Page 152 of Thief of the Ton
Lavinia shook her head. “I find myself disappointed in Lord Hardwick. He had all the appearance of a kind man, yet he’s broken Beatrice’s heart. He has no right to inflict such pain on that sweet girl!”
“Is my avenging angel coming to the fore?” Peregrine teased. “I forget, I’ve not married Lavinia de Grande. I’ve married the infamous Phoenix—righter of wrongs, purveyor of fiendish deception. A ruffian if ever there was one, who must be taken by a firm hand…”
“That’s enough, Peregrine!” She laughed, though his words sent a wicked thrill through her at the notion of beingtaken by a firm hand.
“Hardwick will come to his senses,” Peregrine said, “and if not, then it’s his loss. Beatrice is surrounded by people who love her. Because of that, she’ll thrive.”
Lavinia glanced about the garden, where the guests were now milling about, and caught sight of a young woman in a plain white muslin gown. Her hair was already coming undone, with messy tendrils forming a halo about her face in the sunlight. She stood apart from the party, beside a rosebush, running her fingertips around the outline of the leaves, a peaceful smile on her lips.
“There’s Eleanor,” Lavinia said. “We must speak to her.”
“She’s not the best conversationalist,” Peregrine said.
“I’ll not hear a word against her,” Lavinia said. “She’s merely discerning—and a little shy. She sees the world differently to others, that’s all, but I simply adore her, and I want you to love her as much as I do.” She raised her arm and waved. “Eleanor!”
The young woman jerked her head up, then glanced about the rest of the party, her eyes wide with apprehension. Blushing, she fixed her gaze on Lavinia for a moment, before her focus slipped sideways.
“I’m so glad you could come,” Lavinia said, rushing to take her friend’s hands. “We both are, aren’t we, Peregrine?”
“Of course,” he said. “You must come to visit once we’re settled. Lavinia speaks of you so favorably.”
Eleanor’s blush deepened, and she lowered her gaze.
“I hear you’re an accomplished artist, Miss Howard,” he added. “Portraits are, I believe, your specialty—particularly portraits from memory, in the style of, for example, Peter Lely?”
Eleanor glanced up. “Oh!” she cried. “I-I…”
Lavinia slipped an arm through her friend’s. “Peregrine is only teasing you, dearest Ellie,” she said. “Rest assured, I’ll admonish him later. It’s not acceptable to tease one of the few friends I have who could attend today.”
“I n-noticed Henrietta and Beatrice aren’t here,” Eleanor said. “It’s a shame, for I was looking forward to seeing them.” Then she lowered her gaze yet again, as if overwhelmed by her little speech.
“None ofmyfriends were able to attend, Miss Howard,” Peregrine said. “Therefore, you are to be commended.”
“I-I don’t know…” Eleanor mumbled.
“Well, I do,” he replied. “Not even Monty turned up.”
Eleanor stiffened. “M-Monty?”
“The Duke of Whitcombe,” Peregrine said. “Surely you’ve heard of him? All young women in England clamor to secure his attention”—he patted Lavinia’s hand—“save you, of course, my love.” He resumed his attention on Eleanor. “Perhaps you’re fortunate Monty’s not here, Miss Howard. He leaves a trail of broken hearts wherever he goes. Best to keep your distance. I say—are you all right, Miss Howard?”
The color had drained from Eleanor’s cheeks.
Montague, Duke of Whitcombe…
Lavinia recalled the subject of all the portraits in Eleanor’s sketchbook.
Eleanor looked around, a wild expression in her eyes, as if she feared Whitcombe’s arrival at any moment.
“Come along, Eleanor darling,” Lavinia said. “Shall I return you to Mrs. Elliot? She’s chaperoning you today, after all.”
Eleanor nodded. “Y-yes please.”
“Miss Howard,” Peregrine said, “forgive me if I gave offense. I—”
“You haven’t,” Lavinia interrupted, glaring at him. Then she steered a grateful Eleanor toward the vicar and his wife.
“I didn’t mean to distress your friend,” Peregrine said when she returned. “Is Miss Howard a little soft in the head?”
