Lord Perfect by Loretta Chase
All he had to do was adopt the drawling voice and icy manner he used to crush upstarts and fools, and say he was on urgent business. All he had to do was write the name and direction of his solicitor on the back of one of his cards and give it to the constable. Benedict was not so far from civilization that his name would not be known. Those who recognized his name would know who his father was.
Then he would be allowed to continue on his way. If necessary, someone would make sure he had a vehicle and fresh horses. He would be offered refreshment and, very likely, an apology for the “misunderstanding.”
Benedict could not tell the truth. He could not be who he was or behave as he normally would. Alone, he might easily survive the social consequences of a fracas with a lot of yokels some eighteen miles from London. People would assume he had been attacked or grossly provoked. Everyone knew that Lord Rathbourne—unlike his black sheep brother Rupert—was not in the habit of fighting and making a spectacle of himself.
Benedict was not alone, however. He had a woman with him, a beautiful and notorious and far too exciting woman.
Also a brave or possibly mad woman.
He still could scarcely believe she’d leapt out of the carriage and straight into the fight. She’d laid the horsewhip about her with remarkable energy and effectiveness. She had certainly amazed the men. Benedict had heard a couple of them scream like girls, and he’d seen more than one scurry to safety at the fringes of the crowd. If he hadn’t been so busy himself, he would have laughed.
Equally unbelievable and less laughable was his own behavior.
He had got into a fight—a public brawl—with a lot of drunken peasants.
Because of a woman.
He had been perfectly rational, he’d thought. He’d seen that the men were deeply intoxicated. He knew one could not reason with drunkards or expect them to behave rationally. He knew his wisest course of action was to get away from them.
Benedict had ignored the insults and obscenities they hurled at him. He’d found it harder to ignore their coarse remarks to Mrs. Wingate, but he’d gritted his teeth and endured them.
Then the fellow had touched Mrs. Wingate.
And Benedict had to kill him.
Now she stood close, clutching his arm. The light from the inn windows and the men’s lanterns was enough to reveal her increasing indignation as Humber muttered about outsiders coming into peaceable villages and making disturbances and disruptions.
Her great, blue eyes widened and flashed, her fine bosom rose and fell, and her soft mouth was parted in outraged astonishment.
Aroused, as any man would be, by this stirring picture of barely contained passion, Benedict was a moment too slow to warn her to keep her temper.
As he opened his mouth to do so, she burst out, “I cannot believe my ears. Three drunken men accosted us in the dead of night as we were innocently passing through the town. One of them put his hands on me. My husband defended my honor. A mob spilled into the streets and tried to kill him. And we are at fault?”
Humber said the men had obviously been too far gone in drink to stay on their feet, let alone hurt anybody, and people came out into the street simply to protect their friends. He indicated the casualties about him and the windows of nearby buildings. A few men had fallen or been flung against the windows, breaking the glass.
Before Mrs. Wingate could muster further arguments, Thomas emerged from the gloom, leading the horses. They were still attached, Benedict was relieved to see, to the curricle, which did not appear badly damaged.
“That’s yours, is it?” said Humber. “And that’s your servant? Well, he must come along with you, and your rig must go to the Bull.” He turned back to Benedict. “You’ll have it back once you’ve sorted matters out with magistrate on Monday.”
“Monday?” Benedict and Mrs. Wingate said at the same time.
“Squire Pardew won’t hold sessions until then,” said Humber. “The missus putting her foot down as to miscreants in the parlor on Saturdays and the Sabbath.”
Like many local magistrates, the squire held petty sessions in his parlor. Like his fellows, he’d have only a passing acquaintance with the law, and his judgments would be based on what he deemed common sense, colored by his personal biases and, very probably, those of his wife.
This did not necessarily make for poor justice, and it did not trouble Benedict. What troubled him was the name, with which he was all too familiar, and the possibility that someone had already woken the magistrate and told him of the brawl. Pardew might be on his way even now. He was a prodigious busybody and gossip.
Benedict bent his head and murmured to Mrs. Wingate. “We cannot linger here. I cannot risk an encounter with Pardew. He knows me.”
More audibly Benedict said, “To my great regret, Monday will not—”
“Ooooh,” said Mrs. Wingate. She let go of him, took a few staggering steps toward Humber, and fainted.
BENEDICT DID NOT suspect anything at first. When she put her hand to her head and began to sway, he stopped breathing as well as thinking. Still, he moved to catch her. But she fell against Humber, who caught her instead.
Benedict’s heart recommenced beating while with narrowed eyes he watched her shift and squirm until she ended up facing the innkeeper, her bosom pressed to his chest.
Humber showed no eagerness to return her, and Benedict promptly considered killing him.
At that moment, however, a large woman carrying a lantern came into view. She wore a man’s cloak over what had to be her nightdress. She still wore her sleeping bonnet, apparently deeming it sufficient protection against the night air. She strode toward them purposefully, her countenance hard.
“Humber,” she said. “What keeps you so long?”
Mrs. Wingate let out a little moan.
Humber hastily transferred the limp, curvaceous armful to Benedict. “Bertha,” said the innkeeper. “What do you want to be out looking for me for at this hour? You’ll catch your death, you will.”
“How was I to sleep with all the uproar?” Bertha demanded.
Mrs. Wingate moaned again.
Benedict gazed down at the woman languishing in his arms. She’d lost her bonnet, and her hair had come undone. Her head was flung back, exposing her white throat, and thrusting her firm, round bosom upward. Her soft lips were parted, her eyes closed. . . .
He knew the pose was a sham, but that was about all he knew. His brain wasn’t working half so well as other, lower parts of him.
She was dirty and disheveled from the recent scuffle, and that only made it worse.
He wanted to tear off every last soiled, worn garment, strip her to the skin, and . . .
. . . wash her.
. . .Slowly. . .
. . . from the top of her head to the tips of her toes.
With an effort—and it was no light one—he reclaimed his mind.
“My dear,” he said thickly. “Speak to me.”
She fluttered her eyelids and, by degrees, began to recover. Pretended to begin to recover.
Since Benedict desperately needed to collect his wits, he looked about for a place to set her down.
Drunkards One and Two lay peacefully near the bench where they’d fallen, both snoring loudly. Benedict nudged Number One out of the way with his foot, and sat Mrs. Wingate on the bench. Before he could draw away, she tugged his hand.
Though he needed to put some distance between them, Benedict sat down gingerly beside her. Remembering he was supposed to be her spouse, he put his arm about her shoulders and tried not to think about baths.
“My dear, I fear my trouble grows worse,” she said. “It is not a good sign: another spell, so soon after the last one.” She gave a little sob.
Ah, she was dying, that was it.
“No, no, you are better,” Benedict said, patting her hand. “It was the shock—all those men—the shouting and violence. You were alarmed.”
Not half as alarmed as the men at the receiving end of the whip h
She shook her head. “No, I grow weaker,” she said, with a wonderful, sad bravery. “I had so hoped to see dear Sarah before . . . before . . . well, you know.”
Benedict didn’t know, but he had the general idea, and played along. “You shall see her soon, my dear, I promise.”
“Oh, I wish it could be so,” she said. “It was the one last thing I wished for. But by Monday . . . it may be too late. I am not sure I shall be strong enough.”
The tender scene had diverted the other couple’s attention, as Mrs. Wingate no doubt intended.
“The lady’s ailing?” said Mrs. Humber. She glared at her spouse.
“Well, who could’ve guessed it?” said he. “She felt—Mean to say, she looked plenty robust to me. And I heard she was lively enough with the horsewhip only a little while ago.”
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
“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.