The Mandarin of Mayfair

by Patricia Veryan

  He frowned. She had been agreeing with him, had she not? She couldn't have meant that Morris would be right if he made such a silly observation?

  He reviewed that part of their discussion carefully. In fact, he worried at it all the way to Rossiter Court.

  Chapter 8

  "My Capitaine he is not in the home!" Travattori viewed Falcon from his superior height, flung up his head and lowered his eyelids dramatically. "The use it is not for you to beseech me, signor. Where he is going?" He gave a greatly exaggerated shrug and spread his long bony hands.

  Falcon swore under his breath. The journey from Great Ormond Street had been considerably round-about and eventful. A shouting, brawling crowd had blocked the junction of Tottenham Court Road and Oxford Street. His alarmed bearers had retreated to Drury Lane, and thence to Charing Cross Road, where they were delayed once again by a troop of dragoons thundering to quell the disturbance. Having reached his destination at last it was irksome to find that Gideon was frippering about somewhere.

  He left a note with Travattori telling Gideon that he must see him urgently, and went back to his bearers, whom he had fortunately asked to wait. He directed them to convey him to the Turk's Head Coffee House. They made the journey without further incident until they reached the Strand, which was blocked by a great coach broadside across the road, its team in a great state of agitation, the coachman no less agitated, and a small crowd shouting advice to the lady who was alighting from the coach and who shouted back at them when she was not reviling her unfortunate coachman.

  Falcon left his chair and walked along toward the popular coffee house. Head down against the rain, and his thoughts elsewhere, he failed to see the angry lady abandon coach and coachman and march toward him under an umbrella held over her by an anxious footman.

  "Stand aside, there!" commanded a loud, harsh, and all too familiar voice.

  Falcon's head jerked up, and he halted.

  The Lady Clara Buttershaw was tall, angular, harsh-featured, inordinately proud, and opinionated. She was widely feared and disliked, but her wealth and her ancient lineage made her a power among the haut ton. She had formed a deep passion for Falcon, and while rejecting him publicly, had privately thrown herself at him and made every effort to seduce him. Far from returning her affection, he thought her an impossible woman and did all in his power to avoid her. His coldness, however, she interpreted as a justifiable sense of unworthiness; his often sardonic remarks she was convinced were uttered to conceal his love, for that he should not adore her was inconceivable. In her arrogance it had never occurred to her that he would have sufficient intelligence to be aware that she and her spinster sister, Lady Julia Yerville, were deeply involved with the League of Jewelled Men. Lady Clara's bubble had burst when Falcon and his friends had confronted her and dared to interfere in one of her schemes, contriving to rescue Zoe Grainger, who had been a virtual prisoner in Yerville Hall.

  Now, meeting a pair of hard dark eyes that glared fury, and a mouth bitterly downturned, Falcon found those expressions easier to face than the cloying sweetness that had so appalled him. He swept off his tricorne and made her a magnificent bow. "Dear Clara," he murmured wickedly.

  She uttered a screech of wrath. "Serpent!" Wresting the umbrella from her startled footman's grasp, she snapped it shut and swung it aloft. "Villain! Libertine!"

  Her intentions were all too clear. With a whoop, Falcon took to his heels and ran, the lady's most unladylike profanities and the hilarity of the onlookers following him.

  Grinning, the porter at the Turk's Head Coffee House swung the door wide. "Sanctuary, sir," he murmured, with a wink. Falcon laughed breathlessly and went into the warm interior, where he was at once shown to his favourite table near the fire. The encounter with Lady Clara had lightened his spirits, which were even more improved when a fragrant mutton pie and fried potatoes were set before him. He had just picked up his knife when a familiar voice faltered, "Might I join you—for a minute, Falcon?"

  He thought, "Deuce take the fellow!" and looking up was startled to see Sir Owen Furlong swaying beside his table and white as death. "You'd best be quick about it," he said, "else you'll fall in my pie."

  Sir Owen sat down and leaned back against the settle, breathing hard.

