Page 98 of Thief of the Ton
“Nothing,” Peregrine replied. “But I believe the painting may still be here.” Hythe’s eyes widened, and Peregrine continued, “If you were to conceal the painting, Hythe—where would you do so?”
Hythe shrugged. “In the attic, I suppose—or one of the outbuildings.”
“What if you had little time, and were concerned you’d be caught?”
“Then I’d hide it somewhere closer.” Hythe made a dismissive gesture. “This is all conjecture, of course—and damned preposterous with it. Why would I hide my own painting? My wife is distraught! Do you think I’d deliberately torment her?”
“Then where do you think thePhoenixwould have hidden it?” Peregrine asked.
Hythe frowned. “Damned if I know.”
“Would you mind if we went to the gallery?” Peregrine asked. “My theory is that our adversary hid the painting close by—perhaps even in plain sight.”
“Very well.” Hythe rose and led the way to the gallery. Two footmen stood at the entrance, bowing as they passed.
The missing portrait had been replaced with a still life—a pewter plate laden with fruit beside a dark green bottle. It was a marked contrast to the generations of long-dead Hythes who stared out from their canvases, overseeing their ancestral home.
Peregrine strode along the gallery, stopping to inspect each portrait. “I take it each of these paintings is in its rightful place—except the still life, of course.”
Hythe nodded. “We never move them, except when the chimneys are being swept. Even then, the larger paintings we’ll cover with a dust sheet, rather than go to the trouble of taking them down.” He gestured toward the marble fireplace halfway along the gallery. “You wouldn’t believe the soot and ash that comes out of that fireplace, given how infrequently it’s lit.” He let out a snort. “Enough ash for twelve phoenixes to rise from.”
The Phoenix from the ashes…
Peregrine glanced at the fireplace.
“Surely not,” he whispered to himself.
“Marlow?” Hythe asked. “What is it?”
“The fireplace.”
“What of it?”
Houseman glanced at Peregrine, then at the fireplace, and back again.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered.
Hythe flinched at the profanity. “What?” he asked.
“The phoenix rises from the ashes of his predecessor,” Peregrine said. “Perhaps he concealed his bounty in his birthplace to taunt us?”
“Don’t be a damned fool!” Hythe said. “Nobody in their right mind would hide a painting in thefireplace!”
“We’ve seen enough of our slippery friend’s handiwork to know that he’s capable of doing what we least expect,” Peregrine said. He strode toward the fireplace—a monstrosity carved out of marble, its wide, gaping hole covered by an embroidered fire screen depicting a peacock in vibrant colors.
Peregrine pushed the fire screen aside.
“Careful!” Hythe cried. “That’s my wife’s handiwork.”
“And very pretty it is, too,” Peregrine said.
The mouth of the fireplace was big enough to fit ten men, and was flanked by a brass coal bucket on one side, and a tall jar containing a poker and rake on the other. Peregrine stepped forward, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. At the back of the fireplace, near the chimney wall, was a large, rectangular shape, covered in brown paper.
It didn’t take much intellect to work out what it was.
“You clever bastard.”
“Have you found something, Marlow?” Houseman asked.
