Thorn stiffened noticeably. “A mere acquaintance, really,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“Next time you see him,” Olivia said, “do ask if he plans to write any more.”
“Now I understand why you’re so annoyed by this conversation, Thorn,” Greycourt said. “You’re jealous.”
“What?” Thorn said. “Why the hell would I be jealous of Juncker?”
“Excellent point,” Olivia told Greycourt. “Your brother is a duke. I don’t see how he could be jealous of a mere playwright.”
“I’m a duke,” Greycourt said. “Trust me, we have the same human emotions as the next person. And what you don’t know about my brother is that in his salad days, Thorn dabbled in writing himself. Never could finish anything. So he’s jealous of this fellow’s success at having five whole plays in the theater—”
“Six,” Thorn said wearily.
“Right. Six,” Greycourt said. “Hmm.” He looked at Olivia. “So the gossip is that he’s not writing anymore?”
She bobbed her head.
“I can see why. Six is a damned lot of plays to write on what is essentially the same subject. I mean, how many ways can a man get into trouble in London?”
“You’d be surprised,” Thorn muttered under his breath.
“Don’t enlighten us,” Greycourt said. “You’ll scandalize the ladies.”
“Or have us clamoring to join you on your next adventure,” Beatrice said, with a wink for Olivia.
The wink startled Olivia into a laugh. She hadn’t expected to enjoy this coach ride quite so much. Apparently small talk could be delightful with the right people to share it.
“I know what we should do,” Beatrice said, a mysterious twinkle in her eyes. “We should see if we can guess which of Juncker’s adventures Thorn has also experienced.”
Thorn’s icy gaze would have frozen stone. “First of all, the adventures aren’t Juncker’s. They’re his character Felix’s. Secondly, guessing at how my adventures line up with Felix’s would be rather difficult, since the only one of us who’s seen all of Juncker’s plays is Miss Norley.”
“Fine, then Miss Norley should pick the adventure,” Beatrice said, as if that had been her aim all along. “Then we’ll guess if you ever took part in a similar one, and you can tell us who guessed right. It sounds like quite a fun game.”
“Or an absurd one,” Thorn muttered.
Greycourt lounged against the squabs. “I don’t know, old chap. I think it could be quite entertaining. And we do have a long ride ahead of us.”
Despite Thorn’s objections, Olivia was already mentally thumbing through the adventures in the plays. “How about this one? Felix gets drunk—”
“So far I can safely say that Thorn has done that, and more than once,” Greycourt said, earning him a glare from Thorn.
“Let her finish,” Beatrice chided her husband.
“He gets drunk and mistakes a countess for a courtesan,” Olivia said, “then tries to engage the lady’s services for the night.”
“Half the bucks in London have probably done that,” Greycourt said.
“I haven’t,” Thorn said. “Now can we please stop this nonsense?”
“It sounds rather clichéd, I know,” Olivia said, “but it’s really clever in the play. Felix mistakes what the countess says, and she mistakes what he says, and they go round and round for quite a while.”
“Going round and round does sound like my brother when he’s flirting with ladies,” Greycourt drawled.
“You aren’t even making sense now,” Thorn grumbled.
“Perhaps I should think of a different adventure,” Olivia said. “One that’s not so debatable.”
Then they felt the carriage slowing. Thorn looked out. “We’re at Great Chesterfield, and I’m starving. I had no breakfast. Let’s see if the innkeeper can provide us with sandwiches and a jug of ale.”
“Oh, yes, sandwiches sound heavenly,” Beatrice said. “I’m famished.”
“And no wonder,” Grey said dryly, “you only ate three eggs and sausages this morning instead of your usual five.”
“Nothing but the best for your heir,” Beatrice quipped.
Greycourt’s expression softened as his gaze dropped to his wife’s belly. “Or my pretty daughter, who I’m sure will be as clever as her mother.”
