Lord Perfect Page 7

  He told the boy what Atherton had decided.

  Peregrine frowned. “I do not understand,” he said. “Father said he was done with sending me away to school. He said I was welcome to grow up illiterate and ignorant. He said I did not deserve a gentlemanly education when I could not behave as a gentleman ought. He said—”

  “Obviously, he has changed his mind,” Benedict said.

  “It is exceedingly inconvenient,” Peregrine said. “I am not done studying Belzoni’s collection. In any case, it makes no sense to leave so soon. The term will have already started by the time I get to Edinburgh. If one must be a new boy, it is better to start at least with the other new boys. Now I shall be the newest new boy, and I shall waste a lot of valuable time fighting when I might be here, improving my Greek and Latin and organizing my tables of hieroglyphs.”

  Peregrine would not be bullied. He would not be any boy’s lackey. As a consequence of this, and of eternally being the new boy, he spent a good deal of time making his position clear by means of his fists.

  “I am aware of this,” Benedict said. “The fact remains, your father commands, and you must obey.” He did not mention the word or two he intended to have with Lord Atherton. Benedict did not hint at his intention to bring Peregrine straight back, if it was humanly possible, and hire a proper tutor for him, as should have been done ages ago.

  He did not want to get his nephew’s hopes up. In any case, a son must obey his father.

  Parents must be treated with respect, whether one wants to strangle them or not.

  Whatever else Benedict was prepared to do on Peregrine’s behalf, he would not encourage disobedience.

  “I thought he had washed his hands of me and put you in charge,” Peregrine said. “Lord Hargate must think so, because it was you, not Papa, he told to find me a drawing master. And what is to become of my drawing, I cannot think. I shall never get on at this rate. I have only now begun to make progress. No, it is true,” he said when Benedict’s eyebrows went up. “Mrs. Wingate says so, and she does not flatter me, you know. ‘Lord Lisle, you have been drawing with your feet again,’ she will say when I have made a muck of things.” He smiled. “She makes me laugh.”

  “I understand,” Benedict said. She made him want to laugh. She’d done it at the Egyptian Hall, when she’d quizzed her daughter about attacking Peregrine. He’d wanted to laugh in front of Popham’s shop—at her blank astonishment when informed that Peregrine had an ambition—and at her response to this. He’d wanted to laugh today, when she’d joked about throwing herself at Benedict.

  She was droll. She said and did things he didn’t expect.

  He could still hear her laughter.

  “Well, I suppose there is no help for it,” Peregrine said. He closed the book. “Still, I have a fortnight. I shall have to make the most of the time.”

  Benedict had prepared himself for a good deal more trouble. Peregrine had not sought a fraction as many whys and wherefores as expected. Perhaps he’d at last realized that his father’s behavior seldom had any rational basis, and had given up looking for one.

  Perhaps the boy was maturing, learning, finally.

  “If you please, sir, may I go to the British Museum tomorrow?” Peregrine said. “I should like to have another go at the head of Young Memnon. I had asked Mrs. Wingate if we might have an extra lesson on a Saturday, there or at the Egyptian Hall, but she hasn’t time. She will be in Soho Square for most of tomorrow morning and early afternoon, she said.”

  “A portrait commission, probably,” Benedict said. One of the tradesmen whose daughters she taught must have recognized her talent.

  “I believe she’s looking for lodgings there,” said Peregrine.

  Benedict supposed that Soho Square might seem to some an improvement over Bleeding Heart Yard. Yet both addresses teetered on the edge of unsavory neighborhoods. “I should advise her against it,” he said. “She is unwise to move so close to Seven Dials. It is as bad as if not worse than Saffron Hill.”

  Peregrine frowned.

  “Not that it is any of our concern where she chooses to live,” Benedict went on. “You want to visit the British Museum. You had better go with Thomas. There is no reason for me to hang about while you practice drawing.”

