Lord Perfect (11 page)

He did not see the guilty look his nephew cast after
him.

Chapter 5

British Museum, Saturday 22 September

PEREGRINE'S GUILT WAS ON ACCOUNT OF THE Wingate lady
he'd failed to mention, the one sitting on a portable stool next to
his. They were sketching an enormous red granite pharaoh's head with
a partially broken crown: the head of Young Memnon that Belzoni had
sent back from Egypt.

Unlike the Egyptian Hall, the museum was rarely crowded,
because it was so difficult to get tickets. It was easier, some said,
to obtain vouchers to Almack's Assembly Rooms, Society's most
exclusive gathering place.

How Olivia Wingate had obtained a ticket Peregrine did
not and had rather not know.

Though the place was deserted today, the two spoke in
whispers, and made sure to keep their pencils moving busily.

"It will be easy enough for me to write to you in
Edinburgh," Olivia was assuring him.

It was better she didn't write to him, Peregrine told
himself. Her letters were dangerous.

He shouldn't be here with her. Not one of the adults in
his life would approve of her. For one thing, she was deceitful.
Today, for instance, her mother believed Olivia was here with a
school friend and the friend's mother.

While Peregrine hadn't told his uncle about her, he
hadn't told any outright lies. His conscience nagged and pinched all
the same. She, on the other hand, didn't seem to own a conscience.

He knew this, knew she was trouble. But he couldn't seem
to help himself. She was as horribly irresistible as a ghost story.
One couldn't stop until the end.

"Do the grown-ups read all your letters?" she
said.

He shook his head. "Not the ones from family and
schoolmates."

"That makes it simple," she said. "They'll
probably know a relative's hand, so I'll pretend to be a former
schoolmate. I'll use his name and direction and make my writing look
like a boy's."

Oh, it was tempting. Olivia's
outrageous letters would certainly offer an escape from dreary school
days. But wasn't what she suggested a
crime
!
If Uncle found out…

"You are very pale," she said. "I am not
sure you get enough exercise. Or perhaps you are not eating well. I
should not let going away to Edinburgh spoil my appetite, if I were
you. It's a lovely place, and not all of the Scots are as dour as
people believe."

"You're proposing to do
forgery
,"
Peregrine whispered. "It's a capital offense. You could be
hanged."

"Shall I stop writing to you, then?" she said,
unconcerned.

"Perhaps it would be best."

"Perhaps you are right. I shall have to sort out
the details on my own."

Peregrine knew he shouldn't ask, but it was impossible
not to. He lasted barely a minute before the question burst from him.
"What details?" he said. "Regarding what?"

"My quest," she said.

"What quest?" he said. "You are not going
to be a knight until you grow up."

He was more teachable than his uncle thought. Peregrine
knew better than to repeat his error of telling her she would never
be a knight. That would only make her lose her temper. He was not
afraid she'd injure him. He was afraid the row would attract
attention. That would make an Incident, and the few drawing lessons
he had left would turn into no drawing lessons at all.

"I can't wait until I grow up," she said. "Now
that you are leaving, Mama and I are back where we started. We shall
never get anywhere, relying on drawing lessons. I shall have to take
matters into my own hands and find the treasure."

Over the course of several
clandestine letters, Peregrine had learned, in appalling detail,
precisely why Olivia and her mother were
Outcasts
and Lepers
. He was aware that the
Family Curse
was ill fame. The Dreadful DeLuceys deserved their bad reputation,
Olivia had cheerfully admitted—all except her mother, who was
nothing like the others. If anything, Olivia considered her mama far
too proper.

If Olivia was one of the milder examples, Peregrine
thought, "Dreadful" was a gross understatement.

She had filled her letters with references to this
wicked relative or that. She had never before mentioned treasure,
however.

"What treasure?" he said, unable to help
himself.

"Edmund DeLucey's treasure," she said. "My
great-great-grandfather. The pirate. I know where he hid it."

BATHSHEBA SET OUT on Saturday morning with a list of
possible lodgings and an optimistic spirit.

