Page 90 of Thief of the Ton
“Don’t worry, Papa—I’ll make sure Sarah brings you a bowl of ragout once you’ve finished your broth. And”—Lavinia leaned forward and lowered her voice—“Cook has prepared lemon syllabub—your favorite. If you promise not to tell Aunt Edna, I’ll bring you a bowl myself.”
“I wasn’t referring to dinner,” Papa said. “I was referring tothat man.”
Lavinia’s heart twisted at the loathing in his voice. “You mean Lord Marlow?”
“Don’t speak his name!” Papa hissed. He leaned forward, spasming into a cough.
“Hush,” Lavinia said, stroking his hand. She placed a kiss on his forehead and eased him back onto the pillow. His eyes glistened with moisture, and her gut twisted with guilt at having inadvertently resurrected the pain he’d suffered when his friends betrayed him.
The door was knocked upon softly, and a maid’s head appeared.
“Supper is served, Miss Lavinia—Lady Yates awaits you in the dining room.”
“Tell them I’ll have my supper with Papa,” Lavinia said. She squeezed her father’s hand. “I’m going to take the best care of you while you’re in London.”
“Don’t be a fool,” he said, affection in his eyes. “You should be enjoying Society while you’re here.”
“I’ve seen enough of Society to be able to afford some time for whom I love best in the world,” she said, smiling. “Besides, it’ll do Aunt Edna good to dine alone with Lady Betty.”
“You mustn’t be too harsh on your aunt,” Papa said. “She’s from a different generation—brought up to believe that women should be content not to have the same freedoms as men.”
“Andyou, Papa? What do you think?”
He squeezed her hand. “I think that a little independence in a woman is no bad thing—provided, of course, she heeds the advice of a loving father.”
He leaned back and sighed. “My darling daughter,” he whispered. “Everything I want—and do—is for you.”
And I you, Papa.
“I have a surprise for you,” she said.
His eyes widened, and his mouth creased into a smile. “I think I’ve had my share of surprises tonight.”
“This one, I promise, you’ll enjoy.”
“Very well.” He patted her hand indulgently. Lavinia kissed him once more, then exited the bedchamber and made her way to the parlor. She heard female voices and the clattering of crockery in the distance. Good—Aunt Edna and Lady Betty were safely in the dining room.
She picked up the needlework basket, then returned to Papa’s chamber. The aroma of wine and herbs filled the air, and the room was bathed in a soft, warm glow. Someone had lit the candles and placed a tray on the table beside the bed, with a plate of ragout and a bowl of broth from which wisps of steam rose.
“What’s that you have there?” Papa asked. “Has your aunt finally succeeded in persuading you to embroider cushion covers—or whatever young women are supposed to do?”
She let out a laugh. “I’m afraid not, Papa. I have no embroidered nightshirt for you in here—but thereissomething I believe you’ll very much like. Though I fear it may overexcite you.”
“I’m willing to take the risk,” Papa said.
“We should eat our supper first, before it goes cold,” she said. “Then, if you finish your broth, you may have your reward.”
“Dear child!”
Lavinia set the tray on her father’s lap, then sat at the table and ate her supper, watching him as he dipped his spoon into the broth. By the time he’d finished, the color had returned to his cheeks.
After removing his empty bowl, Lavinia sat beside the bed and placed the needlework basket on her knees.
“Your reward.” She reached inside the basket, pulled out the painting, and held it up.
Papa grew still, confusion in his expression. Then recognition glimmered in his eyes. He reached out, his hand trembling, to touch the painting, then ran his fingertips along the deep brown wooden frame flecked with gold, as if caressing a long-lost love.
“The Snow Field,” he whispered. “Do my eyes deceive me?”