  “Indeed not,” said Peregrine. “You would be dreadfully bored. Naturally I assumed I must behave as though it were a lesson day. Even if one of the museum directors happens by, I shall say nothing to him about the red granite sarcophagus in the courtyard—the one Aunt Daphne is so troubled about—though it truly is shameful, sir, the way they have treated Signor Belzoni—”

  “So it is, and sooner or later, Rupert will start throwing the directors out of windows,” Benedict said. “You, however, will hold your tongue.”

  The last thing in the world he needed now was to become involved in the wrangling about Belzoni’s acquisitions: what belonged to whom and who ought to pay for it. He had carefully deflected all Daphne’s attempts to lure him into fighting that exasperating battle. He had enough battles to fight as it was. The primary one at present involved Peregrine’s future.

  “I shan’t breathe a word about it, sir, upon my honor,” said Peregrine.

  “Very well, then, you may go with Thomas.”

  Then, relieved to have one troublesome matter settled so easily, Lord Rathbourne left.

  He did not see the guilty look his nephew cast after him.

  Chapter 5

  British Museum, Saturday 22 September

  PEREGRINE’S GUILT WAS ON ACCOUNT OF THE Wingate lady he’d failed to mention, the one sitting on a portable stool next to his. They were sketching an enormous red granite pharaoh’s head with a partially broken crown: the head of Young Memnon that Belzoni had sent back from Egypt.

  Unlike the Egyptian Hall, the museum was rarely crowded, because it was so difficult to get tickets. It was easier, some said, to obtain vouchers to Almack’s Assembly Rooms, Society’s most exclusive gathering place.

  How Olivia Wingate had obtained a ticket Peregrine did not and had rather not know.

  Though the place was deserted today, the two spoke in whispers, and made sure to keep their pencils moving busily.

  “It will be easy enough for me to write to you in Edinburgh,” Olivia was assuring him.

  It was better she didn’t write to him, Peregrine told himself. Her letters were dangerous.

  He shouldn’t be here with her. Not one of the adults in his life would approve of her. For one thing, she was deceitful. Today, for instance, her mother believed Olivia was here with a school friend and the friend’s mother.

  While Peregrine hadn’t told his uncle about her, he hadn’t told any outright lies. His conscience nagged and pinched all the same. She, on the other hand, didn’t seem to own a conscience.

  He knew this, knew she was trouble. But he couldn’t seem to help himself. She was as horribly irresistible as a ghost story. One couldn’t stop until the end.

  “Do the grown-ups read all your letters?” she said.

  He shook his head. “Not the ones from family and schoolmates.”

  “That makes it simple,” she said. “They’ll probably know a relative’s hand, so I’ll pretend to be a former schoolmate. I’ll use his name and direction and make my writing look like a boy’s.”

  Oh, it was tempting. Olivia’s outrageous letters would certainly offer an escape from dreary school days. But wasn’t what she suggested a crime? If Uncle found out . . .

  “You are very pale,” she said. “I am not sure you get enough exercise. Or perhaps you are not eating well. I should not let going away to Edinburgh spoil my appetite, if I were you. It’s a lovely place, and not all of the Scots are as dour as people believe.”

  “You’re proposing to do forgery,” Peregrine whispered. “It’s a capital offense. You could be hanged.”

  “Shall I stop writing to you, then?” she said, unconcerned.

  “Perhaps it would be best.”

  “Perhaps
you are right. I shall have to sort out the details on my own.”

  Peregrine knew he shouldn’t ask, but it was impossible not to. He lasted barely a minute before the question burst from him. “What details?” he said. “Regarding what?”

  “My quest,” she said.

  “What quest?” he said. “You are not going to be a knight until you grow up.”

  He was more teachable than his uncle thought. Peregrine knew better than to repeat his error of telling her she would never be a knight. That would only make her lose her temper. He was not afraid she’d injure him. He was afraid the row would attract attention. That would make an Incident, and the few drawing lessons he had left would turn into no drawing lessons at all.

  “I can’t wait until I grow up,” she said. “Now that you are leaving, Mama and I are back where we started. We shall never get anywhere, relying on drawing lessons. I shall have to take matters into my own hands and find the treasure.”

