“We rely heavily on guest lecturers, and—”
His lips curved into a smile. “You’re not suggesting I give a lecture at your ladies’ college, are you?”
“It doesn’t have to be a lecture. A live reading from your book would be wonderful. Or you could talk about your new poem. Our students are well-versed in Greek mythology and epic poetry.”
“I hardly think my presence at your college will enhance its reputation. Haven’t you read the papers? I’m a scandalous rake.”
“I have read the papers, Mr. Bastin, and it seems your name is clear. They accuse Madame Baudelaire of hysteria and write that homesickness caused her mind to become engulfed in a fantastical infatuation.”
Jack raised his eyebrows. “Engulfed in afantastical infatuation? They used those words?”
“They did.” Ottilie bit back a smile. “I’ll wager those reports are largely nonsense, but it really isn’t my business to speculate. Your exoneration is good news to me because it means there’s no danger in your giving a reading at the college. We will, of course, ensure the event is heavily chaperoned to calm any persistent fears.”
“So, you will add an extra layer of women to the mix—for the younger ladies’ protection.”
“Married women.” The irony must have hit her as she spoke the words because she pressed her lips tightly together.
A smile played on Jack’s lips. He could hardly believe his luck. His muse sat across from him, requesting his assistance. He leaned forward on his desk. “Do you know, Miss Hamilton, I think we may be able to help each other.”
“What can I possibly do to help you, Mr. Bastin?”
“I saw you the night of the Baudelaires’ ball—outside, standing on the stairs of their portico. Imagine my surprise when, as I glanced out my carriage window, I caught sight of you looking as pure and lovely as one of Artemis’s maidens.” He smiled at the memory. “I thought you a figment of my imagination.”
Ottilie lowered her gaze.
“When I returned home, an insatiable urge to write consumed me. I hadn’t written anything in months, but after seeing you, the words poured out of me. And I thought, finally, the gods have sent me a muse.”
Ottilie laughed. “Iam your muse?”
“You gifted me this poem. I have no other way of explaining how this work, dormant in my brain, suddenly came alive and started beating on my skull to be let out. It’s the best—theonlywriting—I have managed in months.”
“Well, it sounds like I have already done my part, and you now owe me a favor.”
“But my poem isn’t finished.”
“What are you proposing I do, Mr. Bastin?”
“I will give a lecture at your ladies’ college if you agree to be my muse.”
“But how does one be a muse? I’m a mathematician. I don’t know how to inspire a writer.”
“That’s the beauty of it. You don’t have to do anything in particular. You only need to sit with me while I write.”
“I couldn’t possibly sit with you all day while you write. And my aunt will never stand my coming here unchaperoned—if at all.”
“I will engage a chaperone for you. My housekeeper, Mrs. Wilson, will escort you to my residence and back to Berkley Square. And I don’t mean you should come every day, only a few hours a week.”
“People will assume we are attached.”
“Do you care what people think?”
“No, but I do care what my family thinks, so let me talk to Henry first.”
“Do you think Hudsyn will object? He’s the one who brought you here.”
Miss Hamilton fidgeted with her jacket. “He is also the one who told me no woman should trust you.”
“I don’t believe what you say. Hudsyn knows I am upfront with all the women I—” he paused—“That is, I don’t make promises I can’t keep.”
