Page 44 of Thief of the Ton
“You must forgive my wife,” Lord Francis said. “I fear she’s a little delicate this morning, on account of supper last night.”
“Did your cook commit a transgression?” Peregrine asked.
“We dined with Lord and Lady Fairchild. Their cook has a somewhat ostentatious approach to the fare—a few too many rich sauces and fine wines.”
So, Lady Francis was nursing a sore head.
Peregrine smiled to himself. Perhaps Fate was punishing the woman for her spiteful remarks toward Miss de Grande.
Miss de Grande…
He drew in a deep breath to temper the little surge of lust at the memory of her hand in his—that smooth skin, the delicate aroma of rose as he’d brushed his lips against the back of her hand…
…and that lush, ripe body that had quivered almost imperceptibly with need as he’d drawn close.
He shifted position, and the leather creaked as he crossed his legs to hide the bulge in his breeches.
Lord Francis let out a chuckle. “She’s a pretty little thing, aye?”
Shit.
Peregrine squeezed his thighs together.
Francis gestured toward the door. “I don’t approve of seducing servants, but there’s no harm inlooking. There’s something about the uniform.”
Peregrine frowned. “I wouldn’t be so crass as to pursue a servant.”
“Dreaming of another, then? You can tell me, old chap—I’m the model of discretion.”
The arrival of Lady Francis saved Peregrine from having to respond.
“Lord Marlow,” she said, sweeping into the parlor. “Do forgive me. I’ve been very busy this morning.”
Lord Francis let out a snort. Ignoring him, she approached the table. “Ah, tea. How do you take it, Lord Marlow?”
“A little milk, no sugar.”
She poured a cup and handed it to Peregrine, then she served her husband. Finally, she poured a cup for herself, spooned sugar into it, then glided across the floor to an armchair in the shade and sat.
“Wouldn’t you prefer to sit in the sun, my love?” Lord Francis asked.
She shook her head. “My health is a little delicate. Bright lights often bring on a megrim when one has dined on a rich meal—do they not, Lord Marlow?”
Peregrine lifted his teacup to hide his smile and nodded.
“We dined with Lady Fairchild last night,” she said. “Such a charming woman! Her drawing room has been newly fitted out—oh, you should see it, Lord Marlow! I’ve never seen anything so elegant. The curtains alone, I heard, cost at least—”
“My dear,” Lord Francis interrupted. “Our guest is not here to discuss soft furnishings.”
“But—”
“Nor is he here to be enlisted in your quest to persuade me to refit this house. He’s here to discuss business—or rather, the stolen vase. Isn’t that right, Lord Marlow?”
Peregrine nodded. “I take it you have the papers for me?”
With a rattle of crockery, Lady Francis leaned forward in her seat and nearly dropped her teacup. “Papers?” she asked, her voice tight.
Lord Francis pulled a sheaf of papers from his pocket and handed them to Peregrine.
