“Sounds like you need to take your own advice,” Juncker muttered. “You’ve been working on that ending for months now.”
“True.” He’d been in the doldrums. Until tonight, that is. Something about sparring with Olivia had roused more than just his desire. It made him itch to have a pen in hand, if only to skewer a character or two with his barbs. “I tell you what. How about I walk you out, and you can visit that tavern? It will cheer you up. Perhaps it will even sweep out those cobwebs.”
“Perhaps,” Juncker said. “You’re not joining me, I suppose.”
“Not tonight.”
Thorn had a few hours yet before he must show up at Grey’s. And he meant to spend them productively. He might actually finish the play while he was traveling, after all.
Chapter Four
It had taken Olivia half the night, but she’d finally managed to get her panic under control in time for their departure the next morning. So what if His Grace, the dratted Duke of Thornstock, was riding with them? It sounded as if the coach trip was the only time she’d have to endure his . . . his pompous smiles and knowing smirks.
And his flirting. His clever, annoying flirting that made her stomach flip over, and her blood heat. The man should bottle that charm of his and sell it. She would buy a bottle just to analyze the ingredients.
But apparently she wouldn’t have to worry about him today. The moment he entered the carriage and settled into the seat next to his brother, he laid his head back against the squabs and promptly fell asleep.
Olivia tried not to watch him obsessively, but that was difficult. She’d never seen a man who looked more blissful—or attractive—in repose.
Particularly the differing parts of his facial hair. Unlike her father, who always looked overgroomed, and her uncle, who always looked undergroomed, Thorn looked perfect. His side whiskers weren’t bushy, his eyebrows were clipped but not overly so, and his hair lacked pomade. She hated pomade—it just seemed . . . greasy.
And heavens, but he had long lashes, like little, dark brown half-moons against his lightly tanned skin. Clearly he spent time outdoors, although not as much as his elder brother, who had more deeply tanned skin. She would have to ask Beatrice about it later.
Would that be rude? She wasn’t sure. She could never keep the rules of society straight. Especially the ones that didn’t make sense.
When after a short while, Thorn started to snore, Greycourt chuckled. “It never ceases to amaze me how Thorn can sleep anywhere at any time. I once saw him dozing in the midst of a heated debate in the House of Lords. The rest of us were riveted; Thorn would have fallen off the bench if I hadn’t poked him awake.”
Without even opening his eyes, Thorn muttered, “That’s a despicable lie. I have never in my life fallen off a bench, poking or no poking.”
Beatrice and Olivia burst into laughter.
“Go back to sleep,” Beatrice said soothingly. “We promise to be quiet.”
“I promise no such thing,” Grey said. “It’s not my fault he decided to come along at the last minute. He probably spent last night in the stews.”
Thorn opened one eye. “I spent last night settling some financial affairs, I’ll have you know. And if you hadn’t insisted on leaving at dawn, I’d be far more chipper.” He opened the other eye, straightened on the seat, and finger-combed his hair, which now miraculously looked as if he’d just left his barber.
His clothing wasn’t even rumpled! His white cravat was still crisply tied, his blue morning coat lay properly, and his tight pantaloons accentuated his muscular thighs. No doubt whoever coined the term “sartorial splendor” had done so after meeting the Duke of Thornstock.
“And if you lot are planning to talk about me while I doze,” Thorn went on, “I believe I’ll stay awake.” He flashed her a most devastating smile. “I can’t have you telling Miss Norley lies about me.”
She fought the silly burst of pleasure that his smile gave her. She knew better than to trust that talent of his. “I already know about your reputation, Your Grace. So it’s not as if they could tell me anything that would surprise me.”
Greycourt slapped his brother’s knee. “Clearly, you’ve met your match in Miss Norley, old chap. She doesn’t fall for your sly attentions and droll wit.”
How she wished that were true. Thorn’s smile had faded, but his eyes still danced as he stared at her, and she desperately wished he would go back to sleep.
No such luck. He had fixed on her now, and like an entomologist with a beetle, he was determined to pin her to his board.
