My Gentleman Thief

Chapter Three

Chapter ThreeYiannis entered the drawing room that evening for a “little family dinner,” according to the man who had helped Yiannis to dress for the evening. Just those words—little family dinner—made Yiannis worry. In his family, that meant at least thirty to forty people would be present.

His father had been one of ten children. When they had “little family dinners,” at least some if not all of Yiannis’s aunts, uncles, and cousins would be there. They would play a horrid game of one-upmanship, boasting of their children and their accomplishments. Yiannis’s father hated it and would never engage. Yiannis wasn’t sure if it was because he was embarrassed that his son was an artist or just because he refused to play along. Whichever it was, it had hurt.

No, “little family dinners” were never, ever a pleasant way to spend an evening. But he had to make an appearance. Yiannis needed to meet and charm Lord Pemberton-Howe’s family. The man was being exceedingly kind and generous, not only allowing him to stay in his home but in assisting with his father’s directive. He owed his lordship a great deal; the least he could do was go to his “little family dinner” and behave properly.

It was with some trepidation that Yiannis stepped into the drawing room. Strangely, the only person there was Lord Pemberton-Howe, sitting with a drink in one hand and a journal on his lap.

He looked up as Yiannis came in. “Ah! There you are!” his host said jovially.

Yiannis paused to bow. “Good evening, my lord.”

“Good evening, good evening! Come in, help yourself to a glass of wine.” He motioned toward a table at the side of the room where there were a few decanters of wine and glasses. “We are casual this evening. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No. Not at all. Am I early?” Yiannis asked as he helped himself to wine.

“Not particularly. Fungy and Rose should—” The sound of the front door closing interrupted his sentence. “Ha! Right on time.”

A moment later, the door to the room opened, and a very pretty woman with auburn hair and a broad smile walked in followed by a gentleman dressed in what Yiannis could only imagine was the height of fashion. He was taller than, Yiannis, with dark blond hair and the oddest expression on his face; he looked immensely bored, and yet his eyes seemed to crinkle with good humor. Yiannis couldn’t decide whether he was happy to be there or not as he sauntered in.

Lord Pemberton-Howe stood. “Ah, my dear Rosebud.” He stepped forward and let her kiss his cheek, fatherly love twinkling from his eyes. He then turned to the gentleman and held out his hand. “Fungy, good to see you,” he said as they shook. “And this is Yiannis Istoriakis. Yiannis, my daughter Rose Fotheringay-Phipps and her husband St. John Fotheringay-Phipps, who I told you about this morning.”

Ah, this must be Rose and Fungy, Yiannis realized as he smiled and bowed over the lady’s hand and shook that of the gentleman. “It is an honor to meet you,” he said.

“So very nice to meet you as well,” Mrs. Fotheringay-Phipps said.

“Just arrived?” Mr. Fotheringay-Phipps asked with a slight lift of his eyebrows. Yiannis wondered if that was as interested as he got.

“Yes,” Yiannis answered. “This morning.”

“And how is Athens? How is Greece? I can’t tell you how much I miss it,” Mrs. Fotheringay-Phipps said, with a wistful smile.

“It is probably as beautiful as you remember,” Yiannis said with a little laugh. “When were you there last?”

She looked to her husband as she thought. “Four, no, it was five years ago that my mother died, and we moved back to England. My goodness, time just slips by faster than you realize.”

She reached out and touched her father’s arm. “I’m sorry, Papa. You’ve probably felt each one of those years much more keenly.”

Lord Pemberton-Howe gave his daughter’s hand a pat. “It’s all right, my dear. It’s all right.” Yiannis was pretty sure the gentleman blinked a few times more than normal, but recalling his wife’s death couldn’t be easy.

“Greece certainly hasn’t changed since then,” Yiannis said, attempting to keep the conversation light.

Lord Pemberton-Howe smiled. “Greece has hardly changed in hundreds of years.”

“No, I suppose not.” The smile disappeared from Mrs. Fotheringay-Phipps’ eyes as she shifted her gaze to something behind him. Yiannis turned to see what had caused her expression to dim.

He couldn’t believe it. The woman who had nearly run him over that morning stood just inside the drawing room door. He’d recognize her anywhere. Her rich brown hair was now properly coiffed, and her eyes were a brilliant green just as he'd thought, although now they were calmer, as befitted the evening and dinner. This woman had nearly killed him!

“You!” The word exploded from him.

“Oh!” the young woman said. She had the grace to turn bright red with embarrassment.

“Have you two met?” Mrs. Fotheringay-Phipps said, looking from the young woman to Yiannis and back again.

“I believe we must assume that they have,” her husband said languidly. “And it doesn’t seem to have been under the best of circumstances either.”

“Why am I not surprised,” she replied with a sigh. “What have you done now?” she asked the young woman.

“Me? I didn’t do anything!” The girl’s face paled as quickly as it had colored. The look in her eyes was one of absolute desperation. It was more than obvious that she did not want him telling the assembled company what had occurred that morning.

“We, er, ran into each other this morning, is that not right?” Yiannis said quickly, narrowing his eyes meaningfully at her.

A smile flickered off and on her face. “Yes. Yes, that’s exactly right. I was out for my morning ride, and this gentleman was crossing the street.”

“Don’t tell me you ran him down?” Mr. Fotheringay-Phipps said with remarkable accuracy. Yiannis was beginning to understand why Lord Pemberton-Howe thought so highly of his son-in-law. Nothing seemed to get past the fellow, despite his perpetual look of ennui.

