Lord Perfect (The Dressmakers 3)

All he had to do was adopt the drawling voice and icy manner he used to crush upstarts and fools, and say he was on urgent business. All he had to do was write the name and direction of his solicitor on the back of one of his cards and give it to the constable. Benedict was not so far from civilization that his name would not be known. Those who recognized his name would know who his father was.

Then he would be allowed to continue on his way. If necessary, someone would make sure he had a vehicle and fresh horses. He would be offered refreshment and, very likely, an apology for the “misunderstanding.”

Benedict could not tell the truth. He could not be who he was or behave as he normally would. Alone, he might easily survive the social consequences of a fracas with a lot of yokels some eighteen miles from London. People would assume he had been attacked or grossly provoked. Everyone knew that Lord Rathbourne—unlike his black sheep brother Rupert—was not in the habit of fighting and making a spectacle of himself.

Benedict was not alone, however. He had a woman with him, a beautiful and notorious and far too exciting woman.

Also a brave or possibly mad woman.

He still could scarcely believe she’d leapt out of the carriage and straight into the fight. She’d laid the horsewhip about her with remarkable energy and effectiveness. She had certainly amazed the men. Benedict had heard a couple of them scream like girls, and he’d seen more than one scurry to safety at the fringes of the crowd. If he hadn’t been so busy himself, he would have laughed.

Equally unbelievable and less laughable was his own behavior.

He had got into a fight—a public brawl—with a lot of drunken peasants.

Because of a woman.

He had been perfectly rational, he’d thought. He’d seen that the men were deeply intoxicated. He knew one could not reason with drunkards or expect them to behave rationally. He knew his wisest course of action was to get away from them.

Benedict had ignored the insults and obscenities they hurled at him. He’d found it harder to ignore their coarse remarks to Mrs. Wingate, but he’d gritted his teeth and endured them.

Then the fellow had touched Mrs. Wingate.

And Benedict had to kill him.

Now she stood close, clutching his arm. The light from the inn windows and the men’s lanterns was enough to reveal her increasing indignation as Humber muttered about outsiders coming into peaceable villages and making disturbances and disruptions.

Her great, blue eyes widened and flashed, her fine bosom rose and fell, and her soft mouth was parted in outraged astonishment.

Aroused, as any man would be, by this stirring picture of barely contained passion, Benedict was a moment too slow to warn her to keep her temper.

As he opened his mouth to do so, she burst out, “I cannot believe my ears. Three drunken men accosted us in the dead of night as we were innocently passing through the town. One of them put his hands on me. My husband defended my honor. A mob spilled into the streets and tried to kill him. And we are at fault?”

Humber said the men had obviously been too far gone in drink to stay on their feet, let alone hurt anybody, and people came out into the street simply to protect their friends. He indicated the casualties about him and the windows of nearby buildings. A few men had fallen or been flung against the windows, breaking the glass.

Before Mrs. Wingate could muster further arguments, Thomas emerged from the gloom, leading the horses. They were still attached, Benedict was relieved to see, to the curricle, which did not appear badly damaged.

“That’s yours, is it?” said Humber. “And that’s your servant? Well, he must come along with you, and your rig must go to the Bull.” He turned back to Benedict. “You’ll have it back once you’ve sorted matters out with magistrate on Monday.”

“Monday?” Benedict and Mrs. Wingate said at the same time.

“Squire Pardew won’t hold sessions until then,” said Humber. “The missus putting her foot down as to miscreants in the parlor on Saturdays and the Sabbath.”

Like many local magistrates, the squire held petty sessions in his parlor. Like his fellows, he’d have only a passing acquaintance with the law, and his judgments would be based on what he deemed common sense, colored by his personal biases and, very probably, those of his wife.

This did not necessarily make for poor justice, and it did not trouble Benedict. What troubled him was the name, with which he was all too familiar, and the possibility that someone had already woken the magistrate and told him of the brawl. Pardew might be on his way even now. He was a prodigious busybody and gossip.

Benedict bent his head and murmured to Mrs. Wingate. “We cannot linger here. I cannot risk an encounter with Pardew. He knows me.”

More audibly Benedict said, “To my great regret, Monday will not—”

“Ooooh,” said Mrs. Wingate. She let go of him, took a few staggering steps toward Humber, and fainted.

BENEDICT DID NOT suspect anything at first. When she put her hand to her head and began to sway, he stopped breathing as well as thinking. Still, he moved to catch her. But she fell against Humber, who caught her instead.

Benedict’s heart recommenced beating while with narrowed eyes he watched her shift and squirm until she ended up facing the innkeeper, her bosom pressed to his chest.

Humber showed no eagerness to return her, and Benedict promptly considered killing him.

At that moment, however, a large woman carrying a lantern came into view. She wore a man’s cloak over what had to be her nightdress. She still wore her sleeping bonnet, apparently deeming it sufficient protection against the night air. She strode toward them purposefully, her countenance hard.

“Humber,” she said. “What keeps you so long?”

Mrs. Wingate let out a little moan.

Humber hastily transferred the limp, curvaceous armful to Benedict. “Bertha,” said the innkeeper. “What do you want to be out looking for me for at this hour? You’ll catch your death, you will.”

“How was I to sleep with all the uproar?” Bertha demanded.

Mrs. Wingate moaned again.

Benedict gazed down at the woman languishing in his arms. She’d lost her bonnet, and her hair had come undone. Her head was flung back, exposing her white throat, and thrusting her firm, round bosom upward. Her soft lips were parted, her eyes closed. . . .

He knew the pose was a sham, but that was about all he knew. His brain wasn’t working half so well as other, lower parts of him.

She was dirty and disheveled from the recent scuffle, and that only made it worse.

He wanted to tear off every last soiled, worn garment, strip her to the skin, and . . .

. . . wash her.

. . .Slowly. . .

. . . from the top of her head to the tips of her toes.

With an effort—and it was no light one—he reclaimed his mind.

“My dear,” he said thickly. “Speak to me.”

She fluttered her eyelids and, by degrees, began to recover. Pretended to begin to recover.

Since Benedict desperately needed to collect his wits, he looked about for a place to set her down.

Drunkards One and Two lay peacefully near the bench where they’d fallen, both snoring loudly. Benedict nudged Number One out of the way with his foot, and sat Mrs. Wingate on the bench. Before he could draw away, she tugged his hand.

Though he needed to put some distance between them, Benedict sat down gingerly beside her. Remembering he was supposed to be her spouse, he put his arm about her shoulders and tried not to think about baths.

“My dear, I fear my trouble grows worse,” she said. “It is not a good sign: another spell, so soon after the last one.” She gave a little sob.

Ah, she was dying, that was it.

“No, no, you are better,” Benedict said, patting her hand. “It was the shock—all those men—the shouting and violence. You were alarmed.”

Not half as alarmed as the men at the receiving end of the whip h

andle, he’d wager. It was made of good, solid blackthorn.

She shook her head. “No, I grow weaker,” she said, with a wonderful, sad bravery. “I had so hoped to see dear Sarah before . . . before . . . well, you know.”

Benedict didn’t know, but he had the general idea, and played along. “You shall see her soon, my dear, I promise.”

“Oh, I wish it could be so,” she said. “It was the one last thing I wished for. But by Monday . . . it may be too late. I am not sure I shall be strong enough.”

The tender scene had diverted the other couple’s attention, as Mrs. Wingate no doubt intended.

“The lady’s ailing?” said Mrs. Humber. She glared at her spouse.

“Well, who could’ve guessed it?” said he. “She felt—Mean to say, she looked plenty robust to me. And I heard she was lively enough with the horsewhip only a little while ago.”