Lord Perfect (The Dressmakers 3)

It was written in her mother’s hand.

Mama hadn’t even had the decency to exploit the situation in her own name. If she had, Bathsheba might never have known about it, never suffered a moment’s distress on that account.

But no, Mama must pretend to be Bathsheba.

And so it was Bathsheba who received Lord Fosbury’s curt reply. It was Bathsheba who was mortified.

And when she wrote to Mama, the answer was as she might have expected: “I did it for you, my love, because you are too proud and overscrupulous.”

That was the last letter Bathsheba had from her mother. Her parents moved on to St. Petersburg, where Papa died of a liver ailment. Mama remarried soon after and went away without a word to anybody, including her daughter. Bathsheba wished she missed her family, but she didn’t. Her childhood was filled with incidents like the letter to Lord Fosbury. Small wonder she’d been willing to endure anything, in order to have a life with Jack instead.

“What is it, Mama?” Olivia said.

Bathsheba looked up. She had not heard the girl come in. “Nothing,” Bathsheba said. She tore Lord Rathbourne’s secretary’s note into very small pieces and threw it on the fire.

“You’ve been weeping,” Olivia said.

Bathsheba hastily wiped her eyes. “I must have got a cinder in my eye,” she said.

It was nothing, she told herself. She had known this would happen. She’d merely lost a potential pupil. She’d find others. This was nothing like the humiliation of Lord Fosbury’s note. It was ridiculous to feel angry. . . disappointed . . . hurt.

The visit to the Egyptian Hall had been her first venture into a part of London that Society frequented. Her exchange with Lord Rathbourne had been her first conversation with a gentleman since Jack’s funeral. The newness of the experience had unsettled her, that was all.

This explanation wasn’t completely persuasive, but it got her through the rest of Friday, Saturday, and Sunday.

On Monday she conducted her drawing class as usual, in the room she rented two floors above the print shop. When the class was over, she went down to the shop as she usually did, to find out if anyone had enquired about drawing lessons.

A tall, familiar figure stood at the counter.

She stood and stared like a gawking girl who’d never learnt any manners at all, her gaze roaming over the broad shoulders and down the straight back and down and down along a mile-long stretch of muscled leg and up again, over the immaculate, elegantly garbed masculine figure. She gazed entranced at the strip of white neckcloth visible above the coat collar and the thick, dark hair curling against the neckcloth and the small, curving shadow the brim of his hat made at his ear.

“Ah, here she is,” said Mr. Popham. She blinked as his head came into view. The tall, aristocratic figure had completely obscured the print seller’s small person.

The gentleman turned. Rathbourne, yes, of course. Who else could be so . . . perfect, even from the back? Who else would regard her so composedly, displaying not a flicker of surprise—no hint of unseemly interest?

He did not gawk like an imbecile.

“Mrs. Wingate,” he said. “You have arrived in the very nick of time. Popham and I had almost come to blows.”

“Oh, no, indeed, I am sure not, my lord,” said Mr. Popham, much flustered. “Merely a hesitation on my part, as I was not at all certain . . .” He trailed off, clearly at a loss.

“I expressed a desire to observe your drawing class,” said his lordship. “Mr. Popham tells me it is conducted upstairs.”

“The class is over,” Bathsheba said. “I thought your interest was as well. I received a note to that effect. Or did I dream it?”

“You are displeased with me,” he said. “You are thinking that when a man makes up his mind, he ought to make up his mind.”

She was thinking she discerned an infuriatingly faint hint of a smile at the right corner of his mouth. “What is required to help you make up your mind once and for all?” she said. “The class is over. My next is on Wednesday. Do you wish to make another tedious journey to the other side of the moon to observe it?”

“Holborn is not the other side of the moon,” he said.

“It is not a sphere in which you customarily travel,” she said.

“Perhaps you would wish me to wrap the painting now, my lord, while you continue your conversation with Mrs. Wingate?” Mr. Popham said. “Then it will be ready for you when you leave. Or were you desiring to have it sent on?”

“No, I shall take it with me,” Rathbourne said, his dark gaze never leaving Bathsheba.

