Lord Perfect (43 page)

OLIVIA AND LISLE RETURNED, DIRTY, WEARY, and dispirited,
at nightfall. Even a bath with perfumed soap and two maids in
attendance did not cheer Olivia. She picked at the meal the liveried
servants carried up on a silver tray, complete with a golden
chrysanthemum blossom in a silver vase.

She not only climbed into bed without being told a dozen
times, but did so two hours earlier than usual, saying she was tired.

"It is very good of you, Mama, not to say 'I told
you so,'" she said as Bathsheba tucked her in. "But it is
true. You told me so. Lord Lisle told me so, too."

"Adults might be told that such and such a thing
cannot exist, or such and such a wish is hopeless, yet they will
persist in believing or wishing," Bathsheba said.

"Still, I wish I had thought it through more
carefully," Olivia said. "I wish I had not caused you so
much trouble. It wasn't what I meant to do. I thought I would find a
treasure and make you a fine lady." She smiled ruefully. "And
me, too, of course. Well, I shall have to find another way."

"There is another way," said Bathsheba. She
told Olivia about Lord Mandeville's wish to present her to her
paternal grandfather, Lord Fosbury. "Lord Mandeville can smooth
the way, and you might grow up as a fine lady," she concluded.

"But that is no good if they will not take you as
well, Mama."

"Indeed, it is." Bathsheba ruthlessly
described the advantages. In detail.

"No, it is not the right idea," Olivia said.
"That is never the way I pictured it. I promised Papa I would
look after you. My idea didn't work and your idea won't do." She
patted Bathsheba's hand. "We'll go away tomorrow, Mama, and seek
our fortune elsewhere."

HE ALREADY LOOKED like an idiot. Why not wander out into
the garden after the household was abed? Why not linger outside her
window?

And then, why not throw pebbles at it?

Scenes are for the stage.

And rules were all very well, to a point.

Benedict stood looking up at the window.

Yes, of course it was ridiculous. He'd see her tomorrow,
before she left for good. But others would be by.

He only wanted to see her once and speak to her once
while no one else was looking on or listening.

He would not sing melancholy airs. He would not recite
poetry.

He would not see her, either, it seemed, for the minutes
crept past, and she did not appear.

He had better not try again. He might wake Olivia as
well—and she would probably throw the pebbles back at him. And
maybe a chair as well.

That was understandable. There had been times when he
had wanted to throw things at his father. Children needed discipline.
It was their elders' duty to administer it—and be hated for it.

Certainly Benedict had wanted to throw something at his
father today. What Lord Hargate had said of Benedict's behavior while
Mrs. Wingate was present was nothing to what he'd said later, out of
doors, in the garden, where no one could eavesdrop or intervene.

From the highest standing, as one of the
aristocracy's most respected members, you have sunk to a mere
laughingstock.

That was only the beginning and the mildest part of the
speech.

The window opened. A dark head, crowned with a scrap of
white nightcap, emerged.

"Bathsheba," he whispered.

She put her index finger to her lip. Then she took it
away and pointed within the room.

She did not want to wake Olivia. Neither did he.

"I only wanted to say…" he began
softly.

She shook her head and held up the finger, signaling him
to wait.

He waited.

Minutes slid away.

He was watching the window, and nearly jumped out of his
skin when he caught the flash of white to his left. She hurried
toward him, grabbed his arm, and drew him away from the house into
one of the formal gardens.

He pulled her into his arms and kissed her, deeply and
desperately. She answered with the same wild desperation. But then
she pulled away.

"I did not come for
that
,"
she said. "Only to say goodbye. And it is truly good-bye this
time. I wish it were not, Rathbourne. I wish so much. But you know
that. You ever were able to see through me."

"I knew it," he said. "I knew I was worth
more to you than twenty quid."

"Oh, my dear, a great deal more." She laid her
hand upon his cheek, in that way she had. "I was awake, trying
to write you a letter, because I could not bear to go away without
telling you the truth. It does no good, I know, but I have felt so
sure that you care for me, too, and I could not bear to leave you
coldly or hurt you in any way, even if it were the smallest hurt."

"A small hurt," he said. "That is like
saying the guillotine blade nicks a bit. I shall be wretched, and you
know it, and worse, we shall be martyrs, which is nauseating. I
detest being noble and self-sacrificing. I have done enough of that
this day, for I listened to my father and never once gave in to the
urge to throttle him."

"Oh, was it very bad?" she said. She drew her
hand away, but laid her cheek against his coat, which was better. He
could hold her close then, and let his hand stroke down over her
hair. "I guessed he would hold back while I was present."

"My brothers have given the
gossips' tongues reason to wag from time to time, but they never give
anyone cause to ridicule or
pity
them, he told me."

"Oh, no."

"My behavior has sunk to the level of the king and
his brothers," Benedict went on. "It is impossible, as you
know, to sink lower than this. They are dissipated to the grossest
extent, obscenely expensive, and far from intellectually astute. At
best they are tolerated. At worst they are hated and despised."

One royal duke's mistress had sold military commissions
and promotions. Another of the king's brothers had ten children by
his actress mistress, whom he could not support, leaving her to
continue her stage career or starve, along with their brood. Yet
another royal duke was the most hated officer in the army, and
another a violent reactionary. But these and their other doings were
trifles compared to the grand melodrama of King George IV's life.