  Over the course of several clandestine letters, Peregrine had learned, in appalling detail, precisely why Olivia and her mother were Outcasts and Lepers. He was aware that the Family Curse was ill fame. The Dreadful DeLuceys deserved their bad reputation, Olivia had cheerfully admitted—all except her mother, who was nothing like the others. If anything, Olivia considered her mama far too proper.

  If Olivia was one of the milder examples, Peregrine thought, “Dreadful” was a gross understatement.

  She had filled her letters with references to this wicked relative or that. She had never before mentioned treasure, however.

  “What treasure?” he said, unable to help himself.

  “Edmund DeLucey’s treasure,” she said. “My great-great-grandfather. The pirate. I know where he hid it.”

  BATHSHEBA SET OUT on Saturday morning with a list of possible lodgings and an optimistic spirit.

  She worked her way in an orderly fashion up and down the streets projecting from Soho Square and round the square itself.

  Meanwhile, the day, which started out mild and clear, grew steadily less so. By early afternoon a sharp breeze had driven down the temperature, and dreary grey clouds obscured the sun. By midafternoon, the breeze was stiffening into a wintry wind and the clouds were darkening, along with her mood.

  The rooms she could afford in Soho, she found, were shabbier and more cramped than those she had now. At least in Bleeding Heart Yard, some of the ancient buildings retained vestiges of their bygone grandeur. Not all of their large rooms had been divided and divided again into narrow little ones.

  Moreover, the neighborhood, acceptable at the heart, quickly deteriorated, much as her present one did. A few minutes’ walking southeastward from Soho Square brought one into St. Giles’s, a notorious back-slum.

  In short, Bathsheba had wasted a Saturday. Instead of looking forward to a new home, she could only look forward to spending more precious hours on a task she was beginning to believe futile.

  Thanks to Lord Lisle’s ridiculously expensive lessons, her finances had improved markedly, but she feared they had not improved enough to make any significant difference in her circumstances.

  London had turned out to be a great deal more costly than she’d expected. Not for the first time she wondered whether she’d done the right thing in coming here. Dublin was cheaper and friendlier.

  Yet Ireland was poorer, and obtaining artistic work had been even more difficult there. Good, affordable schooling for Olivia certainly was easier to find in London.

  In less than a year, Miss Smithson of New Ormond Street had eradicated all traces of Olivia’s brogue. She spoke as a lady ought to speak. If only one could teach her to behave as a lady ought to behave. In school, among her classmates and under Miss Smithson’s basilisk gaze, Olivia was a model of ladylike deportment. Unfortunately, like so many of her maternal relatives, she was a chameleon, adapting easily to her surroundings. Out of school, among a different class of persons, she was another girl altogether.

  Matters would not improve if they returned to Ireland.

  London was the place of opportunity. But it did not offer opportunity cheap or make the way easy.

  It was not going to make way for Bathsheba Wingate today, obviously.

  Time to give up and go home.

  She started down Meard’s Court as the first cold drops of rain began to fall. She was used to rain and cold, but today, weary in both body and spirit, she minded it very much. The rain pattered on her bonnet and the shoulders of her cloak. Soon it would beat harder, she thought, glancing up at the blackening sky. She would be wet through by the time she had walked home.

  When she reached the corner of Dean Street, she found herself gazing southward toward St. Anne’s Church. There was a hackney stand at the church.

  But if she splurged on a hired vehicle she must scrimp for dinner.

  She put the hackney out of her mind and hurried across Dean Street, her gaze darting north and south. If she had been looking straight ahead she might have been run over, for the grey veil of rain turned her into a dark blur. But she didn’t look straight ahead. She very sensibly watched the street for oncoming carts and carriages.

  And so she ran straight into the man on the walkway.

  She heard a grunt, and felt him stagger a little. She grabbed two fistfuls of coat to keep him from toppling over. This was not the most intelligent move, but she acted instinctively. It took her brain another moment to point out that he was taller and heavier than she was and would only take her down with him.

