Lady Northwick stared at Olivia, then at Bathsheba.
“That is a Dreadful DeLucey,” Bathsheba said. “Now you will know, if you ever encounter another one. You may stop admiring yourself in the glass, Olivia. It is time for your exit scene.”
“It is not yet time,” said Lady Mandeville. “You and Olivia will join us for breakfast. I want Mandeville to make her acquaintance.”
“IT IS DREADFUL,” Bathsheba whispered to Benedict. “I cannot possibly control her at this distance. She ignores every look I send her. Oh, it is too much. She is giving him that wide-eyed gaze, as though he were the sun and the moon and the stars.”
Benedict gazed down the length of the table at Olivia, who sat to Lord Mandeville’s right, apparently hanging on his every word. “That is how you have looked at me,” Benedict murmured. “I thought you meant it.”
“Of course I did not mean it,” she said. “I only wanted to wrap you about my finger. I find you merely tolerable. Can you make out what she is saying?”
Perhaps because it was more than a family gathering, they breakfasted in state, in the dining room rather than the morning room. Still, Benedict was as surprised as Bathsheba when the countess placed Olivia at Lord Mandeville’s right hand and Lady Northwick on his left, and directed Benedict and Bathsheba to sit next to each other at the hostess’s end of the table.
Their hostess, however, was conversing with Peregrine at present. He, too, was watching Olivia, though he was making his best effort at polite behavior. For once, Peter DeLucey, seated beside Bathsheba, was not staring in that aggravatingly dazed way at her. He was gazing raptly at Olivia.
Even Lord Northwick showed signs of succumbing.
Now at last Benedict saw what the trouble was, and why Bathsheba feared her daughter would go straight to the devil. Olivia was not merely clever and cunning. She had a strong personal magnetism. The combination was exceedingly dangerous.
But she was not his problem, Benedict told himself.
“All I can discern is that she is taking care to speak softly and shyly,” he said. “It is useless to try to read her lips, because she ducks her head, so that the gentlemen must bend their heads very close to hear her.”
He dared to bend his head toward Bathsheba. He gazed at her silken skin and remembered its scent. He could not draw near enough to drink it in, as he longed to do. He could only watch the pink wash over her cheekbones. He could only stare at the black curl that had hooked itself over the top of her ear.
“You must not look at me in that besotted manner,” she said in an undertone. “You are making a spectacle of yourself, Rathbourne.”
“I don’t care,” he said. “Everyone here knows I am besotted.”
She met his gaze, then turned quickly away, and returned to pushing the food about on her plate. “No one knows any such thing,” she said. “If you would only maintain your dignity, everyone will assume I was merely a passing fancy.”
“I shall be maintaining my dignity for the rest of my life,” he said tightly. “I think I am entitled to look foolish this once.”
“But of course it is nonsense!” Lord Mandeville said, loud enough to bring the other conversations to a halt. “What fanciful creatures you females are.”
Benedict looked that way in time to catch the spark in Olivia’s eyes.
“Papa said there was a treasure,” she said. “Papa would never lie to me.”
“Olivia,” Bathsheba said warningly.
“It isn’t nonsense.” Olivia narrowed her eyes at her host. “You may not call my father a liar. He was a gentleman.”
Peregrine looked at her. “Any moment now,” he muttered. “Off she’ll go, like a rocket.”
“We are all aware that your father was a gentleman, Olivia,” Benedict said in his most excessively bored voice. “I should have thought that an educated girl of twelve could discern the difference between a lie and a theory or supposition. If this distinction eludes you, Lord Lisle will be happy to explain it to you after breakfast. For the present, let us turn your attention to the basic rules of proper conduct. Since I have no doubt your father and mother took pains to teach you these rules, I can only suppose that you have suffered a momentary lapse of memory. You may wish to leave the room until you recover it.”
The blue eyes flashed at him. He gave her a bored glance and returned to his breakfast.