“I’m curious about these experiments of yours, Miss Norley,” he said in a too-casual voice that put her on her guard. “What makes you think you can succeed in finding arsenic in the remains of Grey’s father when other chemists think it impossible?”
“From what the duke has told me about his dealings with other chemists, they aren’t even willing to try.”
“Not even this Valentin Rose fellow?” Thorn asked.
Surprised that he knew of Rose, she said, “Alas, Mr. Rose is dead.”
“Ah,” Thorn said.
“There have been others who developed tests for arsenic. In preparation for your brother’s task, I studied and tested all the known ones by chemists Scheele, Metzger, Rose, and Hahnemann. Sadly, all but Hahnemann are dead, and Hahnemann lives in Saxony, so bringing him here would not be feasible.”
Thorn looked surprised that she even knew of the men who had tried the task. It irritated her.
“Each of their tests have flaws,” she went on. “I have, through stringent experimentation, found a better one that uses the best of their methods. Mine would be useful in the courts. That’s why your brother has engaged me for this task—because my uncle and Mrs. Fulhame felt that my test could be successful in this instance.”
Thorn was looking at her as if she’d sprouted wings.
“What?” she said. “Do you have an opinion of your own about the proper method? I welcome any suggestions, if they will better my results.”
“Er . . . no suggestions. I wouldn’t even know where to begin, honestly.” He stretched out one leg, brushing her skirt.
She swallowed hard, though she doubted that Thorn had done it intentionally. She was just reacting to his general nearness. She’d never shared a carriage with two such handsome gentlemen, and certainly not with a man who’d kissed her more than once.
As usual, her nervousness brought out her tendency to babble. “My method isn’t that complicated. Once the exhumation is complete, I mean to see what is left of the previous Duke of Greycourt’s remains to test. His Grace tells me his father was embalmed, and if so, that may be a problem because arsenic is sometimes used for embalming. But assuming I can find relevant samples that aren’t contaminated, I will first subject them to nitric acid and then combine that with zinc. The formula for that would be As2O3+6 Zn—”
“I beg you, Miss Norley, no formulas!” Greycourt said. “They’re meaningless to me and my brother, I assure you. And if Thorn tells you otherwise, he’s lying.”
“Grey is absolutely right,” Thorn said. “I only like chemistry to the extent that it improves the liquor and wine I drink. But that leads me to my next question. Why are you even sure that the poison used would be arsenic?”
“I’m going by the duke’s description of his father’s symptoms,” Olivia said. “They are that of an ague or cholera, which are also the symptoms of arsenic poisoning, and arsenic is one of the most common poisons. There’s a reason, after all, that the chemical is called ‘poudre de succession.’”
Beatrice glanced at her husband, who said, “Inheritance powder. That’s the French nickname for arsenic.”
“But to be precise,” Olivia said, “when we speak of the white arsenic used as a poison, we really mean arsenic trioxide.”
“Oh, by all means, let’s be precise,” Thorn said. “And speaking of precision, how will you do all these tests without a laboratory?”
“Your
brother has been generous enough to create one for me,” Olivia said.
Beatrice patted Olivia’s hand. “We asked her for a list of what she would need to do her work. Then Grey bought all the necessary items and had them brought to the estate.”
“I’ll still have to formulate some items from their components,” Olivia added. “And I did bring a few items that would be hard to find anywhere.”
“Of course,” Greycourt said, “we had no idea how to set all the chemicals up to Miss Norley’s satisfaction, so at the moment they’re sitting in boxes in our old dairy. But the building should serve well enough for a laboratory.”
“Why not put it in the house?” Thorn said, his expression veiled. “God knows you have the room for it.”
“Miss Norley was concerned about having dangerous chemicals in our residence, where they might harm us or the furnishings.”
Olivia could tell Thorn found that suspicious, although she couldn’t imagine why. “Some of my chemicals are combustible. If they somehow ignited and spewed toxic fumes that hurt Beatrice’s baby, I would be quite upset.”
“You and I both,” Greycourt said. “I would hope that wouldn’t happen anyway, but you’re wise not to take any chances. It’s much appreciated. And I do think the dairy will suit your purposes.”
