In the past few years, whenever she started talking like this, he would make an excuse to leave. It had been so hard to hear her gush about the man Thorn had thought was betraying her with another woman. But now he wanted his questions answered. And this time he wouldn’t avoid the truth.
“Mother,” he said, “I heard a rumor some years ago that Father had been hurrying to London when he had his accident, because he was going to see his mistress. Do you think it’s true? And if not, do you know who started the rumor and why?”
Astonishment lit her face. “Lord help me,” she then said with a snort, “that bit of nonsense has been going around since before I married your stepfather. Of course it’s not true. Your father was hurrying to fetch a London accoucheur for me.”
“But he never made it there.”
“No. The last time I saw him, he kissed me and said he would return as soon as he could. But he never did.” With tears welling in her eyes, she cupped Thorn’s cheek. “By morning I had you and Gwyn in my arms. The constable told me about his accident later that day.”
The fact that there were conflicting stories about his father’s reasons for racing to London nagged at him. “And you’re certain our father wasn’t going to London for . . . some personal reason.”
“Like a female friend?” she said archly. “I’m certain. The woman people were touting as his mistress was my good friend Eliza. The whole thing was ludicrous—your father never even liked her, always thought her a shameless flirt. It was one of the reasons he didn’t court her for long. Besides, she was here at my bedside when your father died. Obviously, he wasn’t going to London to meet her.”
“Apparently not.” But as far as he was concerned, Lady Hornsby still wasn’t eliminated as someone who might have arranged his father’s murder. She could have damaged his father’s carriage at any point while she was at Rosethorn, perhaps to get back at him for not offering for her.
Hell, his father could have taken her as a mistress and then broken that off with her before marrying Mother. Lady Hornsby could have been simmering with anger over it all that time.
His mother sniffed. “Why on earth are you dredging up this stuff from my past? What brought this on? Between you asking for guest lists and Sheridan wanting to know what his father had been up to when he died, you both have me scratching my head.”
“I promise, Mother, we will tell you all eventually, when we’ve pieced everything together. But in the meantime, you may want to be careful about whom you allow into your inner circle. We think there are people around you and the family who aren’t to be trusted.”
She tilted up her chin. “Who in particular?”
“Lady Hornsby. Grey’s Aunt Cora. Other women you came out with.”
“You’re not making any sense.” She made a dismissive gesture. “And you’re being overly suspicious. Will you throw your new fiancée’s mother in with those ‘other women’?”
“I would.” Although he honestly didn’t think she was one of the ladies to be concerned about.
“You’d best not tell Olivia that.”
“I wasn’t planning on—”
“Forgive me, Your Graces,” said Mother’s butler from the doorway. “But Major Wolfe is here.”
With that, Wolfe came into the room, wearing an expression of dark intent as he approached Thorn. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
“Major!” Mother exclaimed. “Can you not even give your mother-in-law a kiss before you launch into a discussion with my son?”
“Good afternoon, Duchess,” he murmured as he bent to kiss her cheek. “I’m afraid I must tear Thorn away from you.”
He straightened and fixed his gaze on Thorn. “I must speak with you privately. It’s about our friend Elias.”
Thorn’s heart began to pound. That couldn’t be good news. Not with the look the major wore.
“Of course,” Thorn said. “Pardon me, Mother, but I’ll have to take my leave of you.” It was a convenient time to do so, anyway, since it got him out of maneuvering Mother’s pointed questions. “I’ll see you again soon, I promise.”
Thorn and Wolfe had barely cleared the door when Wolfe murmured, “Elias is dead.”
“What? How?”
“From a large dose of arsenic,” Wolfe said grimly.
“Good God.” Thorn lowered his voice as they neared the footmen. “How do you know it was arsenic?”
“The poison was in his food and his drink. He didn’t eat it all, but the rats finished it for him. They too were dead by the time he was found this morning. The coroner has him at present, but I spoke to the man, and he said he was fairly certain it was arsenic.”
“Does anyone know who administered it?”
“It was in his food, and it passed through a number of hands, so it could have been added anywhere.” After Thorn paused to get his hat and greatcoat, he and Wolfe went out the door. “Especially since Newgate is practically run by the criminals themselves. Lots of nasty sorts in there, trust me.”
Thorn shuddered. “I’ll take your word for it. But is it possible the poison was meant for someone else?”
“Not likely. Although he hadn’t had any visitors since I had him put in a cell after leaving Rosethorn yesterday, the food was definitely meant for him.”
“Bloody hell. Someone is going to great pains to make sure we never find out who was behind the poisoning of Grey’s father.”
Wolfe nodded.
“So what next?” Thorn asked.
“I suggest you hurry off to wherever Miss Norley has gone and warn her of the danger.”
Damn it all, Thorn hadn’t thought of that. If this villain could get to Elias in Newgate, he could obviously get to Olivia in Surrey. And given that Olivia could prove Grey’s father had been poisoned, she could very well be in danger.
If something happened to her, Thorn would never forgive himself. He should have ordered his armed footmen to stay with her, at least until he could get there.
