Page 22 of Thief of the Ton
“Surrey’s a large county,” Peregrine said, “but I do happen to know of de Grande. He’s not been seen for some years, if I recall.”
“Nearly fifteen,” Thorpe said. “Ever since he lost his fortune at the gaming tables.”
“I heard he lost his fortune due to an investment scandal,” Whitcombe said.
“No—definitely the gaming tables,” Thorpe replied.
“The fool!” Whitcombe scoffed. “No man should wager what he cannot afford to lose.”
“Is that why you’ll never marry, Monty?” Thorpe teased. “Because you’re afraid you’ll lose your heart?”
“He’d have to be in possession of a heart to begin with,” Peregrine said. Then he turned to Thorpe. “So, you’re acquainted with de Grande?”
Whitcombe let out a snort. “They have a…mutual friendin Lady Betty Grey.”
Thorpe scowled.
“She’s acquainted with de Grande?” Peregrine asked.
“Visits him regularly, I hear,” Thorpe said.
Peregrine’s stomach curled into a knot, and he tightened the grip on his glass.
Where had his little Guinevere gone? Perhaps she’d been married off. Or worse—with a wastrel for a father, it might have fallen upon her to earn a living…
“Do you know where they live?” he asked, steadying his voice despite the turmoil in his mind.
“Some poky little cottage on a cousin’s estate,” Thorpe said, “or so Betty let slip one evening.”
“What the devil is de Grande doingthere?”
“How should I know?” Thorpe replied. “I’m only surprised he still lives—I heard he’d taken ill.”
“D-did he not have a daughter?” Peregrine asked, painfully aware of the tremor in his voice.
“Betty let slip something about a young woman,” Thorpe said. “She’s been attending a number of country parties, but I’d be surprised if she made it as far as London.” His eyes narrowed. “Why the sudden interest, Marlow?”
“Nothing—I’m just curious.”
Peregrine averted his gaze, aware of a pair of blue eyes on him. Then he was saved by the clock on the mantelshelf over the fireplace, which struck six.
Thorpe drained his glass and stood. “Duty calls.”
“Ugh—duty!” Whitcombe sighed. “I don’t know why you bother, Thorpe, when there’s better ways to occupy our time.”
“With an estate nearing ruination, and an orphaned cousin in my charge, I’ve enough to occupy myself with,” Thorpe said. “Frivolity leads to weakness.”
Whitcombe drained his glass and leaped to his feet. “That’smycue to depart,” he said. “The moment a man lectures me on the benefits of a dutiful life, I fear I’ll be tainted with the urge to be responsible. I’m subject to enough henpecking already from the mater. I’ll see you anon.”
He set his glass down, gave Peregrine a quick salute, then strode out of the clubroom. Thorpe followed, leaving Peregrine alone with his drink, and his thoughts.
Thoughts ofher.
His little Guinevere.
So—she had been attending Society parties. Might he see her again? Would he recognize her if he did? In any case, Father would object. Father, who harbored resentment at the slightest folly—his hatred for de Grande would only have increased over the years.
But Peregrine could dream. A man needed a little pleasure in life. Not, perhaps, to the extent that Whitcombe indulged in. He needed to strike a balance between duty and pleasure. Duty was the burden undertaken in order for pleasure to be savored without guilt.
