Page 145 of Thief of the Ton
Hythe drained his teacup, then stood. “I must be going,” he said. “But in the absence of your father, would you take some advice from a man who has no son to bestow what little wisdom he has upon?”
“Of course.”
“Forgive him,” Hythe said. “Not for his sake, but for yours. Your father was, and most likely still is, driven by obsession, and a misguided lust for retribution. If you wish to stride out into the world a better man, then I urge you to seek not retribution, but redemption. Miss de Grande is a free woman. Therefore, you can look to your future.”
“How did you know—”
“That you love her?” Hythe smiled. True love is such a rarity in our Society that it’s easy to spot among the false niceties and declarations of affection. I saw it in your eyes when you danced with her at Hythe Manor.” He smiled, his eyes twinkling with mirth. “Saucy miss, she was, leading us all on a merry dance over that painting.”
“But you were so determined to see the Phoenix brought to justice,” Peregrine said.
“Perhaps at first,” Hythe replied. “I didn’t take kindly to someone entering my home and stealing from under my very nose. But then, when I understood what had happened—what hadreallyhappened—I recognized it as retribution for the wrongs I’d done. There are worse misfortunes to befall a man than the loss of one insignificant painting that cost a shilling or two. I began to see that it was only right that particular painting was taken, and I saw the Phoenix as an avenging angel—righting the wrongs that had been perpetrated against Lord de Grande. Though I had no idea that the angel was his daughter until I heard of her arrest.”
“You told Stiles all this?” Peregrine asked. “Is that why she’s free?”
“No,” Hythe said. “It helped her case, but the deciding factor was the confession.”
“What confession?”
Hythe let out a sigh. “Poor bastard. But perhaps he felt it was the only thing in his power to do.”
“Of whom are you speaking?”
“Of de Grande. What’s a man to do when he has nothing left but his life to give? He’s confessed to the Phoenix’s crimes. Traveled all the way to London—and inhisstate of health! I hear he was near to collapse when he arrived, but he insisted on going straight to the magistrate.” He shook his head. “It’s a sorry state of affairs, given that his choice was either to see his daughter hang, or to hang himself. But then—what wouldn’t we sacrifice for those we love?”
What indeed?
Oh, Lavinia!
Never before had Peregrine felt so impotent. He, a respected member of Society—wealthy, educated, and supposedly intelligent—had failed her. But a frail, disgraced old man had done more for her than he ever could.
How could he even begin to face them—to atone for what she had lost, and what she was about to lose? He wasn’t worth the ground that either of them walked on. Lavinia and her father didn’t need him—they needed each other, and yet that was the one thing that would be denied them.
Unless…
An idea formed in his mind—a wicked idea, which risked his own head.
…unless he was prepared to blackmail the Crown.
But he’d be a sorry creature if he wasn’t prepared to risk his head for the woman he loved.
Chapter Forty-One
Lavinia pushed thebedchamber door open and stepped inside.
At this time in the morning, the east-facing window caught the full might of the sun. But the curtains were closed, and only a thin sliver of light stretched across the carpet toward the fireplace, where flames flickered with a soft orange glow.
At the far end of the chamber, a figure stirred on the bed.
“Good morning, Papa,” Lavinia said. “I’ve brought you some tea.”
The figure rolled to one side to reveal a pale face. Then he struggled to sit. His body jerked forward, beset by a volley of coughing, and droplets of spittle misted in the air.
Lavinia rushed toward the bed, set the teacup on a nearby table, and helped her father to sit, plumping pillows to support his back. Then she eased him back until he lay, propped up, straining for breath.
“Oh, Papa!” she cried. “Why did you do it?”
He reached toward her, and she took his hand.
