Lord Perfect (The Dressmakers 3)

“Oh, my dear, a great deal more.” She laid her hand upon his cheek, in that way she had. “I was awake, trying to write you a letter, because I could not bear to go away without telling you the truth. It does no good, I know, but I have felt so sure that you care for me, too, and I could not bear to leave you coldly or hurt you in any way, even if it were the smallest hurt.”

“A small hurt,” he said. “That is like saying the guillotine blade nicks a bit. I shall be wretched, and you know it, and worse, we shall be martyrs, which is nauseating. I detest being noble and self-sacrificing. I have done enough of that this day, for I listened to my father and never once gave in to the urge to throttle him.”

“Oh, was it very bad?” she said. She drew her hand away, but laid her cheek against his coat, which was better. He could hold her close then, and let his hand stroke down over her hair. “I guessed he would hold back while I was present.”

“My brothers have given the gossips’ tongues reason to wag from time to time, but they never give anyone cause to ridicule or pity them, he told me.”

“Oh, no.”

“My behavior has sunk to the level of the king and his brothers,” Benedict went on. “It is impossible, as you know, to sink lower than this. They are dissipated to the grossest extent, obscenely expensive, and far from intellectually astute. At best they are tolerated. At worst they are hated and despised.”

One royal duke’s mistress had sold military commissions and promotions. Another of the king’s brothers had ten children by his actress mistress, whom he could not support, leaving her to continue her stage career or starve, along with their brood. Yet another royal duke was the most hated officer in the army, and another a violent reactionary. But these and their other doings were trifles compared to the grand melodrama of King George IV’s life.

“According to my father, my only hope is the king,” Benedict went on. “If he commits another of his outrages, that might draw attention away from me—though we cannot be sure it will be enough to undo the damage. In one act, you see, in a few days, I have undermined all the good work I have done in the last decade and more.”

“That is not true,” she said, lifting her head to look at him. “No one who knows you can lose respect for you over such a small thing—because you were foolish about a woman, even the most notorious woman in England? He is wrong. I wish I had been there, for I would have told him so. He sadly underestimates you. Only very narrow-minded and stupid people would let one minor episode of your life taint their view of you and all you have done. Admittedly, there are a great many of this sort of people in the world. But you should want nothing to do with them.”

The interview with his father had left Benedict chilled. He hadn’t realized how much until now, until her words warmed him, driving out guilt and shame.

She had warmed him from the start. He hadn’t realized how cold he was until he felt her warmth. He hadn’t realized how empty he was until she’d taken hold of his heart and filled it.

He smiled down at her, at her ferocious loyalty.

He remembered Olivia fearlessly defending her dead father’s honor at breakfast.

The girl was not altogether a Dreadful DeLucey. Something of her mother and something of her father lived inside her, and only needed to be nourished.

Benedict could have nourished it . . . but he must not think of that. Not now. He’d have the rest of his life to dwell on might-have-beens.

Gad. The rest of his life.

Years. Decades. His family was horribly long-lived.

The Dowager Countess of Hargate was fourscore and five. Her spouse, the previous earl, had lived into his seventies, and many of his siblings were still alive. Mama’s family was equally tenacious of life. Her parents were in their eighties.

Benedict might live another half century!

Without Bathsheba.

“You’re right,” he said. “I want nothing to do with them. I want nothing to do with anybody who’d ridicule or pity me because I love you.”

She went suddenly still. “You—”

“I love you,” he said. “They may all go to blazes. If no one will take the trouble to see what you are really like, if they will drive you out of England, then I shall go with you.”

SHE INSISTED HE would not go anywhere with her.

He insisted he would.

The three men who stood but a few feet away, behind the garden wall, listened while the argument grew fiercer. Then the debate abruptly stopped, and different sounds indicated that Rathbourne had changed his tactics.

Whether it worked or no was impossible to say. The voices dropped to murmurs. Then came good-byes.

When at last the lovers had gone their separate ways, Lord Mandeville said, “You had it right, Hargate. It is like Jack Wingate all over again, only worse, far worse.”

“You are more observant than I, my lord,” said Lord Northwick. “I had not realized matters had gone so far.”

“He is my son,” said Lord Hargate. “I ought to know him, even when he is not himself. Certainly I know it is time to put an end to this madness.”

RATHBOURNE HAD PROMISED he would take a full two weeks to reconsider, and Bathsheba had given her word that she would keep him apprised of her whereabouts in the meantime.

She was sure that once she was out of the way and he had time to think coolly, he would change his mind about abandoning his life, his family, all he’d achieved and hoped to achieve, for a woman.