Popham disappeared into the back room.

“Your watercolor of Hampstead Heath,” Rathbourne said. “That is the problem, you see. That is what brings me to Holborn. That is what has made me so indecisive. It has haunted me since last Wednesday. I strongly doubt I should easily find another instructor as gifted. The true talents devote their time to creating and exhibiting their works. The more pedestrian make their living by teaching. I wondered whether I ought to take advantage before you come to your senses and leave off wasting your time and talent teaching brats like my nephew.”

Had he complimented her beauty, Bathsheba could have listened unmoved. Though she knew she was well past her bloom, she was accustomed to that kind of flattery and thought little of it. Her looks were not her doing.

Her art was, and she had worked at it. She was particularly proud of the painting of Hampstead Heath. He could not have directed his praise more aptly.

She was hot everywhere, blushing like the veriest schoolgirl. “My usual pupils are nothing like your nephew,” she said. “The classroom is nothing like what he is used to, either. And talented or not, we both know I am not suitable. You might be willing to overlook my background, but his family will go into fits.”

“His family always goes into fits,” Rathbourne said. “I try to ignore them as much as possible. Would you be so good as to show me the classroom, please, and allow me to try to imagine it populated with students? I am not an artist, and my imagination is limited. I hope it is a smallish class.”

“Eight students on Mondays,” she said. “This way, then.” She led him out of the shop and up the narrow stairs.

“Imagining eight is within my capabilities,” he said, and his deep voice seemed lower yet in the cramped, dim surroundings. “Girls? Boys? Both?”

“Girls.” It was two flights up, but she was used to the climb and should not be breathing so hard. She was grateful he asked no more questions until she opened the classroom door.

The sparsely furnished room was large and amply supplied with windows. “The light is good, you see,” she said, “especially in the early afternoon. It’s always kept clean. Several of us—all women—share the rent and use the space alternately. We employ a diligent cleaning woman.”

She showed him the easels, neatly stacked in a corner of the room. “My girls are the daughters of prosperous tradesmen. Some are a little spoiled, but I have managed to teach them the importance of maintaining order in the work space.”

He walked to a window, clasped his hands behind his back, and looked out. She noticed his head was bare. She glanced about and saw his hat on a chair. He must have taken it off when he entered the room. She didn’t know why she was surprised, or if surprise was what she felt. The afternoon light played over dark hair clean and free of pomade. It had a hint of curl, which would be far more pronounced when it was wet.

Do not picture him wet, she commanded herself.

His deep voice dragged her back from the brink of danger. “What else do you teach them?” he asked. “What is your method?”

She explained how she began with simple still life exercises, allowing her students to bring a few objects from home and arrange them as they wished. “Perhaps some fruit or a cup and saucer at first,” she said. “Later, I might arrange a bonnet, a pair of gloves, and a book. There are outdoor exercises, too, when the weather permits. Trees, doorways, a shop

front.”

“You do not take them to the Royal Academy to copy other artists’ works?” he said, still looking out of the window.

“That is not the best method for my students,” she said. “They do not aim to become artists. Their main desire is to acquire refinement and ladylike accomplishments. Their parents want them to rise in the world. I teach my students to see. I teach them mechanics and techniques. In learning these, they acquire the capacity to discern quality. What they learn from me they might apply to other subjects or hobbies.” She tried to imagine what an adolescent lordling would gain from such instruction.

“You teach fundamentals, in other words,” said Rathbourne.

“Yes.”

“That is what Peregrine lacks,” he said, turning away from the window finally. The sunlight outlined the almost-curls and burnished his chiseled features. “He lacks the foundation. He has had drawing masters. Apparently, their methods did not suit him. Perhaps yours will.”

“He would require private lessons,” she said, ruthlessly suppressing the seed of hope trying to sprout within her. He had said only “perhaps.” It was the diplomatic thing to say. The room must seem shabby to him, her methods amateurish, her students nobodies. “I cannot teach him in classes with the girls. His presence would be disruptive. He will make some girls shy and others bold and all of them silly.”