“Leave town! But the season is in full swing.”
“You must see I cannot stay here. I have important issues to contemplate, and—” She let out a disgusted huff. “Why, I can’t even trust myself. Perhaps Ginny would be willing to bundle up her girls and travel with us.” But, blast it, Thorne had forbidden her to travel to Spixworth Hall. Besides, he was right—Norwich was a hotbed of conflict. Oh, how she hated admitting her husband was right.
Bethie gaped at her, hands fisted at her massive hips. “Yer his lordship’s wife. Course ye have to stay.”
“I-I don’t!” Lorelei insisted. “Must I remind you what we heard andsawthe other night?”
Bethie scowled.
“There’s more. Brandon’s valet was m-murdered.”
“Aye, there’s something strange about that.” Bethie turned back to setting the tea right.
“You heard?”
“Course I heard. The news was belowstairs two days ago.”
“Two days!” Lorelei winced and lowered her voice. “And I suppose you heard that Thorne was asked to identify his body?”
“Aye.”
“Why do I get the notion you have switched courts?”
“His lordship came home and took it upon his own self to set you to rights.”
Lorelei narrowed her eyes on her cheeky maid-general. “Set me to rights?”
“Ye was ill, and he took right care of ye. That man cares for ye.”
Fury shook Lorelei. He took care of her, for certain, and no doubt took care of himself as well, she thought, as the heat between her legs throbbed. “He fathered another woman’s child. Lady Dankworth witnessed himspeakingto that same woman in a public street. He sent my helpless brother somewhere, and without a word to me. You remember my brother, don’t you? He’s an artist, not an adventurer.” She dropped the rest of her toast on the plate and shoved the tray away. Mindful of her pounding head, she worked her way to her escritoire and pulled out a sheet of vellum.
Bethie’s pitying look infuriated her.
“Never mind,” she snapped. “Pack for Kimpton. I should like to leave as soon as I hear from Lady Maudsley.”
Thorne escaped to White’s before he did something equally as appalling as he had the night before, knowing he wouldn’t stop at pleasuring Lorelei with just his hands this time. He was past ready to pleasure her with any part of him she preferred. The problem was, she hadn’t been in the proper frame of mind to make the kind of decision he’d made for her.
Soused. She’d been soused. And he’d taken advantage. A man couldn’t go much lower. He dropped his head in his hands.
“You look like hell.” Brock fell into the chair across from him. “Didn’t you get any sleep?”
“Some,” he mumbled.
“I thought you might be otherwise engrossed today.”
Heat crawled up Thorne’s neck, but with luck, the club’s low lighting obscured his embarrassment. He breathed through the discomfort and cleared his throat with a short cough. “Harlowe frequented several poetry readings, salons, and the like, didn’t he?”
“I believe so. What’s this you’re on about?”
Thorne drummed his fingertips on his knee. “Any idea what clubs he belonged to?”
“The usual I imagine. Boodle’s. Though perhaps we could enquire at the Eccentric Club, Watier’s, possibly that new one, the Au Courant.”
Thorne lifted a brow, relieved to have his mind on something useful. “Boodle’s is certainly a possibility, of course. What do you know of the others?”
“Not much. I’ve heard the patrons of the Eccentric Club are a bit, er, eccentric, hence the name.” Brock waved a hand. “Philosophic.”
“What about the new one? What did you call it?”
