Bathsheba and Jack had left the Continent and moved to
Ireland to get Olivia away from the unwholesome influence of
Bathsheba's family.
The trouble was, Olivia was drawn to shifty characters,
rogues and vagabonds, spongers and swindlers—persons like her
maternal relatives, in other words. Apart from her teacher and
classmates, the pawnbrokers were the most respectable of her London
acquaintances.
Undoing the education her daughter
received on the streets was becoming a full-time occupation for
Bathsheba. They
must
move to a better neighborhood very soon.
All they needed was a few shillings' increase in monthly
income.
The question was where to find the money.
Bathsheba must either obtain more commissions or acquire
more drawing students.
Neither students nor commissions were easy for a woman
artist to come by. Needlework was, but it would earn a contemptibly
small wage, and the working conditions would ruin her eyesight and
health. She was ill-qualified for any other occupation—any
other respectable occupation, that is.
If she was not respectable, her daughter could not be.
If Olivia was not respectable, she could not marry well.
Later
,
Bathsheba counseled herself. She would fret about the future later,
after her daughter was in bed. It would give her something productive
to think about.
Instead of
him
.
The Earl of Hargate's heir, of all men.
Not merely a bored aristocrat, but a famous one.
Lord Perfect
,
people called him, because Rathbourne never put a foot wrong.
If he hadn't identified himself, Bathsheba might have
lingered. It was hard to resist the dark eyes, especially, though she
couldn't say why, exactly.
All she knew was that those eyes had very nearly made
her lose her resolve and turn back.
But to what end?
Nothing good could come of knowing him.
He was not at all like her late husband. Jack Wingate
was an earl's younger son with no sense of responsibility and as
little affection for his family as she had for hers, though for
different reasons.
Lord Rathbourne was another species. Though he, too, was
a member of one of England's most prominent families, his was also
one of the most tightly knit. Furthermore, all she'd ever heard and
read about him led to one conclusion: He was the embodiment of the
noble ideal, everything aristocrats ought to be but so seldom were.
He had high standards, a powerful sense of duty—oh, what did
the details matter? The scandal sheets never mentioned him. When his
name appeared in print—as it did regularly—it was on
account of some noble or clever or brave thing he'd done or said.
He was
perfect
.
And this paragon had turned out to be anything but the
pompous bore she'd pictured.
To such a man—as was the case with nearly all
responsible men of rank—her only possible role was mistress. In
short, she must erase him completely from her mind.
They had reached the fringes of Holborn. They'd soon be
home. Bathsheba must think about purchasing food. She'd barely enough
money left for tea. She debated whether those supplies could be
stretched to make supper, with something left over for tomorrow's
breakfast. This awareness—along with the recollection of the
dark eyes and the deep voice and long legs and broad shoulders, and
the ache of regret the recollection caused—made her speak more
sharply than usual.
"I wish you would remember that, unlike Lady This
or Lord That, you are not in a position of privilege," she told
her daughter. "If you wish to be accepted among respectable
people, you must abide by their rales. You are growing too old to be
a hoyden. In a few years, you will be ready to marry. All your future
will depend upon your husband. What man of integrity, with a position
to uphold, will wish to place his future happiness and his children's
in the hands of an undisciplined, ignorant, and ill-mannered girl?"
Olivia's expression became subdued.
Instantly Bathsheba was sorry. Her daughter was bold and
energetic, adventurous and imaginative. One hated to quell her strong
spirit.
But one had no choice.
With a proper education, the right manners, and a little
luck, Olivia would find a suitable husband. Not an aristocrat, no,
certainly not. While Bathsheba did not regret marrying the man she
loved, she'd rather Olivia did not experience the hardships that
resulted from such a misalliance.
Bathsheba's hopes were modest enough. She wanted Olivia
to be loved, well treated, and securely provided for. A barrister or
a physician or other professional man would be perfect. But a
respectable tradesman—a linen-draper or bookseller or
stationer—would be acceptable, too.
As to wealth, it would be enough if the marriage spared
her daughter her own worries and the dispiriting exercise of making a
small, erratic income stretch beyond its limits.
If all went well, Olivia would never have to fret about
such things.
All would not go well unless they moved to a better
neighborhood very soon.
AS ONE MIGHT expect, Lady Ordway lost not a minute in
spreading word of Bathsheba Wingate's appearance in Piccadilly.
The subject was on everyone's lips when Benedict went to
his club later that afternoon.
All the same, he was not at all prepared when it came up
at Hargate House that evening.
He and Peregrine had joined Benedict's parents, his
brother Rupert, and Rupert's wife Daphne there for dinner.
When the family adjourned to the library afterward,
Benedict was astonished to hear Peregrine ask Lord Hargate to look at
his drawings from the Egyptian Hall and judge whether or not they
were acceptable for one who intended to become an antiquarian.
Benedict casually crossed the room,
picked up the latest
Quarterly Review
,
and began leafing through its pages.
Lord Hargate rarely wasted tact upon family members.
Since he, like the rest of the Carsingtons, regarded Peregrine as a
member of the family, he wasted no tact on the boy, either.
"These are execrable," said his lordship.
"Rupert can draw better, and Rupert is an idiot."
Rupert laughed.
"He only pretends to be an
idiot," Daphne said. "It is a game with him. He deceives
everyone else, but I can hardly believe he has deceived
you
,
my lord."
