The Mandarin of Mayfair

by Patricia Veryan

  "Faith, but you should have been a lawyer, ma'am! I am agog to hear how you will defend Owen Furlong, whose infatuation with a pretty face lost us the one piece of evidence that could have destroyed the League!"

  "If you had one speck of kindness or understanding in that draughty void where should rest your heart, you'd not sneer at poor Owen! He adored Maria Barthelemy, and she was not merely pretty! She was—is—very beautiful, and Owen gave her his heart never dreaming she was a scheming spy! Oh, how can you be so harsh and unforgiving?"

  He shrugged. "Any man who becomes so besotted over a woman—any woman—that he not only allows her to shoot him down—"

  "He didn't allow her! How should he dream she would do so ghastly a thing?"

  "—but comes nigh to grieving himself into an early grave over the wench, is a sorry fool in my book!"

  "Then you write a horrid book, August Falcon," she declared, baring a set of white and even teeth at him. "Which is logical enough, since you are a horrid man!"

  His dark eyes twinkled. "Very true," he admitted. "But you love me just the same."

  "I would love you more—" she began stormily, then stopped. "Oh! You said all that deliberately, just to vex me!"

  He said with a smile, "Had to do something, Miss Gwendolyn. If Gideon saw you sitting about like a wilting dandelion, he'd surely blame me and I go in terror of his wrath!"

  Her response was drowned as Apollo sprang up and began to bark shatteringly.

  "Quiet, ex-dog!" commanded Falcon. "I think the rest of our—er, little club have arrived. Adieu, sweet raincloud." He bowed low, dodged the nut she snatched from the pan and threw at him, and went, laughing, from the room.

  He walked toward the stairs head down, lost in thought. The Smallest Rossiter was worrying. Heaven knows with some cause, for there was no doubt but that each one of them had been marked for vengeance by the loathsome League. Even so, Gwendolyn was such a courageous and sunny-natured creature. It was not like her to be cast into the dismals like this. And she'd spoken of Cornwall…

  "Damn!" he muttered.

  "Ar," said a gruff voice beside him.

  He jerked his head up, his frowning gaze causing Tummet to eye him uneasily. "They're here, I take it?" he said, thrusting the pan of chestnuts at his "temporary" valet.

  "Two is. And there's bin—"

  Falcon caught his arm and pulled him to a halt. "Try if you can cast your mind back two months or so," he growled, "to Cornwall, and our little encounter with the Squire's merry men."

  "That weren't no 'littel encounter,' Guv," argued Tummet. "A good-sized war is what it was! But we brung Cap'n Armitage outta that bog he'd got hisself into and—"

  "Very good," purred Falcon. "Your brain is more or less active, I see. Then you'll doubtless recall the matter of a certain bag of feathers… ?"

  The picture of innocence, Tummet said, "If you mean that there bag wot was throwed atcher, and wot you shouldn't never have took up, even if you didn't believe in spells and curses and—"

  "Of course I did not believe in such superstitious balderdash!"

  Tummet winked and said with a knowing leer, "Changed yer mind, is that it, Guv?"

  "No that is not it! Did you tell Miss Rossiter about the stupid nonsense?"

  "Cor! Wotcher take me fer? As if I'd tell the lady you've been 'ill-wished,' as them Cornishers call it! 'Sides, in another few weeks the spell's wore out."

  "Which does not signify, since there is no such thing as a spell!" Falcon stamped along the wide corridor, but nodded to a lackey who stiffened to attention as he passed. "What d'ye mean, 'another few weeks'?" he demanded suddenly. "I wasn't aware there's a time element attached to the silly twaddle."

  Tummet stifled a grin. "When that there Cornish witch come to London last week, she told me—"

  "And there's no such thing as—"

  "That there charming lady wot everyone thought were a witch," Tummet amended hurriedly. "She told me the curse of the bag of feathers falls on the one as it's sent to. It was throwed at you, and you picked it up, which you never should of—"

  "Tum-met… !"

  "Orl right, orl right! No need to get into a garden-gate—er, state! She said the curse must be fulfilled 'fore the—um, valley day Noll, or—"

  "Hold up! The—what? Oh! La vieille de Noël!"

  Tummet sniffed and said with an injured air, "No need to make fun."

