Lord Perfect (20 page)

She didn't have time to decide whether they were coming
to join in and whose side they'd be on. Someone was trying to drag
her out of the melee. She twisted free and balled up her hand into a
fist, and landed it hard on his nose. He staggered backward,
clutching his bleeding nose. Then another fellow claimed her
attention, and she returned to fighting.

She was aware of Rathbourne, striking this one then
another, a blur of movement at times. She saw two or three men fly
into walls and windows, and heard the crash of breaking glass. She
was aware of men on the ground, and others stumbling into lampposts.
She glimpsed Thomas, pulling a man away from the carriage.

She noticed, too, the horses rearing, and people getting
out of the way. She saw the curricle moving—and no one driving
it—but the men from the inns were rapidly near-ing, and she
couldn't let Rathbourne be overwhelmed.

She didn't know how long it lasted—only a few
minutes, probably, though it seemed she'd been at war for days.

Then a voice made itself heard above the others, and
words rang out: "I command you in His Majesty's name to
disperse, and to keep silence while I make proclamation to that
effect."

The voice repeated the command two more times, and
silence fell.

The voice went on: "Our Sovereign Lord the King
charges and commands that all persons being assembled immediately do
disperse themselves, and peaceably do depart to their habitations or
to their lawful business, upon the pains contained in the Act made in
the first year of King George I for preventing tumultuous and riotous
assemblies. God save the King."

Men started backing away, muttering among themselves.
The latecomers left first. Then those of the earlier group who were
still on their feet began to retreat, some limping.

She looked toward Rathbourne, who stood alone. His coat
was torn, his neckcloth and hat were gone. His hair stood up on end
in one place, and damp ringlets had formed near his forehead. His
face was so dirty, she could not tell how badly it was bruised. He
met her gaze then, and gave a short, low laugh, and shook his head.

She went to him. It was instinctive. It was instinctive,
too, reaching up to gently touch his face. "Are you hurt?"
she said.

He gave the short laugh again, and took her hand, and
lightly touched it to his cheek. "Am I hurt, she asks," he
said. "You mad creature. What did you think you were doing?"

"I wasn't thinking," she said. "They
knocked you down… It wasn't fair. I was angry."

He let go of her hand in order to smooth back her hair.

She hadn't thought before and didn't stop to think now.
She bowed her head and rested it on his chest. That was instinctive,
too.

"I was afraid they'd hurt you," she said
softly.

"And what of you, madam ninnyhammer?" he said.
"Did you not think you might be hurt?"

"I didn't think," she said. "I didn't
care."

She felt his hand slide down to rest at the back of her
neck. She felt his chest rise and fall under her cheek. She was aware
of her heart still pumping madly, and her lungs working hard, too,
her breathing fast and uneven.

Then she heard his voice, very low,
in her hair. "I believe the local constable draws nigh, the one
who read the Riot Act so movingly.
Get ready to lie through
your teeth."

Chapter 9

MOST OF THE CROWD MELTED AWAY INTO THE night—those
who were capable of moving, at any rate. The three original
inebriates still lay more or less where they'd fallen.

Thomas, too, was nowhere in sight, Benedict noticed. He
hoped the footman had gone after the runaway carriage.

The vehicle being out of reach at the moment, Benedict
and Mrs. Wingate could not melt away. They had no speedy way out of
Colnbrook and, unlike the locals, no nearby haven.

The man who'd read the Riot Act introduced himself as
Henry Humber, landlord of the Bull Inn and local constable. He was a
barrel-chested man of about forty who, it seemed, did not get to
exercise his authority enough. The way he studied the fallen men and
the broken windows, and peered here and there and made notes in a
little book, boded very ill. Humber meant to raise difficulties,
Benedict was sure. The two men he had with him—both large,
muscled fellows—were obviously there to discourage opposition.

Nonetheless, it would have been simple enough to deal
with the matter, if Benedict could have told the truth.

