“Aye. Miss Hollerfield.” Welton’s tone turned curt.
“Well, she’s enough to turn any young man’s head. How long ago was that?”
Welton furrowed his brows. “Months, actually.”
“I see. I, ah, don’t suppose you know of any of his other hang-abouts?”
“You might try the Beefsteak. That is more to his taste, I’d wager.”
“Beefsteak!” Thorne said, startled. The Beefsteak leaned toward the political realm, and sounded nothing like the man with whom Thorne was familiar. A sudden vision of the un-shredded Guy Fawkes canvas hit him.
“Occasionally, I’ve encountered him at the Eccentric Club, though with all those philanthropists about, I avoid the place like the plague.”
A derisive bark erupted from Thorne. “The human-interest aspect doesn’t appeal to you, then?”
Welton snorted. “That, and the politicians and scientists. That particular establishment is overrun. I don’t spend much time in clubs; I prefer having women about, if you must know. Sometimes I wonder if Harlowe has switched—” He stopped abruptly.
“Switched?” Thorne prodded.
“Nothing,” Welton snapped. “I’d much rather listen to bad poetry with a willing woman in my lap.” He leapt to his feet and gave a quick bow. “If you’ll pardon me, my lord. I wish you a fruitful search.”
Thorne watched as Welton made his way across the room to the once more amiable Clarissa. She sat next to—or rather, on—the Earl of Maudsley’s lap.
Well, if that didn’t beat all. Thorne decided he’d digested enough poetry to last him a lifetime. He made his farewell to the Widow Chancé and escaped.
He took a hackney to Fleet Street. He might as well try some of the lesser known galleries. Descending from the cab, he meandered his way toward the Strand, wondering how Lorelei’s day was progressing. Was she wishing him to the devil? Or wishing he’d never left her bed? He felt certain that was too much to hope for. One thing he could count on regarding his adorable little wife—she had a stubborn streak as wide as the Thames.
Shaking his head, he set about finding Harlowe. Such a feat would clear a multitude of misunderstandings. Thorne would gain his wife back in good graces, she would have her brother—though what to do about a child? Not just a child, but a famous courtesan’s child. What a quandary. But if Thorne had to foot the bill to keep the gossips quiet, then by God, he’d make every attempt.
An irritated chuckle burst through him. He truly just wanted Lorelei back in his arms, back in his bed. No matter the consequences, they’d survive the scandal. And if he knew Lorelei, one thing he was sure of, she would never let a child of her brother’s go uncared for. Thorne would be lucky if she didn’t insist on the child taking their name, let alone bringing it into their home.
That was matter for another day. The child wasn’t even born yet. He shook away that train of thought, looked up and found himself standing directly in front of Somerset House, home of the Royal Academy Schools. Restoration was still apparent. The front facade had arches erected in stone similar to those of a Roman palladium. The building would likely not be completed in his lifetime.
With a sigh, Thorne turned and made his way back to White’s. It looked as if his and Brock’s plans for the evening definitely included a visit to the Eccentric Club and perhaps, Waiter’s.
Eleven
C
orinne, you must quit this sulking about.” Rowena Hollerfield adjusted the hardened cushion strapped about her belly, disgusted with the entire ordeal.
“I can’t stay within these walls another minute.”
Rowena shook out her skirts and, with a critical eye in the looking glass, rearranged their fullness to hide her ankles. “You have no choice, darling. For this scheme to work—”
“Scheme!” Corinne snapped. “I don’t like it. Brandon is coming for me, whether you believe it or not.” Corinne heaved her large pregnant frame from the settee—it took two tries before she accomplished the effort—and paced Rowena’s decent-sized bedchamber. Tears shimmered in her large doe-like eyes.
Rowena bristled. But after a moment, she drew in a slow, steady breath and forced herself to speak with modulated control. “They owe you, Corinne. Harlowe is a viscount, and he used then deserted you. If he is nowhere to be found, then I have no guilt in extracting Lord Kimpton’s assistance.” She dropped her skirts and moved in front of Corinne. Brutal honesty hurt, but it didn’t keep Rowena’s heart from breaking. She took Corinne’s hands within her own. “Darling, you know Harlowe left England,” she said gently.
Corinne jerked her hands away. “That is a lie. Brandon wouldneverdesert me. Something has happened to him. I know it.” Tears shimmered in her eyes, and she spun away and resumed her pacing. “I’d like to confront the blackguard who started that rumor.”
Rowena’s temper simmered. “Damn it, Corinne. The man is an artist, for God’s sake. Regardless of who said what, the man leftwith no word. No one has seen him.”
Corinne spun about quickly, despite her heavy stomach. Her lips formed a bitter twist. “Yes, and here we are, hiding in the wilds of Kimpton”—her voice broke—“where I’ll never find him.”
“Corinne.” Exasperation won out. “Darling. We. Have. No. Choice.”
Corinne covered her face with trembling hands, sobs racking her. “Brandon didn’t desert me.” She drew in a deep breath, dropping her hands to her sides. She stomped her foot in a bout of childish temper. “He loves me. What if he’s hurt and needs us? How will he find us if we’re not in London?” Her questions ended in a wail.