“No!” both Yiannis and the young woman said at the same time.

She relaxed enough to give a little giggle. “I mean, he was walking rather slowly, but we merely greeted each other, and I rode off.”

“I was a little lost. I have to admit, I was hoping to get some directions from Miss… er…”

“Miss Grace,” Lord Pemberton-Howe supplied. “This is my youngest daughter, Thalia Grace, who I was telling you about.”

“Oh! I beg your pardon.” Yiannis turned to his host. “I had been under the impression that your daughter was…” He turned to look at Miss Grace once more, her beautiful face framed by little wisps of dark brown curls, her lovely eyes, and a shape that was most definitely womanly. “Much younger,” he finally managed to finish.

“Ah, no. She is, what? Eighteen now, aren’t you, my dear?” Lord Pemberton-Howe smiled fondly at his daughter.

She returned his loving look. “Yes, Papa, that’s right.”

“Something we are going to discuss later,” her older sister said in a rather threatening manner.

Miss Grace’s smile was replaced by a worried look. She opened her mouth to say something, but Mrs. Fotheringay-Phipps held up a hand to forestall her. “Later.”

Miss Grace sighed, and then went to pour herself a glass of wine, looking very much like she needed it after this little exchange.

As soon as she’d had a sip of her wine, she turned to her father with a teasing smile on her lips. “Papa, you still have yet to introduce me to the gentleman.”

“What? Oh! I beg your pardon! This is Yiannis Istoriakis. He’s the son of my good friend, Dimitri. We worked together when your mother and I had first begun excavating near Corinth. Let’s see… Rose was about, oh, five or six when he worked with us. Yes, yes, she must have been five because Sophia was carrying Thalia at the time.”

“And I remember being very jealous, hearing that you had your children with you at your site,” Yiannis said. “I begged and begged my father to take me with him to his, but he insisted that it was no place for children.”

Lord Pemberton-Howe laughed. “Clearly, you did convince him, though. I distinctly remember him telling me that when he did allow you to go, you promptly fell into one of the digs.”

Yiannis fingered the scar going from his left eye up to his hairline. “Yes. My father was furious. He threatened never to allow me to return.”

“But I convinced him to do so,” his host said with a waggle of his eyebrows. “And aren’t we all glad that I did?”

“You did that? Well then, I owe you even more than I ever realized,” Yiannis said. He had always wondered what had caused his father to relent and bring him along after that disastrous first trip. He’d been so thrilled to go that he’d never questioned his father’s change of heart. Now he knew, it was thanks to Lord Pemberton-Howe.

“Are you also an archaeologist, then, Mr. Istoriakis?” Miss Grace asked, pronouncing his name with a perfect accent.

“No. I’m an artist, actually. I sketch the artifacts my father, and others, find—at least, that is what I hope to do. I had only returned a few weeks ago from university in Berlin when my father sent me here.”

“And what will you be doing in London, Mr. Istoriakis?” Mrs. Fotheringay-Phipps asked. Her pronunciation was nearly as good as her sister's.

“Please, call me Yiannis,” he said with a smile.

“Oh, thank you. Then you shall have to call me Rose,” she answered with a friendly nod.

Yiannis gave her a short bow. “I am here to sketch all the ancient Greek artifacts I can locate.”

Both Rose and Thalia’s eyes widened.

“That’s a big job!” Rose exclaimed.

“Dimitri expects it might take a few years,” Lord Pemberton-Howe agreed.

“A few years?” Yiannis asked, turning to his host. His father had never shared that bit of information with him. He had thought to be here for a few months, half a year at most. A fire lit in the pit of his stomach at the thought of his father hating him so much that he would send him away for years. Yiannis could feel the muscles in his chest tense and his spine straighten.

On the other hand, perhaps hate was too strong a word. No, it was most likely indifference. His father sent him on a fool’s errand, didn’t tell him why, didn’t tell him for how long, didn’t give him any specifics. No, this wasn’t hate, this was lack of respect, a lack of regard for the man he’d become. He took a large swallow of his wine. Well, Yiannis would prove him wrong. He would prove himself capable—even if it took years.

“Well, to do it right and as thoroughly as possible, yes,” his host said as if it were obvious.

“Should think it would,” Mr. Fotheringay-Phipps agreed.

“Yiannis will be staying with us until his funds come through, and he can find some rooms of his own,” his lordship continued.

“Oh!” Miss Grace breathed. She tipped her own glass up and swallowed half of its contents.

Yiannis wouldn’t have noticed except that he’d been staring blankly in her direction when she’d come out with her exclamation. Briefly, he wondered if she was glad that he would be staying or upset. Dismayed perhaps? Certainly nowhere near as shocked as he was that his father had sent him away for so very long. He tried to examine her face to see how she felt about that, but she turned away.

Why did he care how she felt? She was simply Lord Pemberton-Howe’s youngest daughter, Yiannis told himself. He should be much more concerned with his father and his obvious lack of affection. And yet, thinking about Miss Grace, looking at her, brought a calm to his aching heart. Could it be her beauty? No. He’d seen many beautiful women in his life. There was something else; he just couldn’t put his finger on it. She seemed a rather curious young woman—riding in races down the streets of London—and yet, she soothed his hurt without even doing anything.

He shook his head. No, he mustn’t dwell on such silliness. She was off limits to him. And even if she wasn’t, surely she wouldn’t be interested in a Greek artist. Young women like Thalia were rarely interested in him once they found out what he did. Widows who wanted nothing more than a pretty boy on their arm were quite pleased with him, but girls who were marriageable… No.