Lord Perfect

by Loretta Chase

  “You are too good a listener,” he began. Then he paused to look at her. Her elbow rested on the arm of her chair, and her cheek upon her hand. Her eyes were closed. Her breathing was even.

  He smiled ruefully. He had planned to put her to sleep. But not this way.

  He rose and went to her. Gently he gathered her up in his arms. He carried her to bed and laid her down. He took off her shoes, and drew the bedclothes over her. She scarcely stirred.

  She was tired to death, poor girl, he thought. Tired to death with watching and waiting and worrying, about everything and everyone, including him, especially him.

  He bent and kissed her forehead. “Don’t fret about me, sweet,” he murmured. “I’ll do well enough. I always have.”

  IT WAS THE quiet that must have wakened her, the end of the steady drumbeat of rain. Or perhaps it was the light. It was not daylight, that silvery glow. The sky had cleared, and she lay in a pool of moonlight.

  Bathsheba put her hand out, and even as she did so, she knew he wasn’t there. The warmth was missing. She shivered, though not from cold. She had not felt so alone since those first bleak months after Jack died.

  “Drat you, Jack,” she whispered. “You had better not be laughing. A fine joke, you’ll think it, that I should make the same mistake twice.”

  She heard a sound in the room beyond. She sat up.

  Stealthy footsteps.

  “Who is that?” she said.

  “Roaming bands of soldiers,” came a familiar rumble. “Brigands and cutthroats. Ghouls and goblins.”

  Rathbourne’s tall, dark form filled the doorway. “Or perhaps it was simply me, galumphing about while fondly imagining I was stealing noiselessly about the place.”

  “Were you walking in your sleep?” she said.

  “I thought I was walking in my—er—awake,” he said.

  “You told me not to fret,” she said. “Were you fretting, Rathbourne?”

  “I was not pacing, if that is what you are implying,” he said. “I never pace. Caged animals pace. Gentlemen stand or sit quietly.”

  “You could not sleep,” she said.

  “I was trying to work out a plan for dealing with Peregrine—or his parents, actually,” he said.

  He folded his arms and leant against the doorjamb. It was so like his pose at the Egyptian Hall, when she’d first seen him, that her breath caught, as it had done then.

  “I’d forgotten,” she said. “The business about the peddler’s daughter won’t work now, obviously.”

  “I am considering making a scene,” he said. “Turning the tables on them. Before they can commence their histrionics, I shall start striding back and forth, waving my fist and clutching my forehead by turns.”

  “You are fond of that boy,” she said.

  “Well, yes, of course. Why else should I put up with him?”

  He ought to have children, she thought. He would make a good father.

  She could not give him children. He didn’t need an aging mistress with a malfunctioning womb. He needed a young wife who’d fill his nursery.

  “If you like, I’ll help you devise a scene tomorrow,” she said, “while we watch for our wanderers.”

  “It is tomorrow, actually,” he said. “Last time I looked at my pocket watch, it was one o’clock, and that was a while ago.”

  “Then it is past time you came to bed,” she said.

  “I see,” he said. “Is that what woke you? A desperate longing for me?”

  “I should hardly call it a desperate longing,” she said. “I should call it a vague sense of something amiss.”

  “The fire’s out and the bed’s cold,” he said.

  “Why, so they are,” she said. “That’s what it is. Well, you are big and warm. That should solve the problem.”

  He laughed.

  Oh, she would miss that low laughter.

  “Rathbourne,” she said. “We haven’t much time, and you’re wasting it.”

  HE CAME INTO the room, pulling off articles of clothing with every step. In a few minutes, he was naked, miles of hard, muscled male glowing in the moonlight.

  In the next minute, he was pulling back the bedclothes, and stripping her with the same ruthless efficiency.

  She thought it would be quick and desperate, one last bout of madness.

  But when she was naked, he lay on his side next to her and brought her round to face him. He lifted his hands to her head, and drew them down, over her face, then down her throat and down, slowly, over her breasts and waist and belly and lightly between her legs. He moved his long, gentle hands down her legs, then all the long way up again, as though he would memorize her.