“You were able to fit enough shelves on the walls, weren’t you?” Olivia asked. “And a few tables?”
Greycourt smiled. “I made sure everything was done to your specifications. The rest is up to you.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
It took all of Olivia’s strength not to show how excited she was at the thought of having her very own laboratory, with the latest equipment and plenty of chemicals. She couldn’t wait to get there and set everything up.
“So,” Thorn said, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, “I’m unfamiliar with the chemists you mentioned, but I assume they are well-known in scientific circles.”
“They are, indeed,” she said. “I brought their journal articles along so I could review them in the evenings. You’re welcome to do so yourself if you wish.”
Greycourt chuckled. “Doesn’t that sound like riveting reading, Thorn? It should keep you far more entertained than your usual diet of Shakespeare, Fletcher, and the oldest playwrights you can find.”
Thorn’s only answer was to shoot his brother a foul glance.
“Thorn’s favorite pastime,” Greycourt explained, “is either attending the theater or reading plays. You should see his collection of dramatic literature. It’s quite extensive.”
“I do read journal articles sometimes,” Thorn said sullenly.
“About chemistry?” Beatrice asked.
Now Beatrice was the recipient of a foul glance, which only made the duchess grin.
“Actually, I quite like the theater myself,” Olivia said, though she wasn’t sure why she felt the need to defend Thorn, of all people. “I attend with Papa and Mama as often as I can. I don’t read many plays—they only come alive for me when I see them acted. But once I do, I can then go back and read the play with enjoyment.”
Thorn sat up. “Most people don’t understand that you have to see a play to get the full effect.”
“Exactly!” Olivia said, pleased to find someone else who understood that. “The first Shakespeare play I read was Much Ado about Nothing, and I missed at least half of the funny bits. I didn’t understand why Shakespeare was considered such a great writer. Then I saw it performed—”
“The one at the Theatre Royal in Covent Garden with Charles Kemble as Benedick?” Thorn asked, his eyes alight.
“Yes!” Olivia said. “It was spectacular. He’s every bit as good as his more famous brothers.”
“His wife was great in the role of Beatrice, too,” Greycourt put in. When Olivia and Thorn gaped at him, he added, “I go to the theater from time to time. What do you think I am—a know-nothing?”
Thorn arched one brow. “I can count on one hand the number of times you’ve gone with me to the theater. And even then, I had to drag you there.”
“I don’t like all the shouting,” Greycourt said defensively. “If the audience would behave themselves, I would enjoy myself better.”
“Oh, I quite agree with you there,” Olivia chimed in. “I don’t like the shouting and throwing of oranges and the like, either. But Mama tells me it’s far better now than in her time. She said that back then, whenever Malvolio used to take the stage, the jeering and catcalls grew so loud that no one could even hear his lines.”
“Ah, yes, Twelfth Night, another of my favorites.” Thorn cocked his head. “Were you perhaps named after—”
“No!” she and Beatrice said in unison. Then they laughed together.
“I already asked her that,” Beatrice said.
“Everyone asks me that,” Olivia added. “Everyone who likes Shakespeare, anyway.”
“Oh, I understand, believe me,” Beatrice said. “The irony of everyone assuming I was named after the character in Much Ado about Nothing is that I’ve never even seen or read the play.”
“You’d like it, I assure you,” Olivia said. “And Beatrice is a wonderful, sharp-tongued heroine.”
“That does fit our Beatrice, to be sure,” Thorn said. When Beatrice swatted him with her reticule, he laughed, then returned to questioning Olivia. “So I take it you prefer Shakespeare’s comedies to his tragedies?”
“I prefer anything that makes me laugh. As your brother so deftly demonstrated, chemistry can be a very dry subject. I love it . . . but sometimes I also need something to take me out of it for a time. Lately, my favorite playwright is a fellow named Konrad Juncker. I think he’s German, although the name could be Danish or Swedish.”
