4 She’d borne it well, Benedict thought. She’d held her head high. She had not let anybody ruffle her composure. She had behaved with dignity, every inch the lady.
“Mr. DeLucey and I shall manage without you,” Benedict said. “While we’re gone, dear sister, I hope you’ll get as much rest as you can. The next few days promise to be challenging.”
SINCE PETER DELUCEY had obtained separate rooms for the supposed siblings, that was the last Bathsheba saw of Rathbourne until the following morning, when she met him for breakfast in a private dining parlor on the inn’s ground floor.
He rose when she entered the room, and his expression softened. “You look a good deal better than you did yesterday,” he said. “I was afraid you’d made yourself ill, what with the debauchery and the noble self-sacrifice and bearding lions in their den and such.”
“You are the most ungrateful man,” she said. “I was trying to save you from yourself.”
He laughed and came to her.
“It was sweet of you,” he said. He brought his arms round her but he did not draw her close. He only looked down at her, smiling a little.
“I am not sweet,” she said.
He kissed her forehead. “Indeed you are. You are wicked, too. A dizzying combination.”
A footstep outside made him draw away.
Someone tapped on the door.
“Yes, yes, come in,” Rathbourne said.
Thomas entered. “Lord Northwick is here, sir.”
“Yes, of course. We were expecting him. Don’t make his lordship wait, Thomas. You know better than that.”
“Which I was not wishing to interrupt anything,” Thomas muttered as he went out again.
“Thomas thinks me an ingrate, too,” Rathbourne said.
“I take back everything I said about him on Friday evening,” Bathsheba said. “Thomas is a paragon. And a saint.”
“Indeed, he is, poor fellow. He waited all the day yesterday for me in his underwear. That was your fault, by the way, but I—Ah, Lord Northwick. Good morning, sir.”
His lordship stood in the doorway for a moment. Then he swept off his hat, revealing hair nearly as dark as hers, but threaded with silver at the temples. He was immaculately groomed, and dressed to the highest pitch of the tailor’s art.
He entered and closed the door behind him.
“Good morning, Lord Rathbourne,” he said. “Perhaps you would be so good, sir, as to tell me what, exactly, all this charade is about?”
Chapter 15
TEMPER, BATHSHEBA HAD DISCOVERED, WAS not the exclusive domain of her branch of the family. Now she was aware that the Dreadful DeLuceys weren’t the only ones who knew how to make dramatic entrances.
She had been too agitated yesterday, too conscious of being unwelcome and too much occupied in steeling herself against the hurt and frustration, to study her audience very carefully. In any case, Mandeville, who’d come storming in like a Visigoth invasion, took center stage.
Still, she’d been aware of Northwick. Though he’d said very little and looked very bored, she had felt herself under an unusually keen scrutiny. Without question, he had made her far more uneasy than his openly hostile father had done.
Clearly, Northwick was nobody’s fool.
She sank into the nearest chair, her heart pounding. She’d known Rathbourne must be found out sooner or later. But knowing it was not the same as seeing and hearing it happen.
He did not appear in the least discomposed. “Ah, then you were not taken in by the ‘mad brother Derek’ business,” he said.
“I know Bathsheba Wingate has no siblings,” Lord Northwick said. “I know Lord Rathbourne has several. One is named Rupert. I became acquainted with Rupert Carsington a few years ago when he and one of my cousins had a dispute with some fellows at a wrestling match. Mr. Carsington threw one of his assailants into a trough. I recognized the style of combat—and a strong physical resemblance. Now, perhaps you would be so good as to explain matters, sir.”
“Apart from my not being Derek the deranged imbecile, it is all as Mrs. Wingate explained yesterday,” Rathbourne said. “We have come in search of my nephew and her daughter. But pray be seated. You have no objections to breakfasting with your cousin, I trust?”
There followed a short, thunderous silence.
A test of some kind, or a challenge.
It was something men did, and the silent language was one Bathsheba did not fully understand.