Wolfe went on. “Gwyn said Miss Norley went home to Surrey, but she didn’t know where.”
“My footmen will have arrived from Surrey by now. I told them to come back here rather than go to Berkshire.” Thorn quickened his steps toward his abode a short distance away. “They can tell me where she is.”
He would go to Surrey, and he would tell her what had happened to Elias. Then he would do what he’d never done with any other woman: beg her to forgive him and take him back.
Gwyn was right about one thing: trying to fight his feelings was like trying to stop a compass needle from pointing north. He wanted Olivia, needed Olivia.
And yes, he loved Olivia. She was the ink in his well, the quill in his hand. Every word he’d written last night of the final scene of his latest play had been laced with Olivia, with her humor and eccentric observations, her logic and her warmth.
He had to make her see they belonged together, that he could be the kind of husband she said she wanted. That he would never again hide himself from her. Because if he couldn’t be himself around Olivia, he couldn’t be himself around anyone.
Chapter Nineteen
Olivia paced the house like one of the deer Papa was presently out stalking. Mama wouldn’t be back from her visit to the rector for at least two hours, and then she and Olivia would go to London. Olivia had a number of reasons she must see Thorn again, mostly related to the items she’d left in her laboratory at her estate. It had nothing to do with wanting to work things out between them. No, indeed.
What a liar she was. She did want to work things out.
Yet every time she thought about apologizing to him for what Mama called her “overreaction” to his characters, her blood heated and she couldn’t think straight. Mama was right about one thing. Olivia had an involuntary reaction when it came to Thorn and his plays. She just kept imagining herself and Mama on the stage being mocked by the audience.
She plopped down into her favorite window box, which overlooked the garden Mama so diligen
tly nursed along. She had to get past this. Why couldn’t she?
Their butler came into the room, appearing decidedly flustered. “Miss, there’s a man here to see you who claims to be the Duke of Thornstock.” He skimmed his gaze over her wrapper and nightdress, then said blandly, “Do you wish to . . . see him?”
Her heart began to race. Thorn was here? Dear Lord. “Yes.” When their butler raised an eyebrow, she added hastily, “I’ll see him in the garden. That will give me time to dress.”
Their butler was right—she couldn’t see Thorn like this, for heaven’s sake.
The minute their butler left the room, she flew up the stairs, calling for her maid. Thankfully, her maid was able to get her dressed and her hair put up in under an hour.
When next she was on the stairs, she walked as primly as Mama always wanted her to. But her blood was pounding, and her hands were clammy, no matter how much she told herself that he was the one who should be nervous.
She found him near the rosebushes, looking pale and lost and still handsome, even in profile. Why must he always look so delicious, even when she wanted to stay angry at him?
“Your Grace?” she said.
He turned to her, relief on his face. Now she could see his impossibly blue eyes filling with remorse. “You’re here,” he said, as if he couldn’t believe it.
“And so are you. Why have you come?”
“To tell you that Elias is dead.”
That caught her entirely off guard. “Dead? How?”
“Poisoned. By arsenic, we think.”
Her heart sank. “And you’re here to ask me if I’ll test his remains to be sure.”
Judging from his startled expression, she’d managed to catch him off guard. “What? No. We don’t need you . . . I mean, there’s no reason. The dead rats around his food pretty much confirm he was poisoned by arsenic. I merely thought you should know so you wouldn’t worry anymore about him escaping and coming after you. Or sending the man who hired him after you.”
“I—I wasn’t worried about that.” She gazed at him. “At least not until now.”
“But you needn’t fret. He had no visitors, which means he couldn’t have told the man who hired him that you were doing your experiments elsewhere. So you’re safe.”
She stared down at the pebbled garden path. “Then . . . was that the only reason you came?”
“Certainly not.”
The vehemence in his tone gave her hope. She lifted her gaze to him expectantly.
“I came to say how very sorry I am,” he said. “I have no excuse for not telling you right away about Grasping and Slyboots. Or at least telling you once I knew you liked the plays.”
She swallowed. “Why didn’t you?”
“By the time we started talking about the plays . . . I was already beginning to like you. To remember why I liked you when we first met.” He threaded his fingers through his beautiful hair. “I knew you’d be hurt to realize I’d based Lady Slyboots and Lady Grasping on you and your mother, so I kept quiet rather than risk hurting you. I was a coward, pure and simple. I should have told you long before.”
She was still taking that in when he added, “But I come bearing a gift that I think, I hope, will make it up to you.”
So help her, if he gave her a piece of jewelry like Papa always gave Mama when he’d done something beyond the pale, she would throw it at him.
Fortunately, it wasn’t jewelry or even a traditional gift. Instead, he held out a sheaf of papers.
As she took it, he said, “I’ve made some alterations to the beginning of the Felix play I just finished. Please read them before you decide to give up on us.”
Curious now, she started reading what looked to be one long scene, marked up with a pencil. She frowned when she realized she couldn’t easily make out the marked-up parts.
“You’ll have to forgive my handwriting,” he said. “I made the changes in the carriage on the way here.”
“That explains why it’s in pencil,” she said dryly.