She met Thorn’s gaze, surprised to see that his smile had abruptly faded. “Anyway,” she went on, “his stories about a foreigner named Felix living the life of a rakish buck in London always make me laugh myself silly. Have you seen them?”
“I doubt it,” Thorn said. “Although recently I went to a wonderful new play at Covent Garden that—”
“You did see at least one of the Juncker plays,” Greycourt broke in. “I remember because you were the one who dragged me to it.” He mused aloud. “It wasn’t The Adventures of a Foreign Gentleman Loose in London—that one I’ve never seen—but a later one. Perhaps More Adventures of a Foreign Gentleman Loose in London?”
With a long-suffering look, Thorn crossed his arms over his chest. “Whatever it was, it must not have made much of an impression on me. I don’t recall it.”
Olivia turned her attention to Greycourt. “Might it have been The Wildest Adventures, et cetera, et cetera? That one packed the theater. I would never have been able to see it if Papa hadn’t had a box.”
Greycourt tapped his chin. “That might have been it. Was that the one with Lady Grasping and Lady Slyboots?”
“Actually,” Olivia said, “they’ve been in all the plays so far. I know, because the pair are my favorite comedic characters bar none.”
“Even over Shakespeare’s?” Thorn asked, with a skeptical arching of one brow, though he also seemed terribly interested in her answer. Which was flattering, she supposed.
“Well . . .” She had to think about that one. “Yes, I believe so. Because they’re so much more real to me than Shakespeare’s, even though written by a foreigner.”
“I don’t think Juncker is a foreigner, actually,” Greycourt said. “Just his name is German.”
“That would explain his extraordinary knowledge of English society,” Olivia said. “You can meet matchmaking mamas and scheming young ladies like Grasping and Slyboots in any London ballroom. He describes them masterfully and mocks them so well that I laugh until my sides hurt.”
“In the play I saw, whatever it was titled,” Greycourt said, “Lady Grasping gets the idea to have Lady Slyboots, her daughter, demonstrate her skill at needlepoint to impress an aging marquess who’s seeking a wife. But Lady Slyboots gets so distr
acted by the handsome Felix who’s flirting with her that she sews the marquess’s breeches leg to her embroidery. Then, of course, the marquess is trying to leave but he can’t, and he pulls hard enough to rip the fabric over his backside, exposing his drawers, and her mother faints. . . .”
“Ooh, ooh, I love that scene!” Olivia said. “It’s in The Wild Adventures of a Foreign Gentleman Loose in London.”
“I think that’s it, yes,” Greycourt said with a satisfied smile.
“My favorite part,” Olivia said, “is when Lady Grasping takes Lady Slyboots to Bath for the first time. They go to the Grand Pump Room to see and be seen, and Lady Grasping tells Lady Slyboots to fetch her a glass of champagne. Lady Slyboots gets what she thinks is champagne from a footman offering glasses of the mineral water, and she gives it to her mama. Of course, Lady Grasping drinks it, then spews it all over an eligible earl she’s been trying to snag for Lady Slyboots, and he walks off in a huff, with Lady Slyboots running after him offering him what she still thinks is champagne.”
Olivia sat back. “Anyway, it’s very funny when performed in the theater with good comic actresses.”
“Grey, you must take me to see one of these Juncker plays,” Beatrice said. When Olivia looked at her, astonished that the duchess hadn’t already been to one, Beatrice added, “I came to London for the first time not quite a year ago. Until then, I’d never seen a play of any kind anywhere.”
“Oh, you poor thing!” Olivia uttered a sigh. “You might have lost your chance with the Juncker ones, though. Rumor has it he isn’t planning on writing any more of them.”
“Where did you hear that?” Thorn asked.
“From one of the gossip rags, I think. Or perhaps in the theater? I don’t recall.”
“How many of these plays have there been, anyway?” Beatrice asked.
“Five, I believe,” Greycourt said.
“Six,” Thorn said. When their gazes all shot to him, he said, “What? I go to the theater often. I know the schedules for plays I’ve never even seen.”
Greycourt frowned at his brother. “Wait a minute, isn’t Juncker a friend of yours? I forgot that.”
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