Peter DeLucey hurried to the door and listened. “Oh, now we’re for it,” he said. “The family’s back from church.”
One hour later
When he got his hands on her, he would strangle her, Benedict told himself.
The aftereffects of the previous night’s debauch didn’t improve his temper. His head was an anvil, and Hephaestus, forger of Zeus’s thunderbolts, was beating on it with his giant hammer.
Seething, he made his way to the servants’ entrance.
He could have gone to the front door and announced who he was. . . if he wanted to be bodily ejected from Throgmorton, and hear a lot of country louts laughing when he landed on his arse outside the entrance gate.
He had had to borrow both money and clothes from Thomas. The clothes didn’t fit. Thomas was shorter than he and wider. Furthermore, thanks to the limited funds, Benedict had endured a long, hard ride on a bad horse, which did nothing to soothe his aching head.
To finish matters off nicely, he’d had to leave Thomas behind at the inn as surety for the bill that wicked girl might at least have paid.
Pure good fortune had got Benedict through the entrance gate in the first place. Not knowing what tale she’d told or who she’d claimed to be, he’d acted like a dolt of a country bumpkin and asked whether his mistress had come this way. Luckily for him, no other female callers must have arrived this day, for no one had asked who his mistress was.
Benedict was going to kill her.
But first he had to get at her.
He played the same thickheaded country lout at the servants’ entrance and had no trouble getting in there, either. He found the place abuzz.
“You’ve come for Mrs. Wingate, I see,” said the housekeeper. “They said she was in a state when she come. I reckon she wouldn’t wait for you. She wouldn’t wait for Mr. Keble, that’s certain. He backed right down, I was told. Joseph said he never seen anything like it. He said she would’ve walked straight through Mr. Keble if he tried to stop her. And Mr. Peter won’t take notice of anything but her face and figure, will he?”
“Both which is uncommon fine,” said a footman coming in with a tray of untouched sandwiches. “That being why he can’t take his eyes off her and sits there like a fish with his mouth opening and closing, like he never seen one of her kind before. Which I expect he never did, what with being wrapped in cotton wool all his life and gone away to school with a lot of spotty boys as horny as him.”
Rathbourne regarded him stonily. Such talk would not have been tolerated in any servants’ hall belonging to any member of the Carsington family.
“Did you hear anything more, Joseph?” everyone asked at once.
“Oh, she was telling ’em some Banbury tale like the females dote on, all about stolen children and pirate treasure and everyone in dire peril,” said Joseph. “As to the rest of ’em, who could tell what they was saying, when the females start clucking and squawking like a lot of tetchy hens the instant she stops?” he said. “But Lord Mandeville just come, and he’s looking like murder,” he added with malicious glee. “I bet James sixpence the old fire-breather throws the strumpet out on that pretty rump of hers.”
Benedict stood up from his chair and launched himself at Joseph.
“OUT!” LORD MANDEVILLE shouted. “Not another word. How dare you pollute this house—”
“Mandeville, were you not attending to the sermon this day?” said his wife. “We were counseled patience and forgiveness, as I recollect—”
“Forgive any of her lot, and they will cozen us out of our last farthing. When we are dead, they will steal the winding cloths,” the old man said. “It is a trick, and you are a lot of confiding morons to believe it. Atherton’s son, my foot.”
“I agree the tale seems dubious, Father,” Lord Northwick said in a bored voice. He was an elegant man in his forties whose keenly assessing blue eyes belied his jaded pose. “Nonetheless, one is obliged to give the lady a hearing.”
“Lady?” His father sneered. “She plays a part, the way they all of them do. You’re credulous fools, the lot of you.” He swept a glare over his wife, daughter-in-law, and grandson. “Everyone knows the Athertons are in Scotland.”
