man thinking? Wolfe already knew quite a bit about Grey’s suspicions concerning his father’s death, so he might be drawing his own conclusions about the trip to Carymont. For that matter, Beatrice might have mentioned to him the real reason for it. She and her brother were very close.
Well, at least the major was in their corner. Bad leg or not, Wolfe would make a formidable foe for anyone.
“Forgive me, Lady Gwyn,” Olivia said, without so much as a glance his way, “but if I’m to be traveling tomorrow, I had best get plenty of sleep tonight. So I believe I’ll fetch Mama and have your footman call for our carriage.”
“Of course, my dear,” Gwyn said, shooting him a knowing look. “Given the circumstances, we’re pleased you even managed to attend. I’ll walk you out.”
Damn. He shouldn’t have told everyone about going to Suffolk. Now he would have to endure questions from Gwyn and Beatrice and Mother for the rest of the night.
The hell he would. As soon as Olivia and Gwyn had walked away, he went over to kiss his mother’s cheek. “I’d best be off, too, Mother, for the same reason as Miss Norley. I don’t want to be the one to hold up Grey’s leaving in the morning. You know how he hates getting a late start.”
“I mean to leave at eight a.m.,” Grey said with a taunting smile. “Or earlier, if you can manage it.”
Thorn stifled a groan. “In other words, your usual crack of dawn departure. I’ll do my best.”
“But Carymont isn’t far, is it?” Bonham interjected. “So you should have an easy journey even if you do get a late start.”
Thorn stared the fellow down. Bonham had no right even to enter the conversation, much less stand there making calf’s eyes at Mother. What she could see in the man escaped Thorn entirely. He was handsome for a gentleman in his sixties—with a full head of graying hair, a robust body, and no sagging jowls—but Thorn still resented his presence.
“We’ll have an easy journey regardless,” Thorn said. “Traveling with family is always pleasant.”
Bonham flashed him a ghost of a smile. “With family and Miss Norley, you mean.”
Damn him. “Of course.”
Then, as Mother chuckled, Thorn walked off. He tried not to fume as he left, knowing that he’d been rude, but also not caring. His encounter with Miss Norley had put him in a foul mood, and his talk with Juncker about the play wasn’t likely to improve it. Olivia might get some sleep tonight, but he doubted he’d get any.
Fortunately, he found Juncker at his lodgings in the Albany Hotel and didn’t have to go hunting through taverns half the night to run the chap down. Juncker’s rooms were nicer than any bachelor could want, which he could ill have afforded without Thorn’s money.
Thorn wasn’t surprised when the fellow met him at the door clearly dressed to go out. “Thorn!” Juncker cried. “You’re just in time to join me. I’m going to that new tavern on Piccadilly where the barmaids have nice arses and even nicer—”
“I can’t.” Pushing past Juncker, he dropped onto the aging sofa. “I’m leaving for Suffolk in the morning.”
Juncker’s mood changed at once. With a scowl, he shut the door. “What about the play? You said you’d have it finished this week.”
“I know, but something came up. I’ll work on the ending while I’m traveling.”
“You always say that,” Juncker grumbled, “yet you never do. Once you leave London, I have no hope of seeing any writing from you.”
Juncker began to pace, his beetled brow appearing fearsome indeed. His height alone would intimidate, but his dark blue eyes and wildly disordered blond hair—what was called the “frightened owl” style—made him look like a madman. Gentlemen usually steered clear of him.
Ladies did not. Juncker was the very figure of the tortured writer, and women always swooned over that.
Juncker glared at him. “I don’t understand why you don’t just tell Vickerman you write the plays. Then every time you leave town, he’ll be more than happy to allow you a reprieve. Hell, he’d be ecstatic to have a duke in his arsenal.”
“That’s the problem. I don’t want people knowing I wrote them, and Vickerman would only succeed in keeping it secret for the space of a day. If that.”
“I suppose.”
“Besides, if you don’t write for me, how will you live so well?”
Juncker’s shoulders slumped. “True.”
“So stop fretting, for God’s sake,” Thorn said irritably. “Vickerman will understand. Just tell him your muse is on