Page 55 of Thief of the Ton
“How many names are on the list?”
“Around sixty names—includingyours, Miss de Grande.”
A cold hand clutched at her insides. “M-myname?”
“Your aunt’s name is there also.”
She forced a laugh. “The world would ridicule you for believing that the Phoenix is awoman.”
“I must cover every eventuality,” he said. “But, at least, I can pursue the Phoenix in relative comfort. His hunting ground is the ballrooms and drawing rooms of Society. Therefore, it shall be my hunting ground also. Beginning with the Hythes’ house party next month. If he strikes there, I’ll be waiting.”
Lavinia’s heart tightened in her chest. The Hythes’ house party—where she planned to steal the painting.
“Are you all right, Miss de Grande? You look a little flushed.”
“I’m finding the dancing tiring, and the conversation tiresome,” she said. “I didn’t come here to discuss brigands, or the men who seek to entrap them.”
“Entrap?” He laughed. “You sound as ifI’mthe one in the wrong, Miss de Grande. The Phoenix is the criminal, and he shall suffer for his crimes. But, as you say, there are pleasanter topics of discussion than a brigand, are there not, my little Guinevere?”
He slid his fingers between hers, and her body shivered with need at his touch.
How the devil was she to resist him without being caught? She would have to be on guard morning, noon, and night. Papa’s honor—and her liberty—was at stake.
And, she feared, her heart.
Chapter Seventeen
“Oh, Eleanor—it’s beautiful!I cannot thank you enough.”
Lavinia held the canvas up until the afternoon light from the parlor window illuminated the detail, and she could pick out the brush strokes.
“Are you sure it’s a true likeness?”
“It’s close enough,” came the reply. “Did you doubt me?”
“Not really,” Lavinia said. “Your likeness of the Duke of Whitcombe—”
“May I have more tea?” Eleanor interrupted, a little loudly.
Lavinia nodded and rose to refill her friend’s teacup.
“My apologies,” she said. “I didn’t mean to distress you. It’s only that your ability to recall detail is extraordinary—akin to witchcraft.”
“Hardly witchcraft,” Eleanor said, “though I do notice things others find insignificant. Such as…” She hesitated, then set her teacup down and focused her clear blue eyes on Lavinia.
Eleanor so rarely looked anyone in the eye that her direct gaze was somewhat unsettling.
“What were you going to say?” Lavinia asked.
Eleanor hesitated. Then she leaned forward and lowered her voice.
“Are you the Phoenix?”
Lavinia’s breath caught. Her teacup rattled against the saucer, and hot liquid splashed onto her skirts.
“Do forgive me,” Eleanor said. “I meant no offense—but last night, at Lady Houghton’s ball… The necklace…”
“What necklace?” Lavinia asked.
