Page 93 of Thief of the Ton
“And?” Peregrine prompted.
“A painting signed by Peter Lely was discovered in a curiosity shop.”
Peregrine caught his breath.
“Aha! Iknewthat would get your attention,” Houseman said. “I took the liberty of bringing the proprietor with me. Mr. Camp—this is Lord Marlow.”
His companion bowed his head. “A pleasure, your lordship.”
“And—you claim to have a Lely?” Peregrine asked. “I find that somewhat unlikely.”
Camp held up the packet. “I have it here, your lordship.”
“How did you come by it?”
“A man sold it to me about a fortnight ago.”
“Can you describe him?”
Camp glanced toward Houseman. “When do I get my payment? You promised—”
“Just answer the question!” Peregrine snapped.
“There’s no need to take that tone,” the man began, but Peregrine raised his hand.
“There’s every need. Theft is a crime, Mr. Camp—as is handling a stolen painting. I take it you’d rather avoid a spell in Newgate.”
“I don’t know nothing about no stolen painting, sir,” Camp replied. “He said it was a family heirloom—I bought it off him in good faith. Cost me ten pounds, that did.”
“Can you describe him?”
He gestured toward Houseman. “I already told him.”
“You must tellme.”
“Very well. He was a gentleman, and an arrogant one at that. Pale hair—almost white—and blue eyes.”
“Anything else?”
“A bit of a dandy, if you must know,” Camp continued. “Not likeyou, sir—he seemed overly fond of bright silks. He wore a pink waistcoat—not something you see in my part of London, I can tell you. Drove a hard bargain. At least, he thought he did.” A smile of smug satisfaction curled the man’s lips. “Any fool could see the painting’s worth twice what he wanted for it. You only need look at the quality.”
“There’s plenty of dandies in London,” Peregrine said.
“This one reeked of cologne,” Camp replied. “Overwhelming, it was. I almost lost my breakfast. Mrs. Camp had to open all the windows to dispel the stench after he left—didn’t want it putting off my customers.”
Peregrine caught his breath. Only one man of his acquaintance reeked of cologne.
Heath Moss.
Moss was arrogant enough to believe himself above the law, but he had all the intelligence of a boiled egg. Surely he couldn’t be the Phoenix?
“Has the gentleman visited you before, Mr. Camp?” Peregrine asked.
The man nodded. “Last year, he came with a boxful of trinkets—watches, snuffboxes, and the like.”
“Anything more recently—within the past six months?”
“No, your lordship.”