Bathsheba held on to her temper. “Lord and Lady Atherton are in Scotland,” she said. “Their son stayed in London with his uncle, Lord Rathbourne. As I have explained—”
“Oh, I don’t doubt you’ve explained to a nicety,” Mandeville said. “And a precious tangle of black falsehoods it is. Not that any of this lot has wit enough to see it. The women of my household let their soft hearts get the better of their brains—such as they are—and my fool son and grandson notice nothing but your allurements.”
“Really, Father—”
“But you won’t cozen me, Jezebel,” Mandeville went on, ignoring the sophisticated Northwick as one might a prattling child. “I’ve had doings with your kind before and learnt my lesson. I know your tricks and arts. It’ll be a bitter cold day in hell before I—”
A loud crash in the hall made everyone jump.
“What the devil is that noise?” said Mandeville. “Keble!”
Keble hurried in, face flushed. “I beg your pardon, my lord, for the disturbance. We have the matter in hand.”
Another crash, this time the sound of shattering crockery.
Mandeville started toward the door at the same moment a liveried footman sailed over the threshold. He landed at the earl’s feet.
Bathsheba shut her eyes. No, it was not possible.
She opened them.
A tall, dark figure appeared in the doorway.
He wore clothing obviously belonging to someone else. The coat was too short, the trousers too wide.
“Who the devil is that?” Mandeville shouted.
Rathbourne drew himself up. “I am—”
“My brother,” Bathsheba said. “My mad brother Derek.”
He scowled at her. “I am not—”
“You naughty boy,” she said. “Why did you not wait for me at the inn as I told you to do? Did I not promise to return as soon as I could?”
“No, you did not,” said Rathbourne. His dark eyes glittered. “You took my clothes. You took my money. You went away without a word.”
“You are confused,” she said. She looked at the ladies and twirled her index finger near her temple. Returning to Rathbourne she went on, patiently, “I explained several times why you must not come with me.”
The footman lying on the floor let out a weak moan.
Bathsheba threw Rathbourne a reproachful look. “That is one reason,” she said.
“He called you a strumpet,” Rathbourne said, sulky as a child.
“You lost your temper,” she said. “What have I told you about losing your temper?”
A throbbing pause. The glitter in his eyes was diabolical.
“I must count to twenty,” he said.
“You see,” she said softly to the others. “He is like a child.”
“He’s a deuced big child,” said Lord Northwick.
“He belongs in an asylum!” Lord Mandeville shouted, purple with rage. “Out! Out of my house, the pair of you, or I’ll have you taken up and locked up. Set foot on my property again and I’ll set the dogs on you.”
Rathbourne looked at him.
Mandeville took a step back, his color draining away.
“Derek,” Bathsheba said.
Rathbourne looked at her. She marched toward him, chin up, spine straight. “Lord Mandeville is overset,” she said. “We had better leave before he does himself an injury.”
She brushed past him through the doorway and continued on down the long hallway. After a moment, she heard angry footsteps behind her.
BATHSHEBA AND BENEDICT rode in furious silence until they passed the entrance gates.
Then, “You ruined everything!” she burst out.
“Everything was ruined long before I arrived,” Benedict said, gritting his teeth against the headache, which recent even
ts had not ameliorated. “I cannot believe you went to Throgmorton—as yourself—and expected anything from your relatives but insults and eviction.”
“I was doing well enough until the irascible earl came home,” she said. “The ladies were too curious about me to be rude, and the gentlemen—”
“Could not stare at your breasts and think at the same time,” he said.
“I could have coaxed them all round—including the wretched old man—if you had not brawled with the footman,” she said. “If you had to fight, could you not at least keep it belowstairs?”
“He ran away from me, the coward,” Benedict said. “I was not in a forgiving state of mind. I woke up with Satan’s own headache to find that someone had stolen my money and clothes, you see.”
He took a long, steadying breath. “It is clear what happened. Getting me drunk and ravishing me was part of your cunning plan. You thought I would be too sick and debilitated after the excesses of last night to pursue you. You thought I’d never guess where you’d gone. You think I’m an idiot, obviously.”
