He felt her relax, her gaze coming back to his face. “You are roasting me,” she said. “You make it sound as though finding a bride was the same as choosing a horse at—What is the name of the auction house? Taver—”
“Tattersall’s,” he said.
“Tattersall’s, then. Is that how men view the famous Almack’s assemblies? Do you take no account of the girls’ characters or their personalities?”
“If they were not girls of good character, they would not be on the Marriage Mart,” he said. “And they most certainly would not be admitted to Almack’s.”
He would not have dreamt of seeking a girl who was not admitted. Not being obliged to marry for money hadn’t meant Lord Hargate’s heir could marry where he pleased. Or when he pleased. Benedict knew the rules, knew what was expected of him.
And Ada? Had she followed rules or her heart? He had no idea—and that said everything, didn’t it?
“In other words, they were virgins of good family, and that was all you needed to know about their character,” Mrs. Wingate said. “Good bloodstock—”
“I’m the Earl of Hargate’s heir,” he cut in tightly. “I hadn’t the luxury of being swept off my feet, if that is what you are getting at.”
“That is not what I meant,” she said. “You speak of marriage, a lifelong commitment, yet love does not come into the picture.”
“How absurd,” he said. “I could not wander the world like one of Byron’s heroes, looking for the love of my life, if there is such a thing.”
“What about the like of your life?” she said. “What about a friend and companion? Good grief, Rathbourne, how did you choose?”
“I fail to see how the matter can be of any import to you,” he said in the glacial tone he had learnt from his father. It was famous for leaving its victims bereft not only of speech but, in some cases, of the will to live.
She waved it away with one slim, gloved hand. “Don’t be silly,” she said. “It is vastly interesting. I feel like a visitor to an exotic land, trying to understand the ways of the natives. I didn’t choose. I was only sixteen, and I simply fell over head and ears in love. But it is wrong of me to quiz you. Clearly, the subject is too painful for you to talk about.” Her tone softened. “I forgot that you have not been widowed for very long.”
Benedict’s heart was pounding, and it wanted all his self-control not to relay his agitation to the horses via the ribbons. Luckily, they’d finally reached the Kensington tollgate. Fuming, he waited for the gatekeeper to collect the money and open the gate.
At last it opened. As he drove through it, Benedict belatedly recalled Thomas. He’d completely forgotten about the footman, riding in the back. Benedict’s ears burned as he recalled his revelations about his younger brothers.
It didn’t matter that the footman could not possibly hear their conversation over the constant rumble of wheels and clatter of hooves on the cobblestones, the horses’ snorts and whinnies, and the drivers’ complaints and curses. Benedict was too upset to be reasonable.
“I ought not be required to remind you,” he growled, “that we are not alone.”
“I told you not to bring the servant,” she said coolly.
“I wish I had not brought you,” he said. “You—Devil take it! You made me forget to ask the tollgate keeper about the children.” He brought the carriage to a halt. Before he could summon Thomas to take charge of it, she jumped down.
“I shall ask,” she said. “You are too agitated.”
Without being told, Thomas leapt down to tend the horses.
Meanwhile, without a backward glance, Mrs. Wingate walked on toward the tollgate, hips swaying in the most blatantly provocative manner—much to the delight of the mob of men, who performed torturous maneuvers with their vehicles to make way for her.
Benedict did not wait to see how many collisions she caused—nor did he drag down any of the men from their vehicles and throw them into any walls, because this would be undignified and precisely the sort of thing Rupert would do—but caught up with her in a few swift strides.
“I am not agitated,” he said. “I am perfectly capable of—”
“I should not have mentioned Lady Rathbourne in that thoughtless, light way,” she said. “I beg your pardon.”
“There is no need to become maudlin,” he said. “Ada died two years ago and she—and she . . .” He let out an angry sigh. “Oh, very well. She was a stranger to me. There, is your tender heart comforted?”
