Page 2 of Thief of the Ton
It was almost enough to celebrate the fact that she had no fortune.
She tiptoed across the chamber and slipped out into the corridor, making her way toward her destination where, with luck, Lady Francis slept as soundly as Dunton.
She slipped inside the lady’s bedchamber. The curtains had not been fully drawn, and a sliver of moonlight picked out the shape of a bed containing a sleeping form, a dressing table and its polished oval mirror, items of jewelry, and a table beside the window, on which stood a small, round urn.
A very familiar small, round urn…
That’s it!
Short and squat, the urn looked unremarkable to the untrained eye. But her mother had taken a fancy to it when she’d come upon it in a tiny shop in an obscure little street in London. Fashioned from white porcelain and decorated with the image of a dragon, its tail swirling round the belly of the urn, it would be overlooked by those who preferred bright, gaudy colors.
But it was priceless to Papa—a gift to be cherished.
And exactly as she remembered from her childhood.
She approached the table and picked up the urn. It was as smooth as she remembered and, though made from porcelain, it carried a softness, and a warmth, as if it were alive. She ran her fingertips over the surface, feeling every familiar lump and bump where the painters had fashioned the dragon, centuries ago.
“Hello again,” she whispered.
She reached into the bag over her shoulder and pulled out a cloth. Then she wrapped the urn in the cloth, as delicately as if it were a bird’s egg, and placed it in her bag. Finally, she pulled out a piece of paper from her pocket and placed it on the table where the urn had been.
A long sigh echoed through the bedchamber, followed by a female voice.
“Where are you?”
Sweet heaven, I’m caught!
Lavinia suppressed a cry.
Then a male voice spoke.
“I’m here, my mare.”
Surely Lady Francis wasn’t enjoying marital relations with her husband? Rumor had it that his lordship had been looking elsewhere for years, having compared his wife to a buck-teethed ass, and her ladyship’s eye had wandered in the direction of the dandyish Mr. Heath Moss, heir to Sir William Moss.
Then the female voice spoke again, breathy and hoarse.
The bedsheet rustled, followed by the unmistakable sound of kissing—wet lips clashing, punctuated by low groans.
Ugh.
“Oh, yes—that’s it…”
Lavinia took a step forward.
“What’s that?” the female voice cried.
Lavinia froze.
“I think we both know whatthatis,” the man replied. “You were delighted to indulge in its exquisite pleasures earlier.”
Dear Lord! What woman was fool enough to fall for such nonsense?
“Oh,Heath!”
Clearly Lady Franciswassuch a woman.
“You like that, don’t you?” the male voice said.
