Lord Perfect (The Dressmakers 3)

Then, limping, Lord Northwick led the drenched and shivering party to the ancestral home.

There Lord Mandeville and the ladies stoically watched as the group passed through the hall, leaving muddy footprints and a far from pretty fragrance in their wake.

While the earl would have happily tossed Bathsheba and her offspring out on their ears, he wouldn’t dream of offering the same treatment to Lord Rathbourne and his nephew, Benedict knew. It didn’t matter how disgusting they looked and smelled.

Lord Mandeville understood his duty, and would do it, though he might gnash his teeth the whole while.

A gentleman considers his duty first and his own comfort last.

Accordingly, the visitors found hot baths quickly readied for them, and freshly made up rooms in the guest wing. Servants swarmed in to attend to them. A physician arrived to examine Olivia and Peregrine—then Northwick, at Bathsheba’s insistence. Naturally, his lordship objected. But his wife and mother took Bathsheba’s side, and he was obliged to submit, though he did not do so meekly.

In a few hours, all were clean, dry, warm, and fed.

Benedict told himself he had nothing to complain of.

Though he could not make love to Bathsheba this night, he told himself he was not disappointed, because he had not expected to make love to her ever again. Meanwhile, all else had proceeded far more happily than he could have hoped. Olivia did not appear to be ill, and both she and her mama were treated kindly and respectfully.

He told himself they were no longer his responsibility.

He made himself focus on Peregrine, who was.

Bathsheba and her daughter shared a room in another part of the guest wing. Lord Lisle, though only a boy, had been given a large chamber next to Benedict’s. Before going to bed, Benedict went to look in on him, to make sure he had not turned feverish.

He found his nephew broad awake, sitting on the rug before the hearth, watching the flames. When Benedict entered, the boy rose hastily, his face red.

“You ought to be asleep,” Benedict said. He sat in one of the chairs Peregrine had ignored.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Peregrine said. “It was impossible to sleep until I apologized for causing you so much trouble. I couldn’t say it properly before, with so many people about. But if I am to tell the whole truth, as I have resolved to do, the truth is, that’s all I’m sorry for.”

He squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. “If I had it to do over, I should probably do the same thing. I couldn’t let Olivia go with Nat Diggerby. He was an idiot and a bully and I didn’t trust him. I couldn’t let her go alone, either. She would have done, you know, because she didn’t care what I said or how I said it. I try to speak to people exactly as you do, but the effect is not the same. No one heeds me. I could scarcely manage her at all—not that I am blaming her, merely explaining the facts as I saw them.”

He stood so stiff, it was obvious he was steeling himself.

Against hurt. Rejection.

He was prepared for the usual reaction, in other words.

He had never been a submissive, obedient child. His elders found him annoying at best and infuriating at worst.

Benedict wondered what it was like to be Peregrine. Adults either swatted him out of the way or tried to crush him. What was it like, to grow up being made to feel like an insect?

“Tell me what happened,” Benedict said. “From the beginning.”

The lad told him, stiffly at first, then, as he realized his uncle was listening, not judging, he relaxed, and grew more animated.

When he was done, Benedict was silent for a long time. He was not trying to keep the boy in suspense. He simply couldn’t speak. He knew, too well, what these last few days had been like for Peregrine, and why he had kept on, even today, when he was surrounded and had no hope at all.

But the lad was looking anxious. It was unkind to make him worry.

Benedict spoke past the constriction in his throat. “I shall send an express letter to your parents,” he said, “though I suspect they will have taken alarm by now and may already be on their way to London. It is impossible to say what will happen. Matters are . . . complicated.”

They were a good deal more than that.

But scenes were for the stage. Grand passions and the heartbreak that went with them were the stuff of melodrama. They had no part in the life of a gentleman.

Benedict refused to brood about the state of his heart. He would endure it, as he’d endured his depressing marriage. None of this affected Peregrine. What did affect him was the scandal about to break.

One could not predict precisely how Atherton and his lady would react. Benedict doubted they’d drop him on account of a scandal. After all, half their friends figured in society gossip.

Still, they might prefer not to have Peregrine spend time with his uncle while the uncle was the darling of the scandal sheets and his caricature appeared in print sellers’ windows and umbrellas. Perhaps, after all the excitement died down, Benedict might regain a little of the ground he’d lost. Perhaps he might yet have a say in the boy’s future. It was a most uncertain “perhaps.”