BATHSHEBA WISHED SHE had not answered her door this evening. Rathbourne was proving even more troublesome than she had feared. She might have borne the physical proximity with some degree of composure. The mental proximity was making dangerous cracks in her defenses.
“No, I am not at all comforted, because you are talking nonsense,” she said. “For how long were you wed?”
“Six years,” he said.
“Then your wife could not be a stranger.” She stopped walking. “I must insist you return to the carriage. You are attracting too much attention.”
He glanced about them at the vehicles emerging from the tollgate. “So far as I can ascertain, the onlookers are all men,” he said, “and they are all looking at you.”
“I am merely a handsome piece of goods to them,” she said. “While they stare at me, their brains are not engaged. Do you want them to start thinking—and wonder which aristocrat that is, dogging my footsteps and glowering at me?”
He glowered at her some more, bowed curtly, turned away, and strode back to the carriage.
He was waiting by the carriage, pocket watch in hand, when she returned not many minutes later.
“Well?” he said.
“We’re still headed in the right direction,” she said. She hurriedly climbed into the carriage before he could throw her in. It was not that she minded being flung about in that imperious way. It was rather that she liked it too much: the ease with which he lifted her, the power and heat she felt radiating from him, and above all, the feel of his hands upon her.
Much too dangerous. As it was, she’d been unable to banish the memory of that kiss weeks ago. She remembered too well the feel of his hand at the back of her neck and what that simple touch did to her, melting will and morals and muscles simultaneously.
A moment later, she had positioned herself as close to her side of the vehicle as she could without being obvious about it, and they were once more on their way. This time they traveled at a speedier pace, the road having grown less congested. While he focused on driving, she told what she’d learnt from the tollgate keeper.
It turned out that he knew the farmer she’d described. His name was Jarvis, and he traveled from Brentford to London and back regularly. Though the tollgate keeper could not say precisely when he’d arrived, he reckoned it was between one and two hours earlier. He vaguely remembered children in the cart, but had not paid close attention. Jarvis often had his own or neighbors’ children with him.
“If that is the case, it makes no sense to continue stopping to inquire about them until we reach Brentford,” Rathbourne said. “If the road remains reasonably clear of drovers, carts, and wagons, we might easily get there by eight o’clock. They might be as little as an hour ahead of us at this point. We have an excellent chance of finding them before they can negotiate another ride—a task they’ll find a good deal more difficult in a hamlet like Brentford than at busy Hyde Park Corner. If my nephew has failed to persuade your daughter to turn back, he’ll be aware that I must soon be after him, in which case he will exercise his ingenuity to slow their progress.”
“That sounds reasonable enough,” she said. “The trouble is, Olivia is not reasonable.”
“She is twelve years old,” Rathbourne said. “She has no money, and her companion objects to the journey. Even if she were in more promising circumstances than these, she can only go so far in a few hours.”
PEREGRINE SOON DISCOVERED he’d have better success in slowing Olivia Wingate down if the rest of
the world were not so gullible.
The farmer had suggested they stop at the Pigeons Inn in Brentford and mention his name to the landlord, who would look after them and help them find a ride west.
Peregrine decided he would insist they pause there to eat. This would give him time to find a way to leave a message for Uncle Benedict.
Surely Lord Rathbourne had realized hours ago that Peregrine was gone. He would not have many clues, unfortunately. Had it occurred to Peregrine that he’d fail to retrieve Miss Wingate, he’d have left clues. It had not occurred to him.
Still, Uncle being so clever, he would quickly deduce what had happened. No doubt he was already on their trail.
After all, crime was one of his lordship’s pet interests. He knew all the Bow Street Runners and their thief-catching methods. He had studied countless disreputable persons and criminals in the course of his parliamentary inquiries. Finding Miss Wingate and Peregrine would be child’s play.
If Peregrine dawdled long enough, his uncle would catch up with them.
