carriage that Randolph meant nothing to him…yet less than twenty-four hours later he had shoved Thorn away.
A tight fist of worry grabbed his gut. He pushed from his desk. The hell with his office. He needed to see Thorn now.
* * *
“What do you mean? Then where is he? And do not tell me again that Mr. Thornton is not at home.”
One hand on the knob, poised to close the door, Thorn’s butler stared back at Arthur, lips pursed as though fighting the urge to inform him yet again that Thorn was not at home. “Would you care to leave your card?”
“I would care to know Mr. Thornton’s whereabouts. It’s not even noon. Has he instructed you to turn me away?”
“If you would care to leave your card, you are welcome to do so. Otherwise, good day to you, Mr. Barrington.”
With that, the servant made to close the door. Arthur lurched forward, about to flatten his hand against the door and demand an answer yet again, when the butler paused. He tilted his head, as if listening to someone. Beneath the rumble of a passing carriage, Arthur heard a murmured voice. Not Thorn’s. Then the butler stepped back, relinquishing his place to Jones.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Barrington,” the footman said, opening the door fully. “May I take your coat?”
The abrupt change in hospitality caught him off guard. He gathered his wits and stepped inside. As he shrugged his greatcoat from his shoulders, he scanned the entrance hall, but it held only himself and Jones, with the dour, tight-lipped butler lurking along the corridor leading to the back of the town house. “Where is he?”
Jones took his coat and folded it over his arm. With his free hand, he motioned toward the left. “If you would come to the drawing room, sir.”
Thorn preferred his study. Arthur always went straight up the stairs to the first door on the right, never to the drawing room. He studied the servant’s face but could detect nothing from his expression.
That fist of worry gave a fierce wrench. He tipped his head, and with his heart slamming against his ribs, he followed Jones into the drawing room.
He knew before he glanced about the elegantly appointed room with its black and gold Egyptian chairs and white marble fireplace that he would not find Thorn waiting for him. He turned to face the footman, prepared to start bellowing for Thorn, if that was what it would take to make the man appear.
“Would you care for a cup of tea?” Jones asked as he closed the door.
“Where is he?” Arthur repeated through clenched teeth, his nerves near shot. “And if you tell me he is not at home, you will sorely regret it.”
“Mr. Thornton left yesterday morning,” Jones replied, ever the composed servant, not at all cowed by Arthur’s threat.
That took Arthur aback. He had expected Jones to politely inform him that Thorn refused to see him and to please not call again, not that the man was in fact not somewhere in the house. “When will he return? What prompted him to leave? Was he called away on business?” he asked, grabbing hold of a possible explanation, but to his knowledge, Thorn did not have any business interests outside of London except for his country estate in Yorkshire.
“I do not know where he went or why, nor how long he will be gone. He did not receive a note or a visitor that morning. The only caller who has been by in the past few days has been yourself, Mr. Barrington.”
“Then where was he two days ago? The butler informed me he was not at home, but you are telling me he did not leave until yesterday.”
With a glance toward the closed door behind him, Jones stepped farther into the room, coming to a stop a pace from Arthur. The calm composure vanished, giving way to a concern that practically radiated from him. “Mr. Thornton was abed.”
“At half past seven in the evening?” Thorn had a dislike of rising early, but seven was
A tight fist of worry grabbed his gut. He pushed from his desk. The hell with his office. He needed to see Thorn now.
* * *
“What do you mean? Then where is he? And do not tell me again that Mr. Thornton is not at home.”
One hand on the knob, poised to close the door, Thorn’s butler stared back at Arthur, lips pursed as though fighting the urge to inform him yet again that Thorn was not at home. “Would you care to leave your card?”
“I would care to know Mr. Thornton’s whereabouts. It’s not even noon. Has he instructed you to turn me away?”
“If you would care to leave your card, you are welcome to do so. Otherwise, good day to you, Mr. Barrington.”
With that, the servant made to close the door. Arthur lurched forward, about to flatten his hand against the door and demand an answer yet again, when the butler paused. He tilted his head, as if listening to someone. Beneath the rumble of a passing carriage, Arthur heard a murmured voice. Not Thorn’s. Then the butler stepped back, relinquishing his place to Jones.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Barrington,” the footman said, opening the door fully. “May I take your coat?”
The abrupt change in hospitality caught him off guard. He gathered his wits and stepped inside. As he shrugged his greatcoat from his shoulders, he scanned the entrance hall, but it held only himself and Jones, with the dour, tight-lipped butler lurking along the corridor leading to the back of the town house. “Where is he?”
Jones took his coat and folded it over his arm. With his free hand, he motioned toward the left. “If you would come to the drawing room, sir.”
Thorn preferred his study. Arthur always went straight up the stairs to the first door on the right, never to the drawing room. He studied the servant’s face but could detect nothing from his expression.
That fist of worry gave a fierce wrench. He tipped his head, and with his heart slamming against his ribs, he followed Jones into the drawing room.
He knew before he glanced about the elegantly appointed room with its black and gold Egyptian chairs and white marble fireplace that he would not find Thorn waiting for him. He turned to face the footman, prepared to start bellowing for Thorn, if that was what it would take to make the man appear.
“Would you care for a cup of tea?” Jones asked as he closed the door.
“Where is he?” Arthur repeated through clenched teeth, his nerves near shot. “And if you tell me he is not at home, you will sorely regret it.”
“Mr. Thornton left yesterday morning,” Jones replied, ever the composed servant, not at all cowed by Arthur’s threat.
That took Arthur aback. He had expected Jones to politely inform him that Thorn refused to see him and to please not call again, not that the man was in fact not somewhere in the house. “When will he return? What prompted him to leave? Was he called away on business?” he asked, grabbing hold of a possible explanation, but to his knowledge, Thorn did not have any business interests outside of London except for his country estate in Yorkshire.
“I do not know where he went or why, nor how long he will be gone. He did not receive a note or a visitor that morning. The only caller who has been by in the past few days has been yourself, Mr. Barrington.”
“Then where was he two days ago? The butler informed me he was not at home, but you are telling me he did not leave until yesterday.”
With a glance toward the closed door behind him, Jones stepped farther into the room, coming to a stop a pace from Arthur. The calm composure vanished, giving way to a concern that practically radiated from him. “Mr. Thornton was abed.”
“At half past seven in the evening?” Thorn had a dislike of rising early, but seven was
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