“I did only the getting-you-drunk part on purpose,” she said. “The trouble is, I drank a good deal more than I intended, because you have a curst strong head. I ravished you because I was as drunk as a sailor. But yes, I do believe you are acting like an idiot. You have let lust cloud your thinking. You very nearly told the DeLuceys who you were, did you not? If I had not interrupted, you would have given them one of your Who-are-you-you-insignificant-insect looks and said, ‘I am Rathbourne.’ ”
She mimicked him so well that he had the devil’s own time keeping the scowl on his face.
“You told them who you were,” he said. “You have put yourself at risk. If it is found out that I am not your mad brother Derek, you will be ruined.”
He had nearly choked, struggling not to go off into whoops, when he found himself turned into her lunatic sibling.
“I am already ruined,” she said. “I was ruined from the day I was born.”
“Then what of Olivia?” he said. “What of her future?”
“I cannot make a future for her here,” she said. “I was deluded to think so. If I wish her to have a fair chance at a proper life, I must take her abroad, where the name Bathsheba Wingate means nothing to anybody.”
“I cannot believe you are seriously considering returning her to the same ramshackle existence you have deplored, time and again!” he shouted. And winced, because the shouting reverberated painfully in his skull.
“That is because I am facing facts and you are not,” she said. “You are pretending that this is your life. But it is only a few days out of your life. Perhaps it does make an amusing change. Yet all you have done is run away, for a time, as you used to do long ago. The trouble is, you are no longer a little boy, and unlike in the past, you face grave consequences when you return. And you must return, Rathbourne. I can shake the dust of England from my feet. You cannot.”
“You will not,” he said. “I will not permit it.”
“I wish you would try to remember that this is not the Middle Ages and I am not your vassal,” she said.
“I won’t let you be my martyr, either,” he said.
“I was not—”
“If I had been born a younger son, I should have become a barrister,” he said. “As it is, I have participated in any number of criminal inquiries. I have learnt how to put two and two together. Your motive is obvious, my girl. I am not sure whether it arises from a misguided maternal instinct or the DeLucey flare for drama. Whatever the source, I do not need your protection or self-sacrifice. The very idea is absurd. I am a man, and not a young one, wet behind the ears. I am thirty-seven years old. I should be hanged before I hid behind your skirts.” He shot her a look. “What I should do under your skirts is another subject altogether, which I should be happy to discuss at another time.”
“What is wrong with you?” she cried. “What will you do if you are found out?”
“What my ancestors did at Hastings and Agincourt,” he said. “What my brother Alistair did at Waterloo. If other members of my family could face Death unflinchingly, I can certainly face ridicule and disapproval.”
“I don’t want you to, you obstinate man!”
“I know that, my dear,” he said. “I realized it when I discovered you’d made off with my clothes and money. I was deeply touched by that display of affection. But now you must give them back.”
THE LADIES STALKED out of the drawing room of Throgmorton House, followed immediately by Lord Mandeville’s son and grandson. This left the earl no one to rage at but the servants, who quickly made themselves scarce, too. Then he was at leisure to seethe in solitude.
While the ladies sought haven in the conservatory, Lord Northwick and Peter DeLucey viewed the wreckage in the hall.
Two chairs had been overturned. An enormous Chinese porcelain dragon Lord Northwick had always hated lay on the floor in fragments, which a pair of frightened housemaids were in the process of sweeping up.
Joseph, braced up by James and Keble, limped toward the baize door leading to the servants’ realm.
Lord Northwick led his son out of hearing range. “You must go after them,” he said. “The lady and her . . . brother.”
Peter stared at him.
“Now,” said his father. “We have not a moment to lose.”
“But Grandfather said . . . But you—you didn’t believe her. I could tell. You wore that look—”
“I have changed my mind,” said Lord Northwick. “Stop dithering and listen to me.”
“MRS. WINGATE! I say, Mrs. Wingate!”
Benedict and Bathsheba looked behind them.
A lone rider galloped toward them.
As he drew nearer, Bathsheba said, “That is Lord Northwick’s boy, Peter DeLucey. What now?”
