Lord Perfect (21 page)

More audibly Benedict said, 'To my great regret, Monday
will not—"

"Ooooh," said Mrs. Wingate. She let go of him,
took a few staggering steps toward Humber, and fainted.

BENEDICT DID NOT suspect anything at first. When she put
her hand to her head and began to sway, he stopped breathing as well
as thinking. Still, he moved to catch her. But she fell against
Humber, who caught her instead.

Benedict's heart recommenced beating while with narrowed
eyes he watched her shift and squirm until she ended up facing the
innkeeper, her bosom pressed to his chest.

Humber showed no eagerness to return
her, and Benedict promptly considered killing
him
.

At that moment, however, a large woman carrying a
lantern came into view. She wore a man's cloak over what had to be
her nightdress. She still wore her sleeping bonnet, apparently
deeming it sufficient protection against the night air. She strode
toward them purposefully, her countenance hard.

"Humber," she said. "What keeps you so
long?"

Mrs. Wingate let out a little moan.

Humber hastily transferred the limp, curvaceous armful
to Benedict. "Bertha," said the innkeeper. "What do
you want to be out looking for me for at this hour? You'll catch your
death, you will."

"How was I to sleep with all the uproar?"
Bertha demanded.

Mrs. Wingate moaned again.

Benedict gazed down at the woman languishing in his
arms. She'd lost her bonnet, and her hair had come undone. Her head
was flung back, exposing her white throat, and thrusting her firm,
round bosom upward. Her soft lips were parted, her eyes closed…

He knew the pose was a sham, but that was about all he
knew. His brain wasn't working half so well as other, lower parts of
him.

She was dirty and disheveled from the recent scuffle,
and that only made it worse.

He wanted to tear off every last soiled, worn garment,
strip her to the skin, and…

…
wash
her.

…
Slowly…

…
from the top of her head to the tips of her
toes.

With an effort—and it was no light one—he
reclaimed his mind.

"My dear," he said thickly. "Speak to
me."

She fluttered her eyelids and, by
degrees, began to recover.
Pretended
to begin to recover.

Since Benedict desperately needed to collect his wits,
he looked about for a place to set her down.

Drunkards One and Two lay peacefully near the bench
where they'd fallen, both snoring loudly. Benedict nudged Number One
out of the way with his foot, and sat Mrs. Wingate on the bench.
Before he could draw away, she tugged his hand.

Though he needed to put some distance between them,
Benedict sat down gingerly beside her. Remembering he was supposed to
be her spouse, he put his arm about her shoulders and tried not to
think about baths.

"My dear, I fear my trouble grows worse," she
said. "It is not a good sign: another spell, so soon after the
last one." She gave a little sob.

Ah, she was dying, that was it.

"No, no, you are better," Benedict said,
patting her hand. "It was the shock—all those men—the
shouting and violence. You were alarmed."

Not half as alarmed as the men at the receiving end of
the whip handle, he'd wager. It was made of good, solid blackthorn.

She shook her head. "No, I grow weaker," she
said, with a wonderful, sad bravery. "I had so hoped to see dear
Sarah before… before… well, you know."

Benedict didn't know, but he had the general idea, and
played along. "You shall see her soon, my dear, I promise."

"Oh, I wish it could be so," she said. "It
was the one last thing I wished for. But by Monday… it may be
too late. I am not sure I shall be strong enough."

The tender scene had diverted the other couple's
attention, as Mrs. Wingate no doubt intended.

"The lady's ailing?" said Mrs. Humber. She
glared at her spouse.

"Well, who could've guessed it?"
said he. "She felt-Mean to say, she
looked
plenty robust to me. And I heard she was lively enough with the
horsewhip only a little while ago."

Benedict gently leaned Mrs. Wingate against the wall of
the inn, then rose and joined the pair. "If you could see her in
the harsh light of day, you would recognize the signs," he told
them in a low voice. "I cannot say where she found the strength
to come to my aid. It was reckless of her, not wise at all, in her
condition… but she has great c-courage." He let his voice
break.

"She's amazing spirited for a invalid," said
Humber.

"She is determined to see her sister, though she
knows the journey might be fatal," Benedict went on. "I
dare to hope that some better instinct guides her. Perhaps the
doctors are wrong, and the reunion and change of air will strengthen
her. It is desperation, you see, that leads us to travel so late. She
fears she will not see her sister in time."

Mrs. Humber's scowl deepened.

"She weren't a bit sick before," Humber said.
"You didn't see her then, Bertha."

"I seen plenty," said Mrs. Humber.

"And only look at what
he
done," said Mr. Humber, nodding at his fallen neighbors. "Then
there's all the broken windows. Squire will want to—"

"Squire, indeed," said Mrs.
Humber. "Much he cares •about a lot of your sotted friends
knocking heads. Let
them
pay for the broken winders. Don't you be telling me about Squire. I
wasn't born yesterday, was I?"

"Now, Bertha," Humber said.

"Don't you 'now Bertha' me," she said.

She turned to Benedict. "I'm sorry for your
trouble, sir," she said. "But if I was you, I wouldn't be
traveling so late with the lady. The night air won't do her no good,
for one thing. And for another, at this hour it's mostly drunken
fools and lechers up and about. Pretty creeturs like her is bound to
bring out the worst in 'em. You be on your way, now—and I'd
keep her better covered up if I was you."

Moments later, Benedict, Mrs. Wingate, and Thomas were
safely in the curricle and on their way out of Colnbrook.

None of them noticed Squire Pardew riding up to the
highway. He halted at the edge of the road to let the curricle pass.
He remained there, in the shadows, frowning as he watched it drive
away.

