For a beat of a second, Ginny’s eyes darkened. With fear? Rebellion? “You are not going alone.”
“I’ll come back with Bethie.”
“No.” Ginny chewed her bottom lip with her teeth. “Perhaps we should take tea somewhere and send her a note. Await the answer.”
“And if she doesn’t respond? What then? No. I’ll not give that woman the opportunity to sidestep me. Why, I’ll drive right up to her door. What difference does it make if someone sees the Kimpton carriage? Once I’m inside, all Thorne’s cronies will just assume that it is my husband visiting her.”
“Think about it, Lorelei. Most men would take their horse and stable it.”
“Then perhaps that is what we should do as well. She is quite prosperous, you know. She is situated at Cavendish Square Gardens.” All previous amusement fled. “My husband is spending a very shiny shilling…”
“Surely, he is not paying—”
“That is the normal course of events, I believe. To set the mistress up in lodgings and… who knows what else?”
“Oh, Lorelei, I’m so sorry.” Ginny gripped her hands and squeezed. “If she’s in Cavendish Square—well, that’s just a short walk from most of the shops on Bond Street.” She grimaced. “I hate to say this. We could walk, but most of society would see us.”
“Not if we go during the fashionable hour, late afternoon to early evening,” Lorelei said thoughtfully. “After their turn on Rotten Row, most will return home to prepare for the Martindales’ masquerade if we wait until tomorrow. Perhaps we could disguise ourselves somehow. Afterwards, we could hurry back to Kimpton Manor and dress for the party from there.”
Thorne settled in a large leather chair in a quiet corner of White’s and studied the letter from his solicitor. Rowena hadn’t wasted a moment’s time. She and her maid had departed for Kimpton early that morning. Relief fell over him in an expelled rush of air. He prayed she had enough sense to stay out of sight in Kimpton.
Concentrating his efforts on finding Harlowe might come easier now. In fact, upon further consideration, rumors that the man had boarded a ship heading for war did not even make sense. Thorne had lain awake most of the night contemplating that very thing. No, going to war would not interest his wife’s brother. He was a popinjay, into arts—poetry and painting. To the point of obsession.
“Thought you might be trying to win your wife’s favor. Instead, I find you huddled in a corner, reading, of all things.” Brock threw himself down in the chair across from Thorne.
Thorne scowled. “My plans were usurped by Lady Maudsley.”
Brock lifted a brow.
“The ladies had hat shopping on the agenda. No man can compete with that.” He tossed the missive to Brock. “Read this.”
Brockway scanned quickly and handed it back. “That should be a relief. Rowena’s out of sight. You best hope Lorelei doesn’t learn you sent her to Kimpton, however. What did you find?”
It didn’t bear thinking of. “She is definitely with child, though her skirts hide her pregnancy fairly well.”
“Any idea on Harlowe’s whereabouts?”
“Not a one. No one has seen him in several days, which lends credence to the story that he has vacated town. He is quite regular in his visits to Lorelei. Usually for a meal, with paintings in hand.”
“Word is you dragged him on board and walked away. Frankly, I’m surprised things haven’t been taken a step further, accusing you of throwing him overboard rather than on board.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Thorne growled. “What is it with these witless gossips? My wife would have my head—” He stopped. “You don’t suppose that is what she’s heard as well, do you? The man is a painter—of portraits, still lifes,landscapes. Hell, Lorelei collects every unsold piece of his work. Harlowe brings them to her for safekeeping. The house is inundated with them. And I’ll tell you another thing—there is something deuced strange about them too.” Thorne slapped the letter against his thigh. “Where did this gossip originate? Even I would not venture to send the man to war. He would only get his blasted head blown off.”
“I can help there. Maudsley attended the Eton-Harrow cricket match, proud as you please, tossing that silly coin in the air like he always does, talking to that dandy Shufflebottom. They were set a ways from the crowd.” Brock snorted. “Shufflebottom is a disgrace to the gender. I’m speaking of the outrageous oranges and bright pink waist coats.”
Thorne smirked. “You just happened to be in the vicinity?”
“I… ah… was on the other side of the tree speaking with… er, a lovely young woman.”
Thorne ignored this. It was no concern of his to whom his friend did or did not speak. “What purpose does Maudsley have inventing such a blatant untruth?”
“Good question, but I think the first order of business is finding Harlowe,” Brock said. “His townhouse perhaps?”
Thorne stood. “It’s a start.”
Bachelors’ quarters of moderate means lined Hanley Street. At the third building from the corner, Thorne strode up the walk and pounded on the door. Another flat over and up, an elderly man stuck his head out the window. It looked as if his gnarled hair hadn’t seen a comb in decades. “He ain’t home, you buggers. Told them burley men the same, nearin’ three days ago.”
Thorne froze.