She looked at her mother, but Bathsheba was looking at him . . . as though he were the sun and the moon and the stars.
Olivia excused herself and marched out of the dining room, chin aloft.
There was a silence.
Footsteps broke it, from the hall beyond. Benedict heard the confident click of boot heels on marble.
The footsteps paused, and Benedict heard a very low rumble, then Olivia’s indignant soprano in answer: “Lord Rathbourne sent me out of the room to remember my manners.”
More rumbling.
The footsteps recommenced.
The butler entered.
Benedict braced himself.
“Lord Hargate,” said Keble, and Benedict’s father strode into the room.
AFTER A BREAKFAST that Benedict gave up pretending to eat, Lord Hargate spoke privately with Lord Mandeville in the latter’s study.
Two full hours later, Benedict was summoned there.
He found Bathsheba in the hall outside, pacing. She stopped short when she saw him.
His heart stopped short, too, before recommencing unsteadily. “I thought you had gone,” he said. “I ordered a carriage. There is no need for you to endure this . . . annoyance.”
“I am not a coward,” she said. “I am not afraid of your father.”
“You ought to be,” he said. “Most sentient beings are.”
“I refuse to run away and leave you to bear all the blame,” she said.
“It is not as though I am going to be hanged,” he said. “He won’t even beat me. He never beat us. His tongue was much more effective. Oh, and his gaze. One look was worth a thousand blows. But I am no longer a boy. I shall emerge from the interview reeling rather than utterly crushed.”
“I will not let him make you unhappy,” she said.
“I am not a damsel in distress,” he said. “I do not need you to slay dragons for me, you addled creature. Now I understand where Olivia gets her mad ideas.”
“I want you to go away,” she said. “Go for a ride or a walk. Leave this to me.”
“Think again,” he said. “I can guess what you have in mind. You imagine you can try some of your DeLucey tricks and lures upon him, and wrap him about your finger and have him eating out of the palm of your hand. You have no idea what sort of man you are dealing with.”
“I don’t care what sort of man he is,” she said. “You are not going in there alone.”
“Bathsheba.”
She knocked once on the study door, opened it, and swept in, closing the door behind her.
He heard the key turn in the lock.
“Bathsheba,” he said. He raised his fist to pound on the door, then paused.
Scenes belong on the stage.
He turned away and walked quickly down the hall.
LORD HARGATE ROSE when she entered, his expression polite. It was the same courteously blank look he’d accorded her at breakfast. He did not so much as lift an eyebrow at her bursting in on him or locking the door.
She understood where Rathbourne got his inscrutability. And his height and bearing.
But Lord Hargate’s hair was brown threaded with silver, not black, and his eyes were a dark amber and as empty of expression as if they had been made of a mineral.
The earl gestured to a chair.
“I prefer to stand, my lord,” she said. “What I have to say will take little time. I only wished to make it clear that what has happened is not Lord Rathbourne’s doing. I deliberately put myself in your son’s way. I did everything possible to enslave him.”
His lordship said nothing. His face told her nothing
. A mask would have had more expression.
“Rathbourne hadn’t a prayer,” she said. “I left him no avenue of escape.”
“Indeed,” said Lord Hargate. “You engineered the children’s disappearance, then?”
The question took her aback. She had rehearsed her speech. She’d had plenty of time. This element had not occurred to her, however. She had been too agitated to think beyond a few simple points—the obvious ones. She had only to appear to be what everyone believed she was.
She decided against saying yes. That was too far-fetched, even for a Dreadful DeLucey.
“No, but I used their disappearance to further my plans,” she said.
“And these were . . . ?”
“I wanted a wealthy lover.”
“A great many men qualify for that position,” said his lordship. “Why Benedict?”
“Because he was perfect, which made him a challenge,” she said. “The Dreadful DeLuceys prefer to play for high stakes.”
“So I have heard,” said Lord Hargate. “From what I have observed, you have won. This being the case, I am vastly puzzled at your undoing your work by admitting it to me.”
