Lord Perfect (35 page)

"Certainly you need not send dinner,"
Rathbourne said. "We can dine at the King's Arms when we
return."

"But you are not returning to the inn," said
Northwick. "I have made the New Lodge ready for you. It is
absurd to waste time traveling to and fro. You will be far more
comfortable here, I promise you. My lady and I have stayed here more
times than I can count, when we find the house too confining."

Throgmorton House contained one hundred fifty rooms.

What Lord Northwick sought, no doubt, was a refuge.

This was understandable. Even the members of the most
close-knit families could wear on one another's nerves.

What was surprising was his choosing to have his lady
with him.

Lord Northwick had a romantic streak, Bathsheba
realized. And his wife was part of the romance.

He loved his wife, and this was their lovers' hideaway.

Yet he was allowing his despised cousin to contaminate
it with her presence.

She hadn't time to wonder at it.

Peter DeLucey burst into view, galloping toward them.
"They're on the way!" he called. "Seen this morning.
At the Walcot tollgate."

THE FIRST RAINDROPS began to fall as Peter DeLucey was
assuring them that both Peregrine and Olivia were reported to be in
good health and spirits. They were traveling with a peddler, one
familiar to the tollgate keeper. The peddler's name was Gaffy Tipton.

"The word has gone out," Peter said. "With
any luck, one of our men will find Tipton and your young wanderers
before nightfall."

Soon after this promising news, Lord Northwick and his
son took their leave.

The sky grew steadily darker, and the rain's patter
increased. Ignoring her protests, Benedict threw his coat over
Bathsheba's shoulders.

Soon the rain was pouring down in sheets, driving them
indoors. Inside or out, they couldn't see anything anyway. The
mausoleum vanished behind a grey curtain of rain.

"So much for keeping watch," Benedict said,
coming away from a window. "I wonder where Thomas has got to."

"Out of the wet, I hope," said Bathsheba.

"No doubt he felt the change coming in the weather
and took sensible action," Benedict said. "He's a
countryman, recollect."

She took off his damp coat and shivered.

"I'll build a fire," he said. "Let us
pray the chimney doesn't smoke."

The chimney, like the rest of the old building, appeared
to be well maintained, to Benedict's relief. He could not remember
when last he'd built a wood fire. He needed as many circumstances as
possible in his favor.

She stayed at the window.

A tinderbox sat on the stone mantel. He opened the box
and eyed it warily. The tinder had better not be damp.

"I'll have you warm in no time," he said.

"I'm not cold," she said.

"You're shivering," he said. He set to work
arranging wood and kindling.

"I think it's the shock wearing off," she
said.

"What shock?"

"Lord Northwick," she said. "I never
would have guessed he'd defy his father."

"Northwick is not a child," Benedict said. "A
man in possession of sound moral principles will do what must be
done. Ultimately he is responsible to his own conscience. As you have
reminded me repeatedly, this is not the Middle Ages. Mandeville may
want blind obedience, but Northwick is not obliged to give it."

He focused on striking a spark.

"He did not need to let his wicked relative pollute
his love nest with her presence," she said. "And you know
as well as I that it is a love nest. You heard the note in his voice
when he spoke of his lady."

Benedict blew gently on the tinder. A bit of flame
rewarded him. Carefully he transferred the little fire to the
kindling.

"I heard," he said, his gaze on the sickly bit
of flame. He'd heard the softened tone when Northwick said "my
lady," and he'd envied the man. "Perhaps my infinite
perfections cancel out your infinite imperfections. Or perhaps

Northwick noticed the languishing way you look at me,
and took pity on you."

"I do not languish," she said.

Benedict glanced back at her, one eyebrow raised.

She came away from the window. "You have an
overactive imagination," she said, chin aloft. "I find you
no more than tolerable."

The kindling crackled. Flames leapt up to the wood and
swiftly took hold. The fire began to dance, reaching up the chimney,
snapping and popping. Meanwhile rain hammered on the roof and drummed
against the windows.

"What a delicious liar you are," he said. "It
is like living with Scheherazade. I can never guess what amazing
fabrication you will utter next."

"It is not—"

"Behold, fair princess," he said. He rose and
gestured sweepingly at his handiwork. "I have made fire for
you."

She stared at the fire. After a moment, her beautiful
mouth curved a little. "And what an elegant fire it is,
Rath-bourne. Wood, too. How extravagant."

"This is a love nest," he said. "Wood is
more romantic. It smells better than coal. Nor is it as extravagant
here as elsewhere. You noticed the plantations, I daresay."

"I noticed everything," she said. "I knew
Throgmorton was a large property. I had not expected it to be quite
so immense. It is like a small kingdom."

"Most great properties are," he said.

"I never rode over one in the company of an owner
who told me its history and his plans for its future," she said.
"That changes one's perspective."

"Northwick has a feeling for the place,"
Benedict said.

"Have you?" she said. "For your family's
property?"

"The pile in Derbyshire, you mean?" he said.
"Yes, I cannot help it, though my life seems to belong to
London. But in London, one simply has a house. In the country, the
house is part of a greater world, one that stretches back for
generations. Everywhere I look, I find my ancestors' handiwork."

"That is what struck me today," she said.
"Great estates always seemed like grand monuments before. I
didn't truly see them as living entities."

"That is because you never had a chance to be part
of one," he said.