The trouble was, Olivia didn’t go straight to the inn. First, she stood by the side of the road, waiting for it to empty. Then, to Peregrine’s horror, she pulled off her frock. Under it she was wearing boy’s clothes. She took from the shawl containing her traveling things a cap, stuck it on her head, and tucked her hair up inside it. She rolled the frock up and stuffed it into the shawl and tied up the parcel again.
Next, when they reached the inn, she didn’t go inside, but into the inn yard. She wandered about the place, walking and talking like a boy. Knowing that it was most unwise to unmask her in such a place, Peregrine could only hang about in a state of painful suspense until he realized what she was about, at which point he dared do nothing.
She became friendly with a pair of young grooms who were playing a complicated dice game.
She asked them to teach her the game.
Peregrine didn’t dare warn them. Either they would laugh themselves sick or there would be a fight—which might bring a constable. If Peregrine’s parents found out he’d been taken up by a constable, he’d never be entrusted to his uncle’s care again.
Consequently, in what must have been a fairly short time though it seemed like years to Peregrine, the dreadful girl obtained not only all the unsuspecting grooms’ money, but a ride to Hounslow in their master’s recently repaired carriage.
Chapter 8
THE LANDLORD AT THE PIGEONS INN IN Brentford had seen nothing of a girl and boy. Though he knew Farmer Jarvis, he had not seen him this day, he said. Jarvis must have gone straight home instead of traveling the short distance out of his way, as he often did, to stop at the Pigeons for gossip and a tankard of ale.
Benedict and Mrs. Wingate learnt no more from the others they questioned. Thomas the footman had better luck during his conversation with some servants in the inn yard. When he rejoined his master, the footman described the encounter between two “lads” and a pair of servants belonging to one of the local gentry families.
“One of the lads sounded like Lord Lisle,” he reported. “Same height, same color hair. The other had red hair and freckles.”
Benedict looked at Mrs. Wingate.
“Dressing as a boy would be simple enough for Olivia,” she said. “She might have obtained clothes cheaply and easily at a pawnshop or secondhand clothes dealer. She wouldn’t have too much difficulty raising small amounts of money. She has the DeLucey affinity for games of chance, and my lectures fall on deaf ears.”
However she’d done it, Olivia had obtained a ride as far as Hounslow.
On to Hounslow Benedict drove, more swiftly than caution decreed. They had lost valuable time searching Brentford. Now at least Benedict needn’t fall farther behind, slowing to study the market carts he passed.
It was past nine o’clock. By the time they reached Hounslow, most of the populace would be asleep. Still, he knew he’d find abundant signs of life at the inns. Mr. Chaplin kept extensive stables in Hounslow, and everyone stopped there to change horses. With so many travelers coming and going, one was more likely to obtain word of the children.
So at least Benedict assured himself, trying to ignore his growing uneasiness. Despite what Mrs. Wingate said about her daughter, he’d left London certain he’d find his nephew in a few hours. He’d believed his search would end in Brentford. He’d refused to consider the alternative: a search continuing for days—during which Peregrine and Olivia might meet with an accident or evildoers.
And all the while Benedict would be berating and hating himself for not taking better care of his nephew. All the while Mrs. Wingate would be sitting next to him, hour after hour, her hip bumping his, her thigh brushing his, her voice stealing under his skin.
Meanwhile, the longer they traveled together, the greater the chance of their encountering someone who’d recognize them . . . and setting off the scandal of the decade.
When he first caught sight of the buildings thickly clustered along the roadside, Benedict nearly shouted with relief. Hounslow. At last.
The numerous inns proved sufficiently awake. At the George, by the time the ostler had put fresh horses in the traces, Mrs. Wingate had news. The two “lads” were now traveling with a cottager from Cranford Park, the Earl of Berkeley’s estate. One of the inn servants, a nephew of the cottager, gave them directions to his relative’s home, where he was sure the “boys” would spend the night.
