“The Au Courant. If I’m not mistaken, they cater to the literary and art set—” Brock shot him an amused grin. “Of course.”
“We’ll start there.” Thorne stood. “Harlowe was up and coming with his work. He’s certainly more talented than I credited him. But what I’m most interested in is the purpose of that grim symbol showing up in those paintings. The fool might have happened on more than he bargained for.”
A niggle of guilt plagued Lorelei as she and Bethie prepared for their departure to Kimpton. It wasn’t truly leaving Thorne if she resided in their country home, was it? Ginny’s note arrived, and it appeared her friend was still quite ill.
She pushed away her doubts and focused on what would be a long carriage ride with a scowling Bethie. It would not be a pleasant ride, but Lorelei supposed she deserved such a fate after seducing her husband into losing his control. Letting Thorne charm his way out of the stunts he’d pulled—well, she just couldn’t. This was the rest of her life. If anything, the carriage ride should allow her time to sort through some of the misgivings plaguing her. The things she seemed to have a difficult time remembering. She tried not to worry, and instead focused on the journey ahead.
Staying overnight at the Rose & Crown was a certainty. She’d obviously have to inform Thorne of her plans. She might be angry with him, but she balked at having him risk life and limb looking for her when her travels were but a day.
Armed with an extra dosage of saline draught, as vile as the concoction tasted, Lorelei felt certain she could survive one day. Head high, she handed the missive outlining her plans to a stoic Oswald. Cheeks flushed and eyes averted, she accepted Andrews’s assistance into the waiting carriage.
The challenging tasks of locating Miss HollerfieldandBrandon changed nothing.
Dear God, she groaned, dropping her face in her palms. She’d completely forgotten to ask Lady Smythe if her husband could help her find her brother. That settled it. No more brandy for her. Besides, she was perfectly capable of sending missives from the country.
Path decided, Lorelei berated herself into letting it go. She already had enough funds to begin her search for Brandon.If he was still alive.Besides, once her fortnight of confinement was served, she would be set for the rest of her life if she remained frugal. She swallowed.
Had Thorne been able to lay his hands on one of the scythes Harlowe had so eloquently depicted in his paintings, he would have cut his own throat with it. Two solid hours of Shufflebottom’s constant barrage of nonsensical words—words that included rhyming schemes of “haunting” and “daunting” and “duels and jewels” that would likely send half of the most sure-minded men screaming for a corner of Bedlam, and Thorne would lead the pack. Shufflebottom’s lace cuffs, bright orange waistcoat, and green pantaloons would drive the other half leaping off the cliffs of Cornwall. Holding bricks.
It was deuced convenient that the spirits flowed freely. Spirits consisting mainly of brandy and rum, along with port. Claret and sherry for the… er, uh… ladies. Thorne downed his third brandy of the afternoon and gauged the rapt audience.
The Widow Chancé was known for her love of literature, art, and poetry. Her late husband, twice her age, was now long dead. She was a handsome woman of discriminate taste. She appeared careful on whose arm she leaned on. The assemblage resembled what one might typically expect for poetry lovers, fanciful men whose gazes ranged from idealistic to pensive to vague.
Thorne recognized one or two of the more well-known courtesans. Not that he’d associated with them personally, but certainly he’d seen them with their current keepers over the years, residing in theatre boxes and the like. Their dresses barely covered rouged nipples. He didn’t believe this salon was indicative of others. But since he rarely, if ever, attended events of this nature, he had no comparison.
Baron Welton’s heir, George, was resting on a settee near the windows, his head back and eyes closed. Clarissa, one of Madame Chancé’s more exclusive girls, sat close enough to be considered on him rather than beside him. Something tugged at Thorne's memory. Weren’t Welton and Harlowe childhood friends? He skirted the crowd and made his way in that direction.
“Welton,” Thorne said.
Welton’s eyes snapped to Thorne. The younger man straightened and motioned his head at Clarissa. She scowled at Welton but set some space between them. “Kimpton. Fancy a bit of poetry, do you? Sit, please.”
It only took a second for her to ignore Welton, turning her coy smile on Thorne. He answered with a cool, dismissive gaze, after which she promptly stomped away. Thorne dropped into her vacated seat, though he maintained rather more distance from Welton than she had.
“What can I do for you, my lord?” Welton’s tone teetered on sarcasm. And why shouldn’t it? Thorne hadn’t the usual reasons for seeking out Welton. They certainly didn’t move in the same circles.
Across the chamber, Shufflebottom’s voice rose in a spectacular crescendo, culminating with “anguish that had him languish” and hands crossed upon his heart. All in all, the presentation ended with flourished dramatization. Thorne choked back a snort of disgust. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the written word, but the man positively exuded “anguish” in the most thespian proportions.
Groups huddled, and chatter rose in varying degrees of excitement. He swung his gaze back to Welton. “I’m looking for Harlowe. My wife’s brother. You are acquainted with him, I believe.”
“Of course I know him. Tell me, how is the grand Lady Kimpton?” Irritation filtered through his voice. “I’ll never forget the lashing she belted out when Harlowe and I filled her best linens with a few lively young frogs. My ears sting to this day from the pinching they took.” Disgust crossed his sullen features.
“She’s well. But she is most determined to speak to her brother. I’m hoping to find him.” Another, yet younger, man took to the floor, momentarily distracting Thorne from his task. “What the devil is this thing?”
“Ah, the Poetry Association?” Welton chuckled. “I believe the lonely widow is trolling for love—once again.”
“And you?”
He covered what sounded to Thorne like an embarrassed laugh in a cough. “Me? Well, I… uh… am easily entertained.”
“Obviously,” Thorne muttered under his breath. “And Harlowe?”
“Never fear, Lord Kimpton. I’ve only crossed paths with him here once or twice. This is not his usual set. Whatever made you believe he’d end up here?” Welton gauged him with a wary glance.
Thorne leaned back and stretched his legs out, crossing them at the ankles, careful to maintain a disinterested air, and waited.
“The fact of the matter is I haven’t seen much of him since he took up with a certain young woman.”
“Ah, Miss Hollerfield.”
