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.