Page 118 of Thief of the Ton
He turned it around in his hands and flipped open the back. Inside, the metal had been etched with an inscription.
To my darling Richard, with love, always, on the birth of our beloved daughter, Lavinia.
He drew in a sharp breath as his heart gave a little jolt and the answer to the riddle slid into place. Father had ruined de Grande out of jealousy, then taken the one thing that the viscount had of his late wife.
A clock was a living, breathing organism—a piece to be treasured and cherished. But Father only valued something in terms of how it gave him gratification—or how it could be used to exact vengeance on a man he envied. He would never understand the love and skill that had gone into creating such a beautiful piece.
Nor would he understand the love a man harbored for another—the love that de Grande felt for his late wife…
…and the love Peregrine felt for de Grande’s daughter.
The key was still inside the clock. Peregrine slotted it into place and turned it three times. A gentle ticking began, as if the clock had been brought back to life.
“Put it back, boy,” Father said. “I want to catch that bastard red-handed.”
“What do you mean?”
“Houseman here thinks the Phoenix will attempt to steal it tomorrow night, when I leave.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“Then he’ll have missed his chance, but at least I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing that he’ll never see it again.”
The earl rubbed his hands in glee, and his eyes glittered with malevolent triumph.
Peregrine shook his head. “Why is the clock so important to you, when you clearly place no real value on it?”
“Because de Grande humiliated me, that’s why!” Father snarled. “He took the womanIwanted, snatched her from under my very nose. When your mother left me free to marry again…”
“You mean when shedied,” Peregrine said.
The earl waved a dismissive hand at him. “I wanted Lady Lily—and de Grande knew it. So I waited until the time was right, then I took everything he had. The fool was only too willing to augment his fortune with a little speculation.”
“You mean you tricked him,” Peregrine said. “Were you in league with others—Hythe, Francis, Caldicott, and Houghton—by any chance?”
The earl paled, and his eyes widened. Houseman glanced at Peregrine, then back to the earl, his eyes gleaming with greedy interest.
“So, you acquired the clock through nefarious means, merely to spite de Grande.”
“It was a legitimate transaction.”
“Purchased at an auction for considerably less than it was worth?”
The earl looked away. “I-I don’t know what you mean.”
“I think you do,” Peregrine said.
“It matters not, boy. The clock’s mine to do with as I please. Nothing will stop me from taking it with me when I leave. And I insist on your accompanying me to London.”
“With pleasure,” Peregrine said. “If, at the end, I see you safely onto a ship bound for the Continent, never to return, it’ll be a journey well spent.”
“Forgive my son, Mr. Houseman,” the earl said. “He possesses little loyalty, and even less honor.”
Peregrine rose to his feet. “I’m happy to disappoint you, Father.”
Then he strode out of the breakfast room. He had no wish to take part in Houseman’s ridiculous plan to ensnare the Phoenix—his own desire for victory over his adversary had faded.
In fact, it had disappeared completely, now he suspected the Phoenix’s identity.
