Not that it mattered. He would never know the answer
because he would not try to find out.
Even before he was wed, he conducted his amours quietly.
He had been scrupulously faithful while wed. He had waited a decent
interval after Ada's death before acquiring a mistress, and the
affair never became public knowledge.
Bathsheba Wingate was a walking legend.
His father's voice called him back to his surroundings.
"Well, Benedict, what do you mean to do about
Lisle?"
Benedict wondered how much of the
conversation he'd missed. He said smoothly, "The boy's future is
not in my hands." He returned the
Quarterly
Review
to its place.
"Don't be absurd," said Lord Hargate. "Someone
must take charge."
And it must be me, as usual
,
Benedict thought.
"You know Atherton cannot manage matters," his
mother said. "Peregrine not only respects you but he is attached
to you. You have an obligation to him. If you do not intervene, that
child will go straight to the devil."
My life is one endless chain of
obligations
, Benedict thought—and
immediately reproached himself for thinking it He was fond of
Peregrine, and he knew, better than anybody, how much damage Atherton
and his wife were doing.
Benedict knew what Peregrine needed, what he responded
to. Logic. Calm. And simple rules.
Benedict believed in all these things, especially rules.
Without rules, life became incomprehensible. Without
rules, one's passions and whims prevailed, and life flew out of
control.
He promised to intervene to the extent of finding a
drawing instructor and perhaps, in time, a tutor.
When that was settled, Peregrine was summoned to rejoin
the family.
The rest of the evening proceeded peaceably, apart from
Daphne's arguing with her father-in-law about the British Museum's
scandalous treatment of Signor Belzoni. No one intervened, though the
debate grew ferocious. Lady Hargate looked on amused, and Rupert
proudly watched his wife. Even Peregrine sat silent and fiercely
attentive, for Egypt was the one subject dear to his heart.
In the carriage, on the way home, Benedict asked why the
boy hadn't sought his opinion of the scorned drawings.
"I was afraid you would be tactful," said
Peregrine. "I knew Lord Hargate would tell me the plain truth.
He said I needed a drawing master."
"I shall find one," Benedict said.
"The red-haired girl's mother is a drawing master,"
Peregrine said.
"Is she, indeed?"
Temptation rose before Benedict. She smiled her siren
smile and crooked her finger.
He had turned his back on Temptation before, countless
times. He could easily do it again, he told himself.
THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, Lord Rathbourne stood gazing at
a card in the window of a print shop in Holborn, his countenance
expressionless, his heart beating hard and fast.
Because of a piece of paper.
But that was ridiculous. He had no reason to be
agitated.
The paper merely bore her name—her initial at
least, and her late husband's surname. It was not even engraved but
handwritten. Most beautifully handwritten.
Watercolor and drawing lessons by the hour.
Experienced instructor, trained on the Continent.
Sample work on display.
For further particulars, enquire within.
B. Wingate
He looked down at Peregrine.
"It's where the freckle-faced
girl said it would be," his nephew said. "One of her
mother's works is supposed to be in the window as well. She said I
might judge for myself whether her mother was skilled enough to teach
me. Not that I can judge, when I know nothing at all about drawing,
according to
her
!'
He frowned. "I did have a horrible suspicion even before she
told me, and I wasn't surprised when Lord Hargate said my drawing was
execrable
."
While the boy searched eagerly for Mrs. Wingate's work
among the assorted artistic atrocities in the print seller's window,
Benedict wished his father would mince words once in a while.
Had he spoken a degree less damningly of Peregrine's
efforts, the boy would not be so desperate at present for a drawing
master. He was on fire to get started—there wasn't a moment to
lose—his bad habits would only get harder and harder to
break—and the lady took students—and she was sensible and
agreeable, was she not?
Benedict should have simply said that Bathsheba Wingate
was out of the question.
Instead, he'd given in. To curiosity.
A foolish indulgence.
True, Atherton did not involve himself overmuch in the
details of his son's education… or his life. He only wanted
the boy in a suitable school, and left effecting that miracle to his
secretary.
At present, Atherton was with his wife at their place in
Scotland. He did not propose to return to London until the new year.
He was not behaving very differently from the normal run
of aristocratic parent.
The trouble was, Peregrine was not the normal run of
aristocratic progeny. He fit no more easily into the world into which
he was born than his namesake falcon might fit in a canary cage. His
ambition in life wasn't simply to follow in the footsteps of his
father and his father's father and a long line of Dalmay men before
them.
While the possibility of being different had never
occurred to Benedict, he could respect the ambition and admire the
dedication to the one goal.
Still, this did not satisfactorily explain why he was
here, in one of the drearier parts of Holborn, no less.
He did intend to find Peregrine a drawing master.
But it could not be Bathsheba Wingate. Atherton would
draw the line at his son's taking lessons from one of the Dreadful
DeLuceys—especially this one.
"There it is!" Peregrine pointed to a
watercolor of Hampstead Heath.
As Benedict took it in, the pressure on his chest
returned. It was as though a fist pressed against his heart.
This was everything a watercolor should be: true not
only in line and form and tint, but in spirit. It was as though the
artist had snatched a moment in time.
It was beautiful, hauntingly so, and he wanted it.
Far too much.
