Thorn broke into a smile as he saw Gwyn heading across her modest ballroom toward him. Leave it to his sister to celebrate her and her husband taking ownership of their new town house by throwing a ball. He didn’t regret one bit selling the house to them. She’d turned the place into a home, and it showed, especially in here. The new floor had the perfect gloss for dancing, and the new chandeliers lit the room much better than the old ones.
It meant she was sure to stay nearby for a while, thank God. And now that she’d married Major Wolfe, who could well protect her, Thorn could relax and stop worrying that some scoundrel might run off with her for her inheritance.
He could focus on his writing for a change, although it was getting harder to hide it, especially from Gwyn. She thought him nothing but a rakehell. His whole family did. In truth, Thorn the rakehell was a character every bit as much as Thorn the playwright and Thorn the duke. None of the roles felt real. Except Thorn the brother, of course. At least that role was genuine.
“You’re wearing a suspiciously secretive smile.” Gwyn kissed him on the cheek. “What mischief do you have up your sleeve tonight?”
“Nothing that would concern you, Liebchen.”
She laughed. “How disappointing. I love being part of your schemes. Or I used to at home, at any rate.”
Home. Prussia was still home for him, too. “Do you miss Berlin?” he asked, genuinely curious.
“Sometimes.” A faraway look crossed her face. “I’d sell my soul for some Eisbein mit Sauerkraut.”
“You should have said so before. My new cook makes it.”
She gaped at him. “And it’s good? As good as in Berlin?”
“Since my new cook is German, it’s every bit as good.”
“How on earth did you find a German cook?”
“There are Germans in London, if you look for them, sis.” He grinned. “I’ll send some Eisbein mit Sauerkraut over tomorrow.”
“You are a dear man.” She grabbed his head and kissed both his cheeks. “I shall hold you to that.”
He chuckled. “I’d expect nothing less of you.”
“Anyway, I’m glad I caught you before you fled.” She adjusted her gloves. “You’re always terribly elusive at affairs like this.”
“What sort of affairs do you mean?”
“Marriage marts. You know.”
“It’s October. Too late in the year for marriage marts. Besides, I thought this was just to celebrate your move into your new home. I see plenty of guests who would never be invited to a marriage mart. Like William Bonham.”
“Stop that,” Gwyn said with a nudge of her arm. “I know you don’t approve of his interest in Mama, but he’s been a perfect gentleman to her.”
“He’s a man of affairs.”
“He’s Papa’s man of affairs. I swear, you’ve become dreadfully high-in-the-instep now that you’ve been in England nearly a decade. And Mama says she’s not interested in him romantically, anyway.”
“She said the same thing about our stepfather, but that didn’t stop her from marrying him.”
“Surely you aren’t complaining about that. Without Papa, we wouldn’t have Sheridan and Heywood as brothers. And we would never have had the experience of traveling across Europe and growing up in Prussia.”
“True.” Without their stepfather, he wouldn’t have had to choose between his twin and his dukedom either.
No, that wasn’t fair. He’d mucked that up himself by not being more honest with Gwyn before he’d left Prussia. He should have told her from the start that he’d paid off her favorite suitor, that the arse had taken the money and run. He and Gwyn were slowly growing close again, though he feared there would always be a bit of a rift between them. They had once been of the same mind always, but years apart had made him more cautious and her more . . . self-sufficient.
Nothing showed that like the fact that he’d never told her of his playwriting. Of the painful secret about their father. Of the one woman Thorn had offered marriage to.
What the hell? What had made him think of her?
Remembering Father’s secret, no doubt, the one Thorn had continued to keep through the years because he’d begun to fear it might be true.
After the Devonshire ball, Thorn had written his mother to see what she’d answer if he mentioned running into her supposed “friend,” Lady Norley. To his surprise, Mother had told him, “give my good friend Lady Norley my regards.” Apparently the baroness hadn’t lied about their friendship, which was enough to make him cautious about mentioning anything else to Mother.
“So if Mama likes Mr. Bonham and he’s good to her,” Gwyn was saying, “what’s the problem? It’s not as if they’ll have more children.”
“Thank God.”
“And speaking of marriage and children—”
“You’re enceinte.”
“How did you know? I thought my gowns hid it fairly well.” She sighed. “Joshua told you, didn’t he?”
Thorn smirked at her. “What do you expect? He’s the proud papa.”
