Lord Perfect

by Loretta Chase

  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.”

  “You must make sure you are very serious,” she said. She made herself look seriously at the matter, too, recalling certain harsh facts of life that erased the gleaming heaps of coins from the picture. “As your uncle is no doubt aware by now, I should have to make special arrangements for you. In any case, it is not at all wise to continue this discussion here.”

  She allowed herself to meet Lord Rathbourne’s gaze. Did she see relief in those dark eyes?

  It was only the briefest flicker, but it was emotion of some kind, and what else could it be?

  She should have realized: If Rathbourne had learnt her name, then he must know everything else about her. She doubted there was a single member of the British aristocracy who did not know who Bathsheba Wingate was.

  In that case, he was not serious about hiring her. He’d come only to indulge the boy . . . and perhaps himself.

  Perhaps he had another sort of association in mind, and the boy offered a convenient excuse.

  No one expected a man, even a perfect one, to live a celibate life. The world would still consider him the embodiment of the noble ideal if he kept a mistress, as long as he was discreet about it.

  “What kind of special arrangements?” Lisle said.

  “We are keeping the lady from her other students,” Rathbourne said. “You and I shall discuss the subject further at another time, Lisle.”

  “Please do,” she said, lifting her chin. “If you choose to pursue the matter, you may write to me in care of Mr. Popham the print seller. Good day.” She hurried away, face hot and eyes itching with the angry tears she refused to shed.

  Chapter 3

  AS BATHSHEBA SUSPECTED, OLIVIA DID HAVE AN Idea and she did see Lord Lisle as a mark.

  The Idea had been gradually taking shape in her mind since they’d come to London, nearly a year ago.

  London wasn’t as much fun as Dublin. Here, her mother made too many rules. Here, one must be bored witless every day in the classroom of a pinch-faced, droning schoolmistress.

  In Dublin, when Papa was alive, life was jollier. Mama wasn’t so strict. She laughed more. She invented interesting games and told wonderful stories.

  All that changed when Papa died.

  Though he’d told them not to grieve—he’d never had so much fun in all his life as he’d had with his wife and daughter, he said—it was impossible not to miss him. Olivia had cried more than he would have liked. Mama had, too.

  But three years had gone by, and Mama still wasn’t herself.

  Olivia had no trouble understanding why: They were too poor, and poor people were usually unhappy. They were hungry or sick or living in the meanest lodgings or in workhouses or debtors’ prisons. Other poor people cheated, robbed, and assaulted them. The bad ones got themselves imprisoned or transported or hanged, and the good ones suffered as much as if they’d been bad.

  Not only was it disagreeable to be poor, it wasn’t at all respectable.

  For aristocrats, it was a completely different story. They had no worries. They did whatever they pleased, and no one arrested them or even objected when they behaved badly. They lived in enormous houses, with hundreds of servants looking after them. Aristocrats never worked. If one of them painted a picture, he didn’t have to sell it to make money. He didn’t have to give drawing lessons to shopkeepers’ whining, spoiled brats, as Olivia’s mother did.

  Yet Mama was an aristocrat, too. Her great-great-grandfather was an earl, and his great-grandson lived near Bristol at a place called Throgmorton, an enormous house with hundreds of servants. Mama’s mother was Sir Somebody’s daughter. Her grandmother was Lord Somebody Else’s second cousin. Practically all of Mama’s relatives had blue blood in their veins.

  The trouble was, there were two kinds of DeLuceys, the good ones and the bad ones, and Mama had had the tragic misfortune of being born into the bad side of the family.

  Her side were the Dreadful DeLuceys . . . shunned by the other lords and ladies and sirs because . . . well, they were quite wicked, actually.

  Mama wasn’t at all wicked, and this was the great tragedy and cause of all her cruel sufferings and grievous poverty.

  All of this made her a Damsel in Distress, exactly like the ones in the stories that Lord Lisle claimed were myths.

  But he didn’t understand anything.

  They weren’t myths, and if he’d known Mama’s story, he would not have said such stupid, aggravating things, the great th
ickhead.

  There were knights, too, and they didn’t have to wear shining armor, at least not these days, and they didn’t have to be men.

  Olivia was the knight who would rescue her mother.

  That was the Idea.

  She was not yet certain exactly how to carry it out. She could see, though, that money was crucial.

  This was why, at the Egyptian Hall, once her temper had cooled and she could think clearly, she decided to cultivate Lord Lisle.