  With an imperious gesture Falcon secured the attention of a waiter who hurried off and returned with brandy. Sir Owen's hand shook as he raised the glass, and not until a trace of colour had returned to the drawn face did Falcon enquire offhandedly, "Get caught in the riot, perchance?" Sir Owen looked at him as though he were invisible, and he added, "None of my affair, but if you can't deal with hooligans, you should keep a servant with you when you venture out."

  Sir Owen blinked at him.

  Beginning to fear that the man had suffered some kind of brainstorm, Falcon waved a hand in front of his face.

  "Don't hit him!" James Morris hurried up, rain dripping from his cloak.

  Irked, Falcon said, "I wasn't hitting him, you silly clod. The fellow's gone into some kind of trance."

  Squeezing onto the settle beside him, Morris said, "He's had a nasty shock. Oh, do move over, August! You ain't that corpulent!"

  "Corpulent! Of all the—"

  Gideon Rossiter came in looking concerned, and Perry Cranford limped after him, waving to some acquaintances, his peg-leg thumping on the floor.

  "I'm most terribly sorry," said Rossiter, nodding to Falcon and sitting beside Sir Owen. "We couldn't find a trace of her."

  "Her? Who?" asked Falcon.

  "You sound like an owl," said Morris. "Are you sure 'twas her, dear boy?"

  Sir Owen said with a wan smile, "D'you think I could mistake the lady?"

  "Jupiter!" exclaimed Falcon, the light dawning. "If you're jabbering about the Frenchwoman who shot you down so as to steal that accursed Agreement, I'd rather think you should remember what she looks like!"

  Sir Owen sighed. "I'll never forget for as long as I live."

  Falcon gave a disgusted snort. "Which would have been a short span had the lady had her way! You cannot think Mademoiselle Maria Barthelemy, or whatever she called herself at the time, would dare show her nose in London again? Why, we'd have her clapped up in a trice!"

  "For what?" asked Cranford, dragging a chair to the end of the table. "No charges were brought 'gainst her. There were no witnesses when she shot Owen and purloined the Agreement. We had no evidence. And what judge, looking at such a beautiful creature, would believe her capable of so violent an act?"

  "He was a witness!" Falcon jabbed his fork at Sir Owen. "And had he the wit of a wart-hog would have brought charges 'gainst her. Instead of which, he excuses her murderous conduct and moons over her! I wonder he don't go about wearing one of those sign-board things, reading 'Human target—penny a shot!' "

  Sir Owen flushed scarlet but stared at the table in tight-lipped silence.

  Rossiter frowned. "Easy said, August. But you forget, I think, that Owen is in love with the lady."

  "He don't forget," said Morris. "Just don't know what it is."

  "Of course I know." Falcon added with his bored smile. 'Tis a delusion. An intense but fortunately brief disorder of the brain." He gave his attention to his lunch, ignoring the mocking chorus.

  Cranford said laughingly, "Expound, oh mighty expert! We yearn to hear more of your brilliant diagnoses."

  "I'd not waste my valuable time. You all are infected with the disease, poor fellows, and would benefit not one whit, even if I could restore you to a vestige of common sense. Which is doubtful."

  Morris swooped to snatch his plate and pass it to Cranford.

  "Hey!" cried Falcon, springing up.

  Holding the plate out of Falcon's reach, Cranford said gaily, "Not another bite till you educate the ignorant!"

  Falcon crouched, his eyes narrowing.

  " 'Ware that panther glare, Perry," warned Morris. "He's getting ready to run you through. Whom shall we notify, dear boy?"

  Falcon gave him a wither
ing look and sat down. With a great show of resignation he said, "Very well, but make an effort to attend my discourse with proper respect."

  Rossiter clapped a hand over Morris' mouth. "Say on, Macduff!"

  "Then let us consider the case of a comparatively sensible young female," Falcon began, adopting a scholarly air. "For reasons known only to herself, she suddenly becomes convinced she has fallen in love. Does she accept this as one of life's more interesting little quirks and go on her way with a grateful heart? No! She instead begins to drift about sighing so often that she is surrounded by a perpetual breeze, which she augments by weeping buckets of tears while declaring in accents of utter misery how happy she is!"

