Lord Perfect (45 page)

"We'll have to saw it off," Peregrine said.
"Or pry it open. It's quite old. The wood is probably rotted.
One good kick ought to break it open."

"Wait." Olivia knelt to study the lock. "An
ordinary key might work," she said. "Or I could use
hairpins. Locks are not usually very complicated."

Benedict edged closer to Bathsheba. "She can pick
locks, too?" he whispered.

"Why do you think I wanted to move to a better
neighborhood?" Bathsheba said. "She has learnt a great deal
too much."

Olivia was trying her hairpins, without much success.

'Try this," said Lord Hargate. He handed the girl
his penknife.

She eyed it warily. "I might spoil the blade."

"It can be sharpened."

Benedict met his father's amber gaze.

And blinked.

That could not be a twinkle he saw there.

Lord Hargate never
twinkled
.

The girl fiddled with the penknife, then tried the
penknife together with a hairpin.

The lock sprang open.

She took a deep breath, then lifted the lid of the
trunk, revealing…

Rags. She took out one, and carefully set it down, then
another.

"Old clothes," Peregrine said. "Oh, that
is so provoking. Why on earth—" He sucked in his breath.

So did everyone else.

Something glittered among the remaining rags.

Still, with the same cautious deliberation, Olivia
removed the last of the rotted covering.

Red and yellow and green and blue, silver and gold burst
into view. Coins and jewels, chains and medals glittered in the
afternoon light.

"Well, well," said Lord Mandeville gruffly.
"Did I not tell you not to lose heart?"

Peregrine peered inside the box. "I can't believe
it. Is it real?"

Olivia took out a ruby ring and examined it with a
practiced eye. She scratched the metal with her fingernail. She bit
it. "It's real," she said.

She looked up at her mother, blue
eyes shining. "It's real, Mama. The treasure. I knew I would
find it. You'll be a grand lady now." Her brilliant blue gaze
shifted to Lord Mandeville. "It
is
Mama's, as you said? You must tell her so, or else she will make me
give it to you."

"Then let me say it before all these witnesses,"
said Lord Mandeville. "You, Olivia Wingate, are the descendant
of Edmund DeLucey. You and your trusty—er— squire—have
taken great risks and endured great hardship. You have even performed
mighty labor, digging with your own hands. You have found it. The
treasure rightfully belongs to you, to dispose of as you choose."

Benedict looked about him. Lord and Lady Mandeville.
Lord and Lady Northwick. Lord Hargate. Peter DeLucey. Bathsheba. The
children. Several servants stood near at hand. Others were clustered
in the windows of the house, looking down on the scene.

Scenes belong on the stage.

He looked at his father again. Lord Hargate still
watched Olivia but now wore an expression Benedict knew all too well.

It was subtle. Lord Hargate was never obvious. But
Benedict knew his father well—better than most did—and he
clearly discerned it.

This was the same expression his lordship had worn on
Alistair's wedding day.

This was the same expression he'd worn when Rupert
brought his bride home from Egypt.

Triumph.

Both times, Benedict had fully understood. Against all
odds, and to the earl's vast relief, his wayward younger sons had wed
perfectly suitable girls of more than suitable wealth.

But this time, for the first time, Benedict was not at
all certain what his father was looking so smug about.

WHILE OLIVIA WAS having several inches of dirt scrubbed
off, Bathsheba sought out Lord Hargate, to tell him she would not
need the twenty pounds after all, and to quiet his mind regarding his
eldest son.

The servants directed her to the gothic ruin on the
eastern edge of the lake. The ruin had been built in the last century
to create a melancholy aspect, conducive to contemplation and poetry.

Though Bathsheba doubted Lord Hargate was the sort of
man who had poetic thoughts, she supposed he had plenty to be
melancholy about.

She found him frowning up at a crumbling turret. He was
not so preoccupied, though, as to fail to hear her approach.

He turned and nodded. "Mrs. Wingate," he said,
showing no sign of surprise. But then, he was good at showing no sign
of anything. "I collect you've come to tell me that you have
freed my son from your toils and we shall soon be shed of you at
last."

She paused and blinked. "Yes, actually." She
explained about the fortnight's cooling-off period she'd given
Rath-bourne.

Lord Hargate showed no reaction to this, either.

"Surely, in two weeks' time, you and other family
members can make him see his error," she said.

"I think not," he said.

"Of course you can," she said. "He has a
strong attachment to his family. And no matter what he says, I know
his parliamentary work and his philanthropic schemes give him great
satisfaction. He would miss them sorely. He is a good man, Lord
Hargate. He is not idle and dissipated as so many of his fellows are.
He will do a great deal of good in England. He has a noble career
ahead of him. He knows this. He only needs to be reminded—while
I am out of the way. I had counted on you to manage this, sir.
Everyone says you are one of the most powerful men in England. Surely
a fortnight is enough time for you to work your will upon your son?"

"I doubt it," said Lord Hargate. "But
here he comes, and we shall see how much power I have."

Bathsheba whipped round. Rathbourne was striding rapidly
up the path. He was hatless, and the October wind flung the dark
curls this way and that. As he drew nearer she saw that his neckcloth
was crooked and one of his coat buttons was not buttoned.

"You did not imagine he would not guess your next
move, I hope," said Lord Hargate. "Benedict is an
experienced politician. Furthermore, he has always taken an unhealthy
interest in criminal behavior."

