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 rules. 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 h
ero, 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?
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.
&nb
sp; 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.