order.
"This one is from Lord Atherton, sir," said
Gregson, taking up a thick one. "Perhaps you prefer to open it."
"Certainly not," said Benedict. "Then I
should see what is inside, and you know he always puts in thrice as
many words as any subject needs, along with a surfeit of dashes and
exclamation points. Please be so good as to pare it down to the
essentials."
"Certainly, sir." Gregson perused the thick
epistle. " 'I had a most distressing encounter,'" he read.
"No distressing encounters," Benedict said.
Gregson returned to the letter. "'I was outraged to
learn—'"
"No outrages," said his lordship.
" 'Priscilla's mother—'"
"Nothing to do with Lady Atherton's mama, I beg
you, Gregson. Perhaps you had better summarize."
Gregson rapidly scanned the next few pages. "He has
found a place for Lord Lisle."
Benedict stiffened. "What place?"
Gregson read: " 'You will be as relieved as we
were, I am sure, to learn that arrangements have at last been made
for my errant son. Heriot's School in Edinburgh has agreed to take
him.'"
"Heriot's School," Benedict said. "In
Edinburgh."
"In a fortnight's time, his lordship will send
servants to collect Lord Lisle and take him to his new school,"
said Gregson.
Benedict got up from the desk and walked to the window.
He stood quietly. By gazing steadily into the garden below and
watching the chrysanthemums bob in the September breeze, he was able
to maintain his composure. Nothing of the inner storm could be seen
on the outer man.
Certainly he did not say what he was thinking. He rarely
did. Despite years of discipline, his thoughts regarding his fellow
creatures and their doings sometimes had a rampaging quality. In his
mind, in fact, he sometimes sounded like Atherton on one of his
rants.
Unlike Atherton, however, Benedict had taught himself to
keep the rampage inside. What little he expressed he restricted to
dry observations, sarcasm, and a raised eyebrow.
Life is not an opera. Scenes belong on the stage.
Benedict did not storm about the study, berating his
muddleheaded brother-in-law. He merely said, "Send Lord Atherton
a note, Gregson. Tell him that he may spare his servants a journey. I
shall take the boy to Scotland in a fortnight."
Half an hour later, Lord Rathbourne was on his way to
Holborn.
THANKS TO THE crush of traffic, Benedict did not reach
the print shop until well after Peregrine's lesson was over and the
boy was on his way home. Mrs. Wingate had departed as well, Mr.
Popham told Benedict.
Benedict tried to tell himself to communicate with her
by letter. He rejected the idea—as he'd done a dozen or more
times on the way here.
A letter simply wouldn't do. She had taken offense at
the last one, declining her services.
Benedict remembered the scornful way she'd referred to
it, the haughty lift of her chin, the disdain in her blue eyes. He
had wanted to laugh. He had wanted to bring his face close to that
beautiful, angry one and…
And do something he shouldn't.
To Popham he said, "I must speak to her. It is
urgent. Regarding one of her pupils. Perhaps you would be so good as
to give me her direction."
Mr. Popham turned red. "I pray your lordship will
n-not take offense, b-but I am not at liberty to give the lady's
direction."
"Not at liberty," Benedict repeated evenly.
"N-no, y-your lordship. I beg pardon, your
l-lordship. I trust your lordship will understand.
The—er—difficulties. For a widow, that is, especially a
young one, living on her own. Men can make such n-nuisances of
themselves. Not your lordship, certainly—that is to say, but…
er. The difficulty is, I did faithfully promise the lady to make no
exceptions. Sir."
What Benedict wanted to do was reach across the counter,
grab the little man by the neck, and strike his head against the
counter until he became more cooperative.
What Benedict said was, "Your scruples do you
credit, sir. I quite understand. Kindly send a note to Mrs. Wingate,
seeking her permission for me to call.
"This one is from Lord Atherton, sir," said
Gregson, taking up a thick one. "Perhaps you prefer to open it."
"Certainly not," said Benedict. "Then I
should see what is inside, and you know he always puts in thrice as
many words as any subject needs, along with a surfeit of dashes and
exclamation points. Please be so good as to pare it down to the
essentials."
"Certainly, sir." Gregson perused the thick
epistle. " 'I had a most distressing encounter,'" he read.
"No distressing encounters," Benedict said.
Gregson returned to the letter. "'I was outraged to
learn—'"
"No outrages," said his lordship.
" 'Priscilla's mother—'"
"Nothing to do with Lady Atherton's mama, I beg
you, Gregson. Perhaps you had better summarize."
Gregson rapidly scanned the next few pages. "He has
found a place for Lord Lisle."
Benedict stiffened. "What place?"
Gregson read: " 'You will be as relieved as we
were, I am sure, to learn that arrangements have at last been made
for my errant son. Heriot's School in Edinburgh has agreed to take
him.'"
"Heriot's School," Benedict said. "In
Edinburgh."
"In a fortnight's time, his lordship will send
servants to collect Lord Lisle and take him to his new school,"
said Gregson.
Benedict got up from the desk and walked to the window.
He stood quietly. By gazing steadily into the garden below and
watching the chrysanthemums bob in the September breeze, he was able
to maintain his composure. Nothing of the inner storm could be seen
on the outer man.
Certainly he did not say what he was thinking. He rarely
did. Despite years of discipline, his thoughts regarding his fellow
creatures and their doings sometimes had a rampaging quality. In his
mind, in fact, he sometimes sounded like Atherton on one of his
rants.
Unlike Atherton, however, Benedict had taught himself to
keep the rampage inside. What little he expressed he restricted to
dry observations, sarcasm, and a raised eyebrow.
Life is not an opera. Scenes belong on the stage.
Benedict did not storm about the study, berating his
muddleheaded brother-in-law. He merely said, "Send Lord Atherton
a note, Gregson. Tell him that he may spare his servants a journey. I
shall take the boy to Scotland in a fortnight."
Half an hour later, Lord Rathbourne was on his way to
Holborn.
THANKS TO THE crush of traffic, Benedict did not reach
the print shop until well after Peregrine's lesson was over and the
boy was on his way home. Mrs. Wingate had departed as well, Mr.
Popham told Benedict.
Benedict tried to tell himself to communicate with her
by letter. He rejected the idea—as he'd done a dozen or more
times on the way here.
A letter simply wouldn't do. She had taken offense at
the last one, declining her services.
Benedict remembered the scornful way she'd referred to
it, the haughty lift of her chin, the disdain in her blue eyes. He
had wanted to laugh. He had wanted to bring his face close to that
beautiful, angry one and…
And do something he shouldn't.
To Popham he said, "I must speak to her. It is
urgent. Regarding one of her pupils. Perhaps you would be so good as
to give me her direction."
Mr. Popham turned red. "I pray your lordship will
n-not take offense, b-but I am not at liberty to give the lady's
direction."
"Not at liberty," Benedict repeated evenly.
"N-no, y-your lordship. I beg pardon, your
l-lordship. I trust your lordship will understand.
The—er—difficulties. For a widow, that is, especially a
young one, living on her own. Men can make such n-nuisances of
themselves. Not your lordship, certainly—that is to say, but…
er. The difficulty is, I did faithfully promise the lady to make no
exceptions. Sir."
What Benedict wanted to do was reach across the counter,
grab the little man by the neck, and strike his head against the
counter until he became more cooperative.
What Benedict said was, "Your scruples do you
credit, sir. I quite understand. Kindly send a note to Mrs. Wingate,
seeking her permission for me to call.
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