Lord Perfect (The Dressmakers 3)

The second man made himself more useful. He hoisted up his semiconscious friend, helped him out of the road, and shifted him onto the bench in front of the inn.

Meanwhile, oblivious to the animal’s uneasiness, the third man continued hanging on to the bridle while he speculated about Rathbourne’s sexual inadequacies, his affinity for young boys and mature sheep, and the number of ugly and deformed men his mother had reason to believe had fathered him.

Despite the provocation, Rathbourne remained the unflappable aristocrat. “I wonder, could there exist any more repellent sight than a drunk at one o’clock in the morning?” he said to Bathsheba in a bored undertone. “Or a being on earth less capable of reason?”

More audibly, he said, “I do apologize for the inconvenience, sir. Your friend is safe now, however. I am sure you and your other friend will be more comfortable resting on the bench with him. While you three enjoy a refreshing nap, we shall take our disagreeable selves out of your way.”

The third man offered to stuff a part of Rathbourne’s anatomy down his throat.

“I daresay I should waste my breath reminding you that a lady is present,” Rathbourne said.

“Oh, a fine lady she is, too,” said Drunk Number Two, abandoning his friend on the bench. “I know what kind of ladies come out at this time of night, don’t I?”

He walked unsteadily to the curricle, contorting his face into what Bathsheba supposed was meant to be a wink. “Why don’t you leave old carbuncle face there and his catch-fart to amuse each other like they like best? Why don’t you come down to me instead, my pretty blackbird.” He grasped her seat handle with one hand and grabbed his crotch with the other. “I’ve got something bigger and stronger for you to perch on.”

“Not tonight,” said Bathsheba. “I have a headache.”

“Take your hand away from the carriage,” Rathbourne said in a low, hard voice.

“Yes, sir, your majesty,” said Drunk Number Two. He let go of the seat handle and grabbed her ankle. “I like this part better anyway.”

Before Bathsheba could react, Rathbourne was up. He stepped over her, dropping the reins and whip into her lap, and dropped onto Drunk Number Two, who crashed to the ground under him. Rathbourne rose, picked him up, and threw him into the bench, knocking to the ground the first drunk, who’d been struggling to sit up.

Drunk Number Three let go of the horse and started toward him. Rathbourne spun on his heel and came around the front of the carriage. He grasped the man by the lapels and threw him against the inn door.

It all happened so quickly that Bathsheba had barely taken up the reins to hold the horses before it was over. Two men lay on the ground near the bench. The third was sinking into a heap against the doorpost.

She stared at Rathbourne.

He met her gaze and shrugged.

He started toward the carriage.

The inn door opened then, and a mob irrupted into the street.

THOUGH HE HAD been outnumbered before, his assailants were barely able to walk, let alone fight. Bathsheba had remained where she was, surprised but not worried.

But when half a dozen others set upon Rathbourne at once and knocked him down, she grabbed the whip and jumped down. She threw herself into the fray, lashing about her as best she could. When that proved impractical in the crowd, she began striking any head within reach with the whip handle.

“Get away from him, you scurvy coward!” she shouted at one, kicking him for good measure. Someone tried to wrench the whip from her, but she thrust her elbow into his soft parts, and he shrieked.

Perhaps it was the surprise, or perhaps her frenzy frightened them, but the men backed away long enough for Rathbourne to get up. He was no sooner on his feet, though, than one of the bigger ones lunged at him. An instant later, one of the others joined the fun. But she reckoned Rathbourne could handle two clodpoles, and turned her attention to keeping off the others.

At this point she became aware that Thomas was in it, too. As she watched him knock two men’s heads together, she did wonder about the carriage and the horses. It was only a passing thought, though. Still more men were coming toward them, evidently from the inns they’d passed earlier.

She didn’t have time to decide whether they were coming to join in and whose side they’d be on. Someone was trying to drag her out of the melee. She twisted free and balled up her hand into a fist, and landed it hard on his nose. He staggered backward, clutching his bleeding nose. Then another fellow claimed her attention, and she returned to fighting.

She was aware of Rathbourne, striking this one then another, a blur of movement at times. She saw two or three men fly into walls and windows, and heard the crash of breaking glass. She was aware of men on the ground, and others stumbling into lampposts. She glimpsed Thomas, pulling a man away from the carriage.

She noticed, too, the horses rearing, and people getting out of the way. She saw the curricle moving—and no one driving it—but the men from the inns were rapidly nearing, and she couldn’t let Rathbourne be overwhelmed.

She didn’t know how long it lasted—only a few minutes, probably, though it seemed she’d been at war for days.

Then a voice made itself heard above the others, and words rang out: “I command you in His Majesty’s name to disperse, and to keep silence while I make proclamation to that effect.”

The voice repeated the command two more times, and silence fell.

The voice went on: “Our Sovereign Lord the King charges and commands that all persons being assembled immediately do disperse themselves, and peaceably do depart to their habitations or to their lawful business, upon the pains contained in the Act made in the first year of King George I for preventing tumultuous and riotous assemblies. God save the King.”

Men started backing away, muttering among themselves. The latecomers left first. Then those of the earlier group who were still on their feet began to retreat, some limping.

She looked toward Rathbourne, who stood alone. His coat was torn, his neckcloth and hat were gone. His hair stood up on end in one place, and damp ringlets had formed near his forehead. His face was so dirty, she could not tell how badly it was bruised. He met her gaze then, and gave a short, low laugh, and shook his head.

She went to him. It was instinctive. It was instinctive, too, reaching up to gently touch his face. “Are you hurt?” she said.

He gave the short laugh again, and took her hand, and lightly touched it to his cheek. “Am I hurt, she asks,” he said. “You m

ad creature. What did you think you were doing?”

“I wasn’t thinking,” she said. “They knocked you down. . . . It wasn’t fair. I was angry.”

He let go of her hand in order to smooth back her hair.

She hadn’t thought before and didn’t stop to think now. She bowed her head and rested it on his chest. That was instinctive, too.

“I was afraid they’d hurt you,” she said softly.

“And what of you, madam ninnyhammer?” he said. “Did you not think you might be hurt?”

“I didn’t think,” she said. “I didn’t care.”

She felt his hand slide down to rest at the back of her neck. She felt his chest rise and fall under her cheek. She was aware of her heart still pumping madly, and her lungs working hard, too, her breathing fast and uneven.

Then she heard his voice, very low, in her hair. “I believe the local constable draws nigh, the one who read the Riot Act so movingly. Get ready to lie through your teeth.”

Chapter 9

MOST OF THE CROWD MELTED AWAY INTO THE night—those who were capable of moving, at any rate. The three original inebriates still lay more or less where they’d fallen.

Thomas, too, was nowhere in sight, Benedict noticed. He hoped the footman had gone after the runaway carriage.

The vehicle being out of reach at the moment, Benedict and Mrs. Wingate could not melt away. They had no speedy way out of Colnbrook and, unlike the locals, no nearby haven.

The man who’d read the Riot Act introduced himself as Henry Humber, landlord of the Bull Inn and local constable. He was a barrel-chested man of about forty who, it seemed, did not get to exercise his authority enough. The way he studied the fallen men and the broken windows, and peered here and there and made notes in a little book, boded very ill. Humber meant to raise difficulties, Benedict was sure. The two men he had with him—both large, muscled fellows—were obviously there to discourage opposition.

Nonetheless, it would have been simple enough to deal with the matter, if Benedict could have told the truth.