Page 139 of Thief of the Ton
Mrs. Bates shouldered past Peregrine and rushed to the old man. “Don’t distress yourself, sir,” she said, caressing the old man’s head. Then she turned to Peregrine, her eyes hard. “Joe, get rid of him!”
Bates tightened his grip, but Peregrine wrenched his arm free. “I’m going nowhere until somebody explains what the bloody hell is going on!”
“My daughter’s been arrested,” de Grande said. “They took her yesterday.”
Peregrine caught his breath as a shard of pain speared his chest.
“Lavinia…”
“It’sMiss de Grandeto you,” the old man said. “Thanks to you, I’ll never see her again!”
“Surely you can’t think I had anything to do with it?” Peregrine replied. “I pledged to protect her!”
“Yes, you did, sir,” de Grande said, “then you hid like a coward while your friend took her.”
“My…friend?”
“Mr. Houseman,” de Grande said. “He threatened me with a pistol, then his thugs dragged her out of the house like a common criminal.”
Peregrine curled his hands into fists. “Houseman—you bastard!”
“And now he’s got my daughter, my precious child…” De Grande bent his head. “I’ve let her down so badly. First after my darling Lily passed—then now…” He shook his head. “I’ll never see her again!”
The weight of Peregrine’s own despair threatened to crush him. But, seeing the broken old man, a core of iron formed deep within him, forged from the fires of his despair—turning into the impenetrable steel of determination.
Nobody, especially not that weasel Houseman, would defeat him. Lavinia was in danger, and he had to be strong for her, and for her father.
For that was the definition of love—the ability to set aside his own fears and fight for another.
And hewouldfight. To his last breath.
He wrenched himself free from Bates’s grasp and crossed the parlor to kneel before the old man who looked so utterly lost.
“Lord de Grande,” he said. “I give you my word that I’ll do everything in my power to bring your daughter home.”
De Grande shook his head. “There’s nothing to be done. I have no one.”
Peregrine reached forward and curled his hand around de Grande’s ice-cold, bony fingers. “Sir,” he said. “I accept that you have no reason to trust me. You may believe that you have no one. But you’re wrong.Iwill fight for you. Not just because I owe you a debt of honor to atone for my father’s sins against you, but because I love your daughter—and I will continue loving her until I draw my last breath.”
“Why should I trust you?” de Grande croaked. Faith in a man’s promises has only ever led me to ruination and despair.”
Peregrine reached inside the bag and pulled out the clock. “Because of this.”
De Grande’s eyes widened, and Peregrine placed the clock on the old man’s lap. For a moment, de Grande simply stared at it. Then he ran his hands along the body, as if he were caressing a lover. He sighed as his fingertips traced every curve, every feature of the ornate carving, dancing over the winged cherub at the top, until they came to rest at the base. Then he turned the clock around and flipped open the back.
“‘To my darling Richard, with love, always, on the birth of our beloved daughter, Lavinia.’”
Tears glistened in his eyes, then spilled onto his cheeks.
“Lily…” he whispered. “My darling Lily.”
Then his expression hardened, and he held the clock out to Peregrine.
“Take it.”
“It’s yours,” Peregrine said. “I brought it here for you.”
De Grande shook his head, and another tear rolled down his cheek. “I don’t want it,” he said. “It’s just an object—athing–and it’s caused enough misery. It won’t bring back my beloved Lily, nor will it bring back my child. My Lavinia will hang—and for what? For this? No!”
