Page 21 of Who Wants to Marry a Duke
“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 youdoget 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 withfamilyis 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 doubtedhe’dget 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 holiday.”
“He doesn’t believe in muses. He believes in cold, hard cash, as you well know. And he gets damned disagreeable when I can’t produce the work for him because you’re off doing as you please.” Juncker stalked up to pin Thorn with an accusing look. “He’s not the only one. If you aren’t careful, I’ll write the damn plays myself, and to hell with you.”
Thorn laughed. “All the characters will speak in iambic pentameter, I suppose.” When Juncker didn’t rise to the bait, Thorn added, “If it’s money you’re worried about, I can advance you some until Vickerman pays for the play.”
Juncker snorted. “It’s not money. Not yet, anyway. I just . . . It’s been a while since we had a play in the theater. People seem to be losing interest.”
“If they are,c’est la vie. All good things must come to an end eventually.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You don’t have to worry about the money. I’m the one who’ll be out in the cold.”
Seeing his friend’s doleful look, he rose to place a hand on his shoulder. “You know I was merely joking about the iambic pentameter, don’t you?”
Juncker’s terse nod struck Thorn to the heart.
Thorn sighed. “You’re a fine poet. And a fine writer in general. What happened to that novel you were working on? What I read of it was damned good, and now that you’re famous in London circles, you would probably have no trouble getting published.”
