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sleep.
Furthermore, if Mrs. Wingate is a murderess—"
    "She is not," Lord Hargate said.
"Inconceivable as it may seem, Rupert employed a metaphor. A
surprisingly apt one."
    "It is a tragic love story," Rupert said
teasingly.
    Peregrine made a face.
    "You may go to the billiard room," Benedict
said.
    The boy was off like a shot. As Rupert knew, nothing, in
Peregrine's view, could be more detestable and nauseating than a love
story, especially a tragic one.
    When the boy was out of earshot, Rupert told his wife
how the beautiful Bathsheba DeLucey had bewitched the Earl of
Fosbury's second and favorite son and destroyed his life. It was the
same story Benedict had heard repeated at least a dozen times this
day.
    Jack Wingate had been "mad in love," everyone
agreed. Bewitched. Completely in Bathsheba DeLucey's thrall. And the
love had destroyed him. It had cost him his family, his
position—everything.
    "So you see, she was the siren who lured Wingate to
his doom," Rupert concluded. "Exactly like one of the
stories in the Greek myths."
    "It sounds like a myth," Daphne said
scornfully. "Society thinks women scholars are monstrosities,
recollect. Society can be criminally narrow in its views."
    Daphne would know. Even though she'd married into one of
England's most influential families, the majority of male scholars
dismissed her theories regarding the decipherment of Egyptian
hieroglyphs.
    "Not in this case," said Lord Hargate. "The
trouble began in my grandfather's time, as I recall. It was early in
the last century, at any rate. Every generation or so, the DeLuceys
had produced a naval hero, and Edmund DeLucey, a second son and a
highly competent naval officer, promised to be another. However, at
some point, he contrived to get himself dismissed from the service.
He abandoned the girl to whom he was betrothed and embarked on a
career as a pirate."
    "You're roasting us, Father," Benedict said.
He had heard about Jack Wingate's tragic love ad nauseam. He had not
until now heard the DeLuceys' history.
    His father was not joking, however, and the details were
appalling.
    Unlike many pirates, according to Lord Hargate, Edmund
survived to a ripe old age, in the course of which he wed and sired a
number of offspring. Every last one of them inherited his character.
So did their descendants, who had a genius for attracting mates of
good family and loose morals.
    "That branch of the DeLuceys has produced nothing
but frauds, gamesters, and swindlers," the earl said. "They
are completely untrustworthy, and they have made themselves famous
for their scandals. Generation after generation it continues.
Bigamies and divorces are nothing out of the way for them. They live
mainly abroad these days—to avoid their creditors and to sponge
off anyone fool enough to take notice of them. An infamous family."
    And Benedict had very nearly pursued one of them.
    Even when he got away from her he couldn't escape her.
People wouldn't stop talking about her.
    She was a siren, a femme fatale.
    But she had dismissed him.
    Or had she?
    It's nothing to do with impertinence and everything
to do with self-preservation.
    Was that a dismissal or a lure?
    Not that it mattered. He would never know the answer
because he would not try to find out.
    Even before he was wed, he conducted his amours quietly.
He had been scrupulously faithful while wed. He had waited a decent
interval after Ada's death before acquiring a mistress, and the
affair never became public knowledge.
    Bathsheba Wingate was a walking legend.
    His father's voice called him back to his surroundings.
    "Well, Benedict, what do you mean to do about
Lisle?"
    Benedict wondered how much of the
conversation he'd missed. He said smoothly, "The boy's future is
not in my hands." He returned the Quarterly
Review to its place.
    "Don't be absurd," said Lord Hargate. "Someone
must take charge."
    And it must be me, as usual ,
Benedict thought.
    "You know Atherton cannot manage matters," his
mother said. "Peregrine