Lord Perfect (37 page)

Bathsheba put her hand out, and even as she did so, she
knew he wasn't there. The warmth was missing. She shivered, though
not from cold. She had not felt so alone since those first bleak
months after Jack died.

"Drat you, Jack," she whispered. "You had
better not be laughing. A fine joke, you'll think it, that I should
make the same mistake twice."

She heard a sound in the room beyond. She sat up.

Stealthy footsteps.

"Who is that?" she said.

"Roaming bands of soldiers," came a familiar
rumble. "Brigands and cutthroats. Ghouls and goblins."

Rathbourne's tall, dark form filled the doorway. "Or
perhaps it was simply me, galumphing about while fondly imagining I
was stealing noiselessly about the place."

"Were you walking in your sleep?" she said.

"I thought I was walking in my—er—awake,"
he said.

"You told me not to fret," she said. "Were
you fretting, Rathbourne?"

"I was not pacing, if that is what you are
implying," he said. "I never pace. Caged animals pace.
Gentlemen stand or sit quietly."

"You could not sleep," she said.

"I was trying to work out a plan for dealing with
Peregrine—or his parents, actually," he said.

He folded his arms and leant against the doorjamb. It
was so like his pose at the Egyptian Hall, when she'd first seen him,
that her breath caught, as it had done then.

"I'd forgotten," she said. "The business
about the peddler's daughter won't work now, obviously."

"I am considering making a scene," he said.
"Turning the tables on them. Before they can commence their
histrionics, I shall start striding back and forth, waving my fist
and clutching my forehead by turns."

"You are fond of that boy," she said.

"Well, yes, of course. Why else should I put up
with him?"

He ought to have children, she thought. He would make a
good father.

She could not give him children. He didn't need an aging
mistress with a malfunctioning womb. He needed a young wife who'd
fill his nursery.

"If you like, I'll help you devise a scene
tomorrow," she said, "while we watch for our wanderers."

"It is tomorrow, actually," he said. "Last
time I looked at my pocket watch, it was one o'clock, and that was a
while ago."

"Then it is past time you came to bed," she
said.

"I see," he said. "Is that what woke you?
A desperate longing for me?"

"I should hardly call it a desperate longing,"
she said. "I should call it a vague sense of something amiss."

"The fire's out and the bed's cold," he said.

"Why, so they are," she said. "That's
what it is. Well, you are big and warm. That should solve the
problem."

He laughed.

Oh, she would miss that low laughter.

"Rathbourne," she said. "We haven't much
time, and you're wasting it."

HE CAME INTO the room, pulling off articles of clothing
with every step. In a few minutes, he was naked, miles of hard,
muscled male glowing in the moonlight.

In the next minute, he was pulling back the bedclothes,
and stripping her with the same ruthless efficiency.

She thought it would be quick and desperate, one last
bout of madness.

But when she was naked, he lay on his side next to her
and brought her round to face him. He lifted his hands to her head,
and drew them down, over her face, then down her throat and down,
slowly, over her breasts and waist and belly and lightly between her
legs. He moved his long, gentle hands down her legs, then all the
long way up again, as though he would memorize her.

Her eyes filled as her own hands went up to tangle in
his hair, then to trace the shape of his face—the noble nose,
the strong angle of his jaw—and powerful neck and shoulders.
Then down she brought her hands, over the hard contours of his torso,
so familiar now, and over his taut waist and belly, the narrow hips,
and his manhood. She smiled, remembering their drunken night, and he
remembered, too, because she saw it in his answering smile. She
continued her journey, as far as she could reach down those miles of
leg, and up again, her heart aching.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

He drew her close and kissed her, and it was cool and
sweet, then hot and sweet, then dark and wild. She tangled her legs
with his and pressed closer, and forgot about tomorrows. She let her
hands rove over him again and again, as though she could imprint him
somehow, though it was impossible: taste and scent and touch and
sound—all so fleeting. This moment. That was all one ever had:
this moment.

She took all she could, drank him in and memorized him,
in endless, deep kisses and tender caresses, until at last he made a
choked sound, and pushed her onto her back.

He entered her in one fierce thrust, and the world
shattered. She rose up and wrapped her legs round his waist, her arms
round his shoulders, to hold on to him, as tightly as she could for
as long as she could. He grasped the back of her head, and kissed
her, and she clung, rocking with him, while the heat built and
blotted out thought, and while grief, and tomorrow—above all,
tomorrow—all vanished.

Only the joy of being joined remained, and they let that
happiness sweep them to its pinnacle, and over. Mercifully, it swept
them into sleep, in each other's arms, in the silver glow of the
moonlight.

NO ONE KNOCKED at the door of the New Lodge until
morning. Then it was only Peter DeLucey, accompanied by a servant
carrying a basket from the kitchens.

It was early morning, though, forcing Benedict and

Bathsheba to make a hasty toilette. They had no time
even for a few private words.

Still, at least DeLucey had not arrived while they were
still abed together. Thomas—who had been awake at dawn, as
usual—had spotted Northwick's son while the young man was yet a
good distance away, and promptly alerted his master.

Not that it was any use trying to protect Bathsheba's
reputation, Benedict knew.

After all, Northwick had allotted them his love nest,
had he not? Neither he nor anyone else who saw them together would
have the smallest doubt that Bathsheba Wingate was Lord Rathbourne's
mistress.

Still, Northwick had acted generously and honorably.

When Lord Mandeville found out, Northwick would pay for
his generosity and honorable behavior.

That was the trouble with doing what was right. One was
sure to suffer for it.