"Has she come to give me up again, Father?"
Rath-bourne said. "Bathsheba is always giving me up and saying
good-bye. It is her way of expressing affection, you see. That and
stealing my purse and clothes."

"I only wanted to set your father's mind at rest,"
Bathsheba said. "It is obvious he did not sleep a wink last
night."

"That is because he was up all night plotting with
his fellow conspirators," said Rathbourne.

"Plotting?" she said.

"My dear girl, you come of a long line of liars and
cheats," said Rathbourne. "Surely you can recognize a
swindle when you see one."

SHE HAD NO idea, obviously.

Her gaze went from Benedict to his father.

As though Lord Hargate's countenance would ever reveal
his thoughts, Benedict thought. She might as well look for
enlightenment in the ruins behind them. She might as well try to read
a brick.

"I know it was all a sham, that
scene a little while ago on the terrace," Benedict said, careful
to keep his voice level, though he was baffled and angry. "What
I could not make up my mind about was
why
.
Did you and Mandeville and Northwick go to all that trouble merely to
be rid of Bathsheba as quickly as possible? I should think you
understood that wasn't necessary. She is determined to set me free,
as she sees it."

"I believe my understanding remains in reasonable
working order," said his father. He folded his hands behind his
back and walked toward the lake and looked out across it.

Bathsheba threw Benedict a puzzled glance. He shrugged.
After a moment, they joined his father at the lake's edge.

There was a long silence.

Benedict determinedly waited it out. His father was a
master of manipulation. It was no use trying to wrest control from
him.

Birds sang. The wind swirled through a pile of leaves,
shuffling and scattering them.

Having drawn out the moment for as long as possible,
Lord Hargate finally spoke. "You were mistaken, Mrs. Wingate,"
he said. "I came to Throgmorton carrying a great deal of money
as well as several pieces of jewelry my wife and mother contributed.
We were prepared to bribe you handsomely to go away forever. I was
prepared to do so yesterday, when you came to the study, even though
by then I had realized that matters had grown more serious than we
had supposed."

"By then you saw that she was not what you had
supposed, either," Benedict said.

"There was that," his father admitted. "I
have never in my life had so much trouble keeping a straight face as
when Mrs. Wingate offered to give you up for twenty pounds. I cannot
wait to tell your grandmother." He smiled a little.

But the smile vanished as quickly as it had come, and he
went on, "I have always wished I had daughters, Mrs. Wingate,
because my sons are an endless source of trouble."

Not I
,
Benedict wanted to shout, childishly.
Why
do you always blame me
?

"You always say that," he said. "It does
not strike me as at all reasonable. I have not given you trouble
since I was a boy." Then he recalled an incident at Oxford. And
another. "Well, not since I came of age, at any rate."

"My sons are an endless source of trouble, of one
kind or another, Mrs. Wingate," his obstinate father repeated.
"My eldest has been unhappy for a very long time."

Had Lord Hargate said that his eldest son was a traveler
from the moon, Benedict would have been less surprised.

Surprise
was a completely inadequate word for what he felt. The world had
turned upside down.

He blinked. Twice.

His father's deep amber gaze met his. "You used to
be filled with devilment," Lord Hargate said. "You used to
lead your brothers into every sort of scrape. You used to laugh. I
have not heard you laugh in years."

"But of course I laugh," Benedict said. "This
is absurd."

"He laughs," Bathsheba said. "I have seen
and heard him do it. A few nights ago, I thought he would do himself
an injury."

"You make him laugh," Lord Hargate said to
her. "I came here and saw the devil in his eyes. I saw happiness
there, too. I know my eldest is no fool. He has never been as
susceptible to women as some of his brothers. He is acutely
observant. He would recognize an opportunist, I told myself. He would
recognize a parasite. Even so, I was uneasy. Even the wisest men can
make fatal errors regarding women. But then you came to me with that
diverting story about being bored with him and wanting twenty pounds
to go away. Then he came in through the window. And then it was quite
plain that the pair of you were in love to a perfectly ridiculous
degree. I am sorry my wife missed that scene. She would have found it
highly gratifying. At any rate, I described it as best my limited
powers would allow in the letter I wrote shortly thereafter."

Gratifying.

Benedict hadn't realized how tense he had been until
now, when he dared to breathe freely. He hadn't realized how great a
weight lay on his shoulders until now, when it finally began to lift.

"Father…" he began, his throat tight.

"But leave it to one of my sons to make matters as
difficult as possible," his father interrupted. "It was too
much to hope you'd choose one of the perfectly suitable girls we have
been putting in your way this age."

Bathsheba looked at Benedict. "You never told me
they were matchmaking."

"He didn't notice!" said his father before
Benedict could answer. "He didn't notice handsome young misses
of unexceptionable family. He didn't notice beautiful heiresses. We
tried bluestockings. We tried country girls. We tried everything. He
didn't notice! But Bathsheba Wingate, the most notorious woman in all
of England, he noticed."

"We notorious women tend to stand out," she
said.

"Perhaps it is his unhealthy interest in the
criminal classes," said Lord Hargate. "At any rate, he
chose you, and you make him happy. You—of all the women in all
the world, the one woman who could never, under any circumstances, be
accepted in Society."

"I do not blame you for feeling… vexed,
Father," Benedict said, "but—"

"It would
never
happen," his father cut in. "It is quite impossible."

"In that case…" Benedict began.

"Which makes it a pretty challenge," his
father went on. "But if I could get Rupert properly wed, I can
do anything. In any case, we have had a piece of luck: Mandeville is
eager for our families to become connected."