“I can see I won’t get to give the news to anyone,” she said petulantly. “Anyway, that’s not what I was hinting at. I was trying to point out that there are plenty of unmarried ladies here.”
He stiffened. Now that she was happily married, she wanted to see everyone in that exalted state. Judging from his mother’s marriages, his father’s possible infidelity, and the many women who’d tried to snag Thorn through the years for his title and wealth, love in marriage was a falsehood. So Gwyn’s matchmaking efforts were wasted on him.
He was about to tell her so, when she added, “More than one of those ladies is just begging for a partner.”
Ah. He’d misunderstood. She was chiding him for not doing his duty as a bachelor at a ball. That was different. He knew the rules. “I tell you what. Before I leave, I promise to dance one set with the lady of your choice. Will that exonerate me?”
“Perhaps.” She narrowed her gaze on him. “And after that?”
“Are you demanding to choose more than one dance partner for me?”
“I know better. Although I’d rather you stayed later, of course, what I meant was, where are you off to when you leave here?”
“No idea. Covent Garden, I imagine. Or my club.” He tapped his finger on his chin. “Is Vauxhall still open? I wonder if those fellows who bought it might let me have a go at the tightrope. I’ve only had one glass of wine—I might manage it.”
She rolled her eyes. “You should be the one writing those plays, you know.”
He tensed. “What plays?”
“The ones by your German friend, Mr. Jahnke. The first, I think, was The Adventures of a German Gentleman Loose in London.”
“First of all, it’s Juncker, not Jahnke,” he said irritably. “And second, there’s no mention in the title of his character Felix being German. It’s A Foreign Gentleman, not A German Gentleman.”
She eyed him closely. “I hardly think it matters whether Felix is German or foreign. All I’m saying is you’d make the adventures more exciting.”
Thorn couldn’t decide if she was baiting him. Had she guessed that his poet friend, Konrad Juncker, was standing in for Thorn himself? “According to Juncker, the adventures please the audience well enough to make him wealthy. The original work has run off and on for years, and the subsequent plays have . . .” When Gwyn started to smile, he caught himself. “I merely think them fine as they are.”
“Well, of course you do. You’re loyal to your friend. Personally, I only enjoy those scenes with Lady Grasping and her hapless daughter, Lady Slyboots.” She grinned. “I do like their shenanigans. They always make me laugh.”
“Me too.”
He hadn’t intended to keep the comic characters once his anger at Miss Norley’s refusal had waned. But now the two had become an integral part of the works. Vickerman, the manager at the Parthenon Theater, which had produced all of Juncker’s plays, had insisted that Grasping and Slyboots appear in every new one.
Gwyn was still watching him. “I sometimes forget you’re the only member of the family—other than Mama, of course—who actually enjoys the theater. Now that she’s out of mourning, have you taken her to see the Juncker plays? I daresay she’d like them a great deal.”
“Not yet. I’ve been busy.” And he didn’t want to risk Mother noticing the turns of phrase that might show his hand. She was often more clever than his siblings gave her credit for. If anyone could find him out, it would be her. Or Gwyn.
“Yes, I can guess what you’ve been busy doing.” Gwyn scanned the ballroom. “Speaking of busy, I should return to my guests. You may be my favorite, but you’re not my only.” She wagged her finger at him. “Don’t forget—you must dance with the lady of my choice. I’ll be back soon to introduce you.”
He stifled a groan. Gwyn would pair him with a wallflower for certain. She had no idea about his preferences in women. He lost sight of her as she marched across the room, but within moments another woman caught his attention.
It couldn’t be. But it was. He would recognize that face anywhere.
It was her.
After all these years without so much as a moment’s encounter between them, Miss Olivia Norley—or whatever her name was these days—had the audacity to show up here at his twin’s home, where she had no right to be. Well, Thorn meant to inform the chit of that fact. Right before he had her removed from the ballroom.
He motioned to a footman, but got no further before he spotted her companion, a woman equally attractive but not nearly as devious: his new sister-in-law, Grey’s wife Beatrice, the Duchess of Greycourt.
Miss Norley and Beatrice were in league together? What the devil was going on?
He watched as they drifted across the room, coming closer to him by the moment. Fortunately, Beatrice was stopped every few feet by some acquaintance, and that gave him a chance to assess the changes time had wrought on Miss Norley.