“I should think the answer would be obvious,” she said. “I am bored with him. So much perfection is tiresome. I want to go away, but I am afraid he will follow me and make a nuisance of himself.”
A loud thump nearby made her start.
Lord Hargate calmly turned to regard the window. A large dark shape filled it. Then the window opened, and Rathbourne climbed through. He closed the window behind him, brushed off a few leaves, and turned to face his father.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said. “Something seemed to be wrong with the study door. It wouldn’t open.”
“Mrs. Wingate locked it,” said Lord Hargate. “She wished to tell me that she has used you for her own purposes, but now she is bored with your perfection and wishes to go away. She is concerned that you will follow her and make a nuisance of yourself.”
“I think Mrs. Wingate must have fallen and hit her head,” Rathbourne said. “Not ten minutes ago I was urging her to leave. I even ordered a carriage for her. She will not go. Talk of nuisances.”
“I came to your father for money,” she said.
Rathbourne looked at her. “Bathsheba,” he said.
“I want fifty pounds to go away,” she said.
This time Lord Hargate’s eyebrows did go up. “Only fifty?” he said. “It’s usually a good deal more than that. Are you sure you didn’t mean five hundred?”
“I would mean five hundred if I supposed you carried that much about with you,” she said. “The trouble is, I cannot wait for you to get more. Olivia is getting Ideas.” About servants and silk gowns and slippers and thick featherbeds and two dozen different dishes laid out merely for breakfast.
“No, Olivia is getting a spade,” said Lord Hargate. “Lord Mandeville is taking her and Lisle to the mausoleum to dig for treasure.”
“Oh, no.” Bathsheba turned to Rathbourne. “What is wrong with him? Could he not see what she is like?”
“She rose to her father’s defense when she thought Mandeville had impugned his honor,” said Lord Hargate. “Her reaction moved Mandeville deeply. I believe he means to intervene with Fosbury on her behalf.”
“No!” she cried. “Rathbourne, you must not let them. The Wingates will take her from me, and she is all I h-have.” Her voice broke then, and she did, too. All the anxiety and heartache she’d suppressed welled up and overcame her, and the tears she’d held back for so long spilled down her cheeks.
Rathbourne came to her and put his arms around her. “They will not take her away, and she is not all you have,” he said. “You have me.”
“D-don’t be so th-thick,” she said. “I d-don’t want you.” She pushed him away and hastily wiped her eyes. “I want f-fifty pounds. And my daughter. And then I will go away.”
“I regret that is not possible,” said Lord Hargate.
“Very well. Twenty pounds.”
“Twenty quid?” Rathbourne said. “That is all I am worth to you?”
“Your grandmother insisted that it would be a great deal more,” said Lord Hargate. “I am comforted to learn she was wrong in that at least.”
“Grandmother knows what’s happened?” Rathbourne said. “Oh, but why do I ask? Of course she does.”
“Who do you think it was who told me of your mad escapades upon the Bath Road?” said his father. “She had a letter from one of her spies in Colnbrook. Naturally I did not believe any of it. For some reason, your mother did. We had a wager. Perhaps you can imagine my feelings, to discover it was all true. Perhaps you can imagine my feelings, upon learning from that busybody Pardew, of all people, that my eldest son was brawling—on the public highway!—with a lot of drunken clodhoppers in the middle of the night. It is the sort of thing one expects of Rupert, naturally—but not one’s eldest son. . . who has always stood as a shining example to his peers as well as his brothers. Of all of them, I had thought that you at least knew where your duty lay, Benedict.”
“He knew it until he became besotted with me, and lost all powers of reason,” Bathsheba said.
The cool amber gaze returned to her. “Then I agree it would be well if you were on your way, madam. However, Mandeville and I have decided that, to prevent any future unfortunate episodes, it were best for your daughter to discover for herself the truth about Edmund DeLucey’s treasure. Mandeville prefers that you do not take her away until she and Lisle have done excavating. I cannot in good conscience pay you any sum until then. The structure is large. I doubt they will finish before tomorrow.”
