Lord Perfect (The Dressmakers 3)

“Peregrine is a disruptive presence,” said Rathbourne. “It hardly matters who is about. Girls, boys, adults. Teachers, family, clergymen, sailors, soldiers, members of Parliament. My nephew is a doubting Thomas. He wants everything proved. He is inquisitive, argumentative, and obstinate. He will ask you Why? a hundred times in an hour. If you do not triple your usual fee at the very least, you will be a great fool.”

He could not be serious. Thrice her fee for one boy? Lord Lisle couldn’t be more difficult to manage than Olivia, however much he tried, however much his parents had spoiled him. Olivia had inherited altogether too much of the Dreadful DeLucey character.

“In that case, I shall quadruple it,” Bathsheba said.

“He said you were sensible,” said Rathbourne, coming away from the window. “Would you be willing to take him, then, in spite of my warning?”

She did not even blink. Her father had taught her how to play cards. “Have you made up your mind, then?” she said.

He looked about the room. “Society won’t like it,” he said. “Society’s sympathies lie with your late husband’s family.”

“Oh,” she said. She felt so weary, suddenly. She felt like Sisyphus, pushing the great stone up the hill, only to have it roll back down again. The stone was her past, and it rolled over the sprout of hope and crushed it. She’d felt the same way the other day in front of the print shop when she’d realized that her name was closing another door against her.

“These ancient grudges and prejudices are so tiresome,” he said. “If Peregrine’s parents find out you are teaching him, they will fly into fits. Emotional extravagance is their nature, you see. They cannot help it. Perhaps this is why they are at a complete loss what to do about him. Their solution is to leave him to me while they retire to their lair in Scotland. But if my in-laws leave him to me, they must live with my decisions.” His gaze came to her then, and he smiled a very little. “All I need do is make up my mind. Do you know, you look at this moment as your daughter did when she became annoyed with Peregrine? Perhaps you wish to strike me with a sketchbook?”

“Would that help you make up your mind?” she said.

The smile became more pronounced, and she wished he had kept it hidden away, because the actual thing, rather than the hint of it, made her heart go much too fast and her brain much too slow.

“I have decided that the boy needs you,” he said. “I have decided that he is more important than old grudges and scandals.”

HE’D COME TO his senses, Benedict believed.

He’d been aware of her entering the print seller’s before he acknowledged it. He’d heard the light step, sensed her presence. He’d taken his time turning to her, steeling himself first.

Then he’d looked, and the spell was broken, he thought.

She was not the most beautiful creature in all the world, as he’d believed. She did not appear too young to have a daughter near Peregrine’s age. The face Benedict had found so unforgettable was careworn, the eyes not so brilliant as he remembered.

Consequently, he could be certain that he was choosing strictly as his conscience commanded, unaffected by the Great World’s opinion or the scenes he’d endure should Atherton learn of it. One must choose what was best for Peregrine.

The instant Benedict said the words, he knew he’d made the right choice.

What he did not expect was to see the rightness reflected in her countenance. First her eyes lit, then her expression softened, then the taut line of her mouth dissolved into a luscious curve of a smile. The careworn expression fled, taking all signs of age with it. The blue of her eyes was brilliant, almost blinding, and she seemed all alight somehow.

If he’d been a fanciful man, he might have imagined he’d uttered a magical incantation to effect such a transformation.

But he never allowed himself to be fanciful.

“You truly are perfect,” she said wonderingly.

Perfect. So everyone said of him. How low their standards of perfection were!

“Yes, it is a great bore,” he said. “I ought to say, ‘Nobody is perfect,’ but that is even more boring. My comfort is, if word of this gets about, people will stop saying I am perfect. How exciting. At last I shall have a fault.”

“I had no idea it was so difficult to acquire one,” she said. “Luckily, you came to the right place. As you may have heard, my branch of the DeLucey family possesses them in abundance.”

“If I need another one, I shall know where to come,” he said.

“I recommend you grow accustomed to the one first,” she said. “At present, it is a secret fault. Some people consider these the best kind.”

“One fault, one secret,” said Benedict. “I feel quite dissipated.”

“I’m honored to help,” she said. “But to return to business: Shall Lord Lisle come here for his lessons? I know it is out of the way, but that may be an advantage. He is less likely to cross paths with anyone who knows him.”

“That advantage occurred to me,” said Benedict. “It will be simple enough to send him with a servant.” A discreet one. “On foot, I think.”

“But it is nearly two miles from Cavendish Square,” she said.

“You know where I live,” he said.

“Who does not?” she said.

Who, indeed? Benedict wondered. Privacy was one luxury out of his reach.

“Two miles is nothing,” he said. “Peregrine needs the exercise, especially now. He has recently realized that a high competence in Greek and Latin is essential to the antiquarian. As a result, he has become obsessed with the classical authors. If he truly means to go to Egypt, he will need to be fit physically as well as mentally. He will need to become accustomed as well to being among people who do not travel in the same spheres as he.”

He allowed himself a smile over the phrase. She did not know everything about him—or very much about London—if she thought him a stranger to Holborn. Then he dragged his gaze from her remarkable face to the window, and the view beyond, of the buildings opposite. This was all for Peregrine. He must keep his mind on Peregrine.

She seemed to have no difficulty keeping her mind on business. She named the days and times the classroom was available for private instruction, wrote down the supplies needed, and obtained the name and direction of Benedict’s man of business, to whom she’d send her bill.

After this, he had no excuse for lingering. In another ten minutes he’d collected the watercolor from Popham and set out for a more exclusive establishment well west of Holborn, to have the drawing mounted and framed.

It would hang in his bedroom, Benedict decided.

Chapter 4

TEN DAYS PASSED, AND FOUR LESSONS. NOT once in this time did Benedict darken Mr. Popham’s door.

The obvious choice to accompany Peregrine to his drawing lessons was the footman Thomas, whom Benedict had brought down from Derbyshire. This was the only servant Benedict could trust to keep the matter to himself.

Discreetly dressed in everyday clothes rather than livery, Thomas would adjourn to a nearby coffeehouse while the lesson went on. At the end of the allotted time, he would collect his charge at the print shop door.

The task was well within Thomas’s abilities because Benedict had given Peregrine one simple rule: “You will go quietly to and from your drawing lessons. If any Incidents occur—before, during, or after—the lessons will cease. No excuses will be accepted. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” said Peregrine.

Benedict let him go, certain the rule was sufficient. Anything deemed crucial to his vocation, like Latin and Greek, received Peregrine’s full and fierce attention. Mrs. Wingate did not need Benedict at hand to subdue his nephew.

It was Benedict who needed subduing.

Day Eleven, a Friday, found him dangerously bored and restless.

It was not as though he had nothing to do. He was following a troubling criminal case at the Old Bailey. He had a speech to prepare in support of a proposal for a metropolitan police force. Though most of Fashionable Society had left London, they had not left a desert behind. He suffered no shortage of invitations to dine and dance, attend lectures, concerts, plays, operas, ballets, and exhibitions.