There weren’t many. She’d be about twenty-seven now, yet she still had the youthful appearance of a woman who’d borne no children. She wore her blond hair almost exactly as she had years ago, but her gown in a brilliant Pomona green skimmed her form more lovingly than a husband, a testament to how fashions had changed.
So had he. After his encounter with her, he hadn’t looked at women in quite the same way. Now he always hunted for their hidden purpose before he indulged. And he’d indulged a great deal, thanks to the gossip Lady Norley had spread, about how her daughter had refused him because of his wild ways.
The gossip had actually enhanced his appeal. People who’d considered him odd because of his German habits now saw him as a typical English duke. And once Lady Norley had given him a scoundrel’s reputation, he’d figured he might as well live the part.
But these days he used his sojourns into the stews mostly as fodder for his plays. He was getting a bit too old for whoring.
A fellow came by with glasses of ratafia, and he took one. Tonight he found himself in need of strong drink, and the juice-flavored brandy would be just the thing.
He’d only taken his first sip when Beatrice approached him with Miss Norley, whose eyes glittered in the candlelight. Clearly she didn’t want this meeting any more than he did. That was something of a surprise, given her propensity for trapping men.
“Gwyn told me to remind you of your promise, Thorn,” Beatrice said. “In keeping with that, I’d like to present my new friend, Miss Olivia Norley. Miss Norley, this is the Duke of Thornstock, my brother-in-law.”
He fancied he saw her pale at that last bit, but he couldn’t be sure. In any case, one mystery was solved. After all this time, she was still unmarried. Then again, so was he.
“We’ve met,” he said tersely, giving her the slightest of bows. If not for having made Gwyn that idiotic promise, he would have given Miss Norley the cut direct.
As it was, Beatrice blinked at him, obviously surprised to see him be so insolent to a woman. She must be unaware that Miss Norley wasn’t a woman—she was a she-devil like her stepmother.
But Miss Norley clearly understood his behavior because she tipped up her chin and said saucily, “You’re drinking ratafia, Your Grace? Don’t you think that’s unwise, given your tendency to spill beverages at balls?”
He narrowed his gaze on her. “And how is Lady Norley these days? I assume she’s in hiding somewhere around here.” He scanned the ballroom. “Is she still trying to throw titled gentlemen into your lap?”
Miss Norley didn’t so much as blush. “Fortunately, no. Now that I’m considered a spinster, my stepmother generally leaves me be at balls.”
“How lucky for you,” he snapped. “And quite a kindness to the chaps she would try to corral on your behalf. Although I’d hardly call you a spinster. You’re younger than my sister, and she still managed to snag Major Wolfe.”
“Thorn!” Beatrice said sharply. “What has come over you? You’re being very rude to Miss Norley. Not only is she a guest, she’s a particularly important one to me and Grey.”
That brought him up short. “How so?”
“He didn’t tell you? He has engaged Miss Norley to test his father’s remains for arsenic using her new chemical method. The three of us leave for Carymont in the morning.”
Carymont in Suffolk was the family seat of the dukes of Greycourt, where Grey’s father had been entombed in the grand family mausoleum.
So Beatrice’s pronouncement set Thorn back on his heels. Yes, Grey had recently begun to suspect that his father, presumed to have died of an ague in Grey’s infancy, might actually have been poisoned all those years ago. But to go so far as to exhume the man’s body? That seemed extreme. And why in hell would Grey choose Miss Norley to test the remains?
This was madness.
Thorn downed his ratafia, then scanned the ballroom. “Where’s Grey?”
“Why?” Beatrice asked. “You’re supposed to be dancing with Miss Norley.”
Miss Norley stuck her chin out. “There’s no reason His Grace should—”
“Oh, I fully intend to dance with you, Miss Norley,” Thorn said icily. “But first I must speak to my brother.”
“What do you want to know?” asked a sonorous voice behind him.
Thorn whirled to find Grey standing there. Seizing him by the arm, Thorn muttered, “Come with me. I wish to talk to you privately.” Then Thorn headed for Wolfe’s study . . . and its convenient store of liquor.
As soon as they entered and Thorn closed the door, Grey said, “You’re being as theatrical as Mother usually is. What’s got you so agitated?”
“I hear you’re having your father’s remains tested for arsenic.”
Grey headed for the decanter. “I’m hoping to, yes.”
“Are you even sure it can be done?”
