Lord Perfect (38 page)

Peregrine was not sure he had felt safe. Still, it was
warm and dry, and he had definitely felt less conspicuous in the dark
little shop, through whose door a number of drenched and ragged
persons passed, carrying their pitiful stock of goods.

After five days' traveling, he and Olivia looked as
dirty and bedraggled as any of Bristol's unfortunates. If they
entered a respectable inn or lodging place, they would attract
suspicious attention. Of course, they could easily enter a not
respectable place. But then they would face worse risks than being
caught by constables or detectives.

Mere days ago, Peregrine had wanted to be caught.

That was before.

Now he was glad that he and Olivia had found sanctuary
for one more night, even if it was a none-too-clean pawnshop and they
had to sleep on the floor.

It was all thanks to Olivia, who apparently knew
everything there was to know about pawnbrokers, including the names
and addresses of half of those in London and every last one in
Dublin. She and Mr. Swain had a fine time exchanging anecdotes and
gossip. She had no trouble at all learning all she wanted to know
about Throgmorton.

This was fortunate, because the park and grounds covered
thousands of acres, and they had no map. Swain, however, had gone to
Throgmorton twice for celebrations. He'd sketched a rough plan of the
place. Though Swain had never visited the mausoleum, he had glimpsed
it, and had heard that it looked like a Roman temple, with two
statues guarding the stairs. Peregrine now had a general idea of the
mausoleum's location.

"I don't see why we can't simply slip in among the
crowd," Olivia said.

"Because there won't be any crowds," Peregrine
said. "This isn't like a balloon ascension in Hyde Park, or a
race at Newmarket. There won't be great masses of people pouring
through the gates. There won't be pickpockets and bookmakers, beggars
and prostitutes, mingling with ladies and gentlemen and family
groups. Perhaps a handful of people will visit today, and they'll
need to look respectable, which we don't. This isn't like Chatsworth,
where they let anybody in to wander wherever they like. Even if we
did manage to get past the gatekeeper, we'd be watched every
minute—and chucked out promptly at the end of visiting time."

While he spoke, Peregrine towed her down a narrow,
rutted road. "But the main entrance isn't the only way in,"
he went on. "After all, one can hardly have the estate workers
hauling manure through the main entranceway—the same route the
king takes."

"Heaven forfend," Olivia said. "Someone
would have to hold His Majesty's nose. Or can he hold his own?"

Peregrine ignored this. "There will be several
other gates, much humbler," he said. "But the landscaping
will conceal them from view of the main house, so they don't spoil
the scenery."

She shot him a look. "I never thought of that. But
I've never lived in the country."

"Obviously," he said. "If you had—
Oh, never mind. The point is, I'm the expert now. Which means it's
your turn to hold your tongue and do as you're told."

He had to give her credit. She kept quiet and let him
lead the way, just as though she were a rational person, instead of a
lunatic female who actually believed she had a prayer of finding a
pirate's treasure chest buried alongside her ancestors.

Peregrine knew they had about as much chance of finding
pirate treasure at Throgmorton as they had of finding a unicorn. He
could not imagine how they would get near the mausoleum without
attracting attention.

But then, he'd never imagined he would have made his way
from London to Bristol with nothing more than a handful of coins and
his own and his companion's wits to sustain him.

Whatever happened, it was sure to be interesting.

An adventure.

It would be years before he could hope for another one.

SPIRITS SINKING, BATHSHEBA watched the sky cloud over.
The wind strengthened, and she drew her cloak more tightly about her.

She stood a short distance from the New Lodge, at the
top of the pathway that declined gently in the direction of the
mausoleum. This part of the park being thickly planted with trees and
tall shrubs, the pathway vanished from view for a time, then
reappeared, much wider, climbing the slope toward the ornate
structure in which the last few generations of DeLuceys were
entombed.

Clouds swirled above the imitation Roman temple, growing
thicker and blacker as the wind drove them harder. In her fancy, the
clouds were the demonic ghosts of Dreadful DeLuceys, dancing madly
over the bones of the good ones.

Even as mere clouds, they boded ill. This was how the
sky had looked yesterday before it loosed the torrents that drove
them indoors.

