“Still, marrying such a woman means having constant strife in one’s marriage.”
“Gwyn and Beatrice are both of that ilk, and so far Joshua and I are quite content. Indeed, I rather like being married to a spirited woman who knows what she wants.”
“Good for you,” Sheridan clipped out. “But you have pots of money to indulge her if you wish, and I don’t. Nor does your wife have an absurd fixation on that damned poet Juncker.”
“Ah, yes, Juncker.” Grey stroked his chin. “I doubt that’s anything more than a girlish infatuation.”
“Trust me, I’ve heard her babble on about Juncker’s ‘brilliant’ plays plenty of times. She once told me some nonsense about how Juncker wrote with the ferocity of a ‘dark angel,’ whatever that means. Frivolous chit has no idea about what sort of man she should marry.”
“But you know, I take it,” Grey said with an odd glint in his eye.
“I do, indeed. She needs a fellow who will curb her worst excesses, who will help her channel her youthful enthusiasm into more practical activities. Sadly, she has romantic notions that will only serve her ill, and those are leading her into wanting a man she thinks she can keep under her thumb, so she can spend her dowry as she pleases.”
“You mean Juncker,” Grey said.
“Who else? You know perfectly well she’s been mooning after him for a couple of years at least.”
“And that bothers you?”
The query caught Sheridan off guard. “Certainly not.” When Grey smirked at him, Sheridan added with ill grace, “Juncker is welcome to her. She could do better perhaps, but she could also do a hell of a lot worse.”
“You’ve convinced me,” Grey said blandly. “Unless . . .”
“Unless what?”
“You’re merely chafing at the fact that she thinks dukes are arrogant and unfeeling, or some such rot. So she would never agree to marry you.”
“Yes, you told me.” More than once. Often enough to irritate him. “And I’m not looking for her to marry me.”
“I suppose it’s possible you could coax her into liking you, but beyond that . . .”
When Grey left the thought dangling, Sheridan gritted his teeth. “You’ve made your point.”
Not that Sheridan had any intention of making Vanessa “like” him. She was not the right woman for him. He’d decided that long ago.
“Didn’t you agree to fund Vanessa’s dowry?” Sheridan added and swallowed more brandy. “You could just bully Lady Eustace into revealing her secrets by threatening to withhold the dowry unless your aunt comes clean.”
“First of all, that only hurts Vanessa. Second, if my aunt is cornered, she’ll just lie. Besides, all of this depends upon our pursuing our investigation while the killer still thinks she got away with it. That’s why I haven’t told Aunt Cora or Vanessa that we’ve determined my father died of arsenic. Which is another reason you should question my aunt. She won’t suspect you.”
“What about Sanforth?” Sheridan asked. “Originally we decided I was to ask questions in the town. What happened to that part of our plan to find the killer—or killers—of our fathers?”
“Heywood can manage the Sanforth investigation perfectly well.”
That was probably true. Sheridan’s younger brother, a retired Army colonel, had already made significant improvements to his own modest estate. Compared to that, asking questions of Sanforth’s tiny populace would be an afternoon’s entertainment.
“So you see,” Grey went on, “there’s no reason for you to even return to the country. As long as you’re in town for the play this afternoon, you might as well pop into the box my aunt’s brother has at the theater and see what you can find out. You can pretend you’re there to chat with Vanessa.”
“That’s assuming they even attend the play,” Sheridan said. “Charitable productions don’t sound like things Lady Eustace would enjoy.”
“Oh, they’ll be there,” Grey said. “Vanessa will make sure of it. It’s Juncker’s play, remember?”
“Right.” He stared down into the shimmering liquor and bit back an oath. “Very well. I will endure Lady Eustace’s suspicions to learn what I can.” Which meant he’d also be enduring Vanessa’s foolish gushing over Juncker.
His throat tightened. He didn’t care. He wouldn’t care.
“Thank you,” Grey said. “Now if you don’t mind . . .”
“I know. Beatrice is waiting for you at the estate, and you’ve got quite a long journey.” He met his brother’s anxious gaze and softened his tone. “Everything will be fine. The Wolfes come from hardy stock. Not to mention our mother. If she can bear five children to three husbands before the age of twenty-five, I’m sure my cousin can give you an heir without too much trouble.”
“Or give me a girl. I don’t care which. As long as Beatrice survives it, and the child is healthy . . .”
“Go.” Sheridan could tell from Grey’s distracted expression that the man’s mind was already leaping forward to the moment he would reach his wife. “Go be with her. I won’t disappoint you.”
Sheridan knew firsthand the anguish love could cause, how deep it ran, how painful the knot it tied around one’s throat. Helene hadn’t meant to, but she’d made him wary of love.
That was precisely why he never intended to be in such a situation again. Just seeing Grey’s agitation was more than enough to caution him. Love could chew a man up and spit him out faster than his Thoroughbreds could run. Sheridan already had plenty of things to worry about. He didn’t intend to add a wife to that number.
Chapter Two
“Wait, girl,” Vanessa’s mother said as she stopped her daughter from entering the Pryde family box. “Your headpiece is crooked.” She shoved a hat pin into Vanessa’s fancy turban, skimming her scalp.
“Mama! That hurt!”
“It’s not my fault it won’t stay put. Bridget must have put on the trim unevenly.