  With a broad grin, Cranford said, "Marplot! You'll not dampen my vision of the tender passion."

  Falcon shrugged. "Which merely proves my point, for males behave no less stupidly. They lose their appetites, go about smiling vacuously, and with the least encouragement bore their acquaintances to death while endowing a usually very ordinary girl with the qualities of an ethereal goddess. You may see a perfect example of such deluded idiocy"—he stared pointedly at Morris—"stumbling about Town with glazed eyes and the expression of an expiring sheep! He is—"

  He was interrupted by shouts of laughter, during which he sprang up and recovered his plate.

  Morris protested that he never behaved in so foolish a way. "And for your information, Lord Haughty-Snort, there's a deal more to falling in love than that silly stuff!"

  "I agree," said Falcon with a bland smile. "There is the ultimate disaster. The poor fool who with humble and genuine devotion lays his heart and soul at the feet of his beloved only to be trampled upon and rejected. Probably"—again he looked squarely at Morris—"for some cogent reason which he should have anticipated in the first place." Sobering, he said, "Seriously, I once knew a fellow who blew his brains out when the parents of his chosen lady quite sensibly married her to another man. To permit oneself to become that vulnerable must surely be the most pathetic folly!"

  "But a very human folly," said Cranford.

  Rossiter remarked gravely, "And to fall in love is a folly you do not mean to commit, eh, Falcon?"

  "Certainly not. I have my loves, mark you, but my heart is—and will remain—both intact and my own." Morris was regarding him steadily. For some inexplicable reason, he felt his face get hot and was unable to meet that fixed stare. Intensely irritated, he snapped, "Well? Say whatever is rattling around your brainbox, Sir Numps!"

  Morris said solemnly, " 'He that will not when he may, when he will he shall have nay.' "

  Amid more laughter, Falcon closed his eyes and shuddered.

  A waiter at last hurried to their table. "Your wishes, gentlemen?"

  "You'd not dare grant 'em," growled Falcon.

  Rossiter said, "Oh, ale all around will suffice. Unless—is anyone hungry?"

  There being no answers in the affirmative, the waiter went off looking disappointed.

  "Now let's to business," said Rossiter. "If Owen's right and Miss Barthelemy is in this country, she is probably working for the League."

  "Not so!" argued Sir Owen, firing up. "Her only reason for stealing the Agreement was to protect her brother. And 'tis no use glaring at me like that, Falcon. I will not testify 'gainst her! She did not mean to kill me! Heaven knows, she warned me. I just didn't believe—" He bit his lip, and shrugged. "I moved the wrong way, unfortunately."

  Rossiter was watching Falcon's expression and he interrupted quickly, "Did Miss Barthelemy speak to you, just now? Or did she perhaps not even see you?"

  "I walked around the corner, and there she was. It seemed— I mean—" Still not fully recovered and easily overcome by emotion, Sir Owen's voice trembled. "I think she was as taken aback as was I. She stopped dead, and—and spoke my name. Before I could say a word, she had been whisked into a carriage and was gone."

  Cranford said understandingly, "It must have been a devilish shock for you. Still, 'twould be nice to know what she's up to this time."

  Morris pursed his lips. "Perhaps nothing. Who's to say she didn't come back only to make sure Owen was going on all right?"

  "I am," said Falcon. "If she's back, 'tis because that darling of France, her famous brother, has her doing his bidding again. And look who's just come in! Another pariah!"

  "Hi, Johnny," called Morris cheerfully. "Let you out of your chains, did they?"

  The unguarded remark carried all too well. Conversation in the large room died away. Heads turned, and not a few frowns were directed at the new arrival.

  "Don't restrain yourself, my good block," drawled Falcon. "Climb on the table and proclaim our felon's presence to all London."

  Morris looked abashed. "Oh, Jupiter! Spoke out of turn, did I?"

