Page 77 of Thief of the Ton
“No, sir, I couldn’t possibly…”
“Nonsense.” Peregrine took the decanter, splashed brandy into a glass, then pushed it across the desk. “I think you’ve earned it after your little…discoveriesthis morning.”
Lawson colored. “It’s not something I expected to do during my tenure with yourself, sir—rummaging through ladies’ undergarments.”
“Particularly when said ladies’ undergarments were found in one of the gentlemen’s chambers?” Peregrine asked. “Something tells me, from the expression on Mr. Moss’s valet’s face, that not evenheexpected to discover a pair of lace drawers in his master’s trunk. It’s perhaps somewhat fortunate, then, that the man was not present when we searched Lady Francis’s chamber, given that an identical pair was found inhertrunk.”
The valet’s blush deepened, and he shifted in his seat.
“Come, Lawson—you’re not so weak-bellied as to take offense at the contents of Lady Francis’s trunk.”
“Not LadyFrancis’strunk, no…” The valet trailed off, and his blush deepened.
Peregrine leaned forward. “Aha!” he cried. “You made a discovery after all? Another stolen item, perhaps?”
“I doubt it—at least, I cannot imagine Lady Withering—”
“The lady who objected so vociferously to our searching the trunks?”
“I ought not to say.”
“You must agree that one who objects the most to having their belongings searched has, in all likelihood, the most to hide.”
Unlike Miss de Grande and her aunt—whom he had to thank for their willingness to submit their chambers to a search, which helped mollify the other guests. Had it not been for them, none of the other ladies would have agreed—even if it had all been for naught, for the painting was still missing.
“So,” Peregrine said, “does Lady Withering possess undergarments designed to outperform Lady Francis in making a rake’s pulse quicken?”
“Not undergarments, no, sir, but pictures… A book of pictures.”
“What kind of pictures?”
But he had no need to ask. The valet’s blush deepened so much that the tips of his ears were almost glowing.
“A little—ahem—anatomical, were they?” Peregrine asked.
The valet nodded.
“There’s a market for a certain type of art,” Peregrine said. “Drawings depicting a glimmer of flesh to titillate the rake—though I’m surprised awomanhas such material in her possession.”
“These drawings left nothing to the imagination,” the valet said. “My father was raised on a farm, so the drawings are nothing I’ve not seen the animals partake of—b-but theother thing!What would a lady have need ofthat?”
Peregrine stifled a laugh at the discomfort in the usually stoic valet’s expression. “In need of what?”
Lawson shook his head. “I-I cannot bring myself to say, sir.”
“You’ve come this far, Lawson,” Peregrine said, tipping another measure of brandy into the man’s glass. “You might as well see it to the bitter end.”
Lawson stared at the glass, then he picked it up and drained it in a single gulp.
“A-a male…appendage.”
“From a man?”
“No—marble. I-it was carved out of marble. I thought it was a candlestick, at first, until I picked it up”—the valet shuddered and drew in a sharp breath—“and felt the detail on the end. I… Oh dear… I fear I’ve shocked you, sir. Of course, I-I put it back right away.”
Ah.
“And, of course, I washed my hands afterward, sir. One never knows where such things have been.”
