Page 12 of Thief of the Ton
“Hurry up and put your dress on,” he said. “You were due home half an hour ago.”
“Who’s coming for tea?”
“Lady Betty Grey.”
Lavinia wrinkled her nose. Lady Betty had been a frequent visitor at Fosterley Park after Mama’s passing. With her overly loud voice and brightly colored gowns, she could never replace Lavinia’s gentle, softly spoken mother.
“Don’t pull a face, child!” Papa snapped. “It’s most unbecoming. I’m sure your aunt would have something to say about it.”
“I daresay she would,” Lavinia retorted. “Aunt’s often warned me about the dangers of inviting whores to tea.”
“Oh!”
Lavinia heard a shriek, followed by a rattle of crockery and splintering china. She turned to see Mrs. Bates struggling with the tea tray. The shattered remains of a teacup lay at her feet, and the cake…
The cake was balanced on the edge of the tray. Lavinia darted forward and grabbed the cake before it suffered the same fate as the teacup.
“Oh, I beg your pardon, sir!” Mrs. Bates cried.
“Youweren’t to blame,” Papa said. He turned to Lavinia. “How dare you disrespect Lady Betty? I’ll not have my daughter using the language of the gutter!”
He descended he stairs, his knuckles whitening as he tightened the grip on his cane. Were Lavinia not holding the cake, she was sure he’d have struck her with it.
Mrs. Bates composed herself. “You can hand the cake to me now, miss,” she said. Lavinia did so, then darted out of Papa’s reach.
“Not so fast, young lady,” he warned. “Mrs. Bates, take the tray into the parlor.”
The housekeeper curtseyed and disappeared into the parlor.
Papa’s eyes blazed with anger. Were Lavinia not afraid at the fury in his gaze, she’d have welcomed the spark of life that had been absent in her father since they’d moved to Springfield.
“I should have you horsewhipped for using such language,” he hissed.
“But Aunt says—”
“I don’t care what your bloody aunt says!”
Lavinia flinched at the profanity.
“Your aunt doesn’t understand,” he said, sighing. “Lady Betty’s a dear friend.”
Is that why you’re spending money on a lavish tea we can’t afford?
Something prevented Lavinia from responding. Not the fear of punishment—she relished the danger of behaving contrary to what was expected of a young lady—but the expression in Papa’s eyes. Rather than the bent, broken man he’d become these past weeks, he was, once more, Lord de Grande—a man who took pride in himself.
His expression softened. “Perhaps I’m being a little extravagant today, daughter, but Lady Betty is one of the few friends who’ve remained loyal since my troubles. Where others have stepped aside and relished my downfall—or even been the cause of it—only she has stood by me.”
What did he mean—others being the cause of his downfall?
He took her hand. “Please understand,” he said. “My view of the world has changed much these past weeks, and I’ve now learned the true nature of friendship.”
“And what is that, Papa?”
He smiled. “Only when we’re reduced to almost nothing do our true friends reveal themselves. They love us regardless of our circumstances, and we can lean on them when the world around us crumbles into dirt.”
He blinked, and Lavinia could swear she glimpsed a tear on his cheek. But then he turned away and waved dismissively toward her.
“Run along and put your dress on, then join us in the parlor—quickly, now!”