The tender moment roused a strange envy in Olivia. Her father and stepmother had never shown any such depth of feeling for each other, and neither had her father and mother, from what she could recall. Olivia had always assumed that was typical of all aristocratic unions. Indeed, the glimpses she’d had of other society marriages had only confirmed her assumption.
But watching Beatrice and Greycourt together made her wonder if she’d been wrong. Perhaps it was possible to have a different sort of marriage. Even with a duke.
Just not with Thorn, who was as prickly as his name when it came to enduring the idea of marriage.
“We do still have a few hours to go,” Greycourt said, “and we have to stop to change horses anyway. So we can have a bit of food at the inn here.” He grinned at his brother. “But don’t think you’re off the hook with our game. We can continue it once we’re back on the road.”
“Great,” Thorn said sarcastically. “I can’t wait.”
Olivia perked up considerably. This was going to be fun.
Chapter Five
Once they returned to the carriage, Thorn tried to derail his companions’ “game.” But it soon became evident it was no use. They were determined to plague him, especially Olivia, who really must have read all of his plays, because so far she’d pulled an astonishing number of adventures out of her memory.
The score was presently two correct guesses for Beatrice, four for Grey, and three for Olivia. The little baggage was proving able to guess his past activities nearly as well as his family could.
“Oh!” Olivia said brightly, “I’ve got one from the third play. Felix and a friend go to Ranelagh Gardens with their mistresses. Once there, Felix starts a rumor that the two demireps are really middle-aged but have partaken of an elixir that makes them look half their real age. When the vainest men and women of the company beg Felix for some of the elixir, he ‘reluctantly’ gives it to them.”
Olivia chuckled. “But it’s actually plum schnapps, a strong German liquor, and before long, Felix has them all drunk. He assures them that they’re now looking quite youthful. As you might imagine, that leads them into all sorts of amusing situations, with one man even telling his own servant his name, sure that he has become so youthful in appearance that the servant won’t recognize him.”
Thorn brightened. He knew this adventure very well. What’s more, Felix’s “friend” in the play was based on Grey. Thorn cast a sly look at his brother.
Grey’s face was already clouding over. “That seems like a very convoluted tale to be anything Thorn might have done.”
“I agree.” Thorn tapped his chin. “Although it does sound an awful lot like the time you and I went with Juncker to Ranelagh Gardens, along with our—”
“It does not,” Grey interrupted. “Not in the least.”
Beatrice smirked at Thorn, who winked at her. “When did the three of you go to Ranelagh Gardens?”
“It would have to have been before the place shut down in 1803,” Thorn said. “So it wasn’t long after I arrived in England, back when Grey and I used to act like feckless ruffians occasionally.”
“Very occasionally,” Grey said while glaring at Thorn.
“Then that was long before he met me.” Beatrice was clearly fighting a smile. “So, what was Grey’s mistress like, anyway? He won’t give me any details, although I know he had at least one.”
Grey laid his head back against the squabs to look heavenward. “God help me.”
Eyes widening, Olivia glanced first to Grey, then to Thorn. “You really had mistresses? Both of you?”
It was Thorn’s turn to be uncomfortable, although he
couldn’t imagine why. “I did,” he said belligerently. “Half of my peers did, too. I was young and new to London and . . .” Trying to prove something to himself after a certain young lady had inexplicably turned down his offer of marriage.
“And what?” Olivia prodded, with the same curiosity she showed for arsenic tests.
“I was sowing my wild oats like any other buck of the first head.” He hated that he sounded defensive. “It was a long time ago.” His voice hardened. “And this is a highly inappropriate conversation.”
Beatrice snorted. “You’ve never balked at inappropriate conversations before, Thorn.”
“Very well,” he said coldly. “If you truly want to hear all about our mistresses—”
“Can we please talk about something else?” Grey said with a groan.
“Feeling all those little chickens coming home to roost, are you, my love?” Beatrice said lightly.
“You find this amusing, I suppose,” Grey muttered.
“Vastly so,” Beatrice said with a teasing smile.
