Page 88 of Thief of the Ton
The footman shuffled uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
“Quickly!” she cried. “Take my carriage—go to Dr. McIver, number fifty-three Harley Street. Tell him I sent you, and it’s to be charged to my account.”
“Very good, ma’am.”
Lady Yates stood in the center of the room, body shaking. She hadn’t moved since Lord de Grande had collapsed. Lady Betty poured a brandy and handed it to her.
“You’ve had a shock, Lady Yates,” she said. “Let’s sit you down.”
The dowager curled her fingers around the glass, then let Lady Betty escort her to a seat. By now, both Lady Betty and Miss de Grande spoke in confident, quiet tones. Peregrine found himself admiring both women—especially Miss de Grande. Despite her evident distress, she forced herself to remain calm for the father she loved.
If only he’d had such a relationship with his own father!
His father.Bloody hell!
That old bastard had a lot to answer for.
Peregrine approached the couch where Miss de Grande had placed a hand on her father’s chest.
“How is he?” he asked.
A ridiculous question, given that the man had suffered a seizure—but, accompanied by two strong women willing to take charge in a crisis, Peregrine felt his own inadequacy keenly.
She glanced up at him. “His breathing has eased. His heart’s still racing, but provided he’s not distressed any further, he should recover.”
Guilt jabbed at Peregrine’s heart as he watched the old man struggling for breath. If only Father could see what he’d done! But then, that old bastard wouldn’t give a damn.
De Grande’s eyes fluttered open.
“Papa,” Miss de Grande whispered. “It’s me, Lavinia.” She leaned over him and kissed his cheek. “Must you always make such a dramatic entrance, Papa?”
A smile slid across his thin lips. Then his gaze met Peregrine’s and the smile disappeared.
“I toldyouto go,” he croaked.
“But…” Peregrine protested.
“Go—please,” Miss de Grande said.
“I cannot help who my father is,” Peregrine said.
“His blood runs in your veins,” de Grande wheezed. “He’s—” He broke off in a fit of coughing, jerking his thin body while he fought for breath.
“Just go!” Miss de Grande cried. “Even if I could forgive your ancestry, I cannot forgive your deceit—not when I had grown to feel…” Her eyes glistened with moisture. “Please—Peregrine,” she whispered. “Can’t you see you’re distressing my father? I cannot see you again. I’m sorry.”
He reached toward her face, and she closed her eyes. Then she jerked away and turned her back to him, focusing her attention on her father.
A hand touched his elbow, and he looked up to see Lady Betty, her warm brown eyes staring at him with understanding.
“You should go,” she said. “I’ll take care of him now.” She glanced toward Miss de Grande. “I’ll take care of themboth.”
The time had come to admit defeat. He nodded, then gave Lady Yates a stiff bow and exited the parlor, the footman in his wake.
As he stepped out into the street, the cold air washed over him. But rather than relish the freshness of the outside, he only felt the cold—a cold to match his heart.
Lavinia—his little Guinevere—would never forgive him. Tonight, he’d entered the house, an eager suitor hoping to win the hand of the woman he loved. But now, he was leaving that house having lost all hope of securing her heart. In all likelihood, she would hate him forever.
Chapter Twenty-Four
