Page 1 of Thief of the Ton
Chapter One
Surrey, May 1814
The moonlight reflectedoff the windows, giving the building the appearance of a mythological beast with multiple eyes trained on Lavinia.
But it was just a building—Stanley House, the country seat of Lord and Lady Francis, where she’d had dinner with Aunt Edna last month, and been subjected to a cut of beef that would have been better suited to upholstering leather sofas. Her ladyship had not invited Lavinia to tonight’s party, which suited her very well, for it meant she’d be above suspicion.
Lavinia approached the building, and her heart hammered in her chest. Excitement filled her bones—the anticipation of finding her quarry, and securing the first victory on her road to the restoration of her family glory.
What pretentious nonsense, little Guinevere…
Hell’s teeth—why did his voice always enter her mind at moments like this?
She shook her head to dispel the memory. She’d not set eyes on him for fourteen years—and had forgotten what he looked like, even. But, during those years, his voice had given her comfort, when she’d felt alone and in need of a friend.
Where was he now? Did he remember her as vividly as she remembered him?
Did he also dream of her at night?
You fool!
It was a fantasy—a childish crush that had swelled over the years as she grew into a young woman.
And the last thing she needed right now was to be distracted by the memory of a man who, doubtless, had forgotten that she’d ever existed.
Keeping to the shadow of the box hedge, she skirted the perimeter of the front lawn and approached the building.
The moonlight picked out the features of the masonry—the edges of the stones and the ornate carvings surrounding each window. An ostentation where the obscenely wealthy paid a stonemason a pittance to carve ridiculous features into the stone.
But ostentation was her friend—it provided the handholds needed to achieve her objective.
Lavinia cast her gaze over the upper-floor windows. The day had been hot, and residual warmth still hummed in the air. With luck, an obliging footman would have left a window open.
Then she saw it—a sash window on the first story, open enough to enable someone to lean out.
Or climb through.
She crossed the driveway, wincing as the gravel crunched under her feet. But there was no sign that she’d been heard—no other sound except for her own heartbeat, and the far-off screech of an owl.
Another hunter, though with a different quarry. The owl would swoop on any living thing it caught moving on the ground. Whereas Lavinia’s quarry was something very specific.
And, as she’d discovered during a little reconnaissance during last month’s dinner party, it resided in Lady Francis’s bedchamber.
She pulled a sketch from her pocket. The moonlight illuminated the page, which depicted a plan of the upper floor with her destination marked with an X, as if she were a pirate hunting for treasure. She glanced up at the open window—it was three windows along from her destination.
After stuffing the sketch in her pocket, Lavinia reached up and ran her hands along the stone wall. The ornate carvings would provide plenty of purchase. She lifted her foot and placed it on a protruding piece of stone, then curled her fingers around a feature, which felt like a lion’s head, and pulled herself up. After a few more moves, she found herself level with the window. She reached out to the ledge and pulled herself through the gap in the window, holding her breath as she lowered herself into the chamber inside.
A long, drawn-out rattle echoed through the room, and she froze, holding her breath.
The sound came again, followed by a sigh, and the deep rumbling of a digestive tract in serious need of relief.
An odor thickened in the air, reminiscent of the stench in the kitchen when Mrs. Bates was boiling cabbages, and Lavinia covered her mouth with her hand to suppress a giggle.
Heavens! What, in the name of all things holy, had Lady Francis served at her dinner table that evening?
As her eyes adjusted to the light, she discerned the shape of a man on a huge four-poster bed. He let out another snore, followed by a grunt, and she nodded in recognition.
His Grace, the Duke of Dunton, renowned lecher, avid consumer of rich foods, and a man in pursuit of a richer wife.