"THAT WAS A near thing," Rathbourne told
Bathsheba as they crossed the next bridge. "I had it in mind to
signal to Thomas, then scoop you up and make a mad dash for the
carriage. I reckoned that if we took them by surprise, Humber's
ruffians would be too slow to stop us, and we might gallop to
freedom."

"That was a better idea than mine," she said.
"But I saw a woman coming, and falling into his arms was what
came into my head."

"Your idea was brilliant," he said. "By
gad, that was a delicious scene. Better than any stage farce."
He transferred the reins to his whip hand, then threw the other round
her shoulders and hugged her. She felt his chin on her head. "You
were wonderful," he said, his deep voice dropping to a rumble.
"Mad, to leap to my rescue—but wonderful then, too."

She wanted to tuck herself in closer. Now that it was
over, she found she was trembling. "I was afraid you would be
hurt," she said.

His hold tightened. "Were you, indeed?" He
cleared his throat. "Not half as afraid as those men when you
leapt down amongst them, I daresay," he went on in lighter
tones. "What a picture you made!"

"I have had practice," she said. She
remembered who and what she was, then, and made herself draw away.

Rathbourne seemed to recollect himself, too. He did not
try to draw her back but gathered the reins into his left hand again,
straightened his posture, and returned his attention to driving.

"My family traveled the Continent during wartime,"
she said. "My father taught me how to use a pistol and a whip—
in case we met with any roaming bands of soldiers, he said. As it
turned out, we had more trouble with his numerous victims than from
marauding soldiers."

"If your daughter is half as resourceful as you, I
cannot be in the least anxious about Peregrine," he said. "I
know he can defend himself, if it comes to that. He is more than
handy with his fists, as Nat Diggerby discovered. In any case, they
will be safe enough on the stage."

"Safe enough, yes," she said. "But we are
running out of time. How far is it to Salt Hill?"

"About three miles," he said.

"Drive faster," she said.

RATHBOURNE DROVE FASTER, to no avail.

At the Windmill in Salt Hill, Mrs. Edkins, the landlady,
told them that only one passenger had disembarked from the Courser.
This was an elderly lady, who was at present asleep in one of the
rooms. It proved unnecessary to wake and question her, since Mrs.
Edkins had spoken to her at length.

The innkeeper told Bathsheba and Rathbourne what her
elderly guest had told her. In Cranford Bridge, the Courser had taken
up two boys making their way home from London to see their dying
mama. The old lady had taken pity on them and given them a few coins.
It was not very much—she did not travel with a great deal of
money—but it would cover the fare to Twyford.

Bathsheba looked at Rathbourne. "How far is
Twyford?" she asked.

"About twelve miles," he said. "How
annoying. I had hoped to have a bath before too long. It seems I must
make do with the inn yard's pump."

"Testing the horses' mettle and had an accident,
did you?" said Mrs. Edkins, eyeing him up and down.
Notwithstanding his dirty face, missing buttons, draggled neckcloth,
scarred trousers, and scuffed boots, her gaze was warm with
admiration.

"We had a run-in with a lot of drunken oafs in
Colnbrook," Bathsheba said.

"You should have seen our opponents,"
Rathbourne said, black eyes gleaming, "after my wife was done
with them."

He turned away and started down the narrow passage
leading to the back of the inn. Bathsheba watched him go, marveling
at his ability to appear merely attractively rumpled, while she…

The thought trailed into nothing as her gaze slid down
from his broad shoulders to his narrow hips. He was walking oddly.

She hurried after him. "Are you hurt?" she
said.

"Certainly not," he said. He kept walking. "I
only want a dash of cold water to revive me."

He seemed to be favoring his right side. "You are
hurt," she said. "You must let me look at you. You might
have cracked a rib."

"I have cracked nothing," he said. "It is
no more than a protesting muscle. My throwing-fellows-into-doors
muscle has grown stiff and weak from lack of use."

"Mrs. Edkins!" she called.

The landlady hastened into the passageway.

"My husband is hurt," Bathsheba told her. "I
shall want some hot water."

"No, you most certainly shall not," he said.
"Mrs. Ed-kins, you are on no account to trouble about hot water
or anything else." He threw Bathsheba a quelling look. "It
is past two o'clock in the morning. You will not keep everybody awake
and turn this hostelry inside out because I have a muscle spasm."
He turned away, wincing as he did so.

"Pay no attention to him, Mrs. Edkins," said
Bathsheba. "He is a man, and you know how men are."

"Indeed, I do," said the landlady. "And
it's no trouble at all. We are up at all hours here, with all the
coaches and carriages coming and going. I'll have that hot water for
you in a trice. And a bite to eat, maybe, and something to drink, to
fortify the gentleman?"

"No," said Rathbourne in his most lordly
tones. "Absolutely n-n—" His mouth twitched. He made
a choked sound.

Bathsheba stared at him, alarmed.

And then it exploded from him, a great roar of laughter
that shook the walls of the passageway.

ONCE HE'D STARTED, it was as though a dam had burst.

Benedict couldn't stop laughing. Again and again he saw
the recent episode in his mind's eye, and again and again he returned
to the moment when Drunk Number Two had made his spectacularly crude
suggestions to Mrs. Wingate, and she had said in that marvelously
matter-of-fact voice, "Not tonight. I have a headache."

Thence Benedict's mind strayed to her falling into
Humber's arms—and the expression on Mrs. Humber's face—
and her succinct remark, "I seen plenty."

Then he would go on laughing, helplessly, doubled over
at times.

Benedict leant an arm against the wall and tried to
catch his breath—but he saw Mrs. Wingate beating a fellow on
the head and shoulders with the whip handle, saw the fellow raising
his arms to shield himself—and that set him off again, into
whoops.