  "No, indeed. You said it very well." Falcon's rare and blinding smile accompanied the words and he clapped his unorthodox valet on the back. "For a rascally hedgebird."

  Tummet felt warmed and said in a rather gruff voice, "Yus. Well, that means Christmas Eve, don't it, and the spell's broke then, so all you gotta do is make sure we don't have no not-so-nices 'twixt then and now."

  "I suppose that piece of your confounded rhyming cant translates to'crises.'"

  "Yus, Guv. Ex-zack. And a fat lotta good it'll do fer me to tell yer to stay away from hem. Miss Gwen'd have to be a proper widgeon not to see wot's boiling up, even if she don't know about spells and—"

  Pausing with one hand on the carved end-post of the grand staircase, Falcon said with grim emphasis, "Miss Gwendolyn is a high-couraged lady with always a bright and cheerful spirit, no matter how dark things look. This is the first time I've known her to be blue-devilled. If I thought you'd filled up her ears with a lot of superstitious rubbish…"

  "Didn't I say as I never done no such thing?" Tummet lifted one gnarled hand and declared piously, "See this wet, see this dry!"

  "Very well. You may straighten your halo." Falcon started down the stairs.

  Tummet called, "The gents is in the kitchen, Guv."

  "The kitchen?' Swinging around, Falcon asked, "Why the deuce—"

  "Bin a spot of 'ubble-bubble. Tried to tell yer, but you was too busy grousing."

  "Hubble-bubble—trouble," translated Falcon mentally. He swore and ran downstairs at speed.

  Following, Tummet looked glum. "You shouldn't never of picked up that there littel bag o' feathers, mate," he muttered. "Curl me crumpet but you shouldn't!"

  Chapter 2

  Falcon's precipitate arrival in an area he'd not visited since his school days startled an already nervous kitchenmaid into uttering a piercing shriek and dropping a pan of hot water.

  The housekeeper was busily engaged in winding a bandage around the wrist of a dark-haired young man seated at the table. She swung her ample form aside in a not altogether successful attempt to avoid the deluge. "Stupid girl," she scolded. "Mop it up at once! Oh, I am so sorry, Captain Rossiter! Did I hurt you again?"

  Gideon Rossiter assured her that he was not further damaged, and raised a pair of fine gray eyes to meet Falcon's concerned gaze. "A short detour for repairs, August," he said ruefully.

  "So I see." Falcon was surprised to find his sister among those present, and his expression hardened.

  In spite of her unfortunate heritage, Katrina Falcon, enchantingly beautiful and of a far sweeter disposition than her brother, was known as the unacknowledged Toast of London. Admired and well liked, but seldom included on the guest lists of leaders of the haut ton, she had received many offers of marriage. Without exception, her brother had rejected them, scornfully naming her suitors "silly fribbles." "military rattles," or "gazetted fortune hunters." Several gentlemen of birth, breeding, and fortune, who had defied their families and offered for the beauty, had taken exception to this high-handed attitude, with resultant dawn meetings in Hyde Park or at some other secluded duelling ground. None of the suitors had been seriously wounded. Nor had they felt inclined to continue to court the lady in the face of such ferocious opposition, and at three and twenty, the fair Katrina remained unwed.

  Charmingly attired in a robe volante of light pink velvet, with a pretty lace-edged cap atop her luxuriant black curls, she looked up from bathing a cut on the forehead of the second casualty, and said in her gentle voice, "Jamie and Gideon were set upon in the street, dear. Only see this nasty lump."


  Lieutenant James Morris was all too aware of the "nasty lump." Sitting hunched over the table, he opened one green eye, took in Falcon's scowl, and closed it again. He was pale, the freckles on his boyish face more marked than usual, but he said with the suggestion of a grin, "Never look so anxious, old boy. Your sweet sister's tender care makes a broken head quite desirable."

  "So I see." Falcon reached for the cloth in Katrina's hand. "I'll do that. Another street riot, Gideon?"

  "More or less," answered Rossiter with an enigmatic look.

  Katrina swung the cloth away. "Thank you, but I can manage," she said. "Turn your head to me, Jamie."

  There was a deep bond of affection between brother and sister. For the most part Katrina either bore with August's domineering ways or tactfully outmaneuvered him. It was extremely rare for her to openly defy him, and this small evidence of insubordination caused his eyes to flash with surprise and annoyance.