Then Lord Northwick said, “No objections, sir, so long as everybody understands that I would trust my cousin only as far as I could throw one of those rocks at Stonehenge.”
Rathbourne’s face turned to marble.
Man language or not, it was time to intervene.
“That is fair enough,” Bathsheba said. “Lord Northwick is not obliged to like or trust me. The main concern is finding the children.”
“That is why I am here,” Lord Northwick said. “I came because Mrs. Wingate said Atherton’s boy was missing. I knew Lord Hargate’s eldest son had wed one of Atherton’s sisters. When you appeared, sir, I surmised that you were this eldest son. Such being the case, it seemed the story of the missing nephew must be true. Still, a number of questions remained. I wondered why you failed to identify yourself. I wondered why you were dressed in that bizarre manner. I wondered at your behavior. None of this accorded with anything I had ever heard or read previously about Lord Rathbourne.”
Rathbourne said nothing, merely regarded him stonily.
He was not going to explain himself, even to a man of the same rank.
Lord Northwick shrugged. “In any event, my primary concern was and is Atherton’s boy. I am not in the least surprised at his being led astray by the young person in question. My dear cousins have at one time or another led any number of people astray.”
Including you, Lord Northwick might as well have added, for he looked it, plainly enough, at Rathbourne.
Rathbourne’s expression became bored. “I believe the important question is where my nephew is being led to, and how we might most quickly intercept him. Mr. DeLucey gave me to understand that you were willing to assist us in this regard. Or did I misunderstand?”
Lord Northwick’s gaze went from Bathsheba to Rathbourne. His jaw set and he said, “I believe I know my duty, sir. Naturally I shall render you every assistance.”
London
The Dowager Countess of Hargate went to bed very late and woke very early. This, her grandchildren said, was how she contrived to know everything about everybody before anyone else did. The volume of her correspondence far exceeded that of King George IV, his Prime Minister, and the Cabinet combined. She spent a good part of her day in bed, reading and answering letters. This still left plenty of time for gossiping with her friends (known to her grandchildren as the Harpies), playing whist, and terrorizing her family.
By early afternoon on Monday, she had reached the terrorizing portion of her program, and sent for her eldest son.
Lord Hargate found her in her boudoir enthroned among vast heaps of pillows and dressed as always in the grand style popular in her youth, which involved enough silk, satin, and lace to drape St. Paul’s, inside and out, twice over.
He had greeted and kissed her and was enquiring about her health when she waved a letter in his face and said, “Never mind that nonsense! What the devil are you about, Hargate? My grandson has run off with a black-haired hussy, I am told. He has been brawling and making a spectacle of himself on the Bath Road.”
“Your informant is mistaken,” Lord Hargate said. “Rupert is safe in London with his wife. They are making arrangements to return to Egypt, my dear. You know as well as I that Rupert will not run off with anybody but Daphne. He is completely—”
“Not him,” said his mama. “How can you be so thick, Ned? Why should I trouble to send for you, was it only to announce that Rupert had done something ridiculous? I should be more likely to send for you if by some bizarre accident he did something sensible.
To my knowledge he has done so only once in his life, when he married that clever red-haired girl with the fine fortune. Since this miracle occurred but a few months ago, I should not expect another in my lifetime.”
“No doubt, then, your informant has confused one of my offspring with one of our cousins,” said Lord Hargate. “Geoffrey has taken his family to Sussex to visit his in-laws. Alistair is in Derbyshire, awaiting the birth of my grandchild. Darius has gone to support him in his hour of trial. None of them could possibly have been anywhere upon the Bath Road in recent days.”
“You leave one son unaccounted for,” she said.
“You cannot mean Benedict,” Lord Hargate said.
She gave him the letter.
BATHSHEBA REGARDED HER surroundings with a sinking heart.
