Lord Perfect (18 page)

She became friendly with a pair of young grooms who were
playing a complicated dice game.

She asked them to teach her the game.

Peregrine didn't dare warn them. Either they would laugh
themselves sick or there would be a fight—which might bring a
constable. If Peregrine's parents found out he'd been taken up by a
constable, he'd never be entrusted to his uncle's care again.

Consequently, in what must have been a fairly short time
though it seemed like years to Peregrine, the dreadful girl obtained
not only all the unsuspecting grooms' money, but a ride to Hounslow
in their master's recently repaired carriage.

Chapter 8

THE LANDLORD AT THE PIGEONS INN IN BRENT-ford had seen
nothing of a girl and boy. Though he knew Farmer Jarvis, he had not
seen him this day, he said. Jarvis must have gone straight home
instead of traveling the short distance out of his way, as he often
did, to stop at the Pigeons for gossip and a tankard of ale.

Benedict and Mrs. Wingate learnt no more from the others
they questioned. Thomas the footman had better luck during his
conversation with some servants in the inn yard. When he rejoined
his- master, the footman described the encounter between two "lads"
and a pair of servants belonging to one of the local gentry families.

"One of the lads sounded like Lord Lisle," he
reported. "Same height, same color hair. The other had red hair
and freckles."

Benedict, looked at Mrs. Wingate.

"Dressing as a boy would be simple enough for
Olivia," she said. "She might have obtained clothes cheaply
and easily at a pawnshop or secondhand clothes dealer. She wouldn't
have too much difficulty raising small amounts of money. She has the
DeLucey affinity for games of chance, and my lectures fall on deaf
ears."

However she'd done it, Olivia had obtained a ride as far
as Hounslow.

On to Hounslow Benedict drove, more swiftly than caution
decreed. They had lost valuable time searching Brentford. Now at
least Benedict needn't fall farther behind, slowing to study the
market carts he passed.

It was past nine o'clock. By the time they reached
Hounslow, most of the populace would be asleep. Still, he knew he'd
find abundant signs of life at the inns. Mr. Chaplin kept extensive
stables in Hounslow, and everyone stopped there to change horses.
With so many travelers coming and going, one was more likely to
obtain word of the children.

So at least Benedict assured himself, trying to ignore
his growing uneasiness. Despite what Mrs. Wingate said about her
daughter, he'd left London certain he'd find his nephew in a few
hours. He'd believed his search would end in Brentford. He'd refused
to consider the alternative: a search continuing for days—during
which Peregrine and Olivia might meet with an accident or evildoers.

And all the while Benedict would be berating and hating
himself for not taking better care of his nephew. All the while Mrs.
Wingate would be sitting next to him, hour after hour, her hip
bumping his, her thigh brushing his, her voice stealing under his
skin.

Meanwhile, the longer they traveled together, the
greater the chance of their encountering someone who'd recognize
them… and setting off the scandal of the decade.

When he first caught sight of the buildings thickly
clustered along the roadside, Benedict nearly shouted with relief.
Hounslow. At last.

The numerous inns proved sufficiently awake. At the
George, by the time the ostler had put fresh horses in the traces,
Mrs. Wingate had news. The two "lads" were now traveling
with a cottager from Cranford Park, the Earl of Berkeley's estate.
One of the inn servants, a nephew of the cottager, gave them
directions to his relative's home, where he was sure the "boys"
would spend the night.

This seemed the likeliest possibility to Benedict. At
this hour, the stream of market carts was dwindling. Soon the
stagecoaches and the Royal Mail would have the road mainly to
themselves. The latter had passed Benedict long since—not that
he believed even Olivia's cunning could obtain a seat on a mail
coach. Passengers were strictly limited and tickets expensive. So
near to London, it was unlikely that even the stagecoaches would have
room for additional passengers. So, at least, Benedict hoped.

He drove on, at a gallop as often as it was feasible,
through a lonely length of road. Hounslow Heath stretched alongside
them on the left, but no highwaymen burst out of the darkness,
luckily for the highwaymen. Benedict had a pair of pistols under the
seat, and he was in no mood for interruptions.

