Nicole Jordan (17 page)

“Well, let me know if I can help in any way.”

“You can. Yates will be paying you a visit shortly so that you can tell him everything you remember about Forrester from your inquiry last fall. But otherwise, I want you to keep your focus on Venus’s club. She is the more likely route for unearthing any information of value. I intend to ply Venus directly myself during the next week or so.”

“The task of seducing her won’t be a hardship for you, I’ll wager.”

Thorne shook his head. “I will have to be more subtle than that. If she is guilty of treason, as Nathaniel suspected, then she would be instantly suspicious of any behavior out of the ordinary. And for me to suddenly pursue her after my return from Cyrene would be extraordinary, since I’ve never shown any specific interest in her before now. Besides, I am recently betrothed, and it would hardly be respectful of my future bride to show a notorious madam such marked attention.”

“Aye, your betrothal.” Macky’s raised eyebrows expressed his rabid curiosity. “A rather surprising turn of events, that was, if I may say so, your lordship.”

“You may. I surprised myself as much as anyone else,” Thorne said cryptically. Not intending to explain further, he rose to his feet. “I will leave you to your beauty sleep.”

Macky grinned again. “Aye, I’ll need as much rest as possible before I have to report in for my duties this evening.”

“Pray don’t enjoy your duties too much. You have a job to do.”

“I’ll try, m’lord,” Macky said cheekily before rolling over and burying his face in the pillows.

Thorne let himself out and returned to the street, his sense of frustration only slightly eased after his conversation with Macky. At last they were taking steps to find Nathaniel’s killer, but their progress would doubtless be slow.

In the three weeks since reading Nathaniel’s letter, Thorne had felt an increasing urgency to get on with the task. The delay, however, wasn’t the sole cause of his restlessness, he knew. A certain virginal, sable-haired temptress was just as much to blame.

Schooling himself to patience, Thorne mounted his horse and turned in the direction of his home. He should be grateful to have this mystery to occupy his mind, he reminded himself, for it forced him to focus—at least temporarily—on something other than his bewitching betrothed.

He returned home to change his attire for evening clothes and then paid a duty call on his father. As expected, he found the Duke of Redcliffe out, and so proceeded to Brooks Gentleman’s Club, where he settled in for a long evening of dinner and gaming—with the more calculated purpose of establishing the story of his betrothal and promoting the pretense of a love match.

Also as expected, he was roasted unmercifully by his friends. Word soon spread that Thorne was at Brooks, which attracted a large gathering of acquaintances. He spent hours answering inquiries and pleasantly lying through his teeth, but he bore the torment with apparent good-humored grace, all the while hoping that Diana was faring better.

Diana was just as uncomfortable, for her conscience was pricking her for telling such blatant falsehoods to Thorne’s kindly aunt.

It distressed her even more to be the subject of such distasteful speculation among the ton. Lady Hennessy had saved every rag and publication since the cataclysmic betrothal announcement and had given them to Diana, expressing the belief that forewarned was forearmed.

If the papers were any indication, all London had taken notice of Thorne’s shocking engagement. Indeed, one might have supposed the event was nearly as monumental as Napoleon’s escape from Elba. And not only because no one expected Thorne to become ensnared by matrimony, but also because whispers of Diana’s scandalous past still followed her.

Forcing herself to read each and every word, Diana felt the same sinking, sickening feeling of mortification that had hounded her after her aborted elopement six years earlier. The gossip was rife that Thorne had chosen her specifically in order to flout his esteemed father. And fresh speculation had begun once she was shockingly revealed to be an artist. Incredibly, the morning following her arrival in London, the society columns were devoted almost solely to her.

Directly after breakfast, Diana retreated to the morning parlor to read the latest slander in private. No sooner had she finished, however, than Lady Hennessy’s butler informed her that she had a caller—the Duke of Redcliffe.

Her heart suddenly thudding at the prospect of facing Thorne’s noble father, Diana asked for his grace to be shown in. Rising nervously, she smoothed her skirts, glad to have worn one of her new, exquisitely fashionable morning gowns, and stood waiting.