Throgmorton was immense. Extensive gardens, formal and informal, surrounded the main house. These gave way to a vast park, then acres of plantations and farmland. Once the children got in—and that would be child’s play for Olivia—they might stay for days, perhaps weeks, unnoticed.
The park was amply wooded. Temples, follies, ruins, grottoes, and other hideaways dotted the landscape. A rustic cottage, used in summer for picnics, hid within a pine bower. A fishing house stood at the edge of the lake. The extensive grounds had been designed for entertaining not only the family but large parties of guests. While Lord Mandeville and his family spent little time in London, they were by no means unsociable. Moreover, the house was open to touring visitors on Tuesdays and Thursdays. It was all too easy to enter and all to easy to wander.
The mausoleum was not part of the regular tour, and visible only from certain areas of the grounds. Though it stood on a rise in the southwestern part of the park, the surrounding trees sheltered it from view of the vulgar masses touring the house and gardens that sprawled over the eastern side of the property.
At present Bathsheba stood a short distance away on another, slightly higher rise, with Rathbourne and Lord Northwick. They were gathered in front of the New Lodge, a structure dating back, Northwick said, to Elizabethan times.
Thomas was at the mausoleum, studying the terrain. He was easy to see at present. As Northwick had promised, this was the best vantage point for observing his ancestors’ resting place. From here she had a fine view of the place, a Roman temple adorned with finials and elaborate carving. A short, wide flight of steps led to a portico supported by Corinthian columns. A wide lane led down to the bottom of the rise, then branched into narrower pathways. One of these led up to the New Lodge, circled it, and went down the rise another way. Another followed the contours of the lower part of the hill. From this, others led into the wooded slopes and down to the pathway that circled the lake.
“The mausoleum is relatively new,” Lord Northwick was saying. “Building began a few years after Edmund DeLucey changed professions. My grandfather—his brother William—often stayed here, to keep an eye on the builders, he said.”
“It would make a fine spot for a secret rendezvous, I notice,” said Rathbourne. “Did your grandfather meet a lover here or was it his black sheep brother?”
Northwick lifted his eyebrows.
“Rathbourne is a sort of detective,” Bathsheba said. “He is an expert on the criminal mind.”
“Do not tease Lord Northwick,” Rathbourne said. “You know perfectly well I did not refer to criminal behavior.”
“You seem to read my mind well enough,” she said.
“That is because you are transparent,” he said.
She turned away, her face too warm.
“I merely observed the location,” Rathbourne’s deep voice continued behind her. “It is well out of view of the main house and outbuildings. I considered that William was the eldest son. I, too, am the eldest, and have been trained since childhood to protect my younger siblings. Perhaps it is like Mrs. Wingate’s maternal instinct, which is not always connected to logic. I merely supposed that William acted under a similar sense of fraternal affection or obligation.”
“I had heard you were prodigious clever,” said Northwick. “You suppose right. My grandmother always believed that William did meet with Edmund here. She said it was to lend Edmund large sums of money, which he never repaid.”
“That seems far more likely than Edmund’s making deposits at Throgmorton, as my family likes to imagine,” Bathsheba said.
“It almost seems a pity to stop the brats,” Rathbourne said thoughtfully. “I should dearly love to see how they would go about excavating the place. It would certainly be good practice for Peregrine.” He’d already told Northwick of Peregrine’s Egyptian ambitions.
“I must confess that I grow curious, too,” said Northwick. “If it would not send my father into an apoplexy, I should indulge them. I should dearly love to know what they propose to dig with. But one must then have people on watch to make sure they did not bring any finials down on their heads or tumble down the steps. Yesterday I noticed some crumbling stone that needs to be attended to. That is not the only problem at Throgmorton.”
“There are always problems,” Rathbourne said. “No matter how diligent the estate manager, he is obliged to postpone work here in order to do it there. The supply of workers is not unlimited. One must accommodate the weather. Only so much can be done.”
“You have some experience of managing an estate, I see,” said Lord Northwick.
