Page 116 of Thief of the Ton
By any means necessary.
Chapter Thirty-One
The long galleryat Marlow Park was lined with portraits of Peregrine’s ancestors—each more cadaverous than the last.
He reached the end and stopped beside an enormous painting in a thick wooden frame. The subject stared out from the canvas, his thick-jowled face showing a yellowish hue—though whether that was due to the pigment in the paint having faded over the centuries, or due to the subject’s sickly constitution, he could not tell.
Most likely it was the former. Had the artist painted a true likeness, doubtless he’d have left the establishment missing not only his fee, but his head.
The subject sat stiffly in a deep leather armchair, his hands folded on his lap, staring out as if he thought the rest of the world undeserving of life. Fleshy fingers were adorned with an array of rings, including a thick, carved gold band bearing a single blood-red ruby that winked malevolently, mirroring the expression in the subject’s eyes.
The ring that had been bestowed upon the subject by a grateful monarch. Father had always said that it was due to some act of honor, though Lord Hythe had jested years ago that it had been payment in lieu of delivering the earl’s mother, and both of his sisters, to the king’s bed.
Peregrine approached the painting, which was covered in a thin film of dust, and ran his thumb along the nameplate at the bottom of the frame.
Ignatius Henry Stephen, First Earl Walton.
“Well, Ignatius Henry Stephen,” he muttered. “I wonder if Lord Hythe spoke the truth about you.”
No—not Lord Hythe. As Peregrine continued to stare at the painting, the memory resurfaced.
It had been de Grande, during a dinner at Marlow Park. As a young child, Peregrine had slipped past his nursemaid and run through this very same gallery to the drawing room, hoping to see the woman who Father had said was the most exquisite creature in all of Christendom. Peregrine had glimpsed the party through a crack in the drawing room and overheard de Grande’s remark about the first Earl Walton. De Grande had then announced that Lady de Grande was to furnish him with an heir. Father’s voice had risen in pitch to the level Peregrine had recognized as that which preceded a beating, and he’d fled back to his chamber. The next morning, Father had refused to rise from his bed, and when Peregrine asked his nursemaid why, she shushed him with a clip round the ear, instructing him to be quiet and stay out of the master’s way until he “recovered from his headache.”
An air of apprehension lingered about the place—it had always intensified when Father was having one of his headaches.
Was it any wonder that Peregrine never returned after he’d left for Cambridge?
But now, the building seemed to have lost some of its oppression, leaving only an air of neglect, as if it were to be pitied, rather than feared.
It’s not the building that makes a place a home—it’s the people who reside within it.
Shehad said that.
His little Guinevere…
Lavinia.
He exited the gallery and made his way to his father’s study. The desk was covered in a mess of papers. Father must have attempted to tidy them, then given up. It served him right for neglecting the estate for years.
As I have also neglected it.
Peregrine sat at the desk and shifted through the papers, which contained nothing of interest. Then he pulled open a drawer. It was empty save for an inkpot, stained with deep blue ink at the rim. He closed the drawer and opened the one below. Another pile of papers. He rummaged through them until he found a bundle tied together, decorated with a familiar motif—a mythological creature, with the head and wings of an eagle, but the body of a lion.
A Griffin. Where had he seen that before?
He pulled out the bundle and read the front sheet.
Griffin & Sons, Bond Street. Auction, dated September 17th, 1800
Catalogue of lots
The same auction at which the late Lord Francis had purchased the ginger jar for two shillings.
Peregrine flicked through the catalogue until he reached a section entitled “ceramics,” then ran his thumb along each lot until he spotted it. An item on the list, beside which someone had marked the page with a cross.
Lot 120. Ginger jar, presumed 13thcentury, Yuan Dynasty, ceramic, complete with lid, decorated in blue
That was it! The piece Francis had purchased for two shillings. He read the line below and caught his breath.
