Page 21 of Thief of the Ton
“As for that friend of hers…” Thorpe said.
“What friend?” Peregrine asked.
“Miss Juliette Howard. Beautiful to look at, but she’d nag a man into the grave.” Thorpe leaned closer. “Her older sister’s rumored to be a little—soft in the head.”
“Who told you that?” Whitcombe asked.
“Lady Irma,” Thorpe said. “Or, perhaps, she saideccentric.”
“Eccentric’s a term men use when a woman has refused their attentions,” Peregrine said. “Perhaps you should look to Miss Juliette’s sister, Monty. She’d pose more of a challenge than the likes of Lady Irma.”
“I doubt it,” Whitcombe said. “Why waste my time engaging in a challenge when it’s offered freely elsewhere?”
Thorpe rolled his eyes. “Oh, spare us! I haven’t avoided Houseman and his boasts about his talents at sleuthing just to listen to your bragging about your conquests in the bedchamber.”
“You’reno saint,” Whitcombe retorted. “Weren’t you shagging Lady Betty Grey?” He sipped his brandy, then let out a sigh. “Nowthere’sa pair of thighs I’d like to dive between. She’s the exception to the rule that a woman’s allure fades with age.”
“Lady Betty has the good sense to steer well clear of a man such as you,” Thorpe said. “The one thing she values most is somethingyou’llnever be able to give her.”
“Which is?” Whitcombe asked.
“Friendship.”
Whitcombe wrinkled his nose. “Friendship—with awoman?”
“It’s possible,” Thorpe said. “Lady Betty and I have parted ways, but remain good friends.”
“Why would you part company with that delectable creature?” Whitcombe asked.”
“I have responsibilities to my ward,” Thorpe said. “My niece, Beatrice.”
“Ah yes—an orphaned niece can hinder a man’s love life. Does she live with you?”
“The answer’s no,” Thorpe said.
“So shedoesn’tlive with you?” Whitcombe asked.
“I’d give up, if I were you, Monty,” Peregrine said. “If you value your balls, I’d steer clear of Lady Beatrice Thorpe.”
“That’s always been your problem, Whitcombe,” Thorpe said. “You only think of a woman as a creature to seduce. But, if a man acts like an educated adult, rather than a rutting boar, he can maintain a friendship with his mistress. Granted, it requires a little more effort than simply discarding her with a slap on the buttocks and the toss of a trinket in her direction.” He turned to Peregrine. “What say you, Marlow? It’s possible to have a friendship with a woman, yes?”
At that moment, Peregrine was assaulted by the memory of the first friendship he’d ever experienced—not a friendship forged at school, but something far more precious than an exchange of conkers in the grounds at Eton.
My little Guinevere…
The vibrant little girl whose soul shimmered with energy and enthusiasm for life—who had looked up at him with adoration in her eyes.
He’d last seen her fourteen years ago, when they’d playacted at sword fighting and conquering dragons in the woods near Father’s estate. Then she had disappeared, never to be seen again. And never to be spoken of. Father had threatened to whip Peregrine when he asked about her, declaring her father a treacherous criminal who’d attempted to ruin him, but in doing so had become ruined himself. It was only in later years that Peregrine had learned the truth, pieced together from snippets of London clubroom gossip. His little Guinevere was Viscount de Grande’s daughter. De Grande had been notorious among Father’s circle of acquaintances. The man had involved himself in fraudulent investments, and had attempted to draw Father and several others into his scheme. But justice had prevailed. De Grande suffered the consequence of his machinations and disappeared, as if he’d never existed. In fact, over the years, Peregrine would’ve begun to wonder whether the man—and his daughter—had been figments of his imagination, had it not been for the entry inDebrett’s.
“Viscount de Grande.”
That name, uttered in Whitcombe’s deep baritone, brought Peregrine out of his dreams and snapped him back to the present.
“De Grande?” Peregrine asked—a little too loudly.
“Are you all right, old chap?” Thorpe asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“You know de Grande?” Whitcombe asked. Then he shook his head. “Of course—his ancestral home’s in Surrey.”
