Lord Perfect by Loretta Chase

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