Lord Perfect (The Dressmakers 3)

“I have never heard anything so idiotish,” he said.

“It is not idiotish,” she said. “It is perfectly reasonable.”

“We have made love, you mad creature,” he said. “Several times. Have you forgotten that lovemaking and the arrival of babies are not unrelated matters? Are you proposing to go away—to who knows where—when you might be carrying my child?”

“That is most unlikely,” she said. “Use your head, my lord. You are the detective. I was happily wed for twelve years. I have but one child. What does that tell you?”

“Nothing, actually,” he said. “I am not Jack Wingate.”

She gave a short laugh and returned to the window. The rain continued at the same furious rate. “It had nothing to do with Jack,” she said. “I conceived several times and miscarried.”

“Oh,” he said.

He ought to be relieved, for her sake at least. Childbirth was a risky business, even for the privileged. The Princess Charlotte, heir to the throne, had died in childbed four years ago.

The trouble was, he had never developed the skill of lying to himself. He knew he was too selfish to be relieved. He knew he was disappointed. Worried, too, because he was running out of acceptable excuses.

“You cannot go away,” he said. “It is not good for Olivia.”

“I have considered this,” she said. “It can be good for her if I take her to the right place: one of the German states, where teachers are very strict.”

“Bathsheba.”

“I see a dark blur,” she said. “Someone is coming.”

Benedict went to the window. He discerned a single, large blur. He went to the door and opened it before the arrival had time to knock.

Rain dripping from his hat and cascading down his coat, Thomas stood in the narrow entryway. He carried a large, wrapped parcel.

“Which it looks like the rain means to keep on all day and night, my lord,” he said. “Which is why I went to the house and laid up supplies. They’ll send a proper dinner later, but meanwhile I’ve brought sandwiches and tea and a flask of something stronger in case of cold, which it is, the temperature dropping considerable since morning.”

THOUGH THE MAN was not dressed like a Bow Street officer, Olivia had seen enough thief-takers to recognize the type, even in a downpour. She watched him slither out from the darkness of the stables. Then he stood in the doorway and waited while Gaffy gave his horse into the ostler’s care.

Olivia and Lisle were waiting for him under the inn’s gallery, out of the rain. As soon as the strange man appeared, though, she grabbed Lisle’s arm and dragged him back into the shadows.

“What?” he said. “What?”

She pointed to the stranger. He was speaking earnestly to Gaffy. The peddler frowned, took off his hat, and scratched his head.

Then the thief-taker held up a coin.

“Run,” said Olivia. “Just run.”

Chapter 16

BENEDICT WATCHED BATHSHEBA MAKE A pretense of eating the sandwiches and later, a pretense of eating dinner. In between, she sat at the window, watching, though the rain never abated, and it remained impossible to see anything.

When she returned to the window after dinner, though, he decided enough was enough.

“It is night,” he said. “Even if the rain stops, you will see nothing.”

“Lanterns,” she said. “If Lord Northwick’s men find the children, they’ll come to tell us. They’ll carry lanterns.”

“If they come to tell us, they’ll knock at the door,” said Benedict. “Come, sit by the fire in a comfortable chair and drink your tea. Stop fretting about the children. Stop thinking about the children. Lord Northwick has scores of competent persons out combing the countryside as well as Bristol.”

“A search party,” she said, still staring into the darkness. “Exactly what we had tried to avoid.”

His uneasiness returned. “What ails you, Mrs. Wingate?” he said. “Where is the belligerent woman who refused to let me search alone? Pray do not tell me that disagreeable meeting with your relatives yesterday morning crushed your spirit. I refuse to believe you can be so easily vanquished.”

She turned, and to his relief, the blue eyes flashed up at him. “Certainly not,” she said. “They were merely cold and distrustful, which is precisely what I expected. Really, Rathbourne—as though such a thing would depress my spirits.” She rose. “You seem to have confused me with those fragile creatures who populate your social circle.”