Thorn laughed. “That’s what you get, Grey, for inventing a stupid game in an attempt to make me look bad.” And to unwittingly expose his secret.
Although no one seemed to have put that together. Perhaps because Juncker had been with them. Or perhaps because of Grey’s ridiculous claim that Thorn was jealous. Thorn was allowing that to stand. It was as good a way as any to protect his secret self.
“Fine, I concede defeat,” Grey said, a red flush creeping up his neck. “I give my points to Miss Norley. That makes her the official winner.”
“I won!” Olivia said, seemingly oblivious to the undercurrents between Thorn and Grey. “Do I get a prize?”
“Do you need a prize?” Thorn countered.
She cocked her head. “There’s hardly any point to winning if one doesn’t get a prize.”
“I can think of a number of prizes I can give you, Miss Norley,” Thorn said in a low, husky voice, hoping to rouse a blush again, “though I don’t think your parents would approve.”
“Thorn,” Grey warned. “Watch where you’re treading.”
Thorn stifled a curse. “Here.” He handed her the newspaper he’d brought along to read. “Will this do for a prize?”
Olivia shot him a blazing smile. “Oh, yes, thank you! I love this one, because they always include the news about science.”
When she smiled like that he wanted to buy her a thousand newspapers.
What was wrong with him? He must be tired. Or ill. Or out of his mind.
She opened the paper and clearly sought out a certain section. Then with a happy sigh, she settled back to read.
Damn her for being even more stimulating than he remembered. She did seem to know a great deal about chemistry, and she certainly enjoyed talking—and reading—about it. That made her more of a bluestocking than the schemer he’d envisioned. Then again, he didn’t know any bluestockings, so he wasn’t sure if Olivia fit the type.
Actually, she fit no type whatsoever. Take her gown, for example. The bluish green reminded him of her gown last night. Other women never seemed to wear the same color twice, but Olivia did as she pleased.
God, he must have been a heedless arse nine years ago not to have seen her unusual qualities. Now he knew how to appreciate a woman as unique as she, no matter how badly she danced or what lapses she had in following societal rules.
Or what part she’d played in her stepmother’s scheme? He wasn’t sure if she’d played any part at all. He still couldn’t tell, not from what she’d said and not from how she’d behaved.
Last night she’d thrown herself enthusiastically into their kiss, but she’d gone out of her way to hide their encounter from the others. He didn’t know what to make of that. She said she would turn him down again if he asked. Was she trying to impress Grey concerning her scientific ability by not showing herself to be the usual female scheming to marry a duke? Or was she really not interested in marriage despite being interested in kissing?
Not that her motive—or lack of one—mattered. He still had no intention of renewing whatever interest he’d had in her.
Then again, he couldn’t believe she enjoyed his plays. It didn’t fit with his picture of her as a young woman whose entire focus was on ensnaring a husband. Or even his newer picture of her as a bluestocking.
Either way, he must be on his guard concerning Juncker. When she’d mentioned Lady Grasping and Lady Slyboots, he’d nearly cursed aloud. She must never guess who they were based on. She wouldn’t understand. She’d be hurt.
Why he cared whether she was hurt was a mystery he didn’t want to examine very closely.
Olivia put down the paper with a sigh of pleasure. “That was the best prize you could give me. I feared I would miss getting to read The Chronicle of the Arts and Sciences while I was away. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I subscribe.” He had to keep up with what was going on in theater, after all.
“So do I,” Grey said. “Feel free to read my issue if you wish. Mother always does. I send it to her once I’m done.”
“Wait, I do that, too,” Thorn said. “Mother is getting two issues every week? Why didn’t she say something?”
“Probably didn’t want to hurt our feelings,” Grey said. “And she may very well be passing one on to her friends. You know how generous she is.”
Beatrice shifted on her seat. “Speaking of your mother and her friends, did either of you know she had her come out at the same time as Grey’s Aunt Cora?”