All he had to do was adopt the drawling voice and icy
manner he used to crush upstarts and fools, and say he was on urgent
business. All he had to do was write the name and direction of his
solicitor on the back of one of his cards and give it to the
constable. Benedict was not so far from civilization that his name
would not be known. Those who recognized his name would know who his
father was.

Then he would be allowed to continue on his way. If
necessary, someone would make sure he had a vehicle and fresh horses.
He would be offered refreshment and, very likely, an apology for the
"misunderstanding."

Benedict could not tell the truth. He could not be who
he was or behave as he normally would. Alone, he might easily survive
the social consequences of a fracas with a lot of yokels some
eighteen miles from London. People would assume he had been attacked
or grossly provoked. Everyone knew that Lord Rathbourne—unlike
his black sheep brother Rupert—was not in the habit of fighting
and making a spectacle of himself.

Benedict was not alone, however. He had a woman with
him, a beautiful and notorious and far too exciting woman.

Also a brave or possibly mad woman.

He still could scarcely believe she'd leapt out of the
carriage and straight into the fight. She'd laid the horsewhip about
her with remarkable energy and effectiveness. She had certainly
amazed the men. Benedict had heard a couple of them scream like
girls, and he'd seen more than one scurry to safety at the fringes of
the crowd. If he hadn't been so busy himself, he would have laughed.

Equally unbelievable and less laughable was his own
behavior.

He had got into a fight—a public brawl—with
a lot of drunken peasants.

Because of a woman.

He had been perfectly rational, he'd thought. He'd seen
that the men were deeply intoxicated. He knew one could not reason
with drunkards or expect them to behave rationally. He knew his
wisest course of action was to get away from them.

Benedict had ignored the insults and obscenities they
hurled at him. He'd found it harder to ignore their coarse remarks to
Mrs. Wingate, but he'd gritted his teeth and endured them.

Then the fellow had touched Mrs. Wingate.

And Benedict had to kill him.

Now she stood close, clutching his arm. The light from
the inn windows and the men's lanterns was enough to reveal her
increasing indignation as Humber muttered about outsiders coming into
peaceable villages and making disturbances and disruptions.

Her great, blue eyes widened and flashed, her fine bosom
rose and fell, and her soft mouth was parted in outraged
astonishment.

Aroused, as any man would be, by this stirring picture
of barely contained passion, Benedict was a moment too slow to warn
her to keep her temper.

As he opened his mouth to do so, she
burst out, "I cannot believe my ears. Three drunken men accosted
us in the dead of night as we were innocently passing through the
town. One of them put his hands on me. My husband defended my honor.
A mob spilled into the streets and tried to kill him. And
we
are at fault?"

Humber said the men had obviously been too far gone in
drink to stay on their feet, let alone hurt anybody, and people came
out into the street simply to protect their friends. He indicated the
casualties about him and the windows of nearby buildings. A few men
had fallen or been flung against the windows, breaking the glass.

Before Mrs. Wingate could muster further arguments,
Thomas emerged from the gloom, leading the horses. They were still
attached, Benedict was relieved to see, to the curricle, which did
not appear badly damaged.

"That's yours, is it?" said Humber. "And
that's your servant? Well, he must come along with you, and your rig
must go to the Bull." He turned back to Benedict. "You'll
have it back once you've sorted matters out with magistrate on
Monday."

"
Monday
?"
Benedict and Mrs. Wingate said at the same time.

"Squire Pardew won't hold sessions until then,"
said Humber. "The missus putting her foot down as to miscreants
in the parlor on Saturdays and the Sabbath."

Like many local magistrates, the squire held petty
sessions in his parlor. Like his fellows, he'd have only a passing
acquaintance with the law, and his judgments would be based on what
he deemed common sense, colored by his personal biases and, very
probably, those of his wife.

This did not necessarily make for poor justice, and it
did not trouble Benedict. What troubled him was the name, with which
he was all too familiar, and the possibility that someone had already
woken the magistrate and told him of the brawl. Pardew might be on
his way even now. He was a prodigious busybody and gossip.

Benedict bent his head and murmured to Mrs. Wingate. "We
cannot linger here. I cannot risk an encounter with Pardew. He knows
me."