"He does such a fine impression of an imbecile that
he might as well be one," said Lord Hargate. "Still, he can
draw as a gentleman ought. Even at Lisle's age, he could acquit
himself creditably." He looked across the room at Benedict.
"What have you been thinking of, Rathbourne, to let matters
reach such a pass? The boy needs a proper drawing master."
"That's what
she
said," Peregrine said. "She said my drawings weren't any
good. But she's a girl, and how could I be sure she knew anything
about it?"
"
She
?"
said Lady Hargate. Her eyebrows went up as she turned her dark gaze
to Benedict.
Rupert looked at him with the same expression, except
for the laughter in his eyes.
He and Benedict bore a strong physical resemblance to
their mother and—from a distance—each other. The other
three sons—Geoffrey, Alistair, and Darius—had inherited
their father's golden brown hair and amber eyes.
"A girl," Benedict said dismissively while his
heart pounded. "At the Egyptian Hall. She and Peregrine had a
difference of opinion." This ought to surprise no one. Peregrine
had differences of opinion with everybody.
"She has the same color hair as Aunt Daphne and her
name is Olivia and her mother is an artist," Peregrine
volunteered. "She was silly, but her mother seemed a sensible
sort."
"Ah, the mother was there," said Lady Hargate,
her gaze still on Benedict.
"I don't suppose you happened to notice, Benedict,
whether the mama was pretty?" Rupert said, so very innocently.
Benedict looked up from the
Quarterly
Review
, his face carefully blank, as
though his mind had been upon the contents of the journal. "Pretty?"
he said. "Rather more than that. I should say she was
beautiful." His gaze reverted to the periodical. "Lady
Ordway recognized her. Said the name was Winshaw. Or was it Winston?
Perhaps it was Willoughby."
"The girl said it was Wingate," Peregrine
said.
The name fell into the room the way a meteor might fall
through the roof.
After a short, reverberating silence, Lord Hargate said,
"Wingate? A redheaded girl? But that must be Jack Wingate's
daughter."
"She would be about eleven or twelve by now, I
believe," said Lady Hargate.
"I am more interested in the mama," said
Rupert.
"Why am I not surprised?" said Daphne.
Rupert looked at her innocently. "But Bathsheba
Wingate is famous, love. She is like one of those irresistible
females Homer talks about who lure sailors onto the rocks."
"Sirens," Peregrine said. "But they are
mythological creatures, like mermaids. Supposedly they lure men to
death through some sort of music, which is ridiculous. I do not
understand how music can lure one to anything, except to sleep.
Furthermore, if Mrs. Wingate is a murderess—"
"She is not," Lord Hargate said.
"Inconceivable as it may seem, Rupert employed a metaphor. A
surprisingly apt one."
"It is a tragic love story," Rupert said
teasingly.
Peregrine made a face.
"You may go to the billiard room," Benedict
said.
The boy was off like a shot. As Rupert knew, nothing, in
Peregrine's view, could be more detestable and nauseating than a love
story, especially a tragic one.
When the boy was out of earshot, Rupert told his wife
how the beautiful Bathsheba DeLucey had bewitched the Earl of
Fosbury's second and favorite son and destroyed his life. It was the
same story Benedict had heard repeated at least a dozen times this
day.
Jack Wingate had been "mad in love," everyone
agreed. Bewitched. Completely in Bathsheba DeLucey's thrall. And the
love had destroyed him. It had cost him his family, his
position—everything.
"So you see, she was the siren who lured Wingate to
his doom," Rupert concluded. "Exactly like one of the
stories in the Greek myths."
"It sounds like a myth," Daphne said
scornfully. "Society thinks women scholars are monstrosities,
recollect. Society can be criminally narrow in its views."
Daphne would know. Even though she'd married into one of
England's most influential families, the majority of male scholars
dismissed her theories regarding the decipherment of Egyptian
hieroglyphs.
"Not in this case," said Lord Hargate. "The
trouble began in my grandfather's time, as I recall. It was early in
the last century, at any rate. Every generation or so, the DeLuceys
had produced a naval hero, and Edmund DeLucey, a second son and a
highly competent naval officer, promised to be another. However, at
some point, he contrived to get himself dismissed from the service.
He abandoned the girl to whom he was betrothed and embarked on a
career as a pirate."
"You're roasting us, Father," Benedict said.
He had heard about Jack Wingate's tragic love ad nauseam. He had not
until now heard the DeLuceys' history.
His father was not joking, however, and the details were
appalling.
Unlike many pirates, according to Lord Hargate, Edmund
survived to a ripe old age, in the course of which he wed and sired a
number of offspring. Every last one of them inherited his character.
So did their descendants, who had a genius for attracting mates of
good family and loose morals.
"That branch of the DeLuceys has produced nothing
but frauds, gamesters, and swindlers," the earl said. "They
are completely untrustworthy, and they have made themselves famous
for their scandals. Generation after generation it continues.
Bigamies and divorces are nothing out of the way for them. They live
mainly abroad these days—to avoid their creditors and to sponge
off anyone fool enough to take notice of them. An infamous family."
And Benedict had very nearly pursued one of them.
Even when he got away from her he couldn't escape her.
People wouldn't stop talking about her.
She was a siren, a femme fatale.
But she had dismissed him.
Or had she?
It's nothing to do with impertinence and everything
to do with self-preservation.
Was that a dismissal or a lure?