  It awoke a very different emotion in the breast of Lieutenant Morris, who murmured blissfully, "With the greatest pleasure in the world, my angel of mercy."

  In company with the rest of Mr. Neville Falcon's large staff, the housekeeper knew that poor Lieutenant Morris was head over heels in love with Miss Katrina, and that Mr. August was bitterly opposed to the match. She also knew about the unfortunate episode earlier in the year when the lieutenant had come upon an attempted hold-up and shot down Mr. August, mistaking him for a highwayman. A dreadful mistake, certainly, but the wound had been comparatively slight, and the lieutenant was such a nice gentleman. She liked his shy eyes and innate courtesy, and suspected that Miss Katrina had become fond of him. In an effort to ease this taut moment, she tied her bandage and said with a shake of the head, "Whatever has come over our poor London? The streets are not safe any more. Not for anybody! Should we send for the Watch, sir?"

  "Much good they would do. A nice bandage, Mrs. V. I thank you. Katrina, a piece of sticking plaster should suffice now."

  The door opened and a footman announced sonorously that Mr. Peregrine Cranford had arrived and been shown into the book room.

  "Very good." Falcon helped Morris to his feet and enquired low-voiced, "Can you manage the journey, my crafty clod?"

  Morris clung to his arm and smiled up at him. "With your kind aid, Lord Haughty-Snort," he said just as softly, adding in a normal tone," 'A friend in need is a friend indeed!' "

  "How true," exclaimed Mrs. Vanechurch with a fond smile. "How very true!"

  Falcon, who loathed maxims, gritted his teeth and guided the walking wounded along the corridor, across the wide hall, and into the book room.

  Peregrine Cranford had settled his lean frame into a fireside chair, propping his left foot and the short peg-leg that served in lieu of his right foot on the gleaming brass fender. He was an energetic, good-natured young man, showing few signs now of the fact that he had almost died when his foot had been crushed by a gun carriage at the Battle of Prestonpans and had been amputated under extremely harrowing conditions. The most recent addition to their little band, he waved a chestnut and turned a laughing, fine-boned face framed by brown curling hair that was today powdered and tied back.

  "Advance and join the chestnut brigade," he called, "before I devour—" The light words faded into a gasp and the twinkle in the blue eyes was banished by alarm. "Jupiter!" he exclaimed, springing up. "You've been in an engagement, I see! Sit here, Ross!"

  Falcon seated Morris in an adjacent chair and crossed to the reference table and the decanters and glasses the butler had left there. "Those nuts are our entire supply," he scolded. "If you've wolfed the lot down, Perry…!"

  "No, no, I promise you," declared Cranford, peering anxiously at Morris' rather wilting form. "What happened? The Squire's fine hand?"

  "Directly, or indirectly," said Rossiter. "A small street disturbance some way from us, but when we came up all the activity suddenly shifted and we were surrounded. Had not some troopers arrived on the scene it might have gone hard with us. As it is, I took no worse than a cut. How are you, Jamie?'

  Morris lifted his throbbing head and declared he was "right as a trivet. Though," he went on, looking mournfully at Cranford, "I would be more likely to survive if sustained by a chestnut. Or several."

  Cranford rushed to pass the bowl of nuts to the casualties, and Falcon handed out glasses of sherry. Morris set his glass aside, noting which Falcon said, "I think Jamie has taken a hard rap on the brain box. The unfortunate woodworms must be rattling around inside. Shall I call up my coachman to waft you home, dear dolt?"

  "You are all heart," said Morris. "Whereas I am all nobility, and will stay."

  Despite his grin he was extremely pale, and Falcon hesitated, scanning him narrowly before sitting on the leather sofa beside Cranford. With characteristic impatience he then demanded, "Well? Are we expecting any of the others, Gideon? Or can we get on with this?'

  Rossiter glanced at the tall case clock. "I'd hoped Tio might be here."

  "I thought you'd sent him off on some sort of reconnaissance," said Cranford.

  "Yes, I did. I fancied he'd have returned to Town last night, but—" Rossiter paused, slightly frowning.

  Cranford, who'd known Viscount Horatio Glendenning most of his life, said, "Never worry for Tio. He knows what 'tis like to be hunted, and will be on his guard."

  "As we all have to be nowadays," said Morris, stifling a sigh.