  Her eyes filled as her own hands went up to tangle in his hair, then to trace the shape of his face—the noble nose, the strong angle of his jaw—and powerful neck and shoulders. Then down she brought her hands, over the hard contours of his torso, so familiar now, and over his taut waist and belly, the narrow hips, and his manhood. She smiled, remembering their drunken night, and he remembered, too, because she saw it in his answering smile. She continued her journey, as far as she could reach down those miles of leg, and up again, her heart aching.

  I love you I love you I love you.

  He drew her close and kissed her, and it was cool and sweet, then hot and sweet, then dark and wild. She tangled her legs with his and pressed closer, and forgot about tomorrows. She let her hands rove over him again and again, as though she could imprint him somehow, though it was impossible: taste and scent and touch and sound—all so fleeting. This moment. That was all one ever had: this moment.

  She took all she could, drank him in and memorized him, in endless, deep kisses and tender caresses, until at last he made a choked sound, and pushed her onto her back.

  He entered her in one fierce thrust, and the world shattered. She rose up and wrapped her legs round his waist, her arms round his shoulders, to hold on to him, as tightly as she could for as long as she could. He grasped the back of her head, and kissed her, and she clung, rocking with him, while the heat built and blotted out thought, and while grief, and tomorrow—above all, tomorrow—all vanished.

  Only the joy of being joined remained, and they let that happiness sweep them to its pinnacle, and over. Mercifully, it swept them into sleep, in each other’s arms, in the silver glow of the moonlight.

  NO ONE KNOCKED at the door of the New Lodge until morning. Then it was only Peter DeLucey, accompanied by a servant carrying a basket from the kitchens.

  It was early morning, though, forcing Benedict and Bathsheba to make a hasty toilette. They had no time even for a few private words.

  Still, at least DeLucey had not arrived while they were still abed together. Thomas—who had been awake at dawn, as usual—had spotted Northwick’s son while the young man was yet a good distance away, and promptly alerted his master.

  Not that it was any use trying to protect Bathsheba’s reputation, Benedict knew.

  After all, Northwick had allotted them his love nest, had he not? Neither he nor anyone else who saw them together would have the smallest doubt that Bathsheba Wingate was Lord Rathbourne’s mistress.

  Still, Northwick had acted generously and honorably.

  When Lord Mandeville found out, Northwick would pay for his generosity and honorable behavior.

  That was the trouble with doing what was right. One was sure to suffer for it.

  A gentleman does what is right, and accepts the consequences.

  Bloody damn rules, Benedict thought.

  “I do apologize, my lord,” Peter DeLucey said.

  Benedict gazed blankly at him for a moment, wondering how much of the conversation he’d missed. “I fail to see why you should apologize,” he said. “I’m the one who wasn’t paying attention.”

  “Lord Rathbourne was thinking,” said Bathsheba. “That soul-freezing look was not aimed at you, Mr. DeLucey. You merely happened to be in the way. Take something to eat, Rathbourne. One can’t concentrate properly
on an empty stomach. Thomas, his lordship needs more coffee.”

  Everyone followed the lady’s orders.

  She presided as hostess at one end of the small table. The two men sat opposite each other.

  “While your mind was elsewhere, Mr. DeLucey was explaining how his men lost the children last night,” she said.

  He’d been speaking of the peddler, Benedict recalled. DeLucey had been telling them about Gaffy Tipton, whom Lord Northwick’s agents had found last night at one of the several Bristol hostelries known as “the Bell.”

  “He said he knew the children were of good family,” Peter went on. “He guessed they were runaways. But he didn’t know who it was they’d run away from. For all he knew, he said, the men claiming to work for Lord Northwick were villains.”

  “In short, Tipton was uncooperative,” Benedict said.

  “People had to be sent for to vouch for our agent, before the peddler would tell anything.”

  “Meanwhile, my dear Olivia can spot a constable, debt collector, or thief-taker from a mile away,” said Bathsheba. “She would have taken one look at the agent and bolted. It is perfectly understandable.”

