Lord Perfect (The Dressmakers 3)

The recent news seemed to have lightened his mood. Bathsheba no longer felt as though she was sitting next to an about-to-erupt volcano. “I was thinking about the children,” she said. “I’ve done a poor job with Olivia. I’ve allowed her too much freedom.”

“Most of the girls in my world have too little freedom,” he said. “Small wonder so many grow into women of narrow understanding. You asked before whether I gave any thought to finding a friend and companion as a wife. How could I expect to find among those child-women a true companion?”

“It was unfair of me to criticize your choice,” she said. “I did not choose my spouse on any rational basis, and he certainly didn’t use his head in choosing me.”

“No girl of the upper classes would dare to set out on a ‘Noble Quest,’ though one or two might dream of it,” he said. “None would have the least idea how to get from one place to another on her own. We ought to admire Olivia’s pluck at least. And she has got Peregrine onto a stagecoach. Without her, he was unlikely to have the experience in his lifetime.”

“Indeed, only think of what he might have missed,” she said. “Now he will have the thrill of traveling on a vehicle dangerously overcrowded, filthy, and prone to overturning. He will be crammed in with persons in dire need of a bath or sobriety or both. It is no better outside than in. Inside, you cannot sleep because you are jolted and jostled constantly. Outside, you dare not sleep, because you will fall off. No matter who your fellow passengers are, at least one of them is sure to be sick on the way. Even outside, the smell is appalling—and let us not forget the fleas and lice one’s fellow passengers share so generously.”

“Peregrine is a boy,” Rathbourne said. “They don’t fret about dirt or vermin, and their sense of smell is far from delicate. Recall that he’s shared a dormitory with other boys. Boys are disgusting creatures. Your daughter is far more likely than my nephew to be uncomfortable.”

Olivia was by no means the most fastidious girl in the world, Bathsheba reflected. And the children would certainly be safer on the stage than walking along a dark road. Still, time was passing, and she and Rathbourne were drawing farther and farther from London.

“I was so sure we would find them by now,” she said.

“As was I,” he said.

“What shall we do if they are not in Salt Hill?” she said.

“They cannot go far in the small hours of the morning with no money,” Rathbourne said. “Your daughter will have told one of the innkeepers a poignant story and obtained a space by the hearthside, if not a bed with one of the servants. Should the innkeepers prove hard-hearted, she will practice her wiles on one of the stable men, and we’ll find our runaways sleeping in the straw.”

After a pause, he added, “When we learnt they were on the stage, and therefore relatively safe, it dawned on me that I was fretting over Peregrine as though he were a small, helpless child. This is far from the case. He is a precocious boy, and boys are wonderfully resilient. I reminded myself that he is all of thirteen years old, intelligent and curious, and has never had a proper adventure.”

“Did you?” she said. “When you were a boy?”

The instant the words were out, Bathsheba wished them back. She wished she would stop prying and probing.

It took him a while to answer, and she hoped he was devising a polite way to turn the subject to something less personal.

“I had a great many adventures,” he said. “I ran away at every opportunity.”

That brought her head around, and she stared at his perfect profile. “You’re joking,” she said. “How does an earl’s son contrive to run away? And why would he?”

“If it were easy to do, it wouldn’t be worth doing,” he said. “But outwitting the adults was a game to me. I ran away when I felt bored or annoyed or . . . well, when I was sick to death of being good. Once I went missing for three days.”

Bathsheba could picture his youthful self all too easily. She had no trouble imagining the glint in boyish eyes of the devil in him.

Was that what called to her, in those dark eyes?

Her heart began to race.

“Olivia and Lisle will not go missing for three days,” she said.

“That would certainly complicate matters,” he said.

“Complicate?” she said. “It would be disastrous.” Three days, traveling with him . . . talking, discovering more about him . . . sitting so close, feeling the warmth and strength of him . . . listening to his deep voice in the dark . . . looking at his long, gloved hands.

“I cannot be gone overnight in your company,” she went on, her voice sharp. “I told Mrs. Briggs I was called away to a sick relative, and you had kindly offered to drive me. I said I might be back rather late.”

