Page 17 of Thief of the Ton
“I wouldn’t fret about it,” she said, “but given his lordship’s animosity toward you, and the value you place on the jar, I think you should keep it hidden. You wouldn’t want him knowing it’s back with its rightful owner.”
Papa let out a bitter laugh. “None of my former acquaintances would deign to comehere. Hardly anyone knows where we are—and even fewercare.”
Lavinia took Papa’s hand. Her heart ached at the pain in his tone. “Aunt Edna might suspect something if she saw it,” she said. “You know how strict she is over our spending. She said Cousin Charles was complaining about the cost of that side of beef Mrs. Bates cooked for us last week.”
He turned the urn over in his hands once more.
“You didn’t…purchase…it from him,” he whispered. Then he narrowed his eyes and met Lavinia’s gaze. Her stomach tightened.
He knows.
“Papa, I don’t want you worrying about where the urn came from. You must concentrate on your health, and getting better.”
He nodded and patted her hand. “Then I’ll rejoice in its redemption, and say no more.”
“Shall I help you into the parlor?” Lavinia asked. “Or perhaps you’d like a walk in the garden.”
Papa shook his head. “Lady Betty’s visiting for tea. I want to be well rested.”
“Then let me help you into the parlor before I leave for my lessons.”
“Best be quick—your aunt doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
Lavinia laughed. “It’s not even eight, Papa. Aunt will still be in her bedchamber sleeping off last night’s sherry.”
She stood and held out her arm. He took it and stood, shaking, and they shuffled into the parlor, where she helped him into the chair beside the fire, which was already lit courtesy of Mr. Bates.
Then she climbed the stairs and entered her bedchamber. She pulled a sheaf of papers from the top drawer of her writing desk and ran her fingers over the lettering on the top sheet, tracing the words she’d read a hundred times over.
Griffin & Sons, Bond Street
Sale September 17th, 1800
Catalogue of lots
She leafed through the papers, reading the list, pausing at the items she’d marked with an X, her lips moving with the words:
Lot 47: Lady’s necklace in gold, one central emerald, with six rubies in graduated sizes
Lot 120: Ginger jar, presumed 13thcentury Yuan Dynasty, ceramic, complete with lid, decorated in blue
Lot 206: Louis XVI late 18thcentury ormolu boulle mantel clock
Lot 254: Landscape oil painting entitled “The Snow Field” framed with gilded mahogany, signed J.R. 1765
Lot 329: Sword bearing a crest with filigree design at the hilt, circa 12thCentury
Beside each lot, she had scribbled a name—Houghton, Francis, Walton, Hythe, Caldicott. Smiling, she picked up her quill and dipped it into the inkpot. Then she flicked back to the page showing Lot 120 and drew a line through the description, together with the name beside it—Francis.
One down, four to go.
Chapter Six
London, June 1814
“They call himthe Phoenix.”
Peregrine, Viscount Marlow, glanced up from his newspaper.