"According to my father, my only hope is the king,"
Benedict went on. "If he commits another of his outrages, that
might draw attention away from me—though we cannot be sure it
will be enough to undo the damage. In one act, you see, in a few
days, I have undermined all the good work I have done in the last
decade and more."

"That is not true," she said, lifting her head
to look at him. "No one who knows you can lose respect for you
over such a small thing—because you were foolish about a woman,
even the most notorious woman in England? He is wrong. I wish I had
been there, for I would have told him so. He sadly underestimates
you. Only very narrow-minded and stupid people would let one minor
episode of your life taint their view of you and all you have done.
Admittedly, there are a great many of this sort of people in the
world. But you should want nothing to do with them."

The interview with his father had left Benedict chilled.
He hadn't realized how much until now, until her words warmed him,
driving out guilt and shame.

She had warmed him from the start. He hadn't realized
how cold he was until he felt her warmth. He hadn't realized how
empty he was until she'd taken hold of his heart and filled it.

He smiled down at her, at her ferocious loyalty.

He remembered Olivia fearlessly defending her dead
father's honor at breakfast.

The girl was not altogether a Dreadful DeLucey.
Something of her mother and something of her father lived inside her,
and only needed to be nourished.

Benedict could have nourished it… but he must not
think of that. Not now. He'd have the rest of his life to dwell on
might-have-beens.

Gad. The rest of his life.

Years. Decades. His family was horribly long-lived.

The Dowager Countess of Hargate was fourscore and five.
Her spouse, the previous earl, had lived into his seventies, and many
of his siblings were still alive. Mama's family was equally tenacious
of life. Her parents were in their eighties.

Benedict might live another
half
century
!

Without Bathsheba.

"You're right," he said. "I want nothing
to do with them. I want nothing to do with anybody who'd ridicule or
pity me because I love you."

She went suddenly still. "You—"

"I love you," he said. "They may all go
to blazes. If no one will take the trouble to see what you are really
like, if they will drive you out of England, then I shall go with
you."

SHE INSISTED HE would not go anywhere with her. He
insisted he would.

The three men who stood but a few feet away, behind the
garden wall, listened while the argument grew fiercer. Then the
debate abruptly stopped, and different sounds indicated that
Rathbourne had changed his tactics.

Whether it worked or no was impossible to say. The
voices dropped to murmurs. Then came good-byes.

When at last the lovers had gone their separate ways,
Lord Mandeville said, "You had it right, Hargate. It is like
Jack Wingate all over again, only worse, far worse."

"You are more observant than I, my lord," said
Lord Northwick. "I had not realized matters had gone so far."

"He is my son," said Lord Hargate. "I
ought to know him, even when he is not himself. Certainly I know it
is time to put an end to this madness."

RATHBOURNE HAD PROMISED he would take a full two weeks
to reconsider, and Bathsheba had given her word that she would keep
him apprised of her whereabouts in the meantime.

She was sure that once she was out of the way and he had
time to think coolly, he would change his mind about abandoning his
life, his family, all he'd achieved and hoped to achieve, for a
woman.

No matter what he did, the title and a great deal of
property would be his eventually, unless Fate intervened and his
father outlived him. Still, he would break his parents' hearts, and
his brothers would never forgive him. He could never hope for a happy
homecoming. If he abandoned his life here for a life with her, he
could never hope to regain the position of honor and trust he'd held
in the Great World.

Unlike Jack, Rathbourne would come to regret what he'd
lost, for he'd a great deal more to lose. Unlike Jack, Rathbourne
would come to resent her for what she'd cost him. He would end up
bitterly unhappy and she would feel like a murderess.

A fortnight would do the trick, she thought. It would
give him time to calm down and his family time to bring him to his
senses.

Meanwhile, there was breakfast to be got through.

Lord Mandeville had commanded their company at
breakfast. Otherwise, Bathsheba would have happily breakfasted in her
room. Or upon the road.

This time they all crowded about a round table in the
morning room, a circumstance not conducive to private conversation.

Thus, when Olivia told Lord Mandeville that she and her
mama were going to Egypt, the news reached everyone simultaneously.

"Egypt?" several voices, including
Bathsheba's, repeated.

"The idea came to me when I woke this morning,"
Olivia said. "It occurred to me that if one was looking for
treasure, one ought to go where one is likely to find it. A great
many people are digging for treasure in Egypt. You told me so
yourself, Lord Lisle. You said you were going to Egypt one day and
look for treasure."

"
One
day
," he said. "That means
the future. I can't go now." He paused, his expression
considering. "Unless there was a school they could send me to.
At any rate,
you
cannot go to Egypt. That is even more ridiculous than digging for
pirate's treasure at Throgmorton."

Olivia's eyes flashed.

"You know nothing about the place," he plowed
on. "It is not like England or even the Continent. Women are
kept confined. The rule of law as we know it does not exist there. If
you tried to travel about Egypt alone, you would be kidnapped
instantly and sold into slavery."

"Even with a large party, travel in Egypt can be
dangerous," said Lord Hargate. "Certainly, it can be
difficult. Still, for those willing to brave the hardships, there are
rewards, though not necessarily monetary. Signor Belzoni, for
instance, has not profited as greatly as everyone supposes—as
Rupert's bride makes a point of reminding me."

Bathsheba noticed that the earl had shadows under his
eyes. His face was drawn. He must be weary. He had traveled all the
day before yesterday. Last night he must have lain awake worrying
about his eldest son. Later, she must find a moment to reassure
him—though her compassion might stick in his craw.