Page 91 of Thief of the Ton
“It is as you see, Papa,” Lavinia said. “Your painting—finally back where it belongs.”
“B-but—I don’t understand. How did you persuade Lord Hythe to part with it?”
“You needn’t concern yourself with that, Papa.”
He narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean? You didn’t disgrace yourself, did you?”
She avoided his gaze. “I did no such thing, Papa. Lord Hythe took little to no persuasion. Would you like to look at the picture more closely?”
He nodded, and she passed it over. He held the painting in his arms as if cradling a beloved child and ran his fingertips over the features—distant hills painted in a delicate purple, with a man and a boy in the foreground, sheltering beneath a tree beside a gate that led to a field dotted with cattle.
“It was your dear mother’s favorite,” he said.
Lavinia nodded. Papa had told her years ago that he’d procured the painting at an auction in London shortly after Mama accepted his hand—and that she had treasured it ever after.
Footsteps approached outside, and Lavinia snatched the painting back and slipped it into the basket.
Papa narrowed his eyes with suspicion.
“Aunt Edna wouldn’t appreciate it if she knew I’d been engaging in the purchase of a painting,” Lavinia said. “I paid considerably less than it’s worth, and I fear she’d disapprove.”
Papa let out a snort of derision. “You’ve done no worse than that blackguard Hythe—not to mention that bastard Walton.” A tear rolled down his cheek. “Much as I love the painting—and the other items you’ve brought back to me—I cannot be at peace knowing that your mother’s clock is still in that bastard’s filthy hands.”
The door opened, and a maid appeared. “Begging your pardon, your lordship, Miss Lavinia. Will you be wanting anything else?”
“Perhaps later, Sarah,” Lavinia said.
“Very good, miss.” The maid cleared the plates, then bobbed a curtsey and exited with the tray, closing the door behind her.
Lavinia took her father’s hand, an idea forming in her mind. “Don’t despair over the clock, Papa,” she said. “Perhaps I can persuade Lord Marlow to sell it to us.”
Papa shook his head. “Walton would never sell it—not to me.”
“He needn’t know,” Lavinia said. “I’m sure if Peregrine knew how much it meant to us, he’d—”
“Peregrine?” Papa sat up. “Peregrine?You address him with such familiarity, knowing whose son he is?” His face colored, and his breathing grew labored.
Lavinia placed a hand on her father’s shoulder and eased him back onto the pillow. “Please, Papa, don’t distress yourself!”
“Then speak no more of that blackguard—or his spawn.”
Lavinia flinched at the hatred in his voice. “Hush, Papa,” she said. “You should get some rest.”
She reached for the bottle of laudanum, but Papa caught her hand, curling bony fingers around her wrist.
“I’ll not be denied this, child,” he croaked. “Did not the good doctor instruct you to ensure I was given what I wanted?”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Then be a dutiful child and do as I bid. Donotspeak to Lord Marlow again—and don’t mention his name in my presence. Is that understood?”
She nodded.
“I shall instruct your aunt to ensure he’s not admitted again.”
A shard of pain spiked at her heart.
Peregrine might have deceived her, but he’d not set out to harm her. But, as she pressed her hand against Papa’s forehead—her own fears rising at how cold his skin was—she could not defend him. He was their enemy’s son, and as such, she could not see him again.
