were other Pans? “Oh? Do you know who has the statues?”
“No. Probably any number of Clarence’s friends.”
“Ah.” She would tell Lord Motton tomorrow. She smiled at one of Pan’s hooves. She was going to have a private conversation with Lord Motton tomorrow.
“What is so amusing?” Mama handed her Pan’s horns.
“Nothing.” Jane brushed off her nightgown and stood. “How was your evening? Were the Hammershams in fine voice?”
Mama snorted. “The Hammershams are never in fine voice. I spent the evening discussing oil paints with Hermione Littledon. She has developed a very interesting technique.” Mama paused and frowned at the French window. “Did you open this?”
“Er, I was hot.”
Mama closed the window tightly. “You must be careful. This is London, you know. You are no longer in the country. I don’t mean to alarm you, but you never know what manner of riffraff might be hanging about.”
“Ah. Yes. I’ll remember, Mama.” Was Lord Motton still within earshot? It would serve him right if he was. She glanced out the window, but it looked as if the terrace was deserted.
Mama was halfway to the door. “Coming, Jane? You can look for a book in the morning when the light is better. You need to get your rest.”
“I do?” She wished she could catch one more glimpse of Edmund. Had he really been in this room, kissing her? It seemed like a dream now—but there were the shattered pieces of Pan to prove at least some of it had happened.
“Yes. The Palmerson ball is tomorrow night. Don’t think I’ll let you hide in your room with a book and miss that.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to miss the Palmerson ball, Mama.”
“You wouldn’t?” Mama looked momentarily delighted, but she quickly frowned, examining Jane closely. “Did I hear you correctly? You are actually expressing some enthusiasm for a society event?”
Jane shrugged and avoided her mother’s gaze. “The Palmerson affairs always have excellent lobster patties.”
“True.” They left the study and climbed the stairs. “Though by far the best lobster patties are the Duke of Alvord’s, you know, with their lovely flaky crust brimming with tender lobster…” Mama sighed. “Pity he’s in the country this Season, anticipating the birth of his second child.”
They parted in the corridor, Mama off to dream about the duke’s lobster patties perhaps, and she—Jane grinned—if she managed to calm down enough to sleep, she’d dream of something, someone, much more delightful.
Motton should have heard the man the moment he’d left Widmore’s terrace—would have if he hadn’t been contemplating a certain annoying miss’s behavior…and appearance…and taste. And wondering how other parts of her delightful person would look and taste and feel.
He hadn’t been expecting to be set upon in Widmore’s back garden, but that was no excuse, he thought, as he finally realized the thrashing in the underbrush was not some wayward animal. He was fortunate the fellow was so inept. Even a moderately skilled spy could have killed him five times over by the time he’d awakened to his peril. As it was, he sidestepped this fellow’s attack easily and had the ruffian’s arm twisted high up behind his back and a knife at the man’s neck before the big lobcock realized what was happening.
“Are you alone?” Motton scanned the garden—he’d instinctively placed the wall at his back. He didn’t see any other motion.
“Urgle.” The man was shaking like he had the ague.
“Are you alone? You’d best give me the truth or I’ll have your throat slit before anyone can come to your aid.”
“Ah, ah, ah.”
Motton looked down and saw an ominous stain spreading over the man’s crotch. Wonderful. He must be a footman or a servant from the country. A denizen of London’s stews wouldn’t be such a milksop. “Who sent you?”
“Ooo.”
Blast it! Surely the man’s bowels wouldn’t release as well? He wanted answers, but if he pushed the fellow too hard, the pudding-heart might swoon. He took his knife away from the man’s neck and turned the fellow to face him, keeping a grip on his arm—and a safe distance from his breeches.
“Who sent you, man? Answer quick, and I’ll let you go.”
“But it’ll mean my position iffen I spill the soup, milord.”
“It’ll mean your life if you don’t.” Not that he’d actually kill the fool, but clearly the man thought he would.
“Oh, please, take pity.” The fellow clasped his hands in supplication; he was almost crying. “I has a wife and babe to support, I do.”
“Then tell me who sent you—and why—and you’re a free man.”
“But ’er ladyship would throw me out—me and me wife and babe and—”
Motton held up his hand before the man could add half a dozen other dependents. “I don’t suppose you work for Lady Farthingale?”
The fellow staggered, He was either an incredible actor or Motton’s guess had hit the mark. “Aye, but please, milord, don’t tell ’er I told ye—I didn’t. Ye guessed.”
“Just tell me why she sent you, and my lips are sealed.” He’d give the man credit for loyalty, but more likely he was just too frightened and slow-witted to manage a quick answer. He brought his knife back to the idiot’s throat to encourage him.
“She wanted a paper. Said ye’d have it after ye left that house.”
Lady Farthingale must have spoken with Ardley—not surprising, in light of the drawing in his pocket. The two were apparently quite close.
“Lady Farthingale has let her hopes outrun her sense. There are hundreds of books in that study; countless places where a man might hide a thin sheet of paper.”
“So ye didn’t find it?” The man sounded worried.
“No, I didn’t.” And that was true—Miss Parker-Roth had discovered the sketch, not he.
“But what shall I tell milady?”
“The truth, I imagine. I didn’t find it; you don’t have it.” He touched the edge of his blade to the man’s neck and watched him pale again. “And you might want to suggest she stop her ill-considered efforts. Tell her Lord Motton would be extremely”—he pressed slightly on his knife for emphasis—“extremely upset if the ladies currently residing in Clarence Widmore’s house are disturbed in any way at all.”
“Y—yes, milord.”
“Good.” Motton wrinkled his nose. Damn, the fellow had soiled himself. He kept his knife clearly in view and stepped back. “You may go.”
The man disappeared before he’d finished speaking.
Hmm. What was going on here?
He slipped out Widmore’s back gate into the alley and back into his own garden, keeping a more attentive eye out for any problems this time. All was quiet, but until he understood what was afoot, he’d best put a few men on patrol. He’d hire one or two to keep watch on the Widmore place as well. He should have a word with Parker-Roth—Stephen would want to know if his sister and mother were in danger—but at this point he didn’t know what to say.
He let himself into his study through his French window. He’d better secure this and all the other entrances to the house. He’d have Williams, his butler, look into—
“Where have you been, matey?”
Damn. He should have had Williams bar the door to his study.
“Yes,