“I am, actually. A short time ago, I came across a Prussian newspaper from 1803 in some of our stepfather’s things. It contained an article about Sophie Ursinus, a Berlin poisoner. A German chemist named Valentin Rose developed a test to check for arsenic in the body of one of Ursinus’s victims, and the results were used in her trial.” Grey poured himself a glass of the amber liquid and took a generous swallow, then spit it back into the glass. “God, that’s rum!”
“The major prefers rum. Something to do with his having been at sea for so long, I believe.” Thorn poured his own glass. He could tolerate rum in the absence of brandy. “And don’t change the subject. Is that why you’re looking for a chemist?”
“Precisely.”
“And you hit upon Miss Norley, of all people?”
“Yes.” Turning stone-faced, Grey set down his glass. “Why do you care, anyway? It’s my late father who’s involved, and I can ask whomever I please to do the testing.”
“But I’m assuming you want someone minimally competent in the field. Miss Norley surely has only a dilettante’s interest. So why use her instead of a legitimate chemist?”
Grey scowled. “I tried to find ‘a legitimate chemist,’ as you put it. But every one I spoke to refused.”
“For what reason?”
“Many were unfamiliar with the test Rose had developed. Some said they couldn’t get results on a body so long deceased. Others said they didn’t have the time. I suspect that’s a polite way of saying they want nothing to do with the possible murder of a duke.”
“You can hardly blame them. Dead men of great rank have live friends of great rank who don’t want to risk being dragged into a trial and might go to extraordinary lengths not to be. Which would leave the chemist who proved the poisoning in an awkward position.”
“Exactly. I even approached Mrs. Elizabeth Fulhame, a published chemist whose work is admired by others, but she has her own experiments that take up much of her time. She did, however, suggest a friend of hers—”
“Miss Norley.”
“Yes. And when I learned of Miss Norley’s experience as a chemist, I thought engaging her was my best recourse.”
Thorn sipped some rum. “The chit actually has experience?”
“You must have little faith in me indeed if you think I’d entrust this task to just anybody. Miss Norley comes highly recommended by her uncle, a well-known chemist himself, as well as by Mrs. Fulhame.”
Thorn had forgotten about her uncle, whom she’d mentioned on their first encounter. “So, a relation and another female. I hope you’re not paying Miss Norley too much for her dubious experience.”
Grey’s eyes turned the dark blue that showed he was reaching the end of his patience. “Not that it’s any of your concern, but I’m not paying her at all.”
That took Thorn by surprise. “Then why is she doing it?”
“Why do you care?” Grey leaned against the nearby desk. “For that matter, how do you even know Miss Norley?”
Thorn sighed. “Do you remember the Devonshire House ball, and how I was caught in a compromising situation with a young lady? I vaguely remember telling you that she turned me down when I proposed marriage.”
He’d been in such a temper when he’d left the Norley town house that he’d ranted to Grey about it. All these years later, he still regretted that. He didn’t like having people, even his half brother, know his secrets.
Grey’s jaw dropped. “Miss Norley?”
“The very one. Her stepmother set me up to be caught, and her daughter was the one who baited the trap.” With her knowledge of chemistry, actually. But being able to get a stain out of a waistcoat hardly meant she could do testing that would hold up in court. It was little more than a parlor trick. “Now you see why I’m concerned about your fixing upon her to do this.”
“Actually, no, I don’t see.”
“Trust me, Miss Norley’s reasons for her actions are generally suspect. For all you know, she wants to seduce you and ruin your marriage for her own shady purpose.”
Grey laughed. “Dear God, the woman certainly put your back up. You forget that I’ve met her. She hardly seems the consummate liar you make her out to be. Or, for that matter, the consummate seducer.”
“Appearances can be deceiving,” Thorn muttered, unnerved by his brother’s logical arguments.
Grey cocked his head. “I should point out that if Miss Norley ‘baited the trap’ for you, why did she then refuse your offer of marriage?”
That question had plagued his nights. Through the years, Thorn could come up with only one reason. “She thought refusing me would entice me to court her and possibly rouse jealousy in some fellow she really wanted.”
Better that than her rejecting him because she’d found him wanting during the short span of time between when she’d lured him into the library and when her stepmother had shown up on cue to “catch” them.
“You think she would prefer some other fellow over a wealthy duke?” Grey asked. “So why didn’t this other fellow offer for her? Since she has never married, she is obviously bad at baiting traps for men.”
Now fully in a temper, Thorn marched up to his half brother. “Whose side are you on?”
Grey crossed his arms over his chest. “We’re takin. . .
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