  He was the first aristocrat who’d come close enough to talk to since Papa died. Knowing it might be a very long time before she got that close to another one, Olivia had made the most of the opportunity.

  As you’d expect, Mama didn’t approve.

  She came home very cross on Wednesday evening.

  “I met up with Lord Rathbourne and Lord Lisle at Popham’s today,” she told Olivia as she took off her shabby cloak.

  “Lord Rathbourne?” Olivia repeated. She pretended to be trying to remember who this was.

  “You know perfectly well who he is,” said her mother. “You assaulted his nephew. Then you tried to recruit the boy as a drawing student.”

  “Oh, him,” said Olivia. “I told you I felt sorry for that boy. Obviously he was in desperate need of lessons.”

  “And we, obviously, are in desperate need of money,” said her mother. “But you are barking up the wrong tree.”

  Olivia quickly began to lay out the tea things. Her mother watched, her face so stern. But she didn’t look well. She had deep shadows under her eyes and her skin was too pale. Poor Mama!

  “You are right, Mama,” she said soothingly. “Everyone knows aristocrats never pay their tradesmen. I should have realized they’d treat teachers the same.”

  “That is not the point,” her mother said. “You are grown up enough to understand our position. You know we are lepers and outcasts from the Great World.”

  “Lord Rathbourne didn’t look disgusted when you spoke to him,” Olivia said. He had looked at her as Papa used to do. And Mama had blushed.

  “He was acting,” her mother said. “He is a perfect gentleman, and a perfect gentleman is always polite. He would no more agree to my teaching his precious nephew how to draw than he would consent to your best friend the pawnbroker teaching him sums.”

  Well, this was disappointing.

  But it would take more than one setback to daunt Olivia.

  Already she had an Idea.

  THE LETTER ARRIVED on Thursday in a furtive manner calculated to awaken Peregrine’s curiosity. The young underfootman slipped it to him, whispering that his lordship would have his head if he heard of it, but he didn’t know how to say no to the young lady.

  Possessing more than average intelligence, Peregrine had little trouble deducing the young lady’s identity from the servant’s description. The letter’s clandestine arrival intrigued him to a painful degree. However, he knew better than to open it when anyone else was about. One of the other servants would see. The more who knew, the more likely the butler would find out. He would tell Lord Rathbourne.

  Peregrine tucked the letter into an inner coat pocket and bore several hours of silent agonies before he was at last alone in his room, unwatched, and could open it.

  Written in a large, elaborate, and untidy script, the thing took up a great deal of paper.

  My Lord,

  It is exceedingly wrong—and Fast, I believe—for a Young Lady to write privately to a Young Gentleman. Nonetheless, I must bow to a greater Necessity: To Tell the Truth. I know I risk lowering your Opinion of me. Not that I can imagine how you could think any Less than you do, for you must be aware by now that Tragic Circumstances have made me a Leper and an Outcast from the Great World to which you belong. Until the Family Curse is lifted My dear Mama has told me of meeting with you and His Lordship your Esteemed Uncle yesterday at Popham’s Print Shop. She has chided me for my Audacity and explained why I should not have tried to enlist you as a drawing student. Furthermore, she tells me I shall Never See You Again. I know this is of no consequence to you, for I am merely an Insignificant Girl, one you hardly know or would wish to know better. Yet our Meeting left a most Forceful Impression upon me. Since our Elders have decreed that we are NEVER TO MEET AGAIN, I must take the Liberty of telling you through these Secretive Means how greatly I admire your Honorable and Courageous Ambition to be a GREAT EXPLORER instead of another Idle Aristocrat. I most earnestly wish you well in your Endeavors to learn to Draw.

  Yours sincerely,

  Olivia Wingate

  P.S. Please do not attempt to communicate with me. One day the Family Curse shall be lifted, and then In India, there is a class of people known as Untouchables. Until Henceforth you must consider me one of Them.

  The letter was ghastly, even for a girl. She’d overembellished the script with curls and corkscrews. The wretched excess of capital letters and thick underlines indicated sentimentality, an overly romantic turn of mind, and an emotional temperament.

  Peregrine’s parents were all these things; his paternal grandparents were more so. The Dalmays were always breaking out into dramatic scenes, and he was always being made to feel guilty without ever having the least idea what he was guilty of. But then, logic seemed to have no place in his relatives’ thinking processes—if they had processes, which Peregrine sometimes doubted.

