Undercover Duke

by Sabrina Jeffries

  This time her smile was broader. “Agreed.”

  God, how he loved that rare smile, as if he had hung the moon. How he wished he had hung the moon for her, and not merely criticized a societal more.

  They headed back to their seats. Thorn sat across from them, with Olivia on one side and Mother on the other. Next to Mother was Sir Noah. Sheridan hated to admit it, but he much preferred that his mother spend time with Sir Noah rather than William Bonham.

  Thorn disliked Bonham because he thought the man too far beneath Mother for marriage. But that wasn’t Sheridan’s issue. He’d be happy to see Mother find companionship with someone if Bonham didn’t already have a tendency to treat Sheridan like a son who needed instruction in running an estate.

  Granted, Bonham had been working for the dukes of Armitage for decades, so if anyone had the right to act paternal, it was him. Still, while it was probably petty of Sheridan, as far as he was concerned no one could fill the position of mentor, advisor . . . friend except his actual father. So he didn’t appreciate Bonham sniffing around his mother, trying to take his late father’s place.

  Mother wouldn’t care how Sheridan felt about Bonham, of course. Her marriage to Sheridan’s father, while amiable, hadn’t exactly been a love match. And besides, she’d always behaved as she pleased.

  Apparently, so had Vanessa, judging from what foods she’d put on her plate. To his surprise, most of it was the same as his. He couldn’t believe anyone else liked Brussels sprouts. Other than Thorn, that is, who had the same fondness for them as Sheridan, probably because of their upbringing in Prussia. The Prussians did love their Brussels sprouts.

  “So, Sheridan,” Thorn said, seeming to dissect his roast beef most deliberately, “what did you think of the play?”

  Olivia paled and kept shaking her head, obviously begging Sheridan to keep silent.

  Mischief seized Sheridan. “Don’t tell your friend Juncker, but I thought it a bit silly.”

  Beside him, Vanessa let out a huff. “Isn’t that exactly what I said you thought of it when you came to Uncle Noah’s box? You don’t like such ‘frivolity.’ You said you had no opinion, but clearly you lied.”

  He looked at his brother, whose brow was darkening. “You’re right,” Sheridan said. “I actually thought it an inane tale of events that made no sense.”

  Olivia cast her gaze heavenward as Thorn glowered at Sheridan. “What didn’t make sense about it? And what right do you even have to judge?” Thorn sat back, having apparently given up on eating. “You’re hardly a connoisseur of dramatic literature.”

  “Perhaps not, but I recognize good writing when I see it.”

  Thorn looked as if he’d swallowed a chunk of ice, shocked and annoyed all at the same time. “There’s nothing wrong with Juncker’s writing.”

  “He’s your friend, so of course you would say that. But I’m not blinded by friendship.”

  Now Olivia, too, was shooting daggers at him. It roused his guilt. But only a bit. Thorn would have tormented him just as mercilessly if their situations had been reversed. That was what brothers did, after all.

  “Surely you will at least admit the play was amusing,” Thorn remarked.

  “I suppose my sense of humor differs from yours,” Sheridan said, now truly enjoying himself. “Clearly you like farcical situations. Whereas I prefer more subtle humor.”

  “That is an untruth, and you know it, Sheridan,” Vanessa said. “I heard you laughing at certain scenes during the play. Do you deny it?”

  Leave it to Vanessa to make a liar out of him. “I suppose there were a few droll moments.” He shot Thorn a furtive glance. “A very few.”

  Thorn’s gaze narrowed on him. Then he called out to the other table. “Juncker! Sheridan claims there were only a few droll moments in the play. What do you say to that?”

  Juncker chuckled. “Your brother is simply jealous of my success—with writing as well as women.”

  Sheridan twisted around in his chair to face his nemesis. “The hell you say.”

  “How many plays have you written and had performed, Duke?” Juncker asked. “I daresay not a one.”

  “True,” Sheridan shot back, “but then I’ve never considered playwriting my particular talent.”

  “Exactly.” Juncker smirked at him. “It’s easy to criticize something you’ve never attempted yourself.”

