“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.