“Of course,” Lady Maudsley murmured.
“I wonder, Lady Maudsley, if I could accompany you in to supper. Your husband is in the card room, winning greatly in case you were wondering.”
A smile fleeted across her face, one that boded… relief? “I appreciate it, Lord Kimpton, but I’m not all that hungry—”
He waylaid her attempt for escape. “Oh, but I insist.” Gently, as he’d seen Brock do, Thorne took her hand, set it on his arm, and led her to the dining hall. “I was looking for Lady Lorelei. I couldn’t help noticing that you and she have become friends.”
“Oh, er, yes. She received a note from the duchess, requesting her home. The duchess has fallen ill, you know.”
“I see.” He took a flute of champagne for each of them and located a table that seated two. “Will this suffice, my lady?”
“Lord Kimpton, I really shouldn’t be here with you,” she said in a low voice. “My husband is a very possessive man.”
“Of course. My apologies. One last question, if you don’t mind. What time did Lady Lorelei depart?”
She graced him with a small smile. “She left within the hour.”
“Thank you for that. May I escort you somewhere?”
“No. It’s unnecessary.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, madam, what will you do to get home tonight?”
“You know as well as I do, my lord, that these events last until dawn. When Maudsley gets bored in the card room, he’ll depart for one of his clubs, leaving the carriage for me.”
“There was something different about Lorelei this evening,” he said more to himself.
“Don’t be silly, my lord, I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary.”
He shook his head, still unable to pinpoint what had bothered him. “Never mind, it will come to me, I’m sure.”
Thorne managed to make himself stay at the Peachornsbys’ for another twenty minutes. That was all he could stand before striking out. The walk to the dowager’s house was less than two blocks. He stationed himself in the park across the street and studied the duchess’s mansion. Few lights appeared in the windows, showing the house abed. Would Lorelei go straight to bed after a night of dancing and scheming? The question nagged him.
He strolled along the street until the side of the house came into view. He imagined she and her brother having rooms on the second or third levels, yet no lights appeared there either. It would be beyond the pale to knock on the door and demand to know if Lorelei had arrived home. The duchess would collapse of an apoplexy at such an action.
Thorne made his trek home with an overwhelming sense of panic pounding through him and no way to squelch it.
The carriage came to a halt, jarring Lorelei awake. For a heart stopping moment she forgot where she was. Brandon slept soundly across from her. “Bran.” The carriage shook with the driver’s descent and the pulling out of the steps. “Bran.” She tapped his knee. “We’re here.”
The door opened and Dawson, Ginny’s driver, poked his head in. “I’ll secure the room, my lady, then arrange for your transportation to Spixworth.” His confiding tones spoke volumes. There were others about. “It’s best if you remain here. I’ll return shortly.”
“We’ll do as you say, Dawson. Thank you.”
The door closed, and Lorelei set about closing the portmanteau, straightening her skirt, and placing the hat on her head, adjusting the heavy veil. She and Ginny had come up with the story that Lorelei’s “husband” had perished while she attended the London Season and was rushing home to see to the emerging situation. It was a flimsy tale at best. Most flimsy of all was Brandon, five years her junior, acting as her son. Hence the need for the heavy veil.
Dawson tapped at the door again. “All is set, Lady Harlowe,” he said loudly. “I’ll handle your luggage after seeing you inside.”
“What time is it, Dawson?”
“Three in the morn, ma’am.”
Thirteen
T
horne tossed and turned, his mind whirring with images of Ladies Maudsley’s and Lorelei’s heads’ together. The two sneaking into that empty room. Their low voices at the theater. His dreams had been filled with the images of the expanse of Lorelei’s creamy white décolletage bare of jewels—
He shot to sitting, realizing exactly what had been bothering him all night. Perspiration dampened his forehead. He crawled from the bed, snatching his watch fob from the bedside table, and carried it to the hearth. Three o’clock.
