Page 142 of Thief of the Ton
Lavinia’s stomach clenched with fear. She leaned forward and took Lady Betty’s hand.
“Something’s wrong, isn’t it?” she said. “Is that why I’ve been freed?”
Lady Betty nodded. “Forgive me, darling. I am, of course, delighted that you’re free, but it came at a cost, and your father has paid the price.”
“How?” Lavinia asked.
“Your father has confessed to the robberies. He’s due before the magistrate tomorrow, and then…”
There was no need to say what came next.
And then…Papa would face trial and execution.
Her father had exchanged his life for hers.
Chapter Forty
Peregrine drained hisglass, then caught his breath as the liquor burned his throat.
Bloody Stiles—damn him!
Why did the man have to be such a stickler for the law? Not content with refusing to change his ruling, the man had also refused Peregrine permission to see Lavinia until he could secure a lawyer to act in her defense.
But he didn’t know any lawyers—at least, none who were skilled in defending a young woman on trial for her life.
“More tea, sir?”
He pushed his breakfast plate aside. The untouched eggs had congealed into a sickly yellow mass.
“Fetch me another brandy.”
The footman arched an eyebrow, then plucked the glass out of Peregrine’s hand.
“No—wait,” Peregrine said. “Bring the decanter.”
“Sir, I hardly think it’s the time of day to—”
“Damn it, man! You’re paid to take orders, not to think!”
“Sir, I—”
Peregrine swept his plate aside, and it flew across the table, landing on the floor with a splinter of crockery.
“Devil take you!” he roared. “Do as you’re fucking well told, or you’ll be out on the street!”
The footman scuttled off, and Peregrine slumped back into his seat.
His anger could do nothing to help her, but at least he could so something to numb the pain, even if it meant drinking himself to oblivion and smashing the breakfast table to pieces.
He curled his hand into a fist and winced. His knuckles were bruised, the skin broken, from when he’d finally caught up with Houseman at White’s. At least he’d managed to satisfy his longing to smash the smug grin off that vile little man’s face. And, like all cowards, Houseman had sniveled out an apology then fled, his tail between his legs.
Not a single man in the clubroom had turned a hair, save for Hythe, who helped Peregrine into his carriage and sent him home, where he’d drunk himself to sleep, then woke that morning with a headache that threatened to cleave his head in two.
His gut twisted with nausea. If that bloody footman didn’t return with the decanter soon, he’d expel his breakfast. The odor from those damned eggs was already enough to make a man vomit.
He reached forward for a glass of water and knocked his teacup aside. The hot liquid scalded his flesh.
“Shit!”
