for the remaining
lessons.
She gathered her belongings, closed up the classroom,
and set out for home: a new home, thanks to Lord Rath-bourne…
whom she'd never see again.
He would keep away, and she was safe now, quite safe.
Also bored and out of sorts…
… until some hours later, when she was taking the
table linens out of the cupboard and found the letter Olivia had left
for her.
PEREGRINE ARRIVED AT Hyde Park Corner tired, hot, and
cross. He'd lost his way several times, and twice he'd had to run
away from louts who took exception to his costly attire. In normal
circumstances, Peregrine would have run straight at them, in order to
beat them bloody. He couldn't take the time, and having to run away
like a coward did not improve his temper.
He was angry with himself, too, for not having the good
sense to hire a hackney and spare himself a great deal of
aggravation.
This was not the best frame of mind in which to approach
Olivia, who stood talking to some women selling pies. Beside her
stood the boy version of a bull: Nat Diggerby, no doubt. His head
went straight down to his shoulders, with no discernible neck
between, and his shoulders were so wide he must have to go through
doors sideways. He stood like a bull, too, head tilted downward,
while only his eyes moved, watching the scene about him.
Peregrine straightened his own shoulders, puffed out his
chest, and marched up to them. Instead of the persuasive and tactful
speech he'd rehearsed, he said, "Miss Wingate, I've come to take
you home."
Her big, blue doll eyes widened. "Why? Has
something happened to Mama?"
"No, something has happened to you," Peregrine
said. "A head injury is my guess. It's the only way to explain
this cork-brained scheme of yours."
Scowling, the bull-boy moved in front of Olivia. "Here,
bugger off, you," he said.
"Bugger off yourself," Peregrine said. "I
wasn't talking to you."
The boy grasped the front of Peregrine's coat.
"Take your hand away," Peregrine said.
"Oooh, will you listen to him?" said the boy.
"Ain't he the fine lady, though?"
"No, I ain't," Peregrine said, and slammed his
fist into Bull-Boy's jaw.
BENEDICT WAS AT his club when he was informed that one
of his servants wished to speak to him.
This was not a good sign.
The last time a servant had come to the club for him was
when Ada had collapsed upon her return home after a prayer meeting.
Still, Benedict appeared calm and composed when he
entered the antechamber where Thomas waited.
At his entrance, Thomas's face worked.
A very bad sign.
Ignoring the cold spreading in his gut, Benedict told
him to say what the matter was in as few words as possible.
"It's Lord Lisle, my lord," Thomas said,
blinking hard. "I don't know where he is. He went in the print
shop door like he always does. I went into Porter's Coffee House to
wait, like I always do. I come out like I always do, a few minutes
early. He never come out, sir. I waited a quarter hour past the time,
then I went up. The classroom was locked up tight, and no one
answered when I knocked and called. I went down to the shop and asked
Mr. Popham if the drawing lessons was over for today. He said there
wasn't any. Mrs. Wingate went home early, he said, on account her
pupil never came."
The cold spread further, numbing feeling. Time itself
seemed to slow, as though frozen, too. "I see," said
Benedict. Then he ordered his hat and coat and left with his footman.
During the short walk home, his feelings safely closed
down, Benedict disciplined his mind to analyze the problem as though
it were like any of the other problems he was called upon every day
to sort out and solve.
By the time he entered his house, the thousands of wild
possibilities he might have entertained had narrowed to the two
likeliest, in the circumstances:
1. Peregrine had run away.
2. Despite all their precautions, someone had found out
who Peregrine was and had kidnapped him.
Benedict went up to the boy's room with Thomas. A
lessons.
She gathered her belongings, closed up the classroom,
and set out for home: a new home, thanks to Lord Rath-bourne…
whom she'd never see again.
He would keep away, and she was safe now, quite safe.
Also bored and out of sorts…
… until some hours later, when she was taking the
table linens out of the cupboard and found the letter Olivia had left
for her.
PEREGRINE ARRIVED AT Hyde Park Corner tired, hot, and
cross. He'd lost his way several times, and twice he'd had to run
away from louts who took exception to his costly attire. In normal
circumstances, Peregrine would have run straight at them, in order to
beat them bloody. He couldn't take the time, and having to run away
like a coward did not improve his temper.
He was angry with himself, too, for not having the good
sense to hire a hackney and spare himself a great deal of
aggravation.
This was not the best frame of mind in which to approach
Olivia, who stood talking to some women selling pies. Beside her
stood the boy version of a bull: Nat Diggerby, no doubt. His head
went straight down to his shoulders, with no discernible neck
between, and his shoulders were so wide he must have to go through
doors sideways. He stood like a bull, too, head tilted downward,
while only his eyes moved, watching the scene about him.
Peregrine straightened his own shoulders, puffed out his
chest, and marched up to them. Instead of the persuasive and tactful
speech he'd rehearsed, he said, "Miss Wingate, I've come to take
you home."
Her big, blue doll eyes widened. "Why? Has
something happened to Mama?"
"No, something has happened to you," Peregrine
said. "A head injury is my guess. It's the only way to explain
this cork-brained scheme of yours."
Scowling, the bull-boy moved in front of Olivia. "Here,
bugger off, you," he said.
"Bugger off yourself," Peregrine said. "I
wasn't talking to you."
The boy grasped the front of Peregrine's coat.
"Take your hand away," Peregrine said.
"Oooh, will you listen to him?" said the boy.
"Ain't he the fine lady, though?"
"No, I ain't," Peregrine said, and slammed his
fist into Bull-Boy's jaw.
BENEDICT WAS AT his club when he was informed that one
of his servants wished to speak to him.
This was not a good sign.
The last time a servant had come to the club for him was
when Ada had collapsed upon her return home after a prayer meeting.
Still, Benedict appeared calm and composed when he
entered the antechamber where Thomas waited.
At his entrance, Thomas's face worked.
A very bad sign.
Ignoring the cold spreading in his gut, Benedict told
him to say what the matter was in as few words as possible.
"It's Lord Lisle, my lord," Thomas said,
blinking hard. "I don't know where he is. He went in the print
shop door like he always does. I went into Porter's Coffee House to
wait, like I always do. I come out like I always do, a few minutes
early. He never come out, sir. I waited a quarter hour past the time,
then I went up. The classroom was locked up tight, and no one
answered when I knocked and called. I went down to the shop and asked
Mr. Popham if the drawing lessons was over for today. He said there
wasn't any. Mrs. Wingate went home early, he said, on account her
pupil never came."
The cold spread further, numbing feeling. Time itself
seemed to slow, as though frozen, too. "I see," said
Benedict. Then he ordered his hat and coat and left with his footman.
During the short walk home, his feelings safely closed
down, Benedict disciplined his mind to analyze the problem as though
it were like any of the other problems he was called upon every day
to sort out and solve.
By the time he entered his house, the thousands of wild
possibilities he might have entertained had narrowed to the two
likeliest, in the circumstances:
1. Peregrine had run away.
2. Despite all their precautions, someone had found out
who Peregrine was and had kidnapped him.
Benedict went up to the boy's room with Thomas. A
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