  Falcon shrugged lazily. "We all are watched, certainly. As we watch them. I've no quarrel with that. But when they turn their venom on our families…"

  "Speaking of which," said Rossiter, "How did you find your sire, August? That was a nasty toss he took last month."

  "The old fellow appears fully recovered, fortunately. In fact, I'd expected he would insist on accompanying me to Town yesterday. I was floored to find that he has no plans to return as yet. You know how he detests country life."

  Morris looked dubious. "Perhaps he's not as well as he pretended."

  "Oh, I think he's well enough." Falcon's lips quirked. "He was quite eager to see me leave."

  A trace of sympathy was in their laughter. They all knew that the antics of Mr. Neville Falcon were a source of constant anxiety to his heir, and on more than one occasion they had marvelled among themselves that a man of August's volatile temperament should somehow manage to be patient with his exasperating sire.

  Falcon could guess their thoughts. They didn't understand. How could they? It was very true that there were times when his father would try the patience of a saint. Neville Falcon's marriage had been a disaster into which he'd been pushed by avaricious parents, but never—never by the slightest hint had he shown a trace of resentment or the disappointment that would have been natural enough in a proud man saddled with a son whose appearance must be a constant embarrassment to him. To the contrary, August's earliest memory of his father was of being held up as a very small boy and gazed upon with pride. He was as sure as he was sure of anything in this world that his parent still looked at him with pride and with an unshakeable devotion. And if he now and then yearned to strangle the old gentleman, he knew that however profligate his spending, however foolish his behaviour with the ladies, however infuriating the predicaments in which he constantly embroiled himself, the bond between them never had, and never would waver.

  Amused, Rossiter said, "That rascal! Which one this time?"

  "Heaven knows, and I did not stay to find out. I'd a lot sooner he kept in the country with one of his birds of paradise than be cavorting about Town without a thought for all the mayhem on the streets." He heard Apollo barking somewhere, and glanced to the door expectantly. "I've warned our steward to be on the lookout for intruders and to keep a guard on the house day and night, just in case the Squire again decides to level his guns at Ashleigh. Hello, Chandler. You're late."

  Gordon Chandler joined the group. Two and thirty, clean cut, with the bronzed face of the man who spends most of his time outdoors, he was strong-willed and inclined to be
stern, but Rossiter had found him loyal and reliable and valued his shrewd common sense. The power of the League of Jewelled Men had been demonstrated to him painfully when the League had launched a murderous and almost successful assault on Lac Brillant, the Chandlers' great estate near Dover. Now a dedicated member of Rossiter's Preservers, he took the chair Falcon pulled up for him, smiled his thanks for a glass of wine, and listened gravely to a brief account of the attack on Morris and Rossiter. "I suppose we may be thankful it was no worse," he said. "Did I hear you say the Squire might again level his guns at your sire, August? You're sure then? It wasn't simply an accident?"

  "I'm damned sure. My father is a disastrous rider, I admit, but the saddle girth was cut. The League was responsible, all right. As they were responsible for the accident to the coach of Morris' sister, and the destruction of Gideon's Emerald Farm."

  "Luckily, m' sister was only bruised, and the children weren't hurt," said Morris. "But I'd give something to get my hands on the bounders!"

  Cranford nodded. "Yes, by Jove! What about your farmhouse, Ross? Shall you rebuild?"

  "Perhaps. After we've dealt with the League." The cut in Rossiter's arm was troublesome, and he eased his position in the chair, thinking sadly of the beautiful sprawling old house in the Weald that was his legacy from his grandmother. He and his bride had intended to spend much of the year there. Now, it was a charred and pathetic ruin.

  Watching him, Morris said sympathetically, "Those filthy bastards have much to answer for."

  "Aye," agreed Chandler. "There's not a one of us but has suffered at their hands!"

  "And we're only a few of their victims," said Cranford.

  "Very true. So we must see to it that they're brought to book!" Rossiter straightened his shoulders. "Let's get to work." He took a paper from his pocket and unfolded it, revealing a rough sketch of England having several circles and X's scattered about. The X's, he explained, indicated properties the League now owned, while the circles represented estates they'd tried, unsuccessfully, to steal. He passed the map to Gordon Chandler. "God alone knows how many more they have that we don't know about."