Lord Perfect (The Dressmakers 3)

Benedict gently leaned Mrs. Wingate against the wall of the inn, then rose and joined the pair. “If you could see her in the harsh light of day, you would recognize the signs,” he told them in a low voice. “I cannot say where she found the strength to come to my aid. It was reckless of her, not wise at all, in her condition . . . but she has great c-courage.” He let his voice break.

“She’s amazing spirited for a invalid,” said Humber.

“She is determined to see her sister, though she knows the journey might be fatal,” Benedict went on. “I dare to hope that some better instinct guides her. Perhaps the doctors are wrong, and the reunion and change of air will strengthen her. It is desperation, you see, that leads us to travel so late. She fears she will not see her sister in time.”

Mrs. Humber’s scowl deepened.

“She weren’t a bit sick before,” Humber said. “You didn’t see her then, Bertha.”

“I seen plenty,” said Mrs. Humber.

“And only look at what he done,” said Mr. Humber, nodding at his fallen neighbors. “Then there’s all the broken windows. Squire will want to—”

“Squire, indeed,” said Mrs. Humber. “Much he cares about a lot of your sotted friends knocking heads. Let them pay for the broken winders. Don’t you be telling me about Squire. I wasn’t born yesterday, was I?”

“Now, Bertha,” Humber said.

“Don’t you ‘now Bertha’ me,” she said.

She turned to Benedict. “I’m sorry for your trouble, sir,” she said. “But if I was you, I wouldn’t be traveling so late with the lady. The night air won’t do her no good, for one thing. And for another, at this hour it’s mostly drunken fools and lechers up and about. Pretty creeturs like her is bound to bring out the worst in ’em. You be on your way, now—and I’d keep her better covered up if I was you.”

Moments later, Benedict, Mrs. Wingate, and Thomas were safely in the curricle and on their way out of Colnbrook.

None of them noticed Squire Pardew riding up to the highway. He halted at the edge of the road to let the curricle pass. He remained there, in the shadows, frowning as he watched it drive away.

“THAT WAS A near thing,” Rathbourne told Bathsheba as they crossed the next bridge. “I had it in mind to signal to Thomas, then scoop you up and make a mad dash for the carriage. I reckoned that if we took them by surprise, Humber’s ruffians would be too slow to stop us, and we might gallop to freedom.”

“That was a better idea than mine,” she said. “But I saw a woman coming, and falling into his arms was what came into my head.”

“Your idea was brilliant,” he said. “By gad, that was a delicious scene. Better than any stage farce.” He transferred the reins to his whip hand, then threw the other round her shoulders and hugged her. She felt his chin on her head. “You were wonderful,” he said, his deep voice dropping to a rumble. “Mad, to leap to my rescue—but wonderful then, too.”

She wanted to tuck herself in closer. Now that it was over, she found she was trembling. “I was afraid you would be hurt,” she said.

His hold tightened. “Were you, indeed?” He cleared his throat. “Not half as afraid as those men when you leapt down amongst them, I daresay,” he went on in lighter tones. “What a picture you made!”

“I have had practice,” she said. She remembered who and what she was, then, and made herself draw away.

Rathbourne seemed to recollect himself, too. He did not try to draw her back but gathered the reins into his left hand again, straightened his posture, and returned his attention to driving.

“My family traveled the Continent during wartime,” she said. “My father taught me how to use a pistol and a whip—in case we met with any roaming bands of soldiers, he said. As it turned out, we had more trouble with his numerous victims than from marauding soldiers.”

“If your daughter is half as resourceful as you, I cannot be in the least anxious about Peregrine,” he said. “I know he can defend himself, if it comes to that. He is more than handy with his fists, as Nat Diggerby discovered. In any case, they will be safe enough on the stage.”

“Safe enough, yes,” she said. “But we are running out of time. How far is it to Salt Hill?”

“About three miles,” he said.

“Drive faster,” she said.

RATHBOURNE DROVE FASTER, to no avail. At the Windmill in Salt Hill, Mrs. Edkins, the landlady, told them that only one passenger had disembarked from the Courser. This was an elderly lady, who was at present asleep in one of the rooms. It proved unnecessary to wake and question her, since Mrs. Edkins had spoken to her at length.

