Lord Perfect (17 page)

"You aim to keep her from going to the devil,"
he said, dodging a clumsily driven gig. "A noble ambition."

"You needn't be tactful," she said. "I
can guess what you're thinking."

"I doubt it," he said. Even he wasn't sure
what he was thinking. He was aware of the busy road and of his
impatience at the delay. He was aware of anxiety about Peregrine and
Olivia, of time passing and night settling in. He was aware of the
woman beside him, of warmth and physical nearness… and,
perhaps more dangerous yet, of his fascination with her, with what
she said and how her mind worked.

Her mind! A woman's mind!

But there was no getting round it. He was too aware of
the growing mental intimacy and too uneasy with it to pretend it
wasn't there. He was too aware of something in the air—or about
the darkness—or about her—that lowered his guard and made
him say things he would never dream of saying aloud to anybody,
especially a woman.

He was aware at the same time of a distance as vast as
if an ocean rolled between them and of a rage almost like despair
because he must not bridge the distance. Perhaps the rage worried him
most.

In any case, it was all too much. He couldn't think
because he needed order to think, and what he had at present was
disorder, chaos.

"My mother was determined to see me married into a
noble family," she said, voice still taut, body still rigid on
the seat beside him. "I was to be the key that opened the doors
of Society to the Dreadful DeLuceys."

Her tone and posture told him far more than her words
what her mother's ambition had cost her. She had been hurt—or
shamed perhaps—and deeply so, else Bathsheba Wingate would have
spoken with her usual droll wit. He wanted to know more… but
Reason told him it was better not to know. He felt too much for her
as it was.

"All mothers want their daughters to marry up,"
he said, making his voice light in hopes he could make the
conversation become so, too. "They plot and scheme, and they are
thoroughly unscrupulous." He paused. "My father is, too, in
that regard."

She started. "Your
father
?"

"I know," Benedict said. "It is shocking.
But he does not confine his manipulations to politics. He has
determined that all my brothers must marry wealthy wives—and so
far, he's had his way. Even with Rupert, whom he declared a hopeless
case."

"And what about you?" she said.

"Oh, I have always been excused from vulgar
financial considerations," he said. "I shall inherit
everything."

The topic appeared to have diverted her from whatever
deep unhappiness it was, for her posture eased a bit.

"All the mothers must have pushed their daughters
at you," she said. "They must still do."

He shrugged. "I am not sure I was aware then of the
mamas and chaperons scheming and plotting. It's more obvious now,
looking on from the outside. I had not thought about it, but it must
be hard on the girls—at least those with a modicum of
sensitivity or intelligence. Not that I was one to notice such
subtleties at the time. I noticed their faces and figures first, then
whether their voices were agreeable or not, then their deportment."

He felt her relax, her gaze coming back to his face.
"You are roasting me," she said. "You make it sound as
though finding a bride was the same as choosing a horse at—
What is the name of the auction house? Taver—"

"Tattersall's," he said.

"Tattersall's, then. Is that how men view the
famous Almack's assemblies? Do you take no account of the girls'
characters or their personalities?"

"If they were not girls of good character, they
would not be on the Marriage Mart," he said. "And they most
certainly would not be admitted to Almack's."

He would not have dreamt of seeking a girl who was not
admitted. Not being obliged to marry for money hadn't meant Lord
Hargate's heir could marry where he pleased. Or when he pleased.
Benedict knew the rules, knew what was expected of him.

And Ada? Had she followed rules or her heart? He had no
idea—and that said everything, didn't it?

"In other words, they were virgins of good family,
and that was all you needed to know about their character," Mrs.
Wingate said. "Good bloodstock—"

"I'm the Earl of Hargate's heir," he cut in
tightly. "I hadn't the luxury of being swept off my feet, if
that is what you are getting at."

"That is not what I meant," she said. "You
speak of marriage, a lifelong commitment, yet love does not come into
the picture."

"How absurd," he said. "I could not
wander the world like one of Byron's heroes, looking for the love of
my life, if there is such a thing."

"What about the
like
of your life?" she said. "What about a friend and
companion? Good grief, Rathbourne, how did you choose?"

"I fail to see how the matter can be of any import
to you," he said in the glacial tone he had learnt from his
father. It was famous for leaving its victims bereft not only of
speech but, in some cases, of the will to live.

She waved it away with one slim, gloved hand. "Don't
be silly," she said. "It is vastly interesting. I feel like
a visitor to an exotic land, trying to understand the ways of the
natives. I didn't choose. I was only sixteen, and I simply fell over
head and ears in love. But it is wrong of me to quiz you. Clearly,
the subject is too painful for you to talk about." Her tone
softened. "I forgot that you have not been widowed for very
long."

Benedict's heart was pounding, and it wanted all his
self-control not to relay his agitation to the horses via the
ribbons. Luckily, they'd finally reached the Kensington tollgate.
Fuming, he waited for the gatekeeper to collect the money and open
the gate.

At last it opened. As he drove through it, Benedict
belatedly recalled Thomas. He'd completely forgotten about the
footman, riding in the back. Benedict's ears burned as he recalled
his revelations about his younger brothers.

It didn't matter that the footman could not possibly
hear their conversation over the constant rumble of wheels and
clatter of hooves on the cobblestones, the horses' snorts and
whinnies, and the drivers' complaints and curses. Benedict was too
upset to be reasonable.

"I ought not be required to remind you," he
growled, "that we are not alone."

"I told you not to bring the servant," she
said coolly.

"I wish I had not brought you," he said.
"You—Devil take it! You made me forget to ask the tollgate
keeper about the children." He brought the carriage to a halt.
Before he could summon Thomas to take charge of it, she jumped down.