  “By gad, you’re taking it well,” said DeLucey. “In your place, I should have been wild. As it was, I was longing to throttle the agent. The children were within his reach—and he let them go.”

  “He didn’t let them,” Benedict said. “As I reminded Mrs. Wingate some days ago, neither my nephew nor her daughter is a trusting child. They are both intelligent. And crafty.”

  “Father was furious,” DeLucey said. “Keeping Grandfather in the dark is not the easiest task in the world. The longer this takes, the more likely he will become suspicious. Once that happens, he’ll learn the truth in short order, and then we’re in for a prodigious row.”

  “I’m amazed he hasn’t got wind of it yet,” said Bathsheba. “Lord Mandeville seemed in no way decrepit to me. His mind is sharp enough and he did not appear at all enfeebled.”

  “Oh, he’s able enough, but over the years he’s left more and more of the tedious business side to Father,” DeLucey said. “Grandfather would far rather hunt and fish and entertain.”

  “Then Lord Northwick is well accustomed to organizing and directing his people,” Benedict said. This was not always so, he knew. In too many cases, the head of the family insisted on maintaining control of everything to his dying breath. This left the heir with too much time on his hands and no purpose in life but waiting for his father to die. The present king, to Benedict’s thinking, amply illustrated all the drawbacks of this method of upbringing.

  Lord Hargate’s method, on the other hand, was to heap responsibilities upon his eldest, on the principle that the devil made work for idle hands.

  “Father has our men combing Bristol from top to bottom, front to back,” DeLucey said.

  Benedict nodded. “A logical approach. The trouble is, the brats are never where we expect them to be. At what time were they last seen?”

  “Gaffy Tipton arrived at the Bell in the early evening,” DeLucey said. “He sent the children to stand in the shelter of the gallery while he tended to the horse. This was usually Lord Lisle’s task, he said.”

  “Peregrine?” Benedict said. “My nephew acted as his groom?”

  “A quiet, obedient, and useful boy, according to Tipton,” DeLucey said.

  “Quiet and obedient,” Benedict said. “Peregrine. Behold me dumbstruck.” He looked at Bathsheba. “Is that Olivia’s influence, do you think?”

  “Are you joking?” she said.

  It came to him without warning, the scene as vivid in hismind as though it had happened but a heartbeat ago: the breathtakingly beautiful face turned up toward his, the blue eyes drowning him, and the note of laughter in her voice when she told him she’d tried to sell Olivia to gypsies.

  Was that when it had happened?

  Had he been lost long before he realized?

  Had all his world begun to change from that day, while he stupidly imagined he was the same?

  He was not the same and never would be again.

  He doubted Peregrine would be the same, either.

  “Tipton said they both made themselves useful,” DeLucey said. “He sounded surprised about it, too. Last night, though, he saw to stabling his horse, on account of the rain. He didn’t like to risk the children’s taking a chill. He sent them to wait under the gallery, out of the wet. That was the last time he saw them.”

  Benedict considered. “From the heart of Bristol to the gates of Throgmorton is no great journey,” he said. “A few hours on foot. They might easily find a ride for some part of the way. Even if they walked, or rode on the slowest wagon, they might easily be at Throgmorton by now.”

  “You think we should concentrate our efforts here?” DeLucey said.

  “I do not like to tell Lord Northwick his business,” Benedict said. “On the other hand, he cannot wish to waste his time and the talents of his staff—and the sooner he is rid of us, the better for everybody.”

  Peter DeLucey started to make the expected polite protest. Benedict cut him off. “Kindly tell your father I wish to speak to him,” he said, “as soon as he finds convenient.”

  Tuesday afternoon

  “We can’t go through the front gate,” Peregrine said. He grasped Olivia’s arm and tugged her in the opposite direction, before anyone at Throgmorton’s entrance spotted them.

  “It’s a visiting day,” she said. “You heard what Mr. Swain said. Tuesday and Thursday afternoons.”

  They had spent the night in the shop of Mr. Swain, a pawnbroker, because that was one of the few places where Olivia felt safe.

