Lord Perfect (The Dressmakers 3)

Benedict met his father’s amber gaze.

And blinked.

That could not be a twinkle he saw there.

Lord Hargate never twinkled.

The girl fiddled with the penknife, then tried the penknife together with a hairpin.

The lock sprang open.

She took a deep breath, then lifted the lid of the trunk, revealing . . .

Rags. She took out one, and carefully set it down, then another.

“Old clothes,” Peregrine said. “Oh, that is so provoking. Why on earth—” He sucked in his breath.

So did everyone else.

Something glittered among the remaining rags.

Still, with the same cautious deliberation, Olivia removed the last of the rotted covering.

Red and yellow and green and blue, silver and gold burst into view. Coins and jewels, chains and medals glittered in the afternoon light.

“Well, well,” said Lord Mandeville gruffly. “Did I not tell you not to lose heart?”

Peregrine peered inside the box. “I can’t believe it. Is it real?”

Olivia took out a ruby ring and examined it with a practiced eye. She scratched the metal with her fingernail. She bit it. “It’s real,” she said.

She looked up at her mother, blue eyes shining. “It’s real, Mama. The treasure. I knew I would find it. You’ll be a grand lady now.” Her brilliant blue gaze shifted to Lord Mandeville. “It is Mama’s, as you said? You must tell her so, or else she will make me give it to you.”

“Then let me say it before all these witnesses,” said Lord Mandeville. “You, Olivia Wingate, are the descendant of Edmund DeLucey. You and your trusty—er—squire—have taken great risks and endured great hardship. You have even performed mighty labor, digging with your own hands. You have found it. The treasure rightfully belongs to you, to dispose of as you choose.”

Benedict looked about him. Lord and Lady Mandeville. Lord and Lady Northwick. Lord Hargate. Peter DeLucey. Bathsheba. The children. Several servants stood near at hand. Others were clustered in the windows of the house, looking down on the scene.

Scenes belong on the stage.

He looked at his father again. Lord Hargate still watched Olivia but now wore an expression Benedict knew all too well.

It was subtle. Lord Hargate was never obvious. But Benedict knew his father well—better than most did—and he clearly discerned it.

This was the same expression his lordship had worn on Alistair’s wedding day.

This was the same expression he’d worn when Rupert brought his bride home from Egypt.

Triumph.

Both times, Benedict had fully understood. Against all odds, and to the earl’s vast relief, his wayward younger sons had wed perfectly suitable girls of more than suitable wealth.

But this time, for the first time, Benedict was not at all certain what his father was looking so smug about.

WHILE OLIVIA WAS having several inches of dirt scrubbed off, Bathsheba sought out Lord Hargate, to tell him she would not need the twenty pounds after all, and to quiet his mind regarding his eldest son.

The servants directed her to the gothic ruin on the eastern edge of the lake. The ruin had been built in the last century to create a melancholy aspect, conducive to contemplation and poetry.

Though Bathsheba doubted Lord Hargate was the sort of man who had poetic thoughts, she supposed he had plenty to be melancholy about.

She found him frowning up at a crumbling turret. He was not so preoccupied, though, as to fail to hear her approach.

He turned and nodded. “Mrs. Wingate,” he said, showing no sign of surprise. But then, he was good at showing no sign of anything. “I collect you’ve come to tell me that you have freed my son from your toils and we shall soon be shed of you at last.”

She paused and blinked. “Yes, actually.” She explained about the fortnight’s cooling-off period she’d given Rathbourne.

Lord Hargate showed no reaction to this, either.

“Surely, in two weeks’ time, you and other family members can make him see his error,” she said.

“I think not,” he said.

“Of course you can,” she said. “He has a strong attachment to his family. And no matter what he says, I know his parliamentary work and his philanthropic schemes give him great satisfaction. He would miss them sorely. He is a good man, Lord Hargate. He is not idle and dissipated as so many of his fellows are. He will do a great deal of good in England. He has a noble career ahead of him. He knows this. He only needs to be reminded—while I am out of the way. I had counted on you to manage this, sir. Everyone says you are one of the most powerful men in England. Surely a fortnight is enough time for you to work your will upon your son?”

“I doubt it,” said Lord Hargate. “But here he comes, and we shall see how much power I have.”

Bathsheba whipped round. Rathbourne was striding rapidly up the path. He was hatless, and the October wind flung the dark curls this way and that. As he drew nearer she saw that his neckcloth was crooked and one of his coat buttons was not buttoned.

“You did not imagine he would not guess your next move, I hope,” said Lord Hargate. “Benedict is an experienced politician. Furthermore, he has always taken an unhealthy interest in criminal behavior.”

“Has she come to give me up again, Father?” Rathbourne said. “Bathsheba is always giving me up and saying good-bye. It is her way of expressing affection, you see. That and stealing my purse and clothes.”

“I only wanted to set your father’s mind at rest,” Bathsheba said. “It is obvious he did not sleep a wink last night.”

“That is because he was up all night plotting with his fellow conspirators,” said Rathbourne.

“Plotting?” she said.

“My dear girl, you come of a long line of liars and cheats,” said Rathbourne. “Surely you can recognize a swindle when you see one.”

SHE HAD NO idea, obviously.

Her gaze went from Benedict to his father.

As though Lord Hargate’s countenance would ever reveal his thoughts, Benedict thought. She might as well look for enlightenment in the ruins behind them. She might as well try to read a brick.

“I know it was all a sham, that scene a little while ago on the terrace,” Benedict said, careful to keep his voice level, though he was baffled and angry. “What I could not make up my mind about was why. Did you and Mandeville and Northwick go to all that trouble merely to be rid of Bathsheba as quickly as possible? I should think you understood that wasn’t necessary. She is determined to set me free, as she sees it.”

“I believe my understanding remains in reasonable working order,” said his father. He folded his hands behind his back and walked toward the lake and looked out across it.

Bathsheba threw Benedict a puzzled glance. He shrugged. After a moment, they joined his father at the lake’s edge.

There was a long silence.

Benedict determinedly waited it out. His father was a master of manipulation. It was no use trying to wrest control from him.

Birds sang. The wind swirled through a pile of leaves, shuffling and scattering them.

Having drawn out the moment for as long as possible, Lord Hargate finally spoke. “You were mistaken, Mrs. Wingate,” he said. “I came to Throgmorton carrying a great deal of money as well as several pieces of jewelry my wife and mother contributed. We were prepared to bribe you handsomely to go away forever. I was prepared to do so yesterday, when you came to the study, even though by then I had realized that matters had grown more serious than we had supposed.”

“By then you saw that she was not what you had supposed, either,” Benedict said.

“There was that,” his father admitted. “I have never in my life had so much trouble keeping a straight face as when Mrs. Wingate offered to give you up for twenty pounds. I cannot wait to tell your grandmother.” He smiled a little.

But the smile vanished as quickly as it had come, and he went on, “I have always wish

ed I had daughters, Mrs. Wingate, because my sons are an endless source of trouble.”