Who Wants to Marry a Duke - Sabrina Jeffries Page 0,10

appeal. People who’d considered him odd because of his German habits now saw him as a typical English duke. And once Lady Norley had given him a scoundrel’s reputation, he’d figured he might as well live the part.

But these days he used his sojourns into the stews mostly as fodder for his plays. He was getting a bit too old for whoring.

A fellow came by with glasses of ratafia, and he took one. Tonight he found himself in need of strong drink, and the juice-flavored brandy would be just the thing.

He’d only taken his first sip when Beatrice approached him with Miss Norley, whose eyes glittered in the candlelight. Clearly she didn’t want this meeting any more than he did. That was something of a surprise, given her propensity for trapping men.

“Gwyn told me to remind you of your promise, Thorn,” Beatrice said. “In keeping with that, I’d like to present my new friend, Miss Olivia Norley. Miss Norley, this is the Duke of Thornstock, my brother-in-law.”

He fancied he saw her pale at that last bit, but he couldn’t be sure. In any case, one mystery was solved. After all this time, she was still unmarried. Then again, so was he.

“We’ve met,” he said tersely, giving her the slightest of bows. If not for having made Gwyn that idiotic promise, he would have given Miss Norley the cut direct.

As it was, Beatrice blinked at him, obviously surprised to see him be so insolent to a woman. She must be unaware that Miss Norley wasn’t a woman—she was a she-devil like her stepmother.

But Miss Norley clearly understood his behavior because she tipped up her chin and said saucily, “You’re drinking ratafia, Your Grace? Don’t you think that’s unwise, given your tendency to spill beverages at balls?”

He narrowed his gaze on her. “And how is Lady Norley these days? I assume she’s in hiding somewhere around here.” He scanned the ballroom. “Is she still trying to throw titled gentlemen into your lap?”

Miss Norley didn’t so much as blush. “Fortunately, no. Now that I’m considered a spinster, my stepmother generally leaves me be at balls.”

“How lucky for you,” he snapped. “And quite a kindness to the chaps she would try to corral on your behalf. Although I’d hardly call you a spinster. You’re younger than my sister, and she still managed to snag Major Wolfe.”

“Thorn!” Beatrice said sharply. “What has come over you? You’re being very rude to Miss Norley. Not only is she a guest, she’s a particularly important one to me and Grey.”

That brought him up short. “How so?”

“He didn’t tell you? He has engaged Miss Norley to test his father’s remains for arsenic using her new chemical method. The three of us leave for Carymont in the morning.”

Carymont in Suffolk was the family seat of the dukes of Greycourt, where Grey’s father had been entombed in the grand family mausoleum.

So Beatrice’s pronouncement set Thorn back on his heels. Yes, Grey had recently begun to suspect that his father, presumed to have died of an ague in Grey’s infancy, might actually have been poisoned all those years ago. But to go so far as to exhume the man’s body? That seemed extreme. And why in hell would Grey choose Miss Norley to test the remains?

This was madness.

Thorn downed his ratafia, then scanned the ballroom. “Where’s Grey?”

“Why?” Beatrice asked. “You’re supposed to be dancing with Miss Norley.”

Miss Norley stuck her chin out. “There’s no reason His Grace should—”

“Oh, I fully intend to dance with you, Miss Norley,” Thorn said icily. “But first I must speak to my brother.”

“What do you want to know?” asked a sonorous voice behind him.

Thorn whirled to find Grey standing there. Seizing him by the arm, Thorn muttered, “Come with me. I wish to talk to you privately.” Then Thorn headed for Wolfe’s study . . . and its convenient store of liquor.

As soon as they entered and Thorn closed the door, Grey said, “You’re being as theatrical as Mother usually is. What’s got you so agitated?”

“I hear you’re having your father’s remains tested for arsenic.”

Grey headed for the decanter. “I’m hoping to, yes.”

“Are you even sure it can be done?”

“I am, actually. A short time ago, I came across a Prussian newspaper from 1803 in some of our stepfather’s things. It contained an article about Sophie Ursinus, a Berlin poisoner. A German chemist named Valentin Rose developed a test to check for arsenic in the body of one of Ursinus’s victims, and the results were used in