She worked her way in an orderly fashion up and down the
streets projecting from Soho Square and round the square itself.

Meanwhile, the day, which started out mild and clear,
grew steadily less so. By early afternoon a sharp breeze had driven
down the temperature, and dreary grey clouds obscured the sun. By
midafternoon, the breeze was stiffening into a wintry wind and the
clouds were darkening, along with her mood.

The rooms she could afford in Soho, she found, were
shabbier and more cramped than those she had now. At least in
Bleeding Heart Yard, some of the ancient buildings retained vestiges
of their bygone grandeur. Not all of their large rooms had been
divided and divided again into narrow little ones.

Moreover, the neighborhood, acceptable at the heart,
quickly deteriorated, much as her present one did. A few minutes'
walking southeastward from Soho Square brought one into St. Giles's,
a notorious back-slum.

In short, Bathsheba had wasted a Saturday. Instead of
looking forward to a new home, she could only look forward to
spending more precious hours on a task she was beginning to believe
futile.

Thanks to Lord Lisle's ridiculously expensive lessons,
her finances had improved markedly, but she feared they had not
improved enough to make any significant difference in her
circumstances.

London had turned out to be a great deal more costly
than she'd expected. Not for the first time she wondered whether
she'd done the right thing in coming here. Dublin was cheaper and
friendlier.

Yet Ireland was poorer, and obtaining artistic work had
been even more difficult there. Good, affordable schooling for Olivia
certainly was easier to find in London.

In less than a year, Miss Smithson of New Ormond Street
had eradicated all traces of Olivia's brogue. She spoke as a lady
ought to speak. If only one could teach her to behave as a lady ought
to behave. In school, among her classmates and under Miss Smithson's
basilisk gaze, Olivia was a model of ladylike deportment.
Unfortunately, like so many of her maternal relatives, she was a
chameleon, adapting easily to her surroundings. Out of school, among
a different class of persons, she was another girl altogether.

Matters would not improve if they returned to Ireland.

London was the place of opportunity. But it did not
offer opportunity cheap or make the way easy.

It was not going to make way for Bathsheba Wingate
today, obviously.

Time to give up and go home.

She started down Meard's Court as the first cold drops
of rain began to fall. She was used to rain and cold, but today,
weary in both body and spirit, she minded it very much.

The rain pattered on her bonnet and the shoulders of her
cloak. Soon it would beat harder, she thought, glancing up at the
blackening sky. She would be wet through by the time she had walked
home.

When she reached the corner of Dean Street, she found
herself gazing southward toward St. Anne's Church. There was a
hackney stand at the church.

But if she splurged on a hired vehicle she must scrimp
for dinner.

She put the hackney out of her mind and hurried across
Dean Street, her gaze darting north and south. If she had been
looking straight ahead she might have been run over, for the grey
veil of rain turned her into a dark blur. But she didn't look
straight ahead. She very sensibly watched the street for oncoming
carts and carriages.

And so she ran straight into the man on the walkway.

She heard a grunt, and felt him stagger a little. She
grabbed two fistfuls of coat to keep him from toppling over. This was
not the most intelligent move, but she acted instinctively. It took
her brain another moment to point out that he was taller and heavier
than she was and would only take her down with him.

By this time, he'd regained his balance.

"Oh, I do beg your pardon," she said,
releasing the coat. Out of maternal habit, she smoothed it down where
she'd wrinkled it. "I was not looking—"

That was when she lifted her head and did look, finally.
Rain drizzled into her face and the daylight was all but gone, yet
she had no trouble recognizing the coal-black eyes gazing down at her
over the patrician nose or the firm mouth with its provoking promise
of a smile.

She simply stared, one hand falling away, the other
still resting on his coat.

"It is I who ought to beg your pardon," Lord
Rathbourne said. "I seem to have acquired a troublesome habit of
standing in your way."

"I did not see you," she said. She snatched
her hand away from his coat. Once, only once, could she not meet up
with him in a civilized and graceful way? Embarrassment swept over
her in a hot rush, sharpening her tone.