mother, will she?”
“She’s your sister. How would I know?” He frowned. “Should I be worried?”
Miss Peterson bit her lip. “Emma has gotten more, um, outspoken since Charlie and Henry were born.”
“Wonderful.” Now what was he to do? Dump Miss Peterson on the floor and leap the settee himself to separate the women?
Fortunately, the issue was not put to the test.
“Aunt Beatrice, what—” The Marquis of Knightsdale, a powerfully built man with a military bearing, stopped on the threshold. “Emma, what is the matter? Who is the woman you are glaring at?”
“I don’t know her name. She is that man’s mother.” She pointed at Parks. The venom in her voice left everyone in the room with little doubt as to her sentiments.
The marquis looked at him and raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t that your sister Meg sitting on his lap?”
“Yes!”
“This is ridiculous,” Miss Peterson muttered. “If I get up carefully I should be able to reach that shawl.”
“Wait, there are more people arriving.” Parks wished someone would close the door. “Ah, perhaps help has come. Westbrooke and his countess are here.”
“Good. See if you can get Lizzie to come over.”
“Shall I shout across the room to her, Miss Peterson?”
She made an odd little sound. “Please call me Meg. I do feel our acquaintance has gone beyond the formal.”
He smiled slightly. That was an understatement.
“Charles,” Westbrooke said as Lady Westbrooke hurried over to Meg, “don’t you think this room is getting somewhat crowded? I’ll shut the door, shall I?”
“Please do, Robbie.”
Westbrooke pushed on the door. Something was impeding its progress. He looked to see what the problem was.
“So sorry, Lady Dunlee. If you could just step back a little? Need to give the family some privacy, you know.”
“Oh, but I don’t think—”
The rest of Lady Dunlee’s words were lost when Westbrooke shut the heavy wooden door in her face.
“Hallo, Parks. What are you doing here?” Robbie grinned. “Is there a particular reason you’re entertaining a partially clad lady in this rather inappropriate location?”
“Robbie,” Lady Knightsdale said, “that partially clad lady is Meg!”
“It is? Well, well.” Westbrooke leaned against the door. There were still muffled noises coming from the other side. “It’s about time.”
About time? Parks was definitely not going to add anything to the conversation—he had a strong sense of self preservation—but what the hell did Westbrooke mean? Fortunately Meg was whispering to Lady Westbrooke and appeared to have missed the comment.
Lady Knightsdale had not. “About time? Did you know this was going on, Robbie?”
“Since I’m not certain what ‘this’ is, no I did not. But I’m not surprised to see Parks and Meg together.” He coughed. “Well, perhaps I am a trifle startled so see them so, um, together in this particular venue.”
“So you know the miscreant, Robbie? You would not counsel me to kill him?” Knightsdale smiled at his wife. “Much as Emma might like me to.”
“Well, no, Parks—John Parker-Roth, that is—is actually a good fellow. I’ve known him since Eton.” Westbrooke nodded at Mrs. Parker-Roth. “And I do suppose his mother might object to your dispatching her son to the hereafter.”
“Indeed yes.” Mrs. Parker-Roth glared at the marquis.
“My apologies, ma’am. No insult intended.”
Lady Knightsdale snorted.
“By me, at least,” Knightsdale said. “Come, Emma, do try to be civil. If you do not care for the man’s explanation, you may rend him limb from limb afterward.”
“Yes, Emma.” Lady Beatrice lowered her bulk to the settee. “I do think you should ask Mr. Parker-Roth and Meg to explain what happened before you fly too high into the boughs.”
“Well, I would like to know what happened, too.” Mrs. Parker-Roth turned to Parks. “John, would you care to explain?”
Lady Westbrooke had just handed Meg the wayward shawl.
“Of course, Mother. I—”
“No,” Meg said, wrapping the shawl securely around her shoulders and standing. “This is all my fault. I shall explain.”
What was Emma doing here? She was supposed to be home in Kent. Well, that was a question to be answered later. Now everyone was looking at her, waiting for her to speak.
Meg pulled the shawl a little tighter around her. She had never appeared so disheveled anywhere but her bedchamber. She opened her mouth.
What exactly was she going to say?
She glanced at Mrs. Parker-Roth. Instead of anger, she saw cautious curiosity in the older woman’s moss green eyes, eyes that looked so much like Parks’s.
“Go on, Meg.” Emma’s voice was sharp enough to draw blood. “You said you would explain.”
“Give her a moment to gather her thoughts, my dear.”
“That’s not the only thing she should be gathering, Charles. Her dress, her hairpins…”
Meg felt Parks’s hand on the small of her back and took courage from his touch. She appreciated his letting her explain instead of trying to do it himself. Now if she only knew what to say…
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “First I should say that Mr. Parker-Roth is completely blameless.”
Silence and stares of incredulity greeted this statement.
“It’s true.” Why did they look as if they did not believe her? “He had nothing to do with my, ah, current situation.”
Lord Westbrooke turned a sudden laugh into a cough.
Meg glanced up at Parks. He appeared to be studying a large painting of a bewigged Palmerson ancestor.
“So, let me be certain I understand this,” Lady Beatrice said. “Mr. Parker-Roth had nothing to do with your current dishabille?”
“That’s correct. I was in the garden with—” Did she want to mention Bennington’s name? Surely Emma wouldn’t force her to wed that reprobate? “With another man. Mr. Parker-Roth happened upon