Not that his desire for it signified in the least. What
signified was, the artist couldn't teach Peregrine. One didn't hire
notorious women to educate impressionable children.
A drawing
master
,
Lord Hargate had said, not a drawing
mistress
.
"Well, is it any good?" Peregrine said
anxiously.
Say it's barely adequate. Pedestrian. Mediocre. Say
anything but the truth and you can walk away and forget her.
"It's brilliant," Benedict said.
He paused to reestablish the connection between his
brain and his tongue.
"Too good, in fact," he went on. "I
cannot believe she will waste her time giving lessons to unruly
children. Obviously she must be seeking more advanced students. I am
sure the girl meant well. It was flattering of her, in fact, to offer
her mother's services. However—"
The shop door opened, a woman hurried out and down the
steps, glanced his way… and tripped.
Benedict moved instinctively to block her fall, and
caught her before she could plunge to the pavement.
Caught her in his arms.
And looked down.
Her bonnet, dislodged, hung rakishly to one side.
He had an unobstructed view of the top of her head, of
thick curls, blue-black in the afternoon light.
She tipped her head back, and he looked down into
enormous blue eyes, fathoms deep.
His head bent. Her lips parted. His hold tightened. She
made a sound, the smallest gasp.
He became aware of his hands, clamped upon her upper
arms, and of the warmth under his gloves… and of her breath on
his face—because his was inches away from hers.
He lifted his head. He made himself do it calmly while
he fought to breathe normally, think normally.
He searched desperately for a rule, any rule, to make
the world come out of chaos and back into order.
Humor will relieve an awkward moment.
"Mrs. Wingate," he said. "We were
speaking of you. How good of you to drop by."
HE RELEASED HER, and Bathsheba backed away and
straightened her bonnet, but the damage was done. She could still
feel the pressure of his fingers through layers of muslin and wool.
She still felt his breath on her lips, could almost taste him. She
was too aware of the scent of him, of maleness and skin-scent teasing
her nostrils. She tried to ignore it, tried to concentrate on the
safer fragrances of starch and soap.
He smelled clean, scrupulously clean. It had been a very
long time since she'd been so close to a man who was scrupulously
clean and starched and crisply pressed.
And now she knew he had a small scar under his chin,
directly below the left corner of his mouth. It was thin, very
slightly curved, and three-quarters of an inch long.
She didn't want to know he had a scar or what he smelled
like. She didn't want to know any more about him. She had hardly
noticed men in the three years since Jack's death, and before that,
she'd never taken much notice of anyone but Jack. It was Fate's
perversity that made her take such excruciatingly detailed notice of
Lord Perfect.
"Lord Rathbourne," she
said, still feeling short of breath, still burning with
embarrassment. Of all the men's arms in all the world, she had to
fall into
his
.
"You said we don't travel in the same spheres,"
he said. "But we must, for here we are."
"Yes, and I must be going," she said, turning
away.
"We were seeking a drawing instructor," he
said.
Arrrgh.
She turned back.
"For Lisle," he said. "My nephew. The one
who—er— annoyed Miss Wingate yesterday. This one, in
point of fact." He nodded at the boy.
"That girl only said my drawings
weren't very good," said Lord Lisle. "She didn't tell me
how bad they were— but Lord Hargate said my drawings are
execrable
."
Lord Rathbourne simply glanced down at him, and the boy
hastily added, "Miss Wingate, I mean. She was so good as to
offer her expert opinion. She was too kind, it turns out."
Bathsheba had been wrong yesterday about Olivia getting
an Idea in nine and a half minutes. Clearly, she'd already had one
and begun acting on it.
It was not hard to guess how Olivia's
mind must have worked:
Here is a nob,
who must have pots of money
. Naturally,
like her DeLucey forebears, she had viewed the young Lord Lisle as a
mark
.
Not that Bathsheba was any more noble. At the mention of
drawing lessons, she had paused, hadn't she, and commenced
calculating how many drawing lessons at what rate would take her to a
new neighborhood in a month or less.
"Olivia has altogether too many opinions," she
said. "Worse, she rarely keeps them to herself."
"The fact remains," said Rathbourne. "My
nephew cannot draw. If he cannot draw, he cannot realize his
ambitions."
"Ambitions?" Bathsheba repeated, so astonished
that she stopped calculating. "What need he do more than live,
to realize his ambitions?"
She turned to the young Lord Lisle.
"One day you will be the Marquess of Atherton," she said.
"You may draw— and paint—and sculpt—as ill as
you like and no one will dream of finding fault. Your acquaintances
will say you are
sensitive
or you have an eye for beauty. They will beg for one of your works,
which they will display in the stables or the guest bedchamber
reserved for visitors they wish to be quickly rid of. Why on earth
should you make yourself bored and cross with drawing lessons?"
"I know I'll be the Marquess of Atherton someday,"
the boy said. "But I'm going to be an explorer as well. In
Egypt. An explorer must be able to draw."
"You can hire someone to do the drawing for you,"
she said.
"You had better take the hint, Lisle," said
Rathbourne. "The lady is not eager to have you as a drawing
student."
"You were not listening properly," she said.
"That is not what I said."
"I know what you said," the boy said. "You
think I will not take it seriously."