  “I have never attempted to play the violin, either, but surely you will grant me and everyone else here the ability to tell when it’s being played off-key.”

  A gasp sounded from everyone overhearing the conversation, followed by tittering here and there.

  Juncker did not look pleased. Good. Perhaps it would keep him from being so full of himself.

  “For a man who was trained as a diplomat,” Vanessa said under her breath, “you are being awfully undiplomatic to Mr. Juncker, not to mention downright rude.”

  “He’ll survive,” Sheridan murmured. “He has the skin of an elephant. Besides, Thorn is the one who involved him in our private conversation in the first place, not me.”

  “And what do you think, Miss Pryde?” Juncker called out to her. “Was my play amusing? Or, as His Grace puts it, ‘played off-key.’ No pun intended.”

  Vanessa shifted in her seat to look at Juncker. “I thought the play was witty and entertaining and not the least bit farcical. As usual.”

  “Traitor,” Sheridan said under his breath.

  “Thank you, Miss Pryde,” Juncker said, clearly gloating. “I’m glad to see that someone here appreciates good theater.”

  Voices were raised around him, reassuring the man that his plays were very appreciated, at least by the crowd.

  “I, too, appreciate good theater,” Sheridan put in. “When I see it, that is.”

  At the mix of protests and laughter from the other guests, Juncker stared hard at Sheridan. “I wouldn’t expect a duke to know much about that. Especially one who spends all his time trying to keep his ailing dukedom afloat.”

  The room went utterly silent. It was one thing to attack a man’s talent or taste. It was quite another to bring finances into it.

  “Now see here, Juncker,” Thorn cried behind Sheridan. “That’s my brother you’re insulting.”

  “I can fight my own battles,” Sheridan told Thorn, loudly enough to be heard by Juncker. Then he pasted a dismissive smile to his lips. “Especially when the man I’d be fighting gets his only exercise from wielding a comb.”

  “And a pen,” Juncker said, practically daring Sheridan to announce the truth. And if not for the fact that Thorn and Olivia would never forgive him for it, Sheridan would have obliged. Even after Juncker added, “At least I don’t get it from chasing heiresses.”

  “Not that the heiresses are complaining.” Sheridan turned to Vanessa, who looked as if she found the entire exchange entertaining. But she would, wouldn’t she, since she was trying to make Juncker jealous. “Are you, my dear?”

  “I haven’t uttered a word of complaint, but only because this discussion is ridiculous.” That brought a general rumble of laughter from the others. “I refuse to get in the way of two gentlemen engaging in verbal fisticuffs.”

  Juncker gazed at her. “Would you prefer physical fisticuffs?”

  Alarm crossed her face. “No, indeed. It would be vulgar for a woman to encourage such a thing.” The crowd murmured their approval. “Besides,” she went on, “I suspect neither of you knows how to engage in physical fisticuffs.”

  At the shout of laughter from the onlookers, Juncker clutched his chest. “You wound me deeply, dear lady.”

  “I doubt that,” Vanessa said with a smile. “His Grace claims you have the skin of an elephant.”

  More laughter ensued.

  “And the heart of a lion,” Juncker shot back.

  “More like the heart of a mouse,” Sheridan said dryly, “or a minor insult from a lady wouldn’t have you clasping your chest.”

  Juncker leaned forward. “I can still use f
isticuffs to prove my lion heart, if you prefer.”

  “I’m game for it,” Sheridan bit out.

  “Enough,” his mother said as she rose. “There will be no fisticuffs of any kind from you two or I shall ban you both from attending any future social affairs I’m involved in.”

  “You’d ban your own son,” Sheridan said skeptically.

  “Absolutely, if he acts like a brute rather than the gentleman I taught him to be,” she said in that steely voice he remembered from his childhood.

  Sheridan struck his chest theatrically. “Now I am wounded deeply.”

  “I’ll lend you my elephant skin if you like, Armitage,” Juncker called out.

  “No need,” Sheridan answered. “When Mother sees fit to enter the fray, it’s time to stand down.” He fixed Juncker with a dark gaze. “Agreed, sir?”