Her first impression of the aristocratic gentleman who strode into the parlor was one of awe. The duke was perhaps not quite so tall as his son, but he possessed the same athletic grace, the same striking, square-jawed features, the same virility. With his fair hair silvering at the temples, however, combined with his stately bearing, he seemed somehow even more imposing than Thorne.

Redcliffe executed a curt bow, saying, “My compliments, Miss Sheridan. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.” His deep voice was languid with aristocratic hauteur, his tone barely civil despite the polite salutation. He did not seem pleased to meet her in the least.

He was here to inspect her, Diana knew.

Determined not to be intimidated, she forced a courteous smile and responded with her most charming manner. “As I am you, your grace. Would you care to be seated? Perhaps take some refreshment?”

“I cannot stay. I am expected at Whitehall. I merely wished to offer you my felicitations on your surprising engagement.”

“Thank you.”

The duke’s glance fell on the table, where copies of the
Morning Post
and the
Morning Chronicle
were opened to the society pages.

Seeing his chiseled mouth curl with distaste, Diana preempted whatever remark he might have made. “No doubt you find the gossip about me alarming. I certainly would, were I in your shoes.”

Arching a quizzical eyebrow, he shifted his keen gaze back to her. “Would you indeed?”

“Yet surely,” Diana continued, “you of all people know that you cannot believe everything you read in the papers. I am certain you have been the subject of countless reports that bore little resemblance to truth.”

“To be sure, I have, Miss Sheridan.” He studied her with a speculative look, like a sleepy panther mildly intrigued by a mouse. “Are you saying the reports about your previous elopement and your current profession are false?”

“No, your grace. I am saying that tales are often embellished to titillate and shock. I also harbor the belief that if your son is not offended by my background, then I cannot permit his family’s objections to matter.”

“Did I say I object?” Redcliffe inquired in a deceptively lazy voice.

Diana was taken aback by the question. “Do you not?”

“I confess my first reaction was dismay that my son had entered into a mésalliance merely to spite me. But I soon realized I should be relieved by any betrothal at all. I have long wanted to see Thorne put an end to his wild ways and become…respectably settled, and my hope is that his marriage will accomplish that.”

His emphasis on
respectably
was deliberate, Diana knew. And she suspected Redcliffe was not relieved at all, that his appearance of unruffled calm was merely an act.

She understood his reservations, of course. A woman with her past—or her present, for that matter—wasn’t worthy to be the wife of a future duke. And she could not dispute him.

Still, she had promised Thorne to maintain the pretense that their betrothal was real, even though it would require all her acting skills to convince his father.

“Your concern is only natural, your grace,” Diana said sweetly, “but I am very much in love with your son, and he professes to love me.”

“You are to be applauded, Miss Sheridan,” he said dryly. “My son has never before claimed to be in love. But I should like to offer you a warning. Thorne has always had a reckless nature, and it extends to his amorous affairs. He plays with hearts like they were so many draughts. Women are merely sport to him.”

To her surprise, Thorne’s cool voice sounded from the doorway. “That might once have been the case, Father,” he drawled as he sauntered into the parlor, “but it was before I met Diana.”

Moving across the room to join her, he raised her fingers to his lips and offered her a brilliant smile. “Good morning, my love.”

Diana felt her heartbeat quicken, both at his romantic gesture and at the tender expression in his eyes. Even if his show of adoration was merely a sham for his father’s sake, it was extremely beguiling. And so was Thorne’s appearance. He looked particularly striking this morning, his tall, elegantly athletic form flattered by the burgundy coat and buff pantaloons he wore.

Protectively placing a hand at her back, Thorne turned to confront his father. “I see you have met my lovely bride-to-be.”

The duke didn’t seem at all disconcerted to be caught discussing his son’s affairs; rather just the opposite. For a moment the two men stood regarding each other, an unspoken challenge crackling between them.

Redcliffe was the first to break the silence. “I understand Miss Sheridan is quite an exceptional talent.”