No matter what he did, the title and a great deal of property would be his eventually, unless Fate intervened and his father outlived him. Still, he would break his parents’ hearts, and his brothers would never forgive him. He could never hope for a happy homecoming. If he abandoned his life here for a life with her, he could never hope to regain the position of honor and trust he’d held in the Great World.

Unlike Jack, Rathbourne would come to regret what he’d lost, for he’d a great deal more to lose. Unlike Jack, Rathbourne would come to resent her for what she’d cost him. He would end up bitterly unhappy and she would feel like a murderess.

A fortnight would do the trick, she thought. It would give him time to calm down and his family time to bring him to his senses.

Meanwhile, there was breakfast to be got through.

Lord Mandeville had commanded their company at breakfast. Otherwise, Bathsheba would have happily breakfasted in her room. Or upon the road.

This time they all crowded about a round table in the morning room, a circumstance not conducive to private conversation.

Thus, when Olivia told Lord Mandeville that she and her mama were going to Egypt, the news reached everyone simultaneously.

“Egypt?” several voices, including Bathsheba’s, repeated.

“The idea came to me when I woke this morning,” Olivia said. “It occurred to me that if one was looking for treasure, one ought to go where one is likely to find it. A great many people are digging for treasure in Egypt. You told me so yourself, Lord Lisle. You said you were going to Egypt one day and look for treasure.”

“One day,” he said. “That means the future. I can’t go now.” He paused, his expression considering. “Unless there was a school they could send me to. At any rate, you cannot go to Egypt. That is even more ridiculous than digging for pirate’s treasure at Throgmorton.”

Olivia’s eyes flashed.

“You know nothing about the place,” he plowed on. “It is not like England or even the Continent. Women are kept confined. The rule of law as we know it does not exist there. If you tried to travel about Egypt alone, you would be kidnapped instantly and sold into slavery.”

“Even with a large party, travel in Egypt can be dangerous,” said Lord Hargate. “Certainly, it can be difficult. Still, for those willing to brave the hardships, there are rewards, though not necessarily monetary. Signor Belzoni, for instance, has not profited as greatly as everyone supposes—as Rupert’s bride makes a point of reminding me.”

Bathsheba noticed that the

earl had shadows under his eyes. His face was drawn. He must be weary. He had traveled all the day before yesterday. Last night he must have lain awake worrying about his eldest son. Later, she must find a moment to reassure him—though her compassion might stick in his craw.

“Signor Belzoni brought back such big things,” Olivia said. “Giant statues and mummies and such. People can’t make up their minds what they’re worth. But I shall look for small things: jewels and coins. I know what those sorts of things are worth. I shall also collect papyri. Lord Lisle said there is a great demand for these documents, and Egypt has thousands and thousands of them.”

“You have to take them from people who’ve been dead for a thousand years or more,” said Lisle. “The mummies hold the papyri in their hands or have them between their legs. Uncle Rupert said the mummy dust clogs your nose and the smell is disgusting. You have to go into small holes in the ground and crawl about narrow tunnels. It’s very hot. And you won’t have a lot of servants about to bring you lemonade and sandwiches or to cart away the dirt. It isn’t like digging up Lord Mandeville’s lawn.”

“We are not going to Egypt, Olivia,” Bathsheba said. “I recommend you put that idea out of your head.”

Olivia’s countenance took on a familiar mulish expression as she opened her mouth to answer.

Rathbourne threw her a look.

Though she set her jaw, the contrary expression vanished, and “Yes, Mama,” she said, to Bathsheba’s astonishment.

“At any rate, I cannot understand why you prate about traveling halfway across the world,” said Lord Mandeville. “You have not finished your excavation here.”

Bathsheba’s heart began to pound. He could have no reason for indulging Olivia except to delay her departure. He must have written to Fosbury, who could have the letter as early as today. He could be here in how many days? One? Two? Or was it simply a matter of hours?

Before her panicked mind could compose a polite refusal, Lisle spoke.

“We’ve dug a moat round the entire mausoleum,” he said. “I don’t see how we could have missed the treasure if it was there.”

“Lord Lisle has a very orderly system,” Olivia said. “I know we covered every inch of the ground.”

“Perhaps not,” said his lordship. “I have talked it over with Northwick, and it occurred to us that you mightn’t have dug deep enough.”

“Recollect that Edmund DeLucey’s pirate days were a hundred years ago,” said Lord Northwick. “Over time, buildings settle and sink, gardens are redesigned and replanted. The ground about the mausoleum has been built up and filled in several times. One must remember, too, that the gardeners apply layers of lime and fertilizer at regular intervals.”

“I should dig deeper if I were you,” said Lord Mandeville. “Unless, that is, you have lost heart.”