Below and to the east of the New Lodge, one caught
glimpses of Throgmorton's large lake, between the trunks and branches
of the trees and shrubbery bordering it on this, its western side. On
the eastern side lay a series of temples and grottoes, cunningly
situated so as to be visible only from certain points along the
pathway. At its southern tip, the lake narrowed and spilled into a
picturesquely steep cascade that tumbled into a river. In the
decreasing intervals of sunlight, the restless waters sparkled.
Mainly, though, they were murky, like the sky.

Rathbourne, Lord Northwick, and Peter DeLucey stood
talking a few yards away from her. Occasionally they looked up from
their discussions, to study the heavens.

Though the aristocratic countenances revealed little
emotion, she doubted the conversation was optimistic.

If it rained as it had done yesterday, the children
would seek shelter, and they had all too many hiding places to choose
among. If it rained as it had done yesterday, searching for them
would be far more difficult, nearly impossible.

The afternoon was waning. In a few hours, night would
fall.

Another day would be lost.

I'll have another night with him
,
Bathsheba thought.

She wanted another, and another. She wanted that badly;
at the same time she doubted she could bear another day. The passing
hours were hard enough.

She'd steeled herself for the break, today.

She was ready to be strong, today.

She was not sure for how much longer, though. She'd
already had her nerves wrung to pieces with a series of false alarms.
Three times Lord Northwick's search parties had cornered tenants'
children by mistake. Once, they'd cautiously surrounded what turned
out to be an escaped pig rooting under the shrubbery near a "ruin"
built in the last century.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Rathbourne step
away from the others and start toward her. Northwick and his son set
out in the opposite direction.

She quickly returned her gaze to the clouds roiling
above the temple.

"Northwick is sending men out to investigate the
latest rumors," came Rathbourne's low voice beside her. "One
of the local women thinks she saw the children at some point along
the eastern boundary wall, not far from the main gate. Another report
puts them nearer a gate along the northern boundary. I've told him
we'll stay where we are. It makes no sense for us to chase every
rumor. At any rate, it is time we had our tea."

"I'm not hungry," she said.

"You're pale and chilled," he said. "You
ate scarcely anything at breakfast, and nothing at midday. If you
faint dead away when the prodigals finally put in an appearance,
people will mistake you for one of those fragile creatures you insist
you are not. That would be extremely awkward for me, considering the
pains I have taken to assure Northwick that you are a determined
woman of strong principles."

"A waste of breath," she said. "He would
never believe one of my ilk knew what a principle was."

"He does believe that you are determined to leave
Throgmorton as soon as you retrieve your daughter," Rath-bourne
said. "He has agreed to put a carriage at your disposal."

"A private carriage?" she said. "Have you
taken leave of your senses? All you need do is lend me coach fare."

"No, I do not," he said. "You dislike
stagecoaches. On account of the jolting and crowding and drunkards
and puking and vermin, remember?"

"Then a place on the mail," she said. "Or
a post chaise, if you must be extravagant. But I beg you will not
send me away in one of my relative's private carriages."

"I am not sending you away,"
he said. "
You
are sending you away. Because of noble principles. Which I am obliged
to respect, curse you."

She turned and looked up into his handsome face, though
it hurt her. He wore the same bored expression he'd worn at the
Egyptian Hall, but his dark eyes were gentle. Oh, it was affection
she saw there, worse for her. If he were truly bored and distant she
would not long so much to touch his cheek.

"How do you think I feel?" she said. "I
have a handsome, wealthy aristocrat in the palm of my hand, and I
must let him go."

"Dream on," he said. "I find you merely
tolerable."

"Imagine how I feel," she went on. "I can
look back on generations of utterly amoral, conscienceless DeLucey
ancestors, any one of whom wouldn't have hesitated to ruin your life
and bankrupt you for good measure. Why couldn't I be like the rest of
them? But no, I must be the one cursed with scruples."

He smiled. "I shall never forgive you for that,
Bathsheba. For that and a great deal else. I believe I shall nurse a…
grudge… to the end of my days."

"Ah, well, at least you won't forget me," she
said.

"Forget you? I should as easily forget a bout of
whooping cough. I should as easily— Damnation."

He looked up and raindrops splattered his face.

"Come inside," he said. "There is no
point—"

"M'lord!" came a shout from not far away.
"Sir! This way!"

They both turned toward the sound.

"It's Thomas," Rathbourne
said. He ran that way.
Bathsheba ran after him.

Chapter 17