"I shall ask," she said. "You are too
agitated."

Without being told, Thomas leapt down to tend the
horses.

Meanwhile, without a backward glance, Mrs. Wingate
walked on toward the tollgate, hips swaying in the most blatantly
provocative manner—much to the delight of the mob of men, who
performed torturous maneuvers with their vehicles to make way for
her.

Benedict did not wait to see how many collisions she
caused—nor did he drag down any of the men from their vehicles
and throw them into any walls, because this would be undignified and
precisely the sort of thing Rupert would do—but caught up with
her in a few swift strides.

"I am not agitated," he said. "I am
perfectly capable of—"

"I should not have mentioned Lady Rathbourne in
that thoughtless, light way," she said. "I beg your
pardon."

"There is no need to become maudlin," he said.
"Ada died two years ago and she—and she…" He
let out an angry sigh. "Oh, very well. She was a stranger to me.
There, is your tender heart comforted?"

BATHSHEBA WISHED SHE had not answered her door this
evening. Rathbourne was proving even more troublesome than she had
feared. She might have borne the physical proximity with some degree
of composure. The mental proximity was making dangerous cracks in her
defenses.

"No, I am not at all comforted, because you are
talking nonsense," she said. "For how long were you wed?"

"Six years," he said.

"Then your wife could not be a stranger." She
stopped walking. "I must insist you return to the carriage. You
are attracting too much attention."

He glanced about them at the vehicles emerging from the
tollgate. "So far as I can ascertain, the onlookers are all
men," he said, "and they are all looking at you."

"I am merely a handsome piece of goods to them,"
she said. "While they stare at me, their brains are not engaged.
Do you want them to start thinking—and wonder which aristocrat
that is, dogging my footsteps and glowering at me?"

He glowered at her some more, bowed curtly, turned away,
and strode back to the carriage.

He was waiting by the carriage, pocket watch in hand,
when she returned not many minutes later.

"Well?" he said.

"We're still headed in the right direction,"
she said. She hurriedly climbed into the carriage before he could
throw her in. It was not that she minded being flung about in that
imperious way. It was rather that she liked it too much: the ease
with which he lifted her, the power and heat she felt radiating from
him, and above all, the feel of his hands upon her.

Much too dangerous. As it was, she'd been unable to
banish the memory of that kiss weeks ago. She remembered too well the
feel of his hand at the back of her neck and what that simple touch
did to her, melting will and morals and muscles simultaneously.

A moment later, she had positioned herself as close to
her side of the vehicle as she could without being obvious about it,
and they were once more on their way. This time they traveled at a
speedier pace, the road having grown less congested. While he focused
on driving, she told what she'd learnt from the tollgate keeper.

It turned out that he knew the farmer she'd described.
His name was Jarvis, and he traveled from Brentford to London and
back regularly. Though the tollgate keeper could not say precisely
when he'd arrived, he reckoned it was between one and two hours
earlier. He vaguely remembered children in the cart, but had not paid
close attention. Jarvis often had his own or neighbors' children with
him.

"If that is the case, it makes no sense to continue
stopping to inquire about them until we reach Brentford,"
Rath-bourne said. "If the road remains reasonably clear of
drovers, carts, and wagons, we might easily get there by eight
o'clock. They might be as little as an hour ahead of us at this
point. We have an excellent chance of finding them before they can
negotiate another ride—a task they'll find a good deal more
difficult in a hamlet like Brentford than at busy Hyde Park Corner.
If my nephew has failed to persuade your daughter to turn back, he'll
be aware that I must soon be after him, in which case he will
exercise his ingenuity to slow their progress."

"That sounds reasonable enough," she said.
"The trouble is, Olivia is not reasonable."

"She is twelve years old," Rathbourne said.
"She has no money, and her companion objects to the journey.
Even if she were in more promising circumstances than these, she can
only go so far in a few hours."

PEREGRINE SOON DISCOVERED he'd have better success in
slowing Olivia Wingate down if the rest of the world were not so
gullible.

The farmer had suggested they stop at the Pigeons Inn in
Brentford and mention his name to the landlord, who would look after
them and help them find a ride west.

Peregrine decided he would insist they pause there to
eat. This would give him time to find a way to leave a message for
Uncle Benedict.

Surely Lord Rathbourne had realized hours ago that
Peregrine was gone. He would not have many clues, unfortunately. Had
it occurred to Peregrine that he'd fail to retrieve Miss Wingate,
he'd have left clues. It had not occurred to him.

Still, Uncle being so clever, he would quickly deduce
what had happened. No doubt he was already on their trail.

After all, crime was one of his lordship's pet
interests. He knew all the Bow Street Runners and their
thief-catching methods. He had studied countless disreputable persons
and criminals in the course of his parliamentary inquiries. Finding
Miss Wingate and Peregrine would be child's play.

If Peregrine dawdled long enough, his uncle would catch
up with them.

The trouble was, Olivia didn't go straight to the inn.
First, she stood by the side of the road, waiting for it to empty.
Then, to Peregrine's horror, she pulled off her frock. Under it she
was wearing boy's clothes. She took from the shawl containing her
traveling things a cap, stuck it on her head, and tucked her hair up
inside it. She rolled the frock up and stuffed it into the shawl and
tied up the parcel again.

Next, when they reached the inn, she didn't go inside,
but into the inn yard. She wandered about the place, walking and
talking like a boy. Knowing that it was most unwise to unmask her in
such a place, Peregrine could only hang about in a state of painful
suspense until he realized what she was about, at which point he
dared do nothing.