Undercover Duke

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