Page 146 of Thief of the Ton
“Y-you know why, daughter,” he said, his breath coming in shallow pants. “I-I couldn’t have you suffer for my folly.”
“But the journey,” she said. “You must have known it would be too much for you.”
“What would you have me do, Lavinia?” he asked. “Languish in a cottage in the middle of nowhere, while my precious child swings from a gibbet? I…” He broke off with another fit of coughs.
She reached for the phial on the table and shook it. “Dr. McIver said you’re lucky to be alive.”
She bit her lip to stem the pain in her heart.
Lucky to be alive—but not for much longer.
Papa had barely weathered the journey to London. And now, despite the doctor’s efforts, he would die. Whether from his illness, or by the hangman’s noose, her beloved Papa would be dead before the month was out.
He must have known he was journeying to his death, and yet still he came.
Footsteps approached, and Lady Betty entered the bedchamber.
“Ah, Dickie darling!” she cried. “You’ve missed breakfast, but perhaps some sweet tea is the best thing for your constitution.”
She spoke animatedly, in the voice she used to amuse and entertain at parties. But Lavinia saw through the façade—the moisture in her eyes as she smiled at them both, the slight trembling of her hands as she crossed the floor to draw the curtains, flooding the room with light.
“Betty!” Papa croaked. “Did you have to?”
“I most certainly did,” came the reply. “I don’t approve of my guests languishing in the dark, Dickie.”
“It’s hurting my eyes.”
“Don’t be such a child! It’s the smoke from the fire that’s hurting your eyes. I have just the remedy.” She lifted the window sash.
“Dear God, woman—you’re not going to open a window?” Papa cried. “It’s September, for pity’s sake!”
“You need fresh air, Dickie. Moping about in the dark will prolong your illness, and I want you up and about.”
“What the bloody hell’s the use in my beingup and about, when—” Papa began.
“No, darling Dickie, we shan’t speak of it.” She took his hand and lifted it to her lips. “Do you recall that beautiful, heady summer, when we were caught in a whirlwind of love, light, and laughter?”
A soft smile curled Papa’s lips, and he closed his eyes and sighed. “How long was it?” he asked. “Eight weeks? Twelve?”
Lady Betty gave a gentle laugh, though tears glistened in her eyes. “It was only three, darling,” she said. “And at the end of those beautiful, blissful three weeks, do you recall what you told me?”
“No, Betty, I’m afraid my memory is not what it was.”
“You said that you’d found the woman you intended to marry—the one person in the world to complete your soul. You lay in my arms after we made love for the last time, and told me that while you would always love your dearest Betty, your heart and soul now belonged irrevocably to another, and that you would remain faithful to her for as long as you both lived.”
A tear spilled onto Papa’s cheek. “Oh, Betty, I never meant to break your heart. But Lily—my beloved Lily…”
“I know, darling.” Lady Betty patted his hand. “Lily was an exceptional woman, and the two of you were destined to be together. I always knew our time together would be short-lived—I value my freedom too much to submit to the marriage state again—but we lived it to the full, did we not?”
“Aye, we did.” A twinkle of mischief shone in Papa’s eyes, and Lavinia caught a glimpse of the virile man her father must once have been.
“Then let us live our time now to the full,” Betty said. “For none of us know how long we have, do we?”
Papa glanced at Lavinia, and the love in his eyes shredded her heart. Then he nodded.
“Yes, Betty,” he said. “Why not? In fact, I believe I could manage a stroll in the park. I’d like to see if the swans that Lily and I once fed are still there. Then maybe we could take tea. Do you remember that delightful little tearoom we visited near Sussex Gardens?”
“Oh, yes,” Lady Betty said. “And I could invite a few friends for supper tomorrow night.”
