“You just told me a secret of Thorn’s that he’s never even hinted at,” he said.
A blush stained her cheeks. “Yes, but . . . well, I wouldn’t . . .” She fixed him with a sullen stare. “That’s different. You’re his brother, and I thought you knew. Besides, even if I did say something untoward to Miss Pryde about your dis-honorable intentions, I doubt she would care. Not if she is as enamored of Mr. Juncker as everyone says.”
He fought the urge to deny that even as he acknowledged he couldn’t.
Fortunately, just then Olivia gazed across the room to where the footmen had brought in more chairs. “Oh, dear. Pray do excuse me. I have to direct the servants as to where I want those.”
“Of course. I understand.”
As he watched Olivia cross the room, it occurred to him that her revelation about Thorn’s playwriting explained so many things, like the close friendship between Thorn and Juncker. Granted, until Olivia had come along, both men had been rogues, eager to blaze a path through London’s gaming hells and brothels. So Sheridan had assumed it was merely their activities in the stews that they had in common.
But although Thorn had inherited substantial wealth, Juncker could never have afforded such a way of living, given that his father had been some sort of tradesman, according to the rumor mill. It wasn’t as if playwrights made much money, either. So if Thorn had been paying Juncker for his name on the plays, not to mention his silence . . .
Well, that made more sense. On top of that, Thorn had always shown a decided interest in the plays themselves—reading reviews of them, attending a number of productions, and even setting up this charitable production tonight. That went beyond what a friend would do for another friend. Sheridan had chalked it up to Thorn wanting to be a patron because of his love of the theater, but Thorn had never supported any other playwrights or artists or musicians. Just Juncker. It was rather surprising they’d even kept it quiet until now.
Damn it all. Sheridan scowled at nobody in particular. He really wished he could tell Vanessa she’d put her eggs in the wrong basket. But he couldn’t, simple as that. For one thing, Olivia would never forgive him for revealing the truth to someone outside the family. Best not to rock that boat.
For another, he couldn’t be sure why Vanessa had set her cap for the blackguard. She could just as easily want Juncker for his skill at writing poetry or his dancing ability or even his ostentatious good looks. Blasted fellow probably spent as much money on his tailor as Vanessa spent on her gowns.
Except that Miss Younger had said Sheridan was wrong about that. Did Grey know? And if so, why hadn’t he said anything?
It didn’t matter. If anything, it made it more imperative that Sheridan keep to his plan to show Vanessa how bad Juncker’s character was. She simply could not end up with that fellow, or all the fashion frugality in the world wouldn’t save her from poverty.
So he needed to play her suitor a bit longer, at least until he was sure he’d disabused Vanessa of her fanciful ideas regarding the man. Besides, Sheridan hadn’t even begun to find out all he needed to know from Lady Eustace.
A sudden commotion in the hall outside the ballroom made him groan. Thorn had arrived. And from the sounds of it, he’d brought half the theater with him. This was going to be a long, noisy night, the kind that generally had Sheridan fleeing. But much as he’d prefer to spend the rest of the evening by his cozy fire with a glass of perry from his estate’s own pear trees, he couldn’t leave.
Moments later, his half brother entered with Juncker at his side. “Olivia!” Thorn shouted. “Olivia!”
His wife hurried toward him. “I’m right here. What is it?”
“We raised a thousand pounds for Half Moon House,” he told her, loudly enough that the entire room could hear him.
“Excellent news.” Olivia seemed to be fighting a smile. “And it appears that you’ve invited plenty of friends to celebrate it.”
As people filled the ballroom, chattering and looking about, Sheridan shook his head. Thorn seemed a bit foxed . . . or perhaps just carried on by the excitement of having raised so much money for his wife’s pet cause. Juncker, on the other hand, looked sober as a church. In fact, he seemed rather angry, if Sheridan was to judge from his scowl.
Was it because of that woman Flora’s rebuff at the theater? Or because Vanessa had been hanging on Sheridan’s arm earlier?
Sheridan found himself disturbingly interested in finding out which it was. Especially since Vanessa and her uncle entered right behind Thorn and Juncker. But what had happened to Lady Eustace? She was the only reason Sheridan was enduring this crowd.
Well, she and her impudent daughter.
Muttering a curse under his breath, Sheridan stalked over to Vanessa. “Where’s your mother?”
Vanessa arched one eyebrow. “It’s lovely to see you here, too.”
Her uncle started to laugh until Sheridan glared at him, and Sir Noah sobered at once.
“If you’re worried about my lack of a chaperone,” Vanessa went on, “I can assure you Uncle Noah is prepared to perform that service.” She smiled up at the man. “Aren’t you, Uncle?”
“Certainly.” He surreptitiously surveyed the grandeur of Thorn’s ballroom. “As long as you don’t get lost in this cavernous place.”
“She won’t,” Sheridan said smoothly. “I’ll make sure of it.”
Now her uncle fixed a baleful gaze on Sheridan. “Forgive me, Duke, but I’ll make sure of it.”
Wonderful. Just what Sheridan needed—a suspicious baronet on his arse, no Lady Eustace to question, and Vanessa up in arms. This was precisely why Sheridan had wanted someone else to do the questioning—because he could never be easy around Vanessa. It was either keep his distance or kiss her senseless.
“I don’t understand why a woman of my advanced years needs a chaperone, anyway,” Vanessa said.
“Advanced years?” Sheridan snorted. “You’re twenty-five, Vanessa, not fifty.”
She pointed her chin at him in that odd way she had of examining people. Like a raven. Or a magpie who enjoyed stealing away whatever glittered. “I’m surprised you noticed. You treat me as if I’m twelve.”
“If you wouldn’t act as if you’re twelve, I wouldn’t treat you that way.”
Sir Noah muttered something about needing punch and hurried off, but Sheridan was already regretting his too-swift response. He could swear the temperature around him had dropped ten degrees.
Her eyes certainly resembled ice. “If you wouldn’t act as if you’re fifty, I’d refrain from pointing out that even my aged uncle knows how to enjoy himself at a party, especially one with good music, excellent food, and plenty of punch.”
The lady did know how to wield her tongue, didn’t she? “Pax,” he said with a rueful smile. “I admit my remark was uncalled for.”
“And rude, too.” She gazed across the ballroom as if looking for any companion but him.
That goaded him into saying, “Now it’s your turn to apologize.”
“For what? I only spoke the truth.”
He groaned. His plan to cozy up to Vanessa in order to get to her mother wasn’t exactly going swimmingly. “So I take it your mother is not in attendance then?” he asked, just to be sure.