Page 136 of Thief of the Ton
“I’ll not betray her identity, sir,” he said. “A sprightly little thing she was as a child. Whenever your father used to visit de Grande at Fosterley, she’d always come up to me, asking to help with the horses. The first time, I tried to deter her. ‘Miss de Grande,’ I said. ‘You’re a lady—and a lady doesn’t bother herself with servants or animals. She only makes friends with other ladies, and your nursemaid would object.’ And do you know what she said?”
“No.”
“She looked me right in the eye and said, ‘Then for today, you and the horses shall be ladies, so I can talk to you. And if Nursie objects, I’ll give you one of her petticoats to wear—the horses, too.’”
Peregrine smiled to himself at the image of a determined little girl ordering the thick-set footman to don a petticoat—not to mention put one on a horse.
“Came to see us every time your father visited,” John continued, “until you accompanied your father on your pony while you were home from school in the summer. Then she trotted about after you like a faithful hound—do you remember?”
“Yes,” Peregrine said. “I do. I was only a boy myself, but I believe I fell in love with her that summer.” He sighed. “I’ve loved her ever since.”
“Then go to her, sir,” John said. He gestured toward the main building of Marlow Park. “Leave this godforsaken place, with its bitter shades, take the clock, and go to her.”
Peregrine nodded, his mind made up. As soon as his horse was fit to ride again, he’d do just that.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
“There, Miss Lavinia!That’s much better.” Mrs. Bates finished bandaging Lavinia’s arm and secured it with a neat knot. “Now—what would you say to some tea? I can bring a pot up.”
“Please don’t trouble yourself, Mrs. Bates,” Lavinia said. “I can come down.”
“Nonsense!” Mrs. Bates gestured to the writing desk by the window. “You’ll want to finish your letter to your friend. And besides, you need to rest after your little adventure.”
Hardly alittle adventure—holding up a carriage in the middle of the night, and getting shot in the process. But Lavinia wasn’t about to remind the housekeeper what she’d done. For the past two days she’d been on a knife’s edge, anticipating a visit from the magistrate—or an angry Earl Walton. Each time a carriage drove past the cottage, her stomach tightened with fear.
“Where’s Papa?” she asked.
“He’s resting in the parlor before Lady Betty comes. He wanted to take a nap in the garden, but it’s far too cold, with that chill he’s caught. My Joe’s lit a fire for him. Shall I send him up to light a fire for you, miss?”
“Don’t trouble your husband, Mrs. Bates. Just the tea will do.”
“Very good, miss. I’ll bring up some of the shortbread I’ve made for Lady Betty’s visit this afternoon—it’s just out of the oven.”
As soon as Mrs. Bates left, Lavinia crossed her bedchamber to the escritoire. That morning she’d received a letter from Henrietta—now the blissfully happy Countess Thorpe—informing her that she was soon to furnish her husband with an heir.
She settled into the chair and resumed reading the letter.
I’m astonished, dearest Lavinia, to have succumbed to the prospect of my confinement with little protest. But I imagine that is the effect that love has on a woman, even one as determined as I to defy the rules of Society. Giles, of course, is still a little overbearing in his determination to assert his place as head of the family, but I’m prepared to permit his little indulgences, particularly when he asserts himself so sweetly. He says I am a vessel, carrying the most precious cargo in the world. I, of course, tell him that his wits have been addled by the urge of the aristocratic male to be furnished with a male heir, and that I should summon the doctor to examine his head.
My dearest wish is to see you as happy as I. Though I wouldn’t presume to suggest that a woman must secure happiness by entering the marriage state, I’m fully aware you hold a certain viscount in high regard compared to the rest of the baying bucks whose company we endured last Season. Do tell. In your last letter you said you’d danced with him twice at a party. As we all know, a gentleman asks a lady to dance when he wishes her to know she’s the object of his interest. But when he asks her to dance a second time, he’s declaring his interest to the whole room.
I must take my leave of you now, darling Lavinia. The modiste is due to arrive with my gown for Beatrice’s wedding. I swear it grows tighter with each fitting. But I’m determined to attend the wedding, rather than languish at home. Beatrice is like a sister to me, as are you, and Eleanor, of course, and I trust that as soon as my child is born, you will oblige me with a visit, for I miss you terribly.
Yours,
Henrietta
Smiling, Lavinia pulled out a piece of paper. Then she picked up her quill and began to write.
Dearest Henrietta…
Hoofbeats on gravel crunched in the distance, and she glanced out of the window to see a carriage drawing to a standstill.
Lady Betty must be early.
Lavinia set her quill down and wiped her hands. Then she approached her dressing table and tidied her hair. Lady Betty might care little for propriety and a polished appearance, but Lavinia still wanted to make the effort for a woman she loved like an older sister—or a favorite aunt.
She secured a ribbon in place, then exited her bedchamber. Papa’s voice could be heard coming from the parlor as she descended the stairs. He sounded animated—angry, even. What had Lady Betty done to upset him?
