Page 87 of Thief of the Ton
Miss de Grande glanced toward her father, then back at Peregrine. Then a flicker of understanding glimmered in her expression, and Peregrine’s heart cracked at the horror in her eyes.
“Wh-who is your father, Lord Marlow?” she asked.
“I can explain…” he began, but she raised her hand to silence him.
“Who is he?”
“His father is Earl Walton,” de Grande said. “The man who set out to ruin me, and didn’t stop until I’d lost everything—the man who, with his friends, saw me hounded from my home, humiliated, and disgraced. The man responsible for everything you have suffered, Lavinia.” He shot Peregrine a look of venom and jabbed a finger in his direction. “Thatis whose son he is.”
She shook her head. “No…”
“Lavinia, let me explain—”
“There’s nothing to explain!” she cried. “Why didn’t you say who you were?” She shook her head. “I trusted you! I told you what happened to me—to my father—and you listened, knowing the part you played in our downfall.”
“I tried to tell you.”
“No, you didn’t!” she said. “When I told you how much I loathed Earl Walton for what he did to us, why didn’t you say anything? Or did you delight in deceiving me, knowing that your family had destroyed mine?”
“Lavinia, I—”
“Howdareyou address my daughter in such a familiar manner!” de Grande said. “Leave—now—before I put a bullet in your heart!”
“Richard, I fail to understand what Earl Walton has to do with any of this,” Lady Yates said. “He’s not been seen in England since—”
“Since he ruined me!” de Grande cried.
“How didheruin you? I thought—”
“Lady Yates,” Lady Betty interrupted. “We should discuss this another time. I fear we’re distressing Lord de Grande.”
“How dare you speak to me, youhussy!”
“Aunt, please!” Miss de Grande said. “Lady Betty doesn’t deserve—Oh!”
Lord de Grande let out a strangled gasp and pitched forward, clutching his chest. His cane clattered to the floor.
Lady Yates stood, face ashen, while Miss de Grande caught her father before he fell to the floor. Lady Betty took hold of de Grande’s arms, then hailed the footman.
“You there—Wilkins, is it? Help us—hurry!”
Between them, the two women and the footman carried the old man to the couch and laid him down. Lady Betty placed a cushion beneath his head and pressed her fingers against his neck.
“Papa!” Miss de Grande cried. “Papa—forgive me! I didn’t know.”
“Brandy,” Lady Betty said. “Quick, now!”
The footman darted across the room toward a bureau, then returned with a glass half-filled with a dark brown liquid.
“Give it to me,” Miss de Grande said. She kneeled beside the couch and held the glass to her father’s lips, which had turned blue against the gray pallor of his skin. His chest rose and fell in a sigh. He lifted his head, took a sip, then fell back.
“Can’t…br-breathe…” he gasped.
His daughter clasped his hand. “Don’t panic, Father,” she said. “Remember what we did the last time you had a seizure? Breathe in slowly and count to three—then out slowly, counting to five. Ready?”
He nodded, and she kissed his hand.
“Wilkins—fetch a doctor,” Lady Betty demanded.