  "Let us say your silence would have been golden."

  "Never fret, Jamie." Jonathan Armitage pulled a chair up to the other end of the table and joined the group. "I'm not ashamed of being recognized."

  Someone said clearly and contemptuously, "And there brays a man with no conscience!"

  There were murmurs of agreement, and other voices were raised:

  "Such rogues should not be permitted to mix with decent people!"

  "But he's not doing so, dear boy. He's sitting with the Mandarin!"

  There was a burst of laughter.

  Falcon shoved Morris off the end of the settle, and it screeched across the tiles as he pushed it back and rose to his feet.

  The laughter died an abrupt death and two sneering Macaronis at the far side of the room leapt from their chairs and departed in an inglorious scramble.

  Falcon put up his glass and surveyed the now silent company with slow deliberation. Smiling, he enquired, "Did the person with the overgrown tongue wish to—ah, address me?"

  Several of those present would have very much liked to address him, but it was said that August Falcon was at his deadliest when he smiled, and the quiet went unbroken.

  He let the quizzing glass drop to the end of its ribbon. "What a pity," he murmured and sat down again to the accompaniment of a subdued burst of conversation.

  Morris grinned. "Jolly nice!"

  Tall and fair, with steadfast gray eyes and a strong nose and chin, Jonathan Armitage had been one of the East India Company's most promising and valued young officers. Three years earlier, with a loving family and a fine inheritance waiting in England and a bright future ahead of him, he'd been in Suez, en route to take command of his ship. While there, he had chanced to witness a clandestine meeting between a distinguished Frenchman and two middle-aged English ladies. If someone had told him that the Frenchman was the much admired soldier, Marshal Jean-Jacques Barthelemy, or that his companions were Lady Clara Buttershaw and her spinster sister, Lady Julia Yerville, it would have meant nothing to him. But all three were deeply involved in the schemes of the League of Jewelled Men, and Armitage had become a potential threat. He'd been attacked and left for dead when his ship foundered off the coast of Cornwall, his honour fouled and his reputation destroyed. Surviving the wreck by a fluke, but with an impaired recollection of his identity or his past life, he had endured two years of brutality and despair before the love and faith of a courageous girl, and the assistance of Falcon and Morris, had helped him win back his health and self-respect. He was happily married now, and fighting to clear his name, but he was still under a cloud, not knowing from one day to the next if he would be brought up before the High Court of the Admiralty and charged with dereliction of duty, a hanging offence.

  "My thanks," he now said quietly. "But I can defend myself, August."

  Falcon raised his eyebrows. "Whatever gave you the impression I was defending you? Do not give yourself airs."

  Armitage grinned. He admired Falcon and was undeceived by the apparent set-down, but he delayed his response while the waiter served their ale. As the man went off, he said, "I went round to your house to pay you a sick call, August. I think your pretty sister was as surprised as I to find yo
u gone out."

  Falcon glanced apprehensively at the door. "You weren't such a clunch as to bring her here?"

  "Never fear, you're not about to be ordered to your bed. Your sister and Miss Rossiter went out with Mrs. Haverley."

  "Mrs… Haverley…" Falcon sampled his ale, and muttered, "I know the name, but be dashed if I can— Ah! Kadenworthy's aunt, no? You remember her, Jamie. We met her down at Epsom in June."

  Morris nodded. "A dear little old soul." Watching Falcon from the corner of his eye, he asked innocently, "Where were they off to, Johnny?"

  "Do not even think of it," warned Falcon.

  "Only look at him lash his tail," exclaimed Morris, injured.

  "Well, that's one thing you cannot interfere with, August My thoughts are my own."

  "And as such are wasted on building silly castles in the air, instead of being used for something sensible."

  "Nothing wrong with having castles in the air." Morris sighed, then added with a twinkle, "Unless you step out of the door!"

  Falcon experienced a little difficulty in refraining from joining in the mirth. When it faded, he enquired idly, "Speaking of castles in the air, has anyone heard the rumours about Prince Charlie?"