Page 81 of Thief of the Ton
Lavinia opened her needlework basket and pulled out her bounty—a small painting, with a delicate gilt frame.
“What’s that?” Eleanor asked.
Lavinia balanced the painting on her lap. “It’s the Phoenix’s latest treasure—appropriated from Hythe Manor. What do you think?”
Eleanor frowned. “That’s not the painting you asked me to copy.”
“That was a decoy.” Lavinia grinned. “Thisis what I was really after.”
Eleanor shook her head. “I don’t understand. Where’s the Hythe painting—therealone? Everyone’s talking about it still being missing. And where’s the copy?”
“The real painting never left Hythe Manor,” Lavinia said. “As for the copy, I posted it. Or, at least, I gave it to a lad on the street to post—for a shilling.”
“To whom?” Eleanor lifted her cup to her lips, and sipped her tea.
“Heath Moss.”
Eleanor froze, her eyes widening.
“Of course, it might never reach him, though the boy looked like an honest sort,” Lavinia continued. “Forgive me—I hope you don’t mind my sending it to him. He’ll never identify you as the painter, I’m sure, so you’ve naught to fear.”
Lavinia glanced at the painting on her lap and smiled. Then she heard a splutter, followed by sharp cry. Eleanor convulsed, rattling her teacup in the saucer. Then she threw back her head and laughed.
“Eleanor?”
“Oh, do forgive me!” She wiped her eyes, then set her teacup aside. “I think the paintingdidreach Mr. Moss. Not only that, I suspect he believed it to be the real painting—and persuaded another to believe it, also.”
“What in the name of the Almighty to you mean?” Lavinia asked.
Eleanor shook her head. “Oh, it’s too amusing!” She leaned forward. “Juliette’s been boasting about the gifts Mr. Moss has been lavishing her with,” she said. “Sadly, her attempts to make me jealous failed, because I can’t abide that lecherous dandy!”
“What can you mean?” Lavinia asked.
“Mr. Moss has been trying to court Juliette. Last week, he brought her a bouquet of orchids, every day, and when he took tea on Saturday, he spent the whole afternoon showing off the new pocket watch he acquired in Hatton Garden and telling us it cost over a hundred guineas.”
“A hundred guineas? He’s either a liar or a fool.”
“Both, I imagine,” Eleanor said. “Mother and Papa had this huge argument about it. Mother said Mr. Moss was a fine catch for Juliette, but Papa said he was an arrogant wastrel who lacked the intellect to hold a conversation with Uncle Hugh’s prize sow, but clearly had enough cunning to persuade a watchmaker to give him credit, given that every tradesman in England knows that a promissory note from the Moss family is worth less than the paper it’s written on.”
“Your father saidthat?” Lavinia asked.
Eleanor nodded. “Word for word. Of course, I wasn’tmeantto hear.”
“I daresay you couldn’t help it,” Lavinia replied. Eleanor’s mother had the kind of voice that could slice through bank vaults.
Eleanor gestured toward the painting. “It’s very pretty. May I see?”
“Of course.” Lavinia handed it over.
Eleanor studied the picture. “J.R. 1765,” she said, running her fingertips along the frame.
“Do you recognize the artist?” Lavinia asked.
“No, but she—or he—was very talented. The work’s exquisite. Just a few simple brush strokes have captured the essence of the landscape—the effect of a field dusted with snow. Watercolor’s the hardest medium, you know.”
“I thought it was the easiest,” Lavinia said. “Don’t most ladies use watercolor?”
“It’s easier to use than oil paints, but it’s more difficult to produce a work worthy of note. A mistake on a watercolor cannot easily be rectified—it turns the color to mud. But with oils, you can paint over any mistakes.”