He shrugged. “It’s hard to manage an ink pot and quill in a moving carriage, even with a portable writing desk.”
“I can well imagine.” She continued reading until she got to a mention of Grasping and Slyboots. Taking a deep, bracing breath, she read the passage. Then her gaze shot to him. “You killed them off!”
He nodded, then gestured to the pages she held in her hand. “I did it in a comic way, as you can see.”
She said nothing, too absorbed in rereading the sentences where Felix talks about them dying in an avalanche in the Alps while pursuing an Austrian count.
At her continued silence, Thorn added, “But if you want it to be more of a tragic event, I can do that, too.”
She lifted an astonished gaze to him. “You . . . you killed off Grasping and Slyboots for me? To please me?”
“I’ll do whatever I must to get you back,” he said earnestly.
She waved the pages at him. “You shouldn’t have done this.”
His face fell. “Because you can’t forgive me. Still.”
“No!” she said quickly. “That’s not what I meant. I meant . . . they’re two of your greatest creations. You can’t kill them off.” She flashed him a tentative smile. “Assuming you intend to keep writing about Felix and his friends, that is. Because I heard a rumor you might not.”
He stepped toward her, his eyes bright. “To tell the truth, I haven’t decided. I figured I would see how this latest play fares in the theater. If it does well, I might consider another.”
“It won’t do well at all if you kill off Grasping and Slyboots. They’re your funniest characters! You simply cannot kill them off.”
“I thought you hated them,” he said softly.
She thought so, too. But seeing him kill them off also felt wrong. When she could separate them from her and Mama, she adored them. “I did. But the more I think about it, the more I realize no one knows it’s Mama and I. So unless you use your own name for your plays—”
“Which I will never do. As I told you, dukes aren’t supposed to write plays.”
“Then no one will ever guess whom they’re based on.” She toyed with the gold chain about her neck. “It will be our secret.”
His breath seemed to falter a bit as he took her hand in his. “Does this mean you forgive me?”
“For which part? Basing your comic characters on me and Mama? Or not telling me you’re actually my favorite playwright.”
“I’m your favorite playwright?” he said. “Really?”
She laughed. “Of course that’s the part you choose to focus on. You’re as vain as Juncker.”
“Better and better—you think Juncker is vain.”
“I shall need another dinner with him to determine that,” she said with a coy smile.
“The hell you will. I barely made it through the last one.” He paused a moment. “Oh, and by the way, I told you that no one in my family knew of my writing. It turns out that Gwyn knew. I just didn’t know she knew.”
“Why does that not surprise me?” she said lightly. “Your sister is a very clever woman.”
When he sobered, she knew they were still dancing around the main issue.
“So you do forgive me,” he said.
“Only if you promise never to lie to me again. Because unlike your sister, I can’t bear it if you tell me anything less than the whole truth, warts and all.” She blinked back tears. “If I found out you had a mistress or spent your evenings in the stews when you told me you were at your club, it would destroy me.”
“I wouldn’t want to do that, ever,” he said earnestly. “So yes, I promise never to lie to you.”
“I promise never to lie to you, either.” She cupped his cheek. “And I forgive you.”
“Good,” he said. “Because I don’t think I could bear to live unforgiven by you.”
Oh, but the man had a way with words sometimes. She flashed him a teasing smile. “You need to explain that better.”
She lowered her voice to what she hoped was a temptress’s thrum. “The way you explained why you wanted the wedding done at Rosethorn by special license. Remember?”
He gazed at her a long moment before a smile crept over his lips. “I do remember.”
When he tried to pull her into his arms, she danced back toward Mama’s clematis and ivy bower, tugging him along. “I believe we’ll need privacy for this, Your Grace. Unless you want to be forced into marrying me when we’re caught in an embrace.”
“That would be dreadful,” he said, his eyes darkening as they entered the cold arbor. “But I warn you, if we’re to stay in here, in the chill of autumn, we’ll need to keep each other warm, and that will mean a more . . . intimate encounter.”
“You’ll have to explain what you mean by that,” she whispered.
He dragged her into his arms, kissing her so thoroughly she could hardly keep her wits about her. He pulled back only long enough to glance around. As he spotted the stone bench there, he pulled her over to it and took a seat.
She tried to sit beside him, but he wouldn’t have it. Instead, he tugged her between his legs. “You wore this front-opening gown for me, didn’t you, sweeting?”
“And what if I did?” she said lightly as she dropped the scene from his play onto the bench beside him.
“Then I shall take full advantage.” He had her gown open within moments and her short stays pulled down in even less time. But he took his time with her shift, unfastening each tiny button with care. “Ah, yes,” he murmured as he bared her bosom. “Just what I was looking for.”
By the time he had his mouth on her breast, she thought she would die of waiting. As he sucked at one and fondled the other, she let out a fractured breath. “You are shockingly . . . good at that. It’s a bit . . . worrisome.”
“I’ll admit to”—he tugged at her nipple with his teeth—“gaining experience in an . . . unsavory manner. You would probably disapprove.” He licked her quite deliciously. “But those days are over.”
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