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he was discreet
about it.
    "What kind of special arrangements?" Lisle
said.
    "We are keeping the lady from her other students,"
Rathbourne said. "You and I shall discuss the subject further at
another time, Lisle."
    "Please do," she said, lifting her chin. "If
you choose to pursue the matter, you may write to me in care of Mr.
Popham the print seller. Good day." She hurried away, face hot
and eyes itching with the angry tears she refused to shed.

Chapter 3

    AS BATHSHEBA SUSPECTED, OLIVIA DID HAVE AN Idea and she
did see Lord Lisle as a mark.
    The Idea had been gradually taking shape in her mind
since they'd come to London, nearly a year ago.
    London wasn't as much fun as Dublin. Here, her mother
made too many rules. Here, one must be bored witless every day in the
classroom of a pinch-faced, droning schoolmistress.
    In Dublin, when Papa was alive, life was jollier. Mama
wasn't so strict. She laughed more. She invented interesting games
and told wonderful stories.
    All that changed when Papa died.
    Though he'd told them not to grieve—he'd never had
so much fun in all his life as he'd had with his wife and daughter,
he said—it was impossible not to miss him. Olivia had cried
more than he would have liked. Mama had, too.
    But three years had gone by, and Mama still wasn't
herself.
    Olivia had no trouble understanding why: They were too
poor, and poor people were usually unhappy. They were hungry or sick
or living in the meanest lodgings or in workhouses or debtors'
prisons. Other poor people cheated, robbed, and assaulted them. The
bad ones got themselves imprisoned or transported or hanged, and the
good ones suffered as much as if they'd been bad.
    Not only was it disagreeable to be poor, it wasn't at
all respectable.
    For aristocrats, it was a completely different story.
They had no worries. They did whatever they pleased, and no one
arrested them or even objected when they behaved badly. They lived in
enormous houses, with hundreds of servants looking after them.
Aristocrats never worked. If one of them painted a picture, he didn't
have to sell it to make money. He didn't have to give drawing lessons
to shopkeepers' whining, spoiled brats, as Olivia's mother did.
    Yet Mama was an aristocrat, too. Her
great-greatgrandfather was an earl, and his great-grandson lived near Bristol at a place called Throgmorton, an
enormous house with hundreds of servants. Mama's mother was Sir
Somebody's daughter. Her grandmother was Lord Somebody Else's second
cousin. Practically all of Mama's relatives had blue blood in their
veins.
    The trouble was, there were two kinds of DeLuceys, the
good ones and the bad ones, and Mama had had the tragic misfortune of
being born into the bad side of the family.
    Her side were the Dreadful DeLuceys… shunned by
the other lords and ladies and sirs because… well, they were
quite wicked, actually.
    Mama wasn't at all wicked, and this was the great
tragedy and cause of all her cruel sufferings and grievous poverty.
    All of this made her a Damsel in Distress, exactly like
the ones in the stories that Lord Lisle claimed were myths.
    But he didn't understand anything.
    They weren't myths, and if he'd known Mama's story, he
would not have said such stupid, aggravating things, the great
thickhead.
    There were knights, too, and they didn't have to wear
shining armor, at least not these days, and they didn't have to be
men.
    Olivia was the knight who would rescue her mother.
    That was the Idea.
    She was not yet certain exactly how to carry it out. She
could see, though, that money was crucial.
    This was why, at the Egyptian Hall, once her temper had
cooled and she could think clearly, she decided to cultivate Lord
Lisle.
    He was the first aristocrat who'd come close enough to
talk to since Papa died. Knowing it might be a very long time before
she got that close to another one, Olivia had made the most of the
opportunity.
    As you'd expect, Mama didn't approve.
    She came home very cross on Wednesday