Benedict rose. “Clear thinking and optimism are difficult when one is fatigued. Go to bed, Lisle, and we’ll look at the matter fresh tomorrow.”

The taut expression on the young face eased. “Yes, sir,” Peregrine said. “Thank you, sir.”

“Mind you, I am not at all pleased about the clandestine correspondence,” Benedict said as he watched the boy climb into bed. “It is ridiculous at your age. It is absurd at any age. Prying servants are forever finding illicit letters and demanding large sums not to publish them. It is the sort of thing that belongs in a stage farce.”

Peregrine winced. “I know that, sir. I knew I ought to resist them, but I simply couldn’t.”

There was a pause while Benedict beat down emotion and reassembled his sangfroid.

“Other than that, your behavior was. . . acceptable,” Benedict said.

“Was it, really?” The boy’s countenance brightened further. “I have not disappointed you?”

“You are thirteen years old,” Benedict said. “One makes allowances. I do, at any rate. What my father will say to you, on the other hand, when we return to London . . .”

Peregrine’s eyes widened.

“On second thought, you need not be anxious about Lord Hargate,” Benedict said. “He will be too much occupied saying things to me to have breath to spare for you.” He patted the boy’s shoulder. “Go to sleep, and be glad you are not quite grown up yet.”

“LORD FOSBURY HAS never seen his granddaughter?” said Lady Northwick. “How foolish that seems. She is the very image of Jack Wingate.”

“But for the eyes,” said Lady Mandeville. “She has the DeLucey eyes.”

Bathsheba had been greatly surprised when the servant had come with a message from the ladies, asking if they might visit this morning.

Now they were here, she was not so surprised. They were curious about Olivia.

And Olivia, the little beast, sat, all limpid innocence, while the maid brushed out her hair. The maid would enjoy that, naturally, because Olivia had beautiful hair like her father’s. The soft red curls did not tangle into nasty knots, as her mother’s did.

“Perhaps it is for the best,” Lady Northwick told Bathsheba. “If Fosbury had seen her, he might have taken her away from you.”

“But then she would grow up with every advantage,” said Lady Mandeville. “A mother ought to consider her child’s future above all things.”

“I believe I have,” Bathsheba said tightly.

“I am

sure you have,” said Lady Northwick soothingly. “Perhaps, Mama-in-law, you have forgotten that Mrs. Wingate has only the one child. Those of us who have larger broods could perhaps spare one more easily.”

“Atherton has given his only son to Rathbourne,” said Lady Mandeville. “One makes such sacrifices for the good of the child. Lisle will have a superior upbringing among the Carsingtons.”

“I do not believe he has given him up, precisely,” said Lady Northwick.

“If he has not, he ought to,” said Lady Mandeville. “The Dalmays are famously undisciplined. Atherton would be utterly hopeless had he not spent the better part of his youth with Rathbourne’s family.”

The elderly countess regarded Bathsheba for a long while, her expression completely inscrutable. Then she said, “It was Lord Hargate’s mama who sponsored me in my first Season. When I found myself in the fortunate position of choosing among several acceptable suitors, she recommended Lord Mandeville. I have always considered myself under the greatest obligation to her ladyship.”

Lady Northwick gave a little sigh. Then, like the tide drawn to the moon, she left her place beside her mother-in-law and went to Olivia.

“I do not wish to distress Lord Hargate’s family or place yours in an awkward position regarding them,” Bathsheba said in a low voice to the older lady. “If not for Lord Northwick’s fears for Olivia’s health, we should have been gone from here yesterday.”

“Where do you mean to go?” said Lady Mandeville.

“The Continent.” It was harder than Bathsheba would have thought to keep her voice steady.

“Heavens, I can hear your stomach growling, Miss Wingate,” said Lady Northwick. “Mama-in-law, we must not keep them from their breakfast.”

“Oh, I am in no hurry,” Olivia said, so softly and diffidently. “A maid brought me chocolate before. On a silver tray. With a flower. It was beautiful.”

“What a sweet child,” said Lady Northwick, lightly stroking Olivia’s hair.

“No, she is not,” Bathsheba said. “Pray do not be taken in.”

“Mama!” The blue eyes flashed indignantly.

“We are not staying here, Olivia,” Bathsheba said. “You may bat your eyes all you like and pretend to be shy and sweet and innocent, but you are wasting your talents. We are leaving directly.”