Page 128 of Thief of the Ton
“In one thing you’re right, Lord de Grande,” Peregrine said. “Your daughter is your greatest treasure.”
He glanced at her arm, then his eyes widened. She looked down and almost let out a cry. The white muslin bore a stain, a small patch of red—insignificant at first, but it began to spread slowly, glistening in the sunlight.
“You are hurt!” Papa cried.
“Were you injured last night?” Peregrine asked.
“No—she was here all night,” Papa said, a little too quickly. “I swear it.”
But there was no use in denial. His voice was thick with the knowledge that he’d lied, and Peregrine was too clever a man to fool any longer.
“I almost caught the Phoenix last night,” Peregrine said. “I thought, perhaps, my quest had come to an end.”
“You’ve been hunting the Phoenix?” Papa asked.
Peregrine nodded. “For some weeks now, the Phoenix and I have been adversaries, pitting our wits against each other. But I can finally concede that the Phoenix has proven to be a cleverer man than I could ever have imagined.” He released Lavinia’s arm, then took her hand, interlocking his fingers with hers. “Or, perhaps, I should concede that the Phoenix is a clevererwomanthan any could have imagined. She is to be admired, not censured, and I will always admire and love her.”
“So…” Papa’s voice wavered. “You came here today to tell us that?”
“And because I feared that the Phoenix was hurt last night.”
Lavinia caught her breath as a ripple of nausea threaded through her, and she curled her fingers around his, drawing comfort from his strength.
“My fear is greater than yours, sir,” she said. “I-I fear that another was hurt last night—at my hand.”
“What do you mean, Lavinia?” Papa asked.
Peregrine lifted her hand to his lips. “Let me ease your mind on that score,” he said. “The footman is unharmed.”
A spark of hope ignited in her heart, then she dismissed it. “B-but I saw him—on the ground!”
“What’s all this?” Papa asked, his voice sharp. “Have you been in an accident?”
“No, Father,” she replied. “I…” A sob swelled in her throat. “I-I can’t say—I’m so ashamed!”
Two strong arms pulled her into an embrace.
“Hush, my love.” Peregrine’s deep voice resonated in her body, and his warm breath caressed her cheek as he held her close. “I’ll do everything I can to protect you.”
“Peregrine, wh-what happened to the f-footman?” she stuttered.
“He fainted in fright,” he said. “The only damage is a neat bullet hole in his hat—of which, I might say, he’s rather proud.”
Her heart swelled with hope. Beset with visions of being dragged into prison, she had prayed for herself as well as the footman. She set little value on the power of prayer as an entreaty, believing that the Almighty rarely saw fit to answer her prayers.
But here, and now, her prayers had been answered.
“Oh, thank heavens!” she cried as she drew her arms around him. “I feared the worst.” She closed her eyes, safe, at last, in the arms of the man she loved, safe in the knowledge that he knew who she was—and what she’d done—and loved her regardless.
He held her tightly, almost desperately, as if he feared she would leave.
But she never would. She belonged to him—her King Arthur. She had always belonged to him, and he to her. Nothing would part them again.
She tipped her face up, and warm, soft lips brushed against hers in a kiss. Then he withdrew. She opened her eyes to see him gazing at her, his own eyes filled with tears.
But they were tears of sorrow, not joy.
“I’m sorry, my love,” he whispered. “So, so sorry.”
