Lord Perfect (The Dressmakers 3)

A small tree branch drifted past them. It spun to the edge of the cascade and over.

Fighting to keep his balance, Benedict pulled Peregrine away from the steep tumble of water and rocks. The water tried to pull them back, but Thomas never budged, though Benedict felt the footman’s arm tremble with the effort.

It seemed to take an eternity. In reality, only a few minutes passed before Benedict had pulled his nephew to shallow water. Then he would have carried Peregrine out, but the boy let go as they neared the water’s edge, and stumbled out on his own power. He clambered up onto the muddy pathway and collapsed.

Benedict dragged himself out of the water and up to the pathway. “I’d better carry you,” he said.

“I’ll carry him, sir,” said Thomas.

“I can walk,” Peregrine gasped. “I only need a minute. To catch my breath.”

“A minute, no more,” Benedict said. “I left Miss Wingate in a shivering heap upstream. Let us hope she does not take a fatal chill.”

Peregrine sat up shakily. His teeth chattered. He set his jaw and rubbed his face. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said.

“You will be sorrier than you can imagine,” Benedict said. “But later. For now, I must see to your partner in crime.”

THEY FOUND OLIVIA waiting where Benedict had left her, and still shivering. Ignoring her incoherent protests, Benedict scooped her up in his arms and started along the pathway. She was completely sodden. Here and there, rotting—and reeking—vegetation clung to her. Peregrine was in much the same condition.

Benedict knew he didn’t look or smell any better.

“S-someone sh-should carry him,” she said, looking over Benedict’s shoulder at the boy, stumbling behind them.

“I don’t need to be carried,” Peregrine said indignantly.

“N-neither do I,” she said, teeth chattering, limbs shaking. She turned back to Benedict. “I w-want you t-to p-put m-me d-down.” She looked up at him with her mother’s great blue eyes. They filled. “I w-want m-my m-mother,” she said. Her lips trembled.

“Oh, never mind being pitiful,” Peregrine said. “Don’t waste your energy getting the waterworks going. Uncle isn’t taken in by such tricks. He isn’t like everyone else, you know.”

Apparently Uncle was, for the little witch had got her hooks onto his heartstrings and might have played him like a fiddle had Peregrine not intervened.

“I don’t doubt you want your mother,” Benedict said with all the cool indifference he could manufacture. “The question is whether she wants you.”

THE LAST THING Bathsheba wanted to do was stay and wait.

But a moment after Thomas had left, her skirts tripped her up again, and would have sent her sailing headlong down the hill, if she hadn’t managed to regain her balance. She did not want to add to Rathbourne’s problems.

And so she waited as patiently as she could, and when the first group of men arrived—Peter DeLucey at the head of them—she pointed the way Rathbourne and Thomas had gone.

Shortly after that contingent vanished into the tall shrubbery, Lord Northwick came running down the hillside.

“That way,” she said, gesturing.

As he turned to follow her direction, his foot slid off to one side. He lurched that way, then the other, trying to regain his balance. Then she watched in horror as he went down in a tangle of arms and legs, and rolled, over rocks and broken branches and into a large rhododendron some twenty yards down the hill.

Bathsheba picked up her skirts and hurried down to him.

He lay very still, on his side.

She knelt in front of him. His hat was gone and there was a red mark on his face, but he did not appear to be bleeding.

“My lord.” Gently she touched his shoulder.

“Damnation,” he said. He opened his eyes. He started to pull himself up and winced.

“I’ll call for help,” she said, starting to rise.

“Don’t be absurd.” He dragged himself up to a sitting position, obviously in pain. “I haven’t broken anything.” He tried to stand, and his face creased into taut lines.

“You’d better stay for a moment,” she said. “Let me make sure nothing is broken. If you have fractured any ribs, you must be taken back to the house immediately. The wet will do you no good. I had better call—”

“I’ll do,” he said. “I doubt I’ve fractured anything more vital than my pride. I must have looked a complete clown.”

“You are a very bad clown,” she said. “I saw it happen, and I was not even mildly amused.”

“In your secret heart, you enjoyed it,” he said. “Your hard-hearted relative brought low.”

“I do not enjoy that sort of thing,” she said. “You are not hard-hearted, and we are related only very distantly. How could I enjoy your discomfort, when you have been so kind? Let me check your ribs.”

“Absolutely not.”

A shout interrupted the argument.

Peter DeLucey clambered up the hill. “We’ve got them,” he said breathlessly. “They are being wrapped up in blankets. Lord Rathbourne told me to come ahead and set your mind at rest, Mrs. Wingate. The lake narrows into a stream at the southern end, and the children seem to have tumbled into the stream.”

“Great Zeus!” said Lord Northwick. “They were not dragged over the cascade, I hope.”

“No, no, Father, they did not get so far. Lord Rathbourne and his servant fished them out. Everyone is wet and cold, but no one is injured, apart from some scrapes and bruises.” He paused then, belatedly comprehending the sight before him. “Father, what’s happened?”

“I fell,” said his lordship. “One of my legs is not cooperating. Kindly help me up. Mrs. Wingate is threatening to check my ribs.”

“Fractures can be insidious,” she said. “That is how my husband died. You are being unreasonable. You must let me—”

“Peter, help me up,” Northwick said. “And you, Mrs. Wingate, will do better to spend your anxieties on your child.”

“Mr. DeLucey says she is not hurt,” she said. “In any case, children do not break as easily as adults. Young bones are more flexible.”

“I assure you, neither of the children is broken,” Peter DeLucey said. “They are very wet, though.”

“Deuce take it, Peter—your hand!” his father snapped.

Peter gave his hand, and Lord Northwick got up, with a painful effort he couldn’t quite conceal.

“There, that is better,” said his lordship. “I shall do.”

She gave up. Men were so obstinate. “Very well, but you must take great care when you walk,” she said. “If you notice a sharp pain—”

“Looking for fractured ribs again, Mrs. Wingate?”

She looked toward the voice, deep and so familiar.

Rathbourne pushed through the greenery. Rain beat on his hatless head and poured down his neck, sending streams of mud downward. He had Olivia in his arms, tucked inside his greatcoat.

“Mama,” she said in the most piteous manner.

For once in her life, the brat looked guilty.

Bathsheba decided not to forgive her too quickly.

“Olivia,” she said briskly. “You are filthy.”

She returned her attention to Rathbourne, who gave her a faint smile of understanding. “Lord Northwick took a dreadful fall,” she told him. “He will not admit he is hurt.”

“I took a ridiculous one,” said Northwick. “But never mind that. Let us get these children to the house.”

Though he moved less gracefully than usual, he did not seem to have endured any serious injury.

So she thought, at any rate, until they reached the pathway leading up to the New Lodge. Instead of going up the path he took its branch, which led in the other direction.

“I knew it!” Bathsheba cried. “You have a concussion. I knew you hurt yourself badly.”

Northwick turned and looked at her.

“The New Lodge is up the hill,” she said. “To the west,

not the east.”

“I said ‘the house,’ ” he answered. “Meaning Throgmorton House. It is this way, Mrs. Wingate, and it is the way you are to come.”

Chapter 18

IGNORING BENEDICT’S AND BATHSHEBA’S protests, Lord Northwick sent his son ahead to prepare the earl and enlighten him regarding certain of their guests’ identities.