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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.


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