  Juncker hesitated only briefly. “Of course. God forbid I be regarded as a brute by the duchess.”

  That was considered the final word, thank God, since Sheridan definitely didn’t want to cause more pain to his mother. She’d suffered enough of it in her lifetime.

  And that was an end to the skirmish between him and Juncker, if it could even be called a skirmish. Although Sheridan suspected that the entire mess might have been avoided entirely if. . . .

  If what? Vanessa had come down squarely on his side? If she had put herself in his corner in the first place?

  She would never do that. Snagging Juncker was her aim. And though that rankled, Sheridan was willing to help her, even if it annoyed him. Even if he disapproved. Even if all he could think of was Vanessa coming to him the way one came to a lover. . . .

  Damn it all, that wasn’t acceptable.

  He forced a smile for Vanessa’s benefit. “Shall I fetch you another buttered crab, sweetheart?”

  Sweetheart? What the hell was he doing?

  Wooing Vanessa, apparently, for she gave him the tenderest look she’d ever given him. “I’m fine, thank you,” she said softly.

  Good. Excellent. Now, what was he to do with that? It was impossible to know.

  They finished their meal, making the politest of conversation with his family. The guests drifted back into the ballroom, and a gentleman snagged Vanessa for a dance.

  Sheridan was about to head to the card room when Thorn pulled him aside, looking annoyed. “Olivia told me she blurted out my secret earlier. So your needling me merely served to reinforce the public impression that Juncker writes my plays.”

  “Well, now that you know I know, I assume it’s all right if I tell Vanessa.”

  “It certainly is not.”

  Sheridan scowled. “Why?”

  “Because you so obviously want to.” Thorn flashed him a thoroughly devious smile. “I suppose that’s enough comeuppance for your remarks earlier about my writing ability.”

  “You know I didn’t mean any of that.”

  “I’m sure my guests assumed you did.”

  That stymied Sheridan. “Since when do you care what other people think?”

  “I don’t.” Thorn laughed. “I merely get the same amount of pleasure from tormenting you as you did from tormenting me.”

  He did have a point. Sheridan stared him down. “I don’t need your permission to tell Vanessa, you realize.”

  Thorn shrugged. “But if you do, you’ll be breaking your promise to Olivia. Are you a man of your word or not?”

  Sheridan released a frustrated breath, then started to walk away.

  “It really bothers you that Miss Pryde has a tendre for Juncker, doesn’t it?” Thorn said.

  Halting to face his brother once more, Sheridan said, “Don’t be absurd. I don’t care about that. She and I are merely friends.” Perhaps if he kept telling himself that, it would eventually become true. Because he couldn’t afford to have her as anything but a friend.

  “No man who is merely a friend to a woman looks at her the way you do.”

  Sheridan bit back an oath. “And how is that?”

  “As if you aren’t likely to see her kind again. As if she’s the answer to your unhappiness.”

  “What makes you think I’m unhappy?”

  “Come now, Sheridan, you’ve been unhappy since before Father died. Admit it—you hated how he pushed you to learn estate management when all you wanted was to serve England in the diplomatic services.”

  Sheridan tamped down the pain that knifed through him. “Clearly you don’t know me at all.” It wasn’t estate management he disliked. It was his own inability to grasp the nuances of double-entry accounting so he could get a good grasp on what the property needed and where all the money had gone. “But I guess nine years apart does change things a bit.”

  Thorn eyed him askance. “What do you mean?”

  “Never mind. You wouldn’t understand.” And he wasn’t about to explain. It angered him that he couldn’t handle the numbers. It was apparently a necessary part of overseeing his role.

  At least Father had thought it was. He’d relied on his man of affairs out of necessity, since Bonham had been attached to the Duke of Armitage for years, but Father had insisted on Sheridan learning how to make sure things were done right, too. Sadly, Father had died without ever being certain his son could handle that aspect of the burden put on him as duke.

  “Very well. You can keep your secrets to yourself.” Thorn moved closer. “But just so you know, Grey told me he was having you question his aunt Cora. Any luck?”