Near Cranford Bridge, he turned into the road through
Berkeley's property. The directions were accurate, and they easily
found the cottage.

They also found the two boys who'd come to spend the
night. They were boys in truth, and neither of them was Peregrine.

"COUNT TO TWENTY," Bathsheba advised when they
finally returned to the king's highway. It was nearly midnight,
they'd wasted an hour and a half, and Rathbourne, as one would
expect, was seething.

She knew he was anxious, too, about his nephew, but for
most men, fear was too disturbing an emotion to entertain. Like
others, he swept it under the heavy rug of anger.

"I am not a child," he said.

"Good," she said. "Then you will not
throw a tantrum when I tell you we must stop at the inn."

"We've stopped at every accursed
inn in every be-damned clump of hovels that calls itself a village,"
he said. "And where has it got us? One village idiot after
another who can scarcely attach a predicate to a subject, who can't
tell the difference between a girl and a boy or distinguish between a
lad of twelve and one of ten. They called that boy—and he not
eight years old, I'll wager—a redhead. His hair was
brown
,
the precise color of Derbyshire cow sh—"

"That one," she said as he drove straight past
the White Hart Inn.

He swore, but, unlike many men, he did not let his
emotions affect his driving. With his usual smooth economy of motion,
he brought the carriage back to the inn's entrance.

She could not get him to wait in the carriage, though.
Leaving Thomas in charge of the vehicle, they entered together. They
found the landlord fully awake. A stagecoach, the Courser, had left
not half an hour earlier, after disgorging a family of five. This had
been their first ride on a stagecoach, and they hadn't liked it.

"I told them it wouldn't be no different on any
other stage they took," the landlord said. "If they didn't
like traveling with every Tom, Dick, Harry, and his brother who
hasn't washed since the bath he took to celebrate Waterloo, they
should've gone by mail coach or hired a post chaise. Was it a room
you wanted? If it was, you're out of luck. They've taken my last bed,
all five of 'em."

"My brother and I are trying to find our two young
cousins," Bathsheba said. "They were visiting us in London.
After seeing a traveling theater troupe, they took it into their
heads to join the actors. We believe they are headed toward Bristol."
She described Olivia and Lord Lisle and pointed out that one or both
of the children might be in "costume" or disguise.

"Oh, them," the landlord said. "They said
they was going home to their sick mother. Least, that was what the
younger one told the coachman. The taller one didn't say much. Looked
like he'd et something that didn't agree."

Rathbourne, who'd stood by, silently vibrating with
impatience, came to attention, his dark eyes alight. "They spoke
to the coachman?" he said. "They boarded the stage?"

"Well, the driver had room, didn't he?" said
the landlord. "And they had the fare—enough, at any rate,
to get them to the next stage, Salt Hill."

* * *

SALT HILL WAS less than nine miles away, and the horses
were fresh, Rathbourne having decided to make the change at the White
Hart. A mail coach might cover the distance in less than an hour.
Rathbourne seemed determined to drive at mail coach speed, which
Bathsheba minded not at all. The longer it took to find the children,
the more time her conscience had to torment her. Had she used her
limited funds more wisely, Olivia might have had a governess by now,
and none of this would have happened.

"You are very quiet," he said after they'd
traveled a while in silence. "The speed doesn't frighten you, I
hope."

The recent news seemed to have lightened his mood.
Bathsheba no longer felt as though she was sitting next to an
about-to-erupt volcano. "I was thinking about the children,"
she said. "I've done a poor job with Olivia. I've allowed her
too much freedom."

"Most of the girls in my world have too little
freedom," he said. "Small wonder so many grow into women of
narrow understanding. You asked before whether I gave any thought to
finding a friend and companion as a wife. How could I expect to find
among those child-women a true companion?"

"It was unfair of me to criticize your choice,"
she said. "I did not choose my spouse on any rational basis, and
he certainly didn't use his head in choosing me."

"No girl of the upper classes would dare to set out
on a 'Noble Quest,' though one or two might dream of it," he
said. "None would have the least idea how to get from one place
to another on her own. We ought to admire Olivia's pluck at least.
And she has got Peregrine onto a stagecoach. Without her, he was
unlikely to have the experience in his lifetime."