Page 117 of Thief of the Ton
Guide price: one hundred to one hundred and fifty guineas
He flicked through the pages until he came to the section entitled “artwork.” His gaze fell upon an item near the bottom of the page.
Lot 254: Landscape oil painting entitled “The Snow Field” framed with gilded mahogany, signed J.R. 1765. Guide price: twenty to thirty guineas
Beside the item was another mark—a tiny cross.
“Hythe…” he whispered.
Further along the list, in the “militaria” section, he came upon another marked item.
Lot 329: Sword bearing a crest with filigree design at the hilt, circa 12thcentury. Guide price: eighty to one hundred guineas
“Caldicott.”
His heart hammering in his chest, he flicked back through the catalogue until his gaze rested on the item he sought, marked with a cross.
Lot 206: Louis XVI late 18thcentury ormolu boulle mantel clock. Guide price: fifty to eighty guineas
There was no doubt about it—the Phoenix had stolen items that had been purchased at the same auction, items that Father and his friends had purchased at a cost that was considerably below the guide price.
And Lord de Grande was somehow involved.
He flicked through the catalogue again in search of more marked items. There was one more, in the “jewelry” section.
Lot 47: Lady’s necklace in gold, one central emerald, with six rubies in graduated sizes. Guide price: thirty to fifty guineas
Nobody had reported the theft of a necklace, but it sounded familiar. He’d seen something similar recently…
He closed his eyes to heighten the memory.
A central emerald with six rubies in graduated sizes—set in deep gold, adorning a long, slim neck of soft, creamy white skin—an emerald that had grown in intensity as the night wore on…
No—it can’t be…
“Lavinia,” he whispered. “What are you about?”
At that moment, a voice roared a summons.
“Boy! Where are you?”
For a moment he was, once more, a boy of five being summoned for a beating.
“Boy! Come here!”
The voice came from the breakfast room. Peregrine descended the stairs at the end of the gallery and made his way there. Father and Mr. Houseman were seated at the table—Houseman indulging in a plate of bacon.
Peregrine entered, then froze as he caught sight of the object in the center of the table.
It was a mantel clock, with a round, white enamel face and delicate ormolu hands, decorated with royal-blue Roman numerals. The body, curved and sensual, surrounded the clock face then tapered at the bottom, before flaring outward at the base. The whole piece had been ornately decorated with a design of interlocking leaves and covered in ormolu, and at the top was a golden cherub cradling a sundial.
Father gestured toward the piece. “Do you know what that is?”
“A Louis XVI late eighteenth-century ormolu boulle mantel clock,” Peregrine replied.
“It’sbait,” Houseman said.
Peregrine picked up the clock and inspected it. Some of the gilding had faded. He held it to his ear, but could hear no ticking. Most likely, it had never been wound from the day Father left Marlow Park.