“They are not all so very fragile,” he said. “You ought to meet my grandmother.”

She settled into one of the two thickly cushioned chairs Thomas had placed by the fire.

“I have met Jack’s grandmother, and that was enough, thank you,” she said. “After my encounters with his family, a merely unfriendly reception is nothing.”

She poured tea.

Benedict took his cup and settled into the empty chair by the fire. “I should have guessed,” he said. “When they couldn’t make Wingate change his mind, they worked on you.”

He had not thought of that. The collision with her estranged relatives must have awakened old memories, unhappy ones. No wonder she brooded.

“I was sixteen years old,” she said, studying the contents of her cup as though the memories lay within it. “They all had different tactics. The grandmother told me I would never be accepted in Polite Society. Meanwhile, Jack would live to regret his decision. If I was lucky, he’d abandon me. If I was unlucky, he’d stay on, and I would share his misery and bitterness until death did us part. His mother wept and wept. His father tore my conscience to pieces. There were aunts and uncles and great-aunts and lawyers. I was ready a dozen times to give Jack up, only to make them stop tormenting me. But he said his life would not be worth living without me, and I was only sixteen—a girl, Rathbourne, a mere girl—and I did love him so.”

What was it like, he wondered, to be loved so?

What sort of man would seek to be loved so, knowing it could only lead to her enduring more of the misery and abuse she’d borne as a defenseless girl?

“Sixteen,” he said, careful to keep his voice light. “How long ago that seems. I was someone else altogether.”

“Were you in love?” she said.

“Oh, yes, of course. Who ever is so much in love as at that age? Was that not Romeo’s age?”

She smiled. “Tell me about her,” she said.

He had not thought about the infatuations of his youth for a very long time. He hadn’t allowed himself to do so. He considered it unwise to compare the excitement and idealism of those days to the bored discontent that seemed to permeate his adulthood. One might begin to brood. One might even become so irrational as to long for what was gone forever.

Yet the memory had not vanished. It only waited to be let out. He let it out for her, as he had done so much else.

He told

her of a schoolmate’s pretty sister, who stole his heart when he was sixteen, and broke it, and took away all his reasons for living . . . until a month or so later, when he met another pretty girl.

As he told the tales, his mind cleared.

Love, in that long-ago time, had been a grand, terrifying, bewildering thing. And so painful. Since he had not let himself dwell upon his youthful experiences, he’d forgotten about the pain. The memories remained, but the feelings were vague, distant.

His schoolboy infatuations now seemed as insubstantial as dreams, though at the time they’d been real enough.

Everything faded, though.

Young love. Youthful dreams.

Grief faded, too, as did the guilt that so often accompanied it.

He had not loved Ada. By the time he wed her, he’d convinced himself that romantic love was the stuff of poetry and drama but not real life. Now he wondered whether he’d stopped believing because, in adulthood, he had failed to find anyone who stirred strong feelings in him.

Still, in his insufficient way he had cared for his wife, and her death was a shocking blow that left him completely at sea for a long time.

He had been so angry—at her at first, then at himself—as he began to make sense of what had happened between them. Yet in two years’ time, even that searing guilt had dwindled.

What he felt for Bathsheba Wingate would fade, too, he told himself. This time with her was a dream, merely a moment of his life. A few strange and thrilling, out-of-the-ordinary days. An aberration. A brief affair, she’d called it. A passing fancy. A peccadillo.

He must view it that way, for her sake.

And so he looked and sounded amused as he confessed his handful of youthful infatuations. Then he went on to entertain her with Alistair’s much more numerous and exciting romantic catastrophes, and Rupert’s mad escapades. In contrast, there was sober Geoffrey who, unlike the others, had made up his mind when he was a boy and never changed it, and wed his cousin, to nobody’s surprise.

Benedict was speculating about Darius’s recent behavior and his future when a log shattered in a sputter of sparks, startling him out of his reveries. He wondered how long he’d been talking.