"But Edmund DeLucey was. Jack was." She shook
her head. "I had imagined I understood Edmund, because I thought
I understood Jack. Each was a younger son, living in his brother's
shadow. Each knew he'd never rule the family's kingdom. They were
restless men, I thought, but too undisciplined for military life,
where they might have done great things and become heroes. Instead
they did something spectacularly shocking."

"Now, however, you cannot comprehend why they would
sacrifice all this." Benedict nodded toward the window where,
behind the rain-curtain, thousands of acres of property stretched.

"I don't know what to think." She moved to a
chair near the fire and sat down, her countenance troubled. "If
I had grown up in such a place, should I ever be truly happy in a
poky pair of rooms in the shabby part of town? Or hurrying from one
foreign place to the next, trying to outrun my creditors?"

"I should think it would depend," he said, "on
who shared the rooms with you or with whom you ran."

She looked up and met his gaze. "You must not look
at me like that," she said.

He went to her and crouched before her. "Like
what?" he said. He took her hand and cradled it in his.

"As though you would live that way… with
me," she said.

"Oh, I wouldn't," he said. "I couldn't.
It isn't in me. I've always been the heir. I've been trained for a
great deal, but not for privation. I've not been trained to run but
to stand my ground. I've been trained for stability, you see, because
so much depends on me." He glanced toward the window again. "The
place in Derbyshire. Our little kingdom. Hundreds of lives—and
that's not counting the livestock."

She studied his face for the longest time. He hid
nothing. He was not sure he could any longer hide anything from her,
even if he wished to. Still, he knew she wouldn't believe what she
saw in his eyes.

Why should she, when he could scarcely believe it?

She gave up and, with a rueful smile, drew her hand away
to lightly stroke his cheek. "No, you are too intelligent and
responsible to make a shambles of your life and make your family
wretched on account of a woman. That is one of the things I like
about you, Rathbourne. Nonetheless, you have been rather more
careless than makes me comfortable."

He turned his head and kissed the palm of her hand.
"Learn to count," he said. " 'Intelligent' and
'responsible' make two things. Tell me what else you like about me."

She let her hand fall to her lap. "Certainly not.
The list of your perfections is much too long… and I am too
weary."

Uneasy now, he searched her countenance. Had she been
this pale all day? Before, she'd been shivering. Was she unwell?

"I thought you would have slept soundly last
night," he said. "I was not there to keep you awake."

"You were there, nonetheless," she said.

"You were fretting about me," he said. "How
many times must I tell you—"

"Do not tell me again." She rose abruptly and
moved away. "You are perfect, but you have an aristocratic blind
spot," she said. "I am not sure where it comes from.
Perhaps it comes of others always smoothing the way for you. Perhaps
it has to do with the wall between you and ordinary people. Wealth
and privilege insulate even a philanthropist like you, Rathbourne."

"I know that," he said. "Did I not say so
a moment ago? I am not equipped to live an ordinary life, let alone
an impoverished or vagabond life."

"You will be hurt!" she cried. "That is
what you do not understand, and I do not know how to make you
understand what it is like: the kind of desolation you will feel and
the humiliation you will bear. I don't want you to know what it is
like. I don't want you to be hurt because of m-me."

"My dear girl." He went to her and wrapped his
arms about her.

"There, you see?" she said, her voice shaky.
"You stupid man. You have let yourself care for me."

"Perhaps a little," he said.

"We are too compatible," she said. 'That is
the trouble, improbable as it is."

"That is true," he said. "I like your
company almost as much as I like your face and figure. That is a
shocking development, certainly."

She laid her head upon his chest. "I am not noble
enough to resist you when you are near," she said. "I
should have resisted you weeks ago. I knew it. I knew you would be
trouble. But I shall not cry over spilt milk." She lifted her
head and looked at him, blue eyes glittering with unshed tears. "That
is what I told myself last night. What truly matters now is that we
have both been discovered, and nothing on earth will make us
undiscovered. A scandal is inevitable. Yet I have thought of a way to
reduce the damage."

"I know what you are going to say," he said.
"Save your breath. It is out of the question."

She pulled away from him. 'The instant we find the
children, I shall take Olivia and go away."

"No, you will not," he said.

"Be logical, Rathbourne," she said. 'The
quicker I am out of sight, the quicker out of mind."

"Not out of
my
mind," he said.

"You are not thinking clearly," she said.
"Listen to me."

He set his jaw. "Very well. I am listening."

"Once our names are paired, most people will assume
that you and I had an affair," she said. "However, if I go
away, it will be only a brief affair: in your case, a mere
peccadillo; in mine, merely the typical DeLucey dreadful-ness and
general immorality. There will be a momentary flurry of gossip, which
the next scandal will quickly supplant."

She was too damned logical, curse her.

"I have never heard anything so idiotish," he
said.

"It is not idiotish," she said. "It is
perfectly reasonable."

"We have
made
love
, you mad creature," he said.
"Several times. Have you forgotten that lovemaking and the
arrival of babies are not unrelated matters? Are you proposing to go
away—to who knows where—when you might be carrying my
child?"

"That is most unlikely," she said. "Use
your head, my lord. You are the detective. I was happily wed for
twelve years. I have but one child. What does that tell you?"

"Nothing, actually," he said. "I am not
Jack Wingate."

She gave a short laugh and returned to the window. The
rain continued at the same furious rate. "It had nothing to do
with Jack," she said. "I conceived several times and
miscarried."

"Oh," he said.