Rathbourne smiled faintly. “I was not allowed to be idle. My father taught me farming at an early age.”
“Then you understand my concerns,” said Lord Northwick. “Accidents will happen, no matter what precautions one takes. The trouble is, young people are not notably cautious. When they keep to the paths, in daytime, they ought to be quite safe. But I have visions of these two skulking about at night, a prospect that makes my blood run cold.”
“Did you never skulk about at night, in your youth, Lord Northwick?” said Rathbourne.
Bathsheba glanced back at him. He was not smiling, but she heard the smile in his voice.
“Yes, and that is why I am so uneasy,” said Northwick. “I have told the groundskeepers to keep the dogs leashed. I have warned everyone to exercise caution. Yet if one is suddenly awakened at night, it is all too easy to act first and think later.”
The warnings were part of the “press of duty” that had kept him from meeting with Bathsheba and Rathbourne until today. Lord Northwick had immediately begun alerting his staff, the local constables, and just about everyone else in the vicinity. He’d even sent messages to the tollgate keepers around Bristol.
“You have taken every possible precaution,” Rathbourne said. “Already I breathe easier.”
“Though I hope Lord Lisle has better sense than to attempt to enter a property at night, I shall put someone to watch the mausoleum after dark,” said Northwick. “That way you might get some rest. You should find everything in readiness within.” He nodded toward the lodge. “A servant will bring your dinner while the rest of us are occupied at table. Is your footman sufficient for your needs, or shall I send one of my staff to assist him?”
“Certainly you need not send dinner,” Rathbourne said. “We can dine at the King’s Arms when we return.”
“But you are not returning to the inn,” said Northwick. “I have made the New Lodge ready for you. It is absurd to waste time traveling to and fro. You will be far more comfortable here, I promise you. My lady and I have stayed here more times than I can count, when we find the house too confining.”
Throgmorton House contained one hundred fifty rooms.
What Lord Northwick sought, no doubt, was a refuge.
This was understandable. Even the members of the most close-knit families could wear on one another’s nerves.
What was surprising was his choosing to have his lady with him.
Lord Northwick had a romantic streak, Bathsheba realized. And his wife was part of the romance.
He loved his wife, and this was their lovers’ hideaway.
Yet he was
allowing his despised cousin to contaminate it with her presence.
She hadn’t time to wonder at it.
Peter DeLucey burst into view, galloping toward them. “They’re on the way!” he called. “Seen this morning. At the Walcot tollgate.”
THE FIRST RAINDROPS began to fall as Peter DeLucey was assuring them that both Peregrine and Olivia were reported to be in good health and spirits. They were traveling with a peddler, one familiar to the tollgate keeper. The peddler’s name was Gaffy Tipton.
“The word has gone out,” Peter said. “With any luck, one of our men will find Tipton and your young wanderers before nightfall.”
Soon after this promising news, Lord Northwick and his son took their leave.
The sky grew steadily darker, and the rain’s patter increased. Ignoring her protests, Benedict threw his coat over Bathsheba’s shoulders.
Soon the rain was pouring down in sheets, driving them indoors. Inside or out, they couldn’t see anything anyway. The mausoleum vanished behind a grey curtain of rain.
“So much for keeping watch,” Benedict said, coming away from a window. “I wonder where Thomas has got to.”
“Out of the wet, I hope,” said Bathsheba.
“No doubt he felt the change coming in the weather and took sensible action,” Benedict said. “He’s a countryman, recollect.”
She took off his damp coat and shivered.
“I’ll build a fire,” he said. “Let us pray the chimney doesn’t smoke.”
The chimney, like the rest of the old building, appeared to be well maintained, to Benedict’s relief. He could not remember when last he’d built a wood fire. He needed as many circumstances as possible in his favor.
She stayed at the window.
A tinderbox sat on the stone mantel. He opened the box and eyed it warily. The tinder had better not be damp.
“I’ll have you warm in no time,” he said.