“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.”