Thorne’s mouth twisted. “My congratulations to your network of spies, sir. You must have employed them to learn of Diana’s remarkable skill, since the gossip columns have said nothing about it. You sent your minions to Derbyshire to inquire about her, did you not?”

“Did you expect otherwise? When my only son and heir becomes betrothed, I think I have a right—even the obligation—to be concerned. But you wrong me in one respect. Miss Sheridan’s reputation in the artistic community precedes her to London, and it is a very favorable one.” The duke addressed Diana then. “I am a patron of the Royal Academy, Miss Sheridan.”

“So Thorne tells me, your grace.”

“I should like to view your work. Perhaps I might be able to endorse you. My opinion carries some weight in artistic circles.”

“Thank you, but I hope to have the endorsement of the British Academy very soon,” Diana said coolly.

“I can vouch that her work truly is exceptional,” Thorne interjected sincerely. “Diana’s talent is part of what led me to fall in love with her.”

Redcliffe’s mouth thinned with skepticism, while his tone turned wry. “I would think less of you, Christopher, if you had chosen a hack.” His expression sobered then as he regarded his son. “At least you are wise enough to bring her here to your aunt. Once society learns of Judith’s sponsorship, Miss Sheridan’s acceptance should be assured.”

“I am well aware of that, sir. And I have no doubt you will also come to accept Diana, once you know her. Meanwhile, I would be obliged if you could manage to conceal your displeasure at my betrothal.”

“I cannot say I am displeased. On the contrary, I have high hopes that your betrothal will finally cure you of scandal.”

Thorne’s eyes narrowed. “I have similar hopes that you will no longer insist on involving yourself in my affairs.”

“If you are wed, then I should no longer have reason to involve myself. But perhaps you will endeavor to cool the gossips’ tongue-wagging, for your bride’s sake, if not for the obligation you owe your family name.”

“I will make every effort to do your bidding, Father,” Thorne replied ironically. “You know I exist only to please you.”

“The devil you do,” his father retorted, his lips curving with unwilling amusement.

Turning, Redcliffe gave Diana another bow, this one more respectful than his first had been. “I bid you good day, Miss Sheridan. If you insist upon wedding this wild son of mine, you may count on my support. But I hope you don’t come to regret it.”

When the duke had departed, Diana drew a long breath, relieved to have survived the interview.

“You handled that well,” Thorne commented.

“Then why is there still an army of butterflies doing battle in my stomach?”

He regarded her with sympathetic amusement. “I regret I wasn’t here to intercept him. I should have known he would call here so he could scrutinize you.”

“He was rightly disturbed about your unsuitable choice of bride.”

“But you didn’t allow him to intimidate you. Not that I expected it. You are no doubt a match for my father.”

Diana felt herself smile. “I consider that high praise.” Surprisingly, however, she’d found herself liking Thorne’s father, possibly because she had glimpsed the affection they bore for each other, despite the obvious contention between them. “He was plainly troubled by my notoriety, but the betrothal itself appears to gratify him.”

“My matrimonial prospects have long been a game between us,” Thorne said dryly. “My father claims unjustly that I am the bane of his existence and tries to rule my life, to turn me into a staid, respectable member of society like he has become.”

“He has not had much success, I suspect.”

“Not a bit.”

Diana could well believe the duke had had difficulty in molding his son to conform. Thorne was a rebel at heart and had no qualms about defying his father, or the whole of society, for that matter. No doubt it was disgraceful of her, but Thorne’s daring was one of the things she admired about him. She herself had never had the courage to dare defy society after her elopement. At least not until now.

“Don’t concern yourself with my father,” Thorne advised. “Whether or not he approves of you, he would never publicly oppose our betrothal. Instead he’ll close ranks around you and pretend to accept you into the family.”

Diana suddenly recalled that she was alone with Thorne in his aunt’s parlor. “Did you come here this morning for some specific reason?”

“I thought perhaps you and Amy might enjoy a ride in the park after being confined aboard ship for so long. And it will be helpful for us to be seen together.”

She returned a rueful smile. “Nothing would delight me more than a ride, but I promised Amy to accompany her shopping, and I expect that will take the better part of the day.”