This seemed the likeliest possibility to Benedict. At this hour, the stream of market carts was dwindling. Soon the stagecoaches and the Royal Mail would have the road mainly to themselves. The latter had passed Benedict long since—not that he believed even Olivia’s cunning could obtain a seat on a mail coach. Passengers were strictly limited and tickets expensive. So near to London, it was unlikely that even the stagecoaches would have room for additional passengers. So, at least, Benedict hoped.
He drove on, at a gallop as often as it was feasible, through a lonely length of road. Hounslow Heath stretched alongside them on the left, but no highwaymen burst out of the darkness, luckily for the highwaymen. Benedict had a pair of pistols under the seat, and he was in no mood for interruptions.
Near Cranford Bridge, he turned into the road through Berkeley’s property. The directions were accurate, and they easily found the cottage.
They also found the two boys who’d come to spend the night. They were boys in truth, and neither of them was Peregrine.
“COUNT TO TWENTY,” Bathsheba advised when they finally returned to the king’s highway. It was nearly midnight, they’d wasted an hour and a half, and Rathbourne, as one would expect, was seething.
She knew he was anxious, too, about his nephew, but for most men, fear was too disturbing an emotion to entertain. Like others, he swept it under the heavy rug of anger.
“I am not a child,” he said.
“Good,” she said. “Then you will not throw a tantrum when I tell you we must stop at the inn.”
“We’ve stopped at every accursed inn in every be-damned clump of hovels that calls itself a village,” he said. “And where has it got us? One village idiot after another who can scarcely attach a predicate to a subject, who can’t tell the difference between a girl and a boy or distinguish between a lad of twelve and one of ten. They called that boy—and he not eight years old, I’ll wager—a redhead. His hair was brown, the precise color of Derbyshire cow sh—”
“That one,” she said as he drove straight past the White Hart Inn.
He swore, but, unlike many men, he did not let his emotions affect his driving. With his usual smooth economy of motion, he brought the carriage back to the inn’s entrance.
She could not get him to wait in the carriage, though. Leaving Thomas in charge of the vehicle, they entered together. They found the landlord fully awake. A stagecoach, the Courser, had left not half an hour earlier, after disgorging a family of five. This had been their first ride on a stagecoach, and they hadn’t liked it.
“I told them it wo
uldn’t be no different on any other stage they took,” the landlord said. “If they didn’t like traveling with every Tom, Dick, Harry, and his brother who hasn’t washed since the bath he took to celebrate Waterloo, they should’ve gone by mail coach or hired a post chaise. Was it a room you wanted? If it was, you’re out of luck. They’ve taken my last bed, all five of ’em.”
“My brother and I are trying to find our two young cousins,” Bathsheba said. “They were visiting us in London. After seeing a traveling theater troupe, they took it into their heads to join the actors. We believe they are headed toward Bristol.” She described Olivia and Lord Lisle and pointed out that one or both of the children might be in “costume” or disguise.
“Oh, them,” the landlord said. “They said they was going home to their sick mother. Least, that was what the younger one told the coachman. The taller one didn’t say much. Looked like he’d et something that didn’t agree.”
Rathbourne, who’d stood by, silently vibrating with impatience, came to attention, his dark eyes alight. “They spoke to the coachman?” he said. “They boarded the stage?”
“Well, the driver had room, didn’t he?” said the landlord. “And they had the fare—enough, at any rate, to get them to the next stage, Salt Hill.”
***
SALT HILL WAS less than nine miles away, and the horses were fresh, Rathbourne having decided to make the change at the White Hart. A mail coach might cover the distance in less than an hour. Rathbourne seemed determined to drive at mail coach speed, which Bathsheba minded not at all. The longer it took to find the children, the more time her conscience had to torment her. Had she used her limited funds more wisely, Olivia might have had a governess by now, and none of this would have happened.
“You are very quiet,” he said after they’d traveled a while in silence. “The speed doesn’t frighten you, I hope.”
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