Page 43 of Thief of the Ton
Lavinia drew in a sharp breath. It was like looking into a mirror. “It’s me!”
The likeness was uncanny—right down to the small mole beside the corner of her mouth, and the almost invisible scar over her eye, sustained as a child when she’d fallen out of a tree.
Lavinia flicked through the book, admiring sketch after sketch—one of Henrietta, a handful of sketches of maids and footmen—until she came upon a series of sketches of a man with thick, dark hair, strong features, and liquid eyes that seemed to absorb the light.
“No!” Eleanor grasped the sketchbook, closed it, and clutched it to her chest. Then she thrust the book into the drawer and slammed it shut.
“Eleanor…” Lavinia took her friend’s hand.
“Please tell no one what you saw,” Eleanor said. “I-it’s a passing fancy—nothing to regard.”
“Of course I won’t tell!” Lavinia cried. “But you must admit your drawings are exceptional. Does no one know of your talent?”
“Papa has seem some of my drawings. Mother would rather I painted landscapes for her friends’ drawing rooms, but I cannot paint in the style she prefers. Juliette’s work is more to her liking.”
Bloody Juliette!Hereverythingwas more to Mrs. Howard’s liking.
“What about your replica of the Lely portrait?” Lavinia asked. “Your mother cannot object to that.”
“You’re the first person I’ve shown it to.”
An idea formed in Lavinia’s mind. “Do you think you’d be able to reproduce the original Lady Hythe painting, but full size?” she asked. “Enough to fool the untrained eye?”
Eleanor nodded. “Of course. Is it for a joke?”
“No,” Lavinia said. “It’s for justice.”
“Then I’ll do it,” Eleanor said. “There’s too little justice in the world, and if I can never find it for myself, I can at least help my best friend.”
“Thank you,” Lavinia said. “I’ll return the favor if I can.
And she meant it. Except for Papa, nobody deserved justice—in an unjust, judgmental world—more than Eleanor Howard.
Chapter Fourteen
“Wait here, yourlordship. I’ll tell the master you’re here.
The footman ushered Peregrine into a parlor, gestured toward a leather-backed armchair, then scuttled away.
Though elegantly furnished, the parlor showed evidence of neglect. The armchair creaked with age, the arms crackling at the seams, and the fabric on the sofa by the window had thinned such that the pattern had blurred into obscurity.
As for the curtains—the thick brocade frayed at the edges and the border at the hem had several tassels missing, reminding him of the mouth of a gap-toothed crone.
If the rumors were true, Lord Francis was in need of funds. He lacked the intelligence to run his estate wisely. His wife’s intelligence surpassed his, but she employed it in outwitting her husband over her numerous affairs.
The door opened and the man himself appeared.
“Ah, Marlow.” Francis gestured to the footman beside him. “Fetch some tea—there’s a good chap.” He gave Peregrine an apologetic smile. “I’d offer you brandy, but Lady Francis is to join us, and she frowns upon my taking liquor at this hour.”
Peregrine glanced at the clock on the mantelshelf—a quarter to ten in the morning.
“Tea will do perfectly,” he said. “It’s better to keep a clear head when discussing business.”
Moments later, a maid appeared with a tea tray. She set it on a table, then bobbed a curtsey.
“Fetch your mistress!” Lord Francis said irritably.
“Yes, m’lord.” The maid colored, then fled.
