Page 97 of Thief of the Ton
Peregrine wanted children of his own, but he wasn’t so desperate for a son and heir as to seek a wife the moment he set foot in London, to act as nothing more than a broodmare.
No—for a wife, he wanted a woman who would make him a better man—a woman to challenge him, and make him happy until the end of his days…
A woman not just to warm his bed, but to ignite it with a flame of passion hot enough to engulf his soul.
He knew just the woman—but in all likelihood, she hated him.
All because of his cursed father.
Damn!
“Is anything the matter, Marlow?”
Houseman’s nasal voice returned him to the present, and he turned to see his companion staring at him.
“Disconcerted that you’ve yet to catch the Phoenix?” Houseman asked, and it sounded almost like a taunt. “I can explain the circumstance to Lord Hythe, if you prefer.”
“That’s not necessary,” Peregrine said, “unless you know the whereabouts of the real painting?”
“I suspect it’s long gone,” Houseman said. “Mr. Camp said many of the items he sells are shipped overseas, and I often hear from my network of contacts that—”
“I daresay you’re right,” Peregrine interrupted. He had no wish to endure further boasts about Houseman’snetwork of contacts.
The carriage arrived and drew to a halt. Houseman climbed out and looked over the building. “Hythe’s a lucky bastard to live in a place such as this.”
“Envy does not become a man,” Peregrine retorted.
Houseman scowled, but said nothing, and he followed Peregrine to the entrance, where a footman stood waiting.
They found Lord Hythe in his study—the very place where Peregrine had conducted his fruitless attempt to catch the Phoenix red-handed.
The irony was not lost on him.
“Sit, please,” Hythe said. “I understand you’re nowhere closer to finding the painting. I have to say I’m disappointed—as is my wife.”
“Shall we see Lady Hythe today?” Peregrine asked.
“My wife is taking the waters in Bath. She’s suffered megrims since the theft.” Hythe leaned forward. “I’m willing to put up a reward for the return of the painting, and the capture of that scoundrel. What say you to one hundred guineas?”
“Howmuch?” Houseman cried, his eyes glittering with greed.
“I don’t think a reward will help,” Peregrine said.
Hythe gestured toward Houseman. “I suspect your friend would be willing to capture the Phoenix, dead or alive, for such a sum.”
“Dead or alive—yes, indeed,” Houseman said with a degree of relish that reminded Peregrine of a crow picking at carrion.
“Theft isn’t a hanging offense,” Peregrine said. “Besides, that’s not why I’m here today.”
“Then whyareyou here?” Hythe asked.
“To ask you to indulge me, Hythe,” Peregrine said. “I have a theory, and have come to put it to the test.”
“And your theory is…?”
“That the painting was never stolen.”
Hythe’s face darkened. “Exactly what are you accusing me of, Marlow?”