  Peregrine was not sure he had felt safe. Still, it was warm and dry, and he had definitely felt less conspicuous in the dark little shop, through whose door a number of drenched and ragged persons passed, carrying their pitiful stock of goods.

  After five days’ traveling, he and Olivia looked as dirty and bedraggled as any of Bristol’s unfortunates. If they entered a respectable inn or lodging place, they would attract suspicious attention. Of course, they could easily enter a not respectable place. But then they would face worse risks than being caught by constables or detectives.

  Mere days ago, Peregrine had wanted to be caught.

  That was before.

  Now he was glad that he and Olivia had found sanctuary for one more night, even if it was a none-too-clean pawnshop and they had to sleep on the floor.

  It was all thanks to Olivia, who apparently knew everything there was to know about pawnbrokers, including the names and addresses of half of those in London and every last one in Dublin. She and Mr. Swain had a fine time exchanging anecdotes and gossip. She had no trouble at all learning all she wanted to know about Throgmorton.

  This was fortunate, because the park and grounds covered thousands of acres, and they had no map. Swain, however, had gone to Throgmorton twice for celebrations. He’d sketched a rough plan of the place. Though Swain had never visited the mausoleum, he had glimpsed it, and had heard that it looked like a Roman temple, with two statues guarding the stairs. Peregrine now had a general idea of the mausoleum’s location.

  “I don’t see why we can’t simply slip in among the crowd,” Olivia said.

  “Because there won’t be any crowds,” Peregrine said. “This isn’t like a balloon ascension in Hyde Park, or a race at Newmarket. There won’t be great masses of people pouring through the gates. There won’t be pickpockets and bookmakers, beggars and prostitutes, mingling with ladies and gentlemen and family groups. Perhaps a handful of people will visit today, and they’ll need to look respectable, which we don’t. This isn’t like Chatsworth, where they let anybody in to wander wherever they like. Even if we did manage to get past the gatekeeper, we’d be watched every minute—and chucked out promptly at the end of visiting time.”

  While he spoke, Peregrine towed her down a narrow, rutted road. “But the main entrance isn’t the only way in,” he went on. �
�After all, one can hardly have the estate workers hauling manure through the main entranceway—the same route the king takes.”

  “Heaven forfend,” Olivia said. “Someone would have to hold His Majesty’s nose. Or can he hold his own?”

  Peregrine ignored this. “There will be several other gates, much humbler,” he said. “But the landscaping will conceal them from view of the main house, so they don’t spoil the scenery.”

  She shot him a look. “I never thought of that. But I’ve never lived in the country.”

  “Obviously,” he said. “If you had—Oh, never mind. The point is, I’m the expert now. Which means it’s your turn to hold your tongue and do as you’re told.”

  He had to give her credit. She kept quiet and let him lead the way, just as though she were a rational person, instead of a lunatic female who actually believed she had a prayer of finding a pirate’s treasure chest buried alongside her ancestors.

  Peregrine knew they had about as much chance of finding pirate treasure at Throgmorton as they had of finding a unicorn. He could not imagine how they would get near the mausoleum without attracting attention.

  But then, he’d never imagined he would have made his way from London to Bristol with nothing more than a handful of coins and his own and his companion’s wits to sustain him.

  Whatever happened, it was sure to be interesting.

  An adventure.

  It would be years before he could hope for another one.

  SPIRITS SINKING, BATHSHEBA watched the sky cloud over. The wind strengthened, and she drew her cloak more tightly about her.

  She stood a short distance from the New Lodge, at the top of the pathway that declined gently in the direction of the mausoleum. This part of the park being thickly planted with trees and tall shrubs, the pathway vanished from view for a time, then reappeared, much wider, climbing the slope toward the ornate structure in which the last few generations of DeLuceys were entombed.

  Clouds swirled above the imitation Roman temple, growing thicker and blacker as the wind drove them harder. In her fancy, the clouds were the demonic ghosts of Dreadful DeLuceys, dancing madly over the bones of the good ones.