Page 5 of Thief of the Ton
He seemed to have aged overnight. Of course, being an adult, he was far too old to have any fun. But today, his skin seemed to sag around his face, like an old gundog, the usual ruddy tone replaced by a grayish hue.
Perhaps he was unwell, and they were taking a vacation. Aunt Edna often overwintered in Bath. For her health, she said, to “take a rest cure and drink the waters”—whateverthatmeant.
Perhaps they’d return home when Papa had takenhisrest cure.
She moved to sit beside him, then took his hand and ran her fingertips over the papery-thin skin, through which the veins of the back of his hand protruded.
“Don’t worry, Papa,” she said. “I’lllook after you.”
He blinked, and a film of moisture covered his eyes.
She squeezed his hand. “You’ll be better soon,” she said. “Then we can go home.”
He sighed. “Fosterley is no longer our home, Lavinia.”
Before she could quiz him further, he met her gaze, and her heart broke at the expression in his eyes.
The strong, capable man who’d always been there for her, when she’d scraped her knee, had a bad dream, or fallen from a tree, was gone—replaced by a frail, broken creature.
A mortal man.
She leaned against him, and he placed an arm around her shoulders.
“All will be well, little Lavinia,” he said. “They think they’ve taken everything from me, but they cannot takeyou.”
Who werethey?
But she daren’t ask.
He clung to her, as if his life depended on it, and though her shoulder ached where he squeezed it, she didn’t have the heart to move. At length, his grip relaxed, and the next time she glanced up at him, he’d fallen asleep.
*
“Don’t be sad,little Guinevere. I’ll keep you safe. I swear on my honor, according to the codes of chivalry.”
She was in the Fosterley woods. Sunlight filtered through the trees, forming a dappled pattern on the ground, illuminating the fronds of bracken—bright green feathers that nodded in the soft breeze.
She looked up into soft hazel eyes filled with warmth and compassion.
Her King Arthur—the older boy who had seemed so grown up when she first saw him—astride his charger. He’d befriended her with a warm smile and a handshake, as if she were a lady, rather than a scatterbrained child, and he’d indulged in her wish to play make-believe, conquering fearsome enemies and fierce dragons together—a warrior king and queen. Her secret wish had always been that, one day, she would conquer the real world with her king at her side.
“My Arthur…”
“Lavinia!”
A hand caught her shoulder, jerking her back into the present. The sunlit woods dissipated into the air, and she opened her eyes to see Papa staring at her.
“Wh-what is it?” she asked.
“We’re here.”
The carriage had stopped next to a small, two-story building made of smooth, whitewashed stone, with a russet-colored tiled roof. Paned windows stared out at them, the glass reflecting the sunlight, framed by wood that had been painted a pale green that was peeling at the edges. The front door, overhung by a russet-tiled canopy, matched the color of the windows, the paint peeling to reveal the wood beneath. Surrounding the door was a trailing rosebush, which spread across the front of the building, wandering between the upper and lower windows.
Behind the cottage, trees stretched toward the sky, towering over a garden filled with foliage and color. Though overgrown, the splashes of color indicated that the flowers had not been entirely conquered by the weeds. A vibrant blue shimmered in the sunlight—a cluster of flowers at one end of the garden, interspersed with accents of bright orange.
It was magical—a faerie world to explore and play make-believe in. Perhaps dragons lurked among the bushes, which she could fight and conquer, when King Arthur came to visit.
A footman opened the carriage door, and Lavinia climbed out. Papa followed.