“At this rate, I doubt we’ll be back before dawn at the earliest,” he said. “We shall require an alibi. You told me weeks ago that you came of a long line of accomplished liars. I must agree that you are highly accomplished. I noticed how beautifully you lied to the innkeeper at the White Hart. You even had me almost believing you were my sister.” He turned and met her gaze. “Almost.”

He was smiling that provoking not-quite-a-smile, the one that could be anything: amusement, mockery, cynicism, condescension. Yet she heard a smile, or laughter, in his voice. The sound was like a whisper in the dark, and she felt the whisper glide down her neck and on down her spine.

“I said the first thing that came to mind,” she said.

“I have no doubt you can think of something equally simple and convincing to account for an extended disappearance,” he said. “Ah, that will be the bridge over the Coln River ahead.”

She turned her gaze forward. His eyes were sharper than hers. To her, the road ahead was unfathomable gloom.

“There’s a lurid tale about the Ostrich Inn of Colnbrook,” he said. “Do you know it?”

“This is the first I’ve ever heard of the place,” she said.

“Oh, it is quite famous,” he said. “Some centuries ago, the inn was called the Hospice. The wealthy merchants who went back and forth between Bath, Reading, and London often stayed there. The strange thing was, sixty of these fellows went in and never came out. They simply vanished, along with all of their goods. You would have thought the authorities would have become suspicious, but no. Then, one night, a rich merchant named Thomas Cole, who’d often stayed there without mishap, disappeared. Unlike the others, however, he reappeared. His body, well boiled, was found floating in the river a few days later.”

“Well boiled?” Bathsheba said. “Are you serious?”

“You are aware that the heads of evildoers were often stuck on pikes as a lesson and warning to others?” he said. “You may be unaware that the heads were often boiled first, so they would keep longer.”

“That is revolting,” she said.

“They still do it in Egypt,” he said. “My father received a skull in a basket from Muhammad Ali, Pasha of Egypt, during the summer. It belonged to the fellow who’d allegedly murdered my brother Rupert. As it turned out—and much as one might have expected—Rupert defied the laws of probability. He turned up, very much alive, not long after the head was delivered.”

“Such strange things happen in your family,” she said. “You did not mention trying to scalp Rupert. Was he another golden angel?”

“Gad, no,” he said. “From a distance, some people cannot tell us apart.”

Before she could ask further impertinent questions, he said, “To return to Thomas Cole. The authorities finally investigated the Ostrich. It turned out that in one of the rooms, the bed was attached to a trapdoor directly above a boiling vat. When one released the bolt under the trapdoor, the bed tilted, and its occupant slid into the vat.”

“They boiled him?” she said. “Alive?”

“Yes,” Rathbourne said. “I reckon the innkeeper and his wife must have made sure the guest went to bed very drunk. Then he wouldn’t be able to try to save himself or even cry out.”

&nbs

p; “That is unspeakable,” she said.

“People can do unspeakable things,” he said. “They do them for absurd reasons or no reason at all. In this instance, however, justice triumphed. Innkeeper Jarman and his wife were arrested and tried, found guilty, and hanged, drawn, and quartered. Afterward, the place was known as Thomas Cole-in-the-Brook.”

By this time they had crossed the bridge and entered Colnbrook’s narrow street. They passed hostelries bearing the usual, familiar names: the White Hart and the George, both quiet at present. A little way farther on stood the infamous Ostrich, windows still alight. The sounds of drunken laughter wafted out into the night air.

The curricle was mere yards from the entrance when the door opened, and a trio of men stumbled out into the street. One staggered directly into the horses’ path and fell on his face. Rathbourne smoothly drew the carriage to a halt, a few feet short of the inert man.

“Whyn’t you watch where you’re going?” one of the men shouted as he lurched toward his friend. “Bleedin’ menace. You might’ve killed him, y’ bloody great cod’s head.”

The third man stumbled in front of the horses and caught hold of the bridle of the offside horse. “S’all right,” he said. “They won’t be goin’ nowhere.”

“I am perfectly capable of holding a pair of horses,” Rathbourne said composedly. “You would do better to get your friend out of the road.”

The third man cordially invited Rathbourne to do something anatomically impossible.