Page 134 of Thief of the Ton
As he strode along the gravel path at the front of the house, Peregrine spotted a figure limping across the lawn. He raised his arm in greeting.
“John! How’s the ankle?”
The footman stopped. “Morning, Lord Marlow.”
“Should you be walking without a stick?” Peregrine asked. “You look like you’re in pain.”
“I’m as right as the rain, sir.” The discomfort in the man’s eyes belied his words.
“You don’t look all right,” Peregrine said. “I could find you something to support that leg.”
“Don’t go troubling yerself, sir. My Daisy says ’tis the best thing for a sprain.”
“What—to endure the pain?”
“No—to keep moving.” The man smiled, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Doubtless she wants me outside so as I’m not under her feet all day. She says that when a man sits still, he takes up too much room in the house. And, if truth be told, I can weather a little pain if I’m free of her nagging for a while. She has a rare talent for finding work for idle hands—particularly the hands of a man she catches sitting in her kitchen. It’s washing day today, and a man shouldn’t be expected to scrub his wife’s undergarments—pleasant though they may be to look at.”
Peregrine couldn’t resist a smile. John’s voice was filled with the love he bore his wife—and the slight lift in pitch when he mentioned his wife’s drawers spoke of a man well satisfied with every aspect of marital life.
“It’s not meself I’m worried for, though,” the footman continued. “That poor young rider was shot in the arm.”
“The highwayman? You sound as if you have sympathy for…him.”
“Him?” The footman’s eyes widened. “If you say so. It was plain to see that he meant no harm. He didn’t know one end of a pistol from the other. It was my fault I sprained my ankle—I fainted and fell off the carriage. As for the bullet hole in my hat—well, my Daisy sees it as a mark of my bravery. And let me tell ye, a wife knows how to reward a husband for his bravery.”
Peregrine smiled. “I envy you, John, in having such an understanding wife.”
“I’m sure ye’ll find a wife to love ye just as well, sir.” The footman cocked his head to one side, understanding in his eyes. “Is she badly hurt—Miss de Grande?”
Peregrine’s breath caught in his throat. “H-how did you…”
“You might have a talent for rooting out secrets, sir, but secrets are passed below stairs as well as above.”
“She’s wounded,” Peregrine said. “But it’s healing.”
The footman nodded. “I should have realized when your father insisted on taking that clock with him. And I recognized the horse right away—Samson, his name is. I thought the rider was Lord de Grande, until he—or rathershe—spoke. I said to myself at the time—that’s the voice of a woman, or my name’s not John White.”
“And you knew about the clock?”
“My cousin’s housekeeper at Fosterley Park. She was head housemaid when Lord de Grande had to leave nigh on fourteen years ago. The new tenants kept the staff on—ever so kind they are, she says. She was there when the creditors removed some of the treasures in the building—not the items that were under trust, of course. She always said that Lord de Grande cared little for material objects, save a small number of items that it broke his heart to be parted from. But the creditors insisted, and took them anyway.”
“Can you recall what those items were?” Peregrine asked, though he already knew the answer.
“The one my cousin said broke her master’s heart the most to lose was a clock.”
“The clock that currently resides in our morning room?”
“The very same. And there was a painting. My brother told me about it—a snow scene, which he said looked worth a lot more than it cost his master.”
“Your brother?”
“He’s head gardener at Hythe Manor, and his wife, who was one of the housemaids back then, always said it was a pity that such a pretty little painting should be hidden away in a side room, as if his lordship were ashamed of it. Then, when Robert wrote to say it had been stolen, I wondered if it were some form of retribution, and whether Lord de Grande had a champion, like Robin Hood from the tales my ma used to tell me. After all, the painting had been for sale at the same auction as the clock.”
“The auction…”
“The one held in London after de Grande’s ruination—at Griffin & Sons, if I recall.”
Ye gods!Peregrine had been so busy fostering relationships with auctioneers, pawnbrokers, and proprietors of curiosity shops—not to mention the loathsome Mr. Houseman—that he’d completely ignored the most likely set of people to assist him with his inquiries.