  “Not yet. At the play, she was decidedly uncommunicative on the subject. I do wonder, however, if she stayed away from your party precisely because she doesn’t want to discuss what happened.”

  “Or she wanted to give you and Vanessa time together.”

  Sheridan gritted his teeth. “I told you, Vanessa and I—”

  “I know, I know. You’re just friends.” He shook his head. “You might be able to find out something from Vanessa, you know.”

  “Vanessa wasn’t even born until after both your father and Grey’s were dead.”

  “I don’t mean about those murders. I mean about your father’s murder. My true father’s murder. Because you know I consider him my only father.”

  “Of course.” Sheridan had no doubt of it. All three of his half-siblings had grown up as his Father’s children, with only Grey leaving home as a boy. Thorn and Gwyn hadn’t even been born when their own father died. “But I don’t see how Vanessa would know anything about either of the two later murders. Surely you’re not suggesting that Lady Eustace actually went out to meet Father in the country and shoved him off a bridge. Why, she’s older than Mother!”

  Thorn shot him a rueful smile. “And you think our mother too old to push someone off a bridge?”

  “I guess she could, but—”

  “You’re right.” Thorn sighed. “I don’t believe any of our suspects could do that, either.”

  “Or pull Uncle Armie off of his horse a few months earlier.”

  “Precisely.” Thorn cocked his head. “But if one of them—Lady Eustace, for example—hired someone like Elias to do it, Vanessa might have seen the fellow. Or heard her mother talk about him or to him.”

  Sheridan nodded absently. A young criminal they’d uncovered during their investigation, Elias had been murdered before revealing who’d hired him. “I suppose. I’ll see if I can learn anything from either of them.” Remembering what Olivia had said, Sheridan stared at his brother. “And how is it going with the questioning of Lady Norley?”

  “Oh, God,” Thorn muttered. “I can’t do that myself. She’s my mother-in-law, for pity’s sake. She’ll hate me.”

  A laugh escaped Sheridan. Olivia had been serious about that. “So? Have your wife do it.”

  “She will. But we just got married, and frankly, I don’t think Lady Norley’s capable of it.”

  Sheridan smirked at his brother. “I see. Don’t want to rock the boat.”

  “You have no idea. Just wait until you’re married, and then you’ll understand.”
>
  Not if I have anything to say about it. Sheridan saw their mother approaching.

  “Olivia is looking for you,” she told Thorn, blessedly keeping Sheridan from having to answer his brother. “She’s in the ballroom.”

  “We’ll talk about this more later,” Thorn told Sheridan before walking off to find his wife.

  “What were you discussing?” Mother asked.

  Sheridan forced a smile. “Nothing important.”

  Mother stared hard at him for a moment, but she’d always had an uncanny ability to recognize when her sons shouldn’t be probed for more information. “If you say so.”

  “I thought you were going to dance with Sir Noah again.”

  She shrugged. “Later. Although I suspect the dancing is dying down. With this small a crowd—”

  “Small! There must be thirty people in there at least.”

  “That’s barely enough to get a good cotillion going.”

  “Is that such a necessity?”

  “Of course.” She tapped his arm with her fan. “I should hope you would be part of it.”

  Propriety dictated he couldn’t dance with Vanessa again, and he wasn’t in the mood to dance with any other woman. “Some of the gentlemen are playing cards. I mean to join them.”

  “Oh, very well.” She paused, then added, “I like your young lady.”

  That put Sheridan instantly on alert. “What young lady?”

  “You know very well whom I mean. Miss Pryde. Cora’s daughter.”

  “She is hardly my young lady.”

  “Oh? She as much as told me you were courting.”

  “Did she?” Why should that surprise him? It was exactly what they were supposed to be doing—pretending to court. “I suppose the cat is out of the bag now.”

  “You were trying to keep it secret?” Mother asked in a deceptively neutral tone.

  No wonder she hadn’t probed him about Thorn’s remark. She’d been saving her ammunition for this.

  Then he wouldn’t disappoint her. “Secret from you? Absolutely. I know how you get when you’re trying to determine if someone is good enough for one of your children.”

  She looked insulted. “And how is that?”