  This was one of the many reasons he preferred his uncle’s house and his uncle’s company. Lord Rathbourne was calm. His household was calm. When he was vexed, he did not fly into a passion. He did not storm about and spout long, vehement speeches that made no sense. He never lost his temper, although once in a while he might become annoyed. Then his drawl might grow a trifle more pronounced and his countenance so calm that it might have been made of marble. But he never made a to-do. Ever. About anything.

  With his uncle, Peregrine did not spend his time tensed, waiting for the next storm to break. With his uncle, Peregrine always knew exactly where he stood and precisely what was expected of him.

  Until Wednesday evening, that is.

  Before going to his room to dress to go out, Lord Rathbourne stopped by the study where Peregrine was writing out a Greek exercise. After making two corrections, his lordship told Peregrine that Mrs. Wingate “would not suit” as a drawing master.

  Surprised and puzzled, Peregrine could not help trying to ascertain the logic of this decision.

  “I do not understand, sir,” he said. “What was unsuitable about her? Didn’t you say that her watercolor was brilliant? You seemed to admire it very much. You seemed to find her agreeable. Of course, it is difficult to tell when you are polite because you want to be and polite because it is a gentleman’s duty. When I do it, the difference is so obvious. But she was not boring or silly at all. Quite the opposite. Did she not strike you as unusually intelligent for a female?”

  Lord Rathbourne did not answer any of these questions. Instead, his face acquired a marble calm. When he spoke, his drawl was quite pronounced. “I said she was not suitable, Lisle. That is the end of it.”

  “But, sir—”

  “I can think of few exercises more tiresome than being catechized by a thirteen-year-old boy,” Lord Rathbourne said.

  Peregrine recognized the exceedingly bored tone. It meant the subject was closed.

  This was a shock. Usually his lordship was the most logical and reasonable of adults.

  If Peregrine had not been so completely flummoxed, he wouldn’t have stared so hard. Then he would not have seen it. But he did stare and he did see it: a muscle twitch. Only the once, and very quick and slight, at the far corner of his uncle’s right cheekbone.

  Then Peregrine knew there was a Serious Problem (as Olivia would have written) regarding Mrs. Wingate.

  If Lord Rathbourne would not tell him what it was, it must be very serious indeed.

  If he would not speak of it to Peregrine, no other adult would. If Peregrine was so foolish as to ask someone else, he or she would say, “
If it was proper for you to know, Lord Rathbourne would have told you.”

  Peregrine tried through all of Friday and Saturday to put the letter out of his head. The girl was silly—ye gods, she wanted to be a knight!—and since he’d never see her again, her family secrets didn’t matter.

  The trouble was, his chosen vocation was the finding out of secrets. He’d recently returned to his Greek and Latin studies with a zeal he’d previously been unable to muster. This was because he’d found out they were crucial to unlocking the secrets of the ancient Egyptians. Aunt Daphne—she wasn’t really his aunt, but all of Lord Rathbourne’s family had adopted him—had promised to teach Peregrine Coptic, one of the keys to deciphering hieroglyphs, if he could get through Homer creditably.

  Thus, by Sunday, Peregrine knew that he would go mad if he didn’t find out why Olivia Wingate was a Leper and an Outcast, and what the Family Curse was.

  This is why, on Sunday night, long after his uncle had bade him good night and gone out, and most of the household had gone to bed, Peregrine began writing to Olivia Wingate.

  THE LETTER FROM Lord Rathbourne arrived in care of Mr. Popham the print seller late on Friday. Bathsheba waited until she was at home to read it. With trembling fingers she opened it.

  His lordship’s secretary had written it. The message declining her services was short and scrupulously polite.

  She stared blindly at it for a long time after she’d absorbed the meaning. A too-familiar icy feeling trickled through her veins. Then the heat came, setting her face aflame.

  She told herself it wasn’t the same, but the memory burned in her mind as though freshly branded there, though three years had passed.

  It was a few months after she’d buried Jack. A note arrived from her father-in-law, written by his secretary. It accompanied the long letter he’d received, he believed, from her. This letter, which Bathsheba had never written, maundered on about Jack’s death and his “beloved daughter Olivia.” The writer sought forgiveness. And money, of course. It was horrible. “Let us be reconciled in Jack’s memory and for his child’s sake” . . . and more in that vein. For pages and pages the letter wheedled and begged, a shameless attempt to take advantage of Jack’s death and his father’s grief.