  By this time, he’d regained his balance.

  “Oh, I do beg your pardon,” she said, releasing the coat. Out of maternal habit, she smoothed it down where she’d wrinkled it. “I was not looking—”

  That was when she lifted her head and did look, finally. Rain drizzled into her face and the daylight was all but gone, yet she had no trouble recognizing the coal-black eyes gazing down at her over the patrician nose or the firm mouth with its provoking promise of a smile.

  She simply stared, one hand falling away, the other still resting on his coat.

  “It is I who ought to beg your pardon,” Lord Rathbourne said. “I seem to have acquired a troublesome habit of standing in your way.”

  “I did not see you,” she said. She snatched her hand away from his coat. Once, only once, could she not meet up with him in a civilized and graceful way? Embarrassment swept over her in a hot rush, sharpening her tone. “I shouldn’t see you here. What could possibly bring you to Soho?”

  “You,” he said. “I have been looking for you for hours. But I shall not keep you standing in the rain while I explain myself. Let us make a dash to St. Anne’s Church for a hackney. We can speak more comfortably then.”

  Involuntarily, her gaze shot southward again, to the church.

  Oh, it was tempting.

  But riding in a closed carriage with a man who turned her into a witless sixteen-year-old was asking for trouble.

  “No, thank you,” she said. “I think it best if we travel in different directions.” Once more she set herself walking eastward.

  She was distantly aware of a rumble. In the next instant, her feet left the ground, and before she could make her brain believe it was happening, he had scooped her up and was carrying her down Dean Street.

  They’d reached Compton Street before she recovered her wits and untangled her tongue. “Put me down,” she said.

  He kept on walking.

  He was not even breathing hard.

  She was. The arms bracing her were like iron bands. His broad chest and shoulders blocked out the wind and much of the rain. His coat was damp, but warmed by the body under it.

  While she had realized he was fit—the cut of his clothes had told her so—she’d greatly underestimated his strength. She knew he was tall and well proportioned. She hadn’t realized, though, how very much of him there was.

  Too much.

  Overpowering.

  An image came into her head of warriors in armor storming castles, sl
aughtering the men, and carrying off the women.

  His ancestors were such men.

  “Put me down,” she said. She squirmed.

  He only tightened his grasp, crushing her more closely against him.

  She grew hot and addled. She knew she ought to fight, but her will was ebbing away. Or maybe what she felt was her morals disintegrating.

  Belatedly she recollected their surroundings: a public byway. If she renewed her struggles, all she’d do was attract attention.

  People had clustered in doorways for shelter. They had nothing to do but stare at passersby.

  Someone might recognize him. Or her. If word of this got out . . .

  It did not bear thinking of.

  She kept her head down and tried to occupy her brain with composing devastating set-downs and plotting retribution. She found that her mind had gone on holiday and left her body in charge.

  Her body was warm and sheltered. It wanted to get closer to the stronger one, the source of heat. It wanted to crawl inside his coat.

  Luckily, they had only a short distance to cover, and he walked briskly. In a few minutes, they reached the hackney stand.

  “The lady’s slipped and hurt her foot,” he told the driver at the head of the queue. “I should prefer to travel with a minimum of sudden starts, stops, and bumps, if you please.” He tossed her into the vehicle, growled something else at the driver, and climbed in beside her.

  “I’m sorry about that,” he said, when the vehicle was in motion. “Well, not completely sorry.” His mouth curved a very little.

  She tried to think of a cutting answer. Her mind was sluggish. Her heart, meanwhile, was beating dementedly.

  “I was too impatient, perhaps,” he said. “Yet it seemed absurd to stand in the rain, arguing with you. I only wanted to make an offer.”

  She stiffened. This she could understand, all too well. This was not confusing. The heat drained away, leaving her chilled, and she said, with all the icy dignity she could muster, “A what?”

  He made a dismissive gesture. “Not that kind of offer,” he said.