Page 95 of Thief of the Ton
The footman shuffled from one foot to another, and Peregrine smiled to himself. He’d interviewed enough criminals to know when a man was concealing the truth—or, in this case, uttering a falsehood.
“Mr. Moss’s availability may be dependent on the matter I wish to discuss with him,” Peregrine said. “We have a mutual acquaintance—a Mr. Camp, of Drury Lane. Perhaps you could check again whether Mr. Moss is receiving visitors?”
The footman hesitated, then bowed and disappeared. Shortly after, Peregrine found himself being ushered into a small parlor at the back of the house, where he found Moss leaning against the mantelshelf over the fireplace, in a stance meant to convey complacency.
But the expression in his eyes betrayed his apprehension.
“Lord Marlow,” he said. “What a pleasure. I cannot think what my man was up to when he said I was unavailable.” He glanced at the footman. “You can go,” he said sharply. “Do not disturb us unless sent for.”
As soon as the door had closed behind the servant, Moss gestured toward a decanter on a side table. “Perhaps you’d like a brandy.”
“This isn’t a social call,” Peregrine said, “as I’m sure you’re aware.”
Moss shifted on his feet as if he had a nest of ants in his breeches. “I’m afraid I’ve no idea…”
“Pay me the compliment of refraining from falsehoods, Mr. Moss,” Peregrine said. “I’m here to determine how that painting came to be in your possession.”
“Wh-what p—”
“Kindly drop the façade,” Peregrine interrupted, wrinkling his nose at the stench of cologne. “Mr. Camp was most obliging in his description. I gather you’ve paid him several visits. Short of funds, are we?”
Moss colored. “I don’t see how that’s any business of yours.”
“It is, if you’re profiteering from theft,” Peregrine said, “but ten pounds is a paltry sum for such a valuable painting.”
Moss opened his mouth to reply, then his shoulders slumped.
“Did you honestly think you’d get away with it?” Peregrine asked.
“I didn’t steal it,” Moss said.
“Why should I believe you?”
“Because I’m a gentleman!” Moss cried. “A gentleman wouldn’t stoop to such behavior.”
“Neither would he sell a stolen painting rather than returning it to its rightful owner,” Peregrine said. “Ye gods, man—that painting’s been in the Hythe family for over a hundred years! Lord Hythe would have paid you a handsome reward for returning it.”
Moss let out a snort. “Hythe’s a miser. At most, I’d have received a hearty thank-you. Most likely he’d have accused me of theft—much as you’re accusing me now.”
“I doubt he’d have accused you of anything, given that the painting you sold to Mr. Camp was a fake.”
Moss blanched. “A-a what? No—you must be jesting.”
“I’m afraid not,” Peregrine said. “It’s an excellent likeness—enough to fool the untrained eye.”
Moss stared at him, his eyes widening. Then he shook his head.
“What the devil is Hythe playing at, behaving so dishonestly?” he asked. “Is this a trick to entrap me? No—this will not do!” His face darkened to a deep shade of puce, and he rocked to and fro, puffing out his cheeks.
Peregrine suppressed a smile—at any moment, the man might spontaneously burst into flames. “I rather think you’re in no position to accuse another of dishonesty,” he said. “Now, might you enlighten me as to how the painting came to be in your hands?”
Moss let out a sigh. “It arrived here by post, shortly after I returned home from Hythe’s house party.”
“And you took it to Camp’s Curiosity Shop on Drury Lane and sold it for ten pounds?”
“Keep your voice down!” Moss said. “I’mthe victim here. Somebody sent me a fake in order to make sport with me.”
“Nevertheless, a crime has been committed, which you are party to.”