“I certainly didn’t,” Grey said. “How can that be? Mother is nine years younger than Aunt Cora and married at seventeen, which, if they came out at the same time, would mean that Aunt Cora had her debut at twenty-six. But I suppose it’s not terribly unusual to wait that late, is it, my love?”
When Olivia looked confused, Beatrice said, “My husband is alluding to the fact that I was presented at court at twenty-six, after I had already married.”
“And Gwyn wasn’t presented until thirty,” Thorn pointed out. “But she’d been living abroad. And Beatrice had an inattentive guardian in her Uncle Armie. He never did his duty by her.”
“In my aunt’s case,” Grey said, “her family wasn’t wealthy, and they had four daughters. She was the youngest and had to wait until they could afford a London Season for her, although I’ve been told she was beautiful in her youth.”
Thorn mused on that a moment. “Actually, Lady Norley told me she came out with Mother, too.”
“When did she tell you that?” Beatrice asked with a particularly devious smile. “I thought you only met her last night, and I didn’t see you talking to her at the party.”
Grey’s eyes twinkled. “Nor I.”
Feeling Olivia’s gaze on him, he said, “Mother wasn’t aware of this, but I had actually met both Lady Norley and Miss Norley years ago.” Then to stave off more questions along that line, he added hastily, “And don’t forget that Lady Hornsby and Mother also came out together. They’ve been friends for years. Is it purely coincidence that we know all four women?”
“Of course not,” Beatrice said. “Our ages are roughly within a span of ten years, so it follows that our mothers might have known each other or even been close friends. Besides, ladies who have their debuts together have an unbreakable connection, forged of spending so much time in each other’s company. They meet the same men, go to many of the same events, and possibly even see the same sights, if they haven’t been to London before.”
Thorn glanced at Grey. “ ‘Meet the same men.’ Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Sorry, old chap, but I haven’t yet developed a talent for reading minds.”
Huffing out a breath, Thorn said, “If the four women met the same men, then they might also have competed for those men. And, with the obvious exception of Mother, one of the ladies might have been angry that your father didn’t pick her to marry.”
“Angry enough to poison the man?” Beatrice said.
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Thorn frowned. Lady Norley had been angry enough to stoop to blackmail, so it was possible she at least would go so far as that. Although it was hard to see what she might gain by murdering the other dukes.
He looked over to find Olivia listening wide-eyed to the conversation. “Perhaps we should leave this discussion for family.”
“Why?” Grey said. “Miss Norley knows we asked her to Carymont to find out if my father was poisoned. So she obviously knows that we think he was murdered. No reason to mince words about it now.”
Olivia paled. “Wait a minute. Are you saying my stepmother might have poisoned the previous Duke of Greycourt? Out of spite that he hadn’t picked her to marry? By that criteria, it could have been any one of the whole group of women debuting that year. That’s bound to have included twenty ladies at least.”
“Excellent point,” Grey said. “Although they’d also have to have been guests at Carymont for my christening, because that’s when my father took ill. And that’s why the most likely candidate would be my aunt Cora. I daresay she married my uncle in hopes that he would one day inherit the dukedom. Getting rid of my father would have taken her one step closer.”
That seemed to reassure Olivia, for her face looked less pinched now.
“Actually, Grey,” Thorn said, “didn’t you tell me there were a number of people at Carymont for the christening? That your father invited several of his and Mother’s friends to witness the blessed event?”
“Yes, but I doubt the group included Lady Norley.”
“There’s no telling.” Thorn avoided Olivia’s gaze, though he fancied he could feel the force of it anyway. “As Beatrice said, they were all in the same crowd of ladies having their debuts.”
“With twenty or more other women,” Beatrice reminded him.
“None of whom were particular friends of Mother’s or relations of Grey’s father the way these three were,” Thorn said.
Olivia thrust out her chin. “You don’t know that. There could have been others.”
“And I still say my aunt is the most likely candidate.” Grey frowned at him. “Or even Lady Hornsby, who, as a close friend of Mother’s, would almost certainly have been at the house party for the christening.”
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