Chapter 19
OLIVIA AND LISLE RETURNED, DIRTY, WEARY, and dispirited, at nightfall. Even a bath with perfumed soap and two maids in attendance did not cheer Olivia. She picked at the meal the liveried servants carried up on a silver tray, complete with a golden chrysanthemum blossom in a silver vase.
She not only climbed into bed without being told a dozen times, but did so two hours earlier than usual, saying she was tired.
“It is very good of you, Mama, not to say ‘I told you so,’ ” she said as Bathsheba tucked her in. “But it is true. You told me so. Lord Lisle told me so, too.”
“Adults might be told that such and such a thing cannot exist, or such and such a wish is hopeless, yet they will persist in believing or wishing,” Bathsheba said.
“Still, I wish I had thought it through more carefully,” Olivia said. “I wish I had not caused you so much trouble. It wasn’t what I meant to do. I thought I would find a treasure and make you a fine lady.” She smiled ruefully. “And me, too, of course. Well, I shall have to find another way.”
“There is another way,” said Bathsheba. She told Olivia about Lord Mandeville’s wish to present her to her paternal grandfather, Lord Fosbury. “Lord Mandeville can smooth the way, and you might grow up as a fine lady,” she concluded.
“But that is no good if they will not take you as well, Mama.”
“Indeed, it is.” Bathsheba ruthlessly described the advantages. In detail.
“No, it is not the right idea,” Olivia said. “That is never the way I pictured it. I promised Papa I would look after you. My idea didn’t work and your idea won’t do.” She patted Bathsheba’s hand. “We’ll go away tomorrow, Mama, and seek our fortune elsewhere.”
HE ALREADY LOOKED like an idiot. Why not wander out into the garden after the household was abed? Why not linger outside her window?
And then, why not throw pebbles at it?
Scenes are for the stage.
And rules were all very well, to a point.
Benedict stood looking up at the window.
Yes, of course it was ridiculous. He’d see her tomorrow, before she left for good. But others would be by.
He only wanted to see her once and speak to her once while no one else was looking on or listening.
He would not sing melancholy airs. He would not recite poetry.
>
He would not see her, either, it seemed, for the minutes crept past, and she did not appear.
He had better not try again. He might wake Olivia as well—and she would probably throw the pebbles back at him. And maybe a chair as well.
That was understandable. There had been times when he had wanted to throw things at his father. Children needed discipline. It was their elders’ duty to administer it—and be hated for it.
Certainly Benedict had wanted to throw something at his father today. What Lord Hargate had said of Benedict’s behavior while Mrs. Wingate was present was nothing to what he’d said later, out of doors, in the garden, where no one could eavesdrop or intervene.
From the highest standing, as one of the aristocracy’s most respected members, you have sunk to a mere laughingstock.
That was only the beginning and the mildest part of the speech.
The window opened. A dark head, crowned with a scrap of white nightcap, emerged.
“Bathsheba,” he whispered.
She put her index finger to her lip. Then she took it away and pointed within the room.
She did not want to wake Olivia. Neither did he.
“I only wanted to say . . .” he began softly.
She shook her head and held up the finger, signaling him to wait.
He waited.
Minutes slid away.
He was watching the window, and nearly jumped out of his skin when he caught the flash of white to his left. She hurried toward him, grabbed his arm, and drew him away from the house into one of the formal gardens.
He pulled her into his arms and kissed her, deeply and desperately. She answered with the same wild desperation. But then she pulled away.
“I did not come for that,” she said. “Only to say good-bye. And it is truly good-bye this time. I wish it were not, Rathbourne. I wish so much. But you know that. You ever were able to see through me.”
“I knew it,” he said. “I knew I was worth more to you than twenty quid.”