The innkeeper told Bathsheba and Rathbourne what her elderly guest had told her. In Cranford Bridge, the Courser had taken up two boys making their way home from London to see their dying mama. The old lady had taken pity on them and given them a few coins. It was not very much—she did not travel with a great deal of money—but it would cover the fare to Twyford.

Bathsheba looked at Rathbourne. “How far is Twyford?” she asked.

“About twelve miles,” he said. “How annoying. I had hoped to have a bath before too long. It seems I must make do with the inn yard’s pump.”

“Testing the horses’ mettle and had an accident, did you?” said Mrs. Edkins, eyeing him up and down. Notwithstanding his dirty face, missing buttons, draggled neckcloth, scarred trousers, and scuffed boots, her gaze was warm with admiration.

“We had a run-in with a lot of drunken oafs in Colnbrook,” Bathsheba said.

“You should have seen our opponents,” Rathbourne said, black eyes gleaming, “after my wife was done with them.”

He turned away and started down the narrow passage leading to the back of the inn. Bathsheba watched him go, marveling at his ability to appear merely attractively rumpled, while she . . .

The thought trailed into nothing as her gaze slid down from his broad shoulders to his narrow hips. He was walking oddly.

She hurried after him. “Are you hurt?” she said.

“Certainly not,” he said. He kept walking. “I only want a dash of cold water to revive me.”

He seemed to be favoring his right side. “You are hurt,” she said. “You must let me look at you. You might have cracked a rib.”

“I have cracked nothing,” he said. “It is no more than a protesting muscle. My throwing-fellows-into-doors muscle has grown stiff and weak from lack of use.”

“Mrs. Edkins!” she called.

The landlady hastened into the passageway.

“My husband is hurt,” Bathsheba told her. “I shall want some hot water.”

“No, you most certainly shall not,” he said. “Mrs. Edkins, you are on no account to trouble about hot water or anything else.” He threw Bathsheba a quelling look. “It is past two o’clock in the morning. You will not keep everybody awake and turn this hostelry inside out because I have a muscle spasm.” He turned away, wincing as he did so.

“Pay no attention to him, Mrs. Edkins,” said Bathsheba. “He is a man, and you know how men are.”

“Indeed, I do,” said the landlady. “And it’s no tro

uble at all. We are up at all hours here, with all the coaches and carriages coming and going. I’ll have that hot water for you in a trice. And a bite to eat, maybe, and something to drink, to fortify the gentleman?”

“No,” said Rathbourne in his most lordly tones. “Absolutely n-n—” His mouth twitched. He made a choked sound.

Bathsheba stared at him, alarmed.

And then it exploded from him, a great roar of laughter that shook the walls of the passageway.

ONCE HE’D STARTED, it was as though a dam had burst.

Benedict couldn’t stop laughing. Again and again he saw the recent episode in his mind’s eye, and again and again he returned to the moment when Drunk Number Two had made his spectacularly crude suggestions to Mrs. Wingate, and she had said in that marvelously matter-of-fact voice, “Not tonight. I have a headache.”

Thence Benedict’s mind strayed to her falling into Humber’s arms—and the expression on Mrs. Humber’s face—and her succinct remark, “I seen plenty.”

Then he would go on laughing, helplessly, doubled over at times.

Benedict leant an arm against the wall and tried to catch his breath—but he saw Mrs. Wingate beating a fellow on the head and shoulders with the whip handle, saw the fellow raising his arms to shield himself—and that set him off again, into whoops.

He had no idea how long it went on. He only knew that it did eventually abate, leaving him short of breath and lightheaded. It wanted effort to stand erect and wipe his eyes, and stagger down the passageway to the back of the inn and outside to the pump.

He could feel the women’s eyes upon him as he went.

Still, they only watched. They didn’t follow to try to nurse him, so that was all right. Thomas did follow a short time afterward, but that was Thomas’s job.

Outside, when Benedict had rinsed off the worst of the filth and cooled down several degrees, Thomas proffered a towel and said he was glad to see that the master had not taken any serious hurt.

“Certainly not,” Benedict said. “I had no trouble with those louts—except the once when they knocked me off my feet. I might have suffered some damage then, if Mrs.—er—my dear wife—had not intervened.” He squelched a chuckle.