They halted and waited for him.
“A message,” he said breathlessly. “From my father. Apologies. Couldn’t come himself. Press of duty. But he asks that you meet him tomorrow morning at the King’s Arms Inn. I am to show you where it is and see that you are made comfortable. Father says . . .” The young man glanced uncertainly from Bathsheba to Benedict. “Father says he believes you, and we are to offer you every assistance.”
“EVERY ASSISTANCE” INCLUDED arranging for rooms at the inn as well as a midday meal, which not only went a good way to helping Benedict recover from the previous night’s debauch, but raised his opinion of the DeLuceys.
Still, he thought at first that this DeLucey’s helpfulness was an excuse to loiter about ogling Bathsheba, for the young man could not take his eyes off her. He did not need to be asked twice to join them for the meal.
DeLucey was in no hurry to leave after the meal, either.
Benedict decided to drop a hint.
“I regret I must be on my way,” he said. “Our manservant and carriage remain at an inn near Bath, and I am obliged to collect them. The innkeeper must be paid as well. My sister left in great haste, you see, and in her anxiety and agitation, she mistook my purse for hers.”
“Oh, I can ride to the inn and do all that for you,” DeLucey said.
“Certainly not,” said Bathsheba. “We should never ask such a thing.”
“You would be doing me a favor,” the young man said. “Otherwise, I’ll have nothing to do all day but be bored witless. Sundays at Throgmorton can be deadly. Grandfather loathes going to church, but he believes it is his duty to set an example. I wish he would stay home and let the ladies set an example instead. Being preached at always puts him in the foulest mood. Then someone is sure to stop him after the service with complaints or demands or some such, and make him late coming home. Meanwhile, he will fast before services, though his physician has told him time and again that it isn’t good for him at his age. So naturally, by the time he does come home he is as hungry as a bear, which does not improve anybody’s temper.”
He colored. “I daresay he would not have welcomed you in any case, but this being Sunday, p
erhaps it was worse than it might have been.”
It was well said, Benedict thought. The young man effected an apology of sorts for his grandfather without disparaging him, and with a degree of compassion.
Benedict’s paternal grandmother had a deadly sharp tongue and no patience whatsoever. In Lord Mandeville’s place, she might have displayed more self-control, but she would not have been any gentler.
The elderly must be allowed their crotchets.
Benedict had reminded himself of this rule a short time ago. This was why he had not heaved Lord Mandeville through the nearest window.
“It is the DeLucey temper,” said Bathsheba. “Apparently, that family characteristic is found in all the branches. I am quite used to it.”
“You have it,” Benedict said.
“Yet it was not I who threw the footman through the drawing room door,” she said.
“He was a vile person,” Benedict said. “I shall not apologize for that.”
“That might have been what turned Father in your favor,” DeLucey said. “He has wanted Joseph dismissed this age, but Grandfather . . .” He trailed off, his blue eyes widening. “I say, sir, you are not really queer in the attic, after all.” He turned his puzzled stare upon Bathsheba.
“I thought your family might excuse lunacy more readily than they would temper,” she said.
“Sometimes my sister drives me mad,” Benedict said. “Otherwise I am perfectly rational. Being rational, I see no reason for you to travel all the way to Bath to pacify an irate innkeeper while allaying my loyal servant’s anxieties. After that, you would make the same tiresome journey back, during which you would feel as though you were alone, because Thomas would not dream of conversing with you. However, if you are in no hurry to return to Throgmorton, you are welcome to accompany me.”
“It seems I am not needed, then,” said Bathsheba.
Benedict blinked. He’d expected her to insist on going with them. He’d braced himself for the inevitable battle.
But she showed none of the usual signs of determination to do exactly what he didn’t want her to do. Her face was white and drawn. The day must have caught up with her, he thought. She’d not only had insufficient rest, but she’d had to bear the brunt of Mandeville’s fury, along with her other relatives’ coldness and distrust.
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