A gentleman does what is right, and accepts the
consequences.

Bloody damn rules
,
Benedict thought.

"I do apologize, my lord," Peter DeLucey said.

Benedict gazed blankly at him for a moment, wondering
how much of the conversation he'd missed. "I fail to see why you
should apologize," he said. "I'm the one who wasn't paying
attention."

"Lord Rathbourne was thinking," said
Bathsheba. "That soul-freezing look was not aimed at you, Mr.
DeLucey. You merely happened to be in the way. Take something to eat,
Rathbourne. One can't concentrate properly on an empty stomach.
Thomas, his lordship needs more coffee."

Everyone followed the lady's orders.

She presided as hostess at one end of the small table.
The two men sat opposite each other.

"While your mind was elsewhere, Mr. DeLucey was
explaining how his men lost the children last night," she said.

He'd been speaking of the peddler, Benedict recalled.
DeLucey had been telling them about Gaffy Tipton, whom Lord
Northwick's agents had found last night at one of the several Bristol
hostelries known as "the Bell."

"He said he knew the children were of good family,"
Peter went on. "He guessed they were runaways. But he didn't
know who it was they'd run away from. For all he knew, he said, the
men claiming to work for Lord North-wick were villains."

"In short, Tipton was uncooperative," Benedict
said.

"People had to be sent for to vouch for our agent,
before the peddler would tell anything."

"Meanwhile, my dear Olivia can spot a constable,
debt collector, or thief-taker from a mile away," said
Bathsheba. "She would have taken one look at the agent and
bolted. It is perfectly understandable."

"By gad, you're taking it well," said DeLucey.
"In your place, I should have been wild. As it was, I was
longing to throttle the agent. The children were within his reach—and
he let them go."

"He didn't
let
them," Benedict said. "As I reminded Mrs. Wingate some days
ago, neither my nephew nor her daughter is a trusting child. They are
both intelligent. And crafty."

"Father was furious," DeLucey said. "Keeping
Grandfather in the dark is not the easiest task in the world. The
longer this takes, the more likely he will become suspicious. Once
that happens, he'll learn the truth in short order, and then we're in
for a prodigious row."

"I'm amazed he hasn't got wind of it yet,"
said Bathsheba. "Lord Mandeville seemed in no way decrepit to
me. His mind is sharp enough and he did not appear at all enfeebled."

"Oh, he's able enough, but over the years he's left
more and more of the tedious business side to Father," DeLucey
said. "Grandfather would far rather hunt and fish and
entertain."

"Then Lord Northwick is well accustomed to
organizing and directing his people," Benedict said. This was
not always so, he knew. In too many cases, the head of the family
insisted on maintaining control of everything to his dying breath.
This left the heir with too much time on his hands and no purpose in
life but waiting for his father to die. The present king, to
Benedict's thinking, amply illustrated all the drawbacks of this
method of upbringing.

Lord Hargate's method, on the other hand, was to heap
responsibilities upon his eldest, on the principle that the devil
made work for idle hands.

"Father has our men combing Bristol from top to
bottom, front to back," DeLucey said.

Benedict nodded. "A logical approach. The trouble
is, the brats are never where we expect them to be. At what time were
they last seen?"

"Gaffy Tipton arrived at the Bell in the early
evening," DeLucey said. "He sent the children to stand in
the shelter of the gallery while he tended to the horse. This was
usually Lord Lisle's task, he said."

"Peregrine?" Benedict said. "My nephew
acted as his groom?"

"A quiet, obedient, and useful boy, according to
Tip-ton," DeLucey said.

"Quiet and obedient," Benedict said.
"Peregrine. Behold me dumbstruck." He looked at Bathsheba.
"Is that Olivia's influence, do you think?"

"Are you joking?" she said.

It came to him without warning, the scene as vivid in
his mind as though it had happened but a heartbeat ago: the
breathtakingly beautiful face turned up toward his, the blue eyes
drowning him, and the note of laughter in her voice when she told him
she'd tried to sell Olivia to gypsies.

Was that when it had happened?

Had he been lost long before he realized?

Had all his world begun to change from that day, while
he stupidly imagined he was the same?

He was not the same and never would be again.

He doubted Peregrine would be the same, either.

'Tipton said they both made themselves useful,"
DeLucey said. "He sounded surprised about it, too. Last night,
though, he saw to stabling his horse, on account of the rain. He
didn't like to risk the children's taking a chill. He sent them to
wait under the gallery, out of the wet. That was the last time he saw
them."

Benedict considered. "From the heart of Bristol to
the gates of Throgmorton is no great journey," he said. "A
few hours on foot. They might easily find a ride for some part of the
way. Even if they walked, or rode on the slowest wagon, they might
easily be at Throgmorton by now."

"You think we should concentrate our efforts here?"
DeLucey said.

"I do not like to tell Lord Northwick his
business," Benedict said. "On the other hand, he cannot
wish to waste his time and the talents of his staff—and the
sooner he is rid of us, the better for everybody."

Peter DeLucey started to make the expected polite
protest. Benedict cut him off. "Kindly tell your father I wish
to speak to him," he said, "as soon as he finds
convenient."

Tuesday afternoon

"We can't go through the front gate,"
Peregrine said. He grasped Olivia's arm and tugged her in the
opposite direction, before anyone at Throgmorton's entrance spotted
them.

"It's a visiting day," she said. "You
heard what Mr. Swain said. Tuesday and Thursday afternoons."

They had spent the night in the shop
of Mr. Swain, a pawnbroker, because that was one of the few places
where Olivia felt safe.