"Katrina? The devil! Do you say my sister also wanders London's streets at night disguised as—"
"You may un-knit your eyebrows, sir! Katrina wanted to help but she was afraid that—"
"Yes, of course. She is such a gentle soul."
Gwendolyn gritted her teeth and drew a deep breath. "—But she was afraid that she would be recognized. So she helped Amazon Rossiter don her disguise and arranged for a chair to come to the back door to take me up, and—"
"And must have been suffering a softening of the brain to have agreed to so outrageous and reckless an escapade! Furthermore, I did not say you are an Amazon. I merely—"
"Implied it. And if my—our—plan was reckless and outrageous, 'tis my impression that we are faced with a possible national disaster, which would seem to me to warrant taking a few chances." He started to respond, but she leaned to press a hand across his lips and went on fumingly, "At least be sufficiently generous to admit that I have learned something of value this afternoon. What have you accomplished since you arrived?"
He pulled her hand away but said nothing, and she peered at him suspiciously. "Why is your face so red? Did you—"
She was interrupted by a shout. Falcon started up and in that same instant the coach swerved wildly so that he was thrown to the side. A jolting rocking confusion; the shrill neighs of terrified horses; a sense of falling. He made a desperate lunge for Gwendolyn and clamped his arms about her just as a violent shock wiped everything away…
"How is your father… by the way?"
Falcon blinked as those words echoed in his ears. It was dark. He couldn't see who had spoken. He seemed to be quite alone. He was stiff and uncomfortable, and his left arm hurt. Puzzled, he sat up and banged his nose on the seat of a carriage. He stared at it stupidly. It was tilting at a most peculiar angle. If it didn't straighten out, he thought, it would probably fall. Memory returned with a rush, and with it a heart-stopping terror.
He whispered, "Gwen?" And then was shouting her name frenziedly, and fighting his way to the door that hung at an angle and wide open, above him. He became aware that the coach had come to rest against the base of a great oak tree and that one of the lamps was still burning. It was a distant awareness, for the only thing that really mattered was that he find her. And that she—please God!—be alive. He was outside, and running about, still calling her name distractedly as he sought for any sign of a small figure… a forest green shawl. "Where are you?" he cried wildly. "Gwen! Answer me!"
The glow from the lamp shone on something pale in the grass. He ran to it and dropped to his knees beside that still face. She lay without any sign of life. Small, motionless, pathetically broken; and precious beyond the power of words.
His hands went out to snatch her up, then recoiled. Trembling, he felt her cheek. It was warm. Scarcely daring to touch her, he lifted one limp little hand, stroking it as he begged sobbingly, "Gwen? Oh, Gwen you cannot be dead! Gwen—my precious… Smallest Rossiter… My darling, my darling! For the love of God—speak to me!"
She murmured faintly, "What… do you want to… talk about?"
He gave a strangled cry, and pressed her hand to his cheek while the sly murmur at the edges of his mind became a shout that he could no longer ignore or refuse. It was there:powerful, unconquerable. It had claimed him at last, and he surrendered with a great surge of gladness and gratitude.
Gwendolyn murmured wonderingly, "Are these… tears I feel?"
"No," he said gruffly. "Yes! My dearest most cherished creature! I thought—I thought I'd… lost you! And—Lord! What a fool I am! Gwen—are you hurt? Can you move?"
Breathless with anxiety, he watched her tentative movements.
"I think I have… some bruises," she reported. "But if you will be so kind as to help me up."
If he would be so kind! With the greatest caution he slid an arm under her shoulders and lifted gently. She gave a stifled exclamation as she sat up, and he shrank in terror. "What? What? Don't move! Why will you not tell me? Where does it hurt?"
"Everywhere," she said with a breathless laugh. "I think when I was thrown from the carriage I must have landed most ungracefully. I shall be very stiff tomorrow, but—nothing worse, I believe. If you will help me, I can stand, and—"
He gave an impatient snort and helped her to her feet.
She swayed dazedly, then uttered a startled cry as she was swept up in arms of steel and cradled close against his heart. It seemed a perfectly satisfactory arrangement. She sighed and rested her head on his shoulder until he set her down with her back against a tree.
"Lie quietly and rest for a minute or two," he said gently, his fingers caressing her cheek. "I must find poor Tummet."
Mortified because she had not at once enquired for the faithful man, she exclaimed, "Oh, what a muddle-head I am! And the horses, August!"
He begged her not to move, and went off, limping stiffly, and discovering some new bruises of his own. Tummet was extricating himself from a gorse bush and swearing with force and fluency as he picked thorns from his person. He got to his knees as Falcon came up. "Tree acrost the road, Guv," he said with no little apprehension. "Didn't see it in time, sorry to tellya. I hopes as Miss Gwen—"
"She is bruised and shaken. Nothing worse, thank God." Falcon extended a helping hand. "What of you, my poor fellow?"
It was an improvement, thought Tummet, over being named a "scheming, traitorous hedgebird."
"Never mind abaht me, Guv. We gotta find the team."
By a great stroke of luck the oak against which the coach had come to rest had snapped the pole cleanly, and the horses were discovered grazing peacefully a short distance down the hill. One appeared to have suffered a sprained hock, and the other was cut about the knees but not so severely as to prevent its being ridden. The two men freed the animals from their harness, and then righted the coach. Two wheels were sprung, the windows shattered, and the side smashed in. Viewing the wreckage, Falcon could only marvel they'd not all been killed.
Tummet said wearily, "Will I go and fetch help, sir?"
"Not before I apologize for handling you so roughly. I shouldn't have allowed my temper to overmaster me. But I'll want an explanation, even so."
"I c'n see why you'd a'been put abaht, Guv. Thinking I'd bin a party to Miss Gwen's larks. Wasn't."
"We'll sort it all out later. Are you sure you're able to ride? If not, I'll go and you can stay with the lady."
Tummet insisted he was "writ-as-a-riddle," adding that it must be only a few miles back up to the London-to-Dover turnpike where he was sure to find help. He didn't look "fit as a fiddle," but Falcon's own head was none too clear, and the violent episode had done his arm no good at all. He helped Tummet mount up, then returned to the tree and sank down beside Gwendolyn.
It seemed perfectly natural for his arm to go around her, and that she should snuggle against him in so trusting a way. They were both bruised and battered, they had survived a narrow brush with death, and they were sitting all alone on a dark and chilly heath. Yet no two lovers drifting in a gondola under a summer Venetian moon could have been more blissfully content as they shared a comfortable silence.
Gwendolyn thought mistily of those wondrous words she'd never thought to hear him say, "My darling… My dearest most cherished creature." And the knowledge that she was loved as deeply as she loved, was so great a happiness that she was almost afraid to believe it.
Falcon was reliving that nightmarish moment when he'd thought to have lost her, and the wonder of this love that had crept upon him so quietly, so gradually, to spring at last, with such awesome power that in this one short hour his life was changed forever. Only it was not one short hour, of course. For some time his inner voice had been warning that his feelings toward her were changing, only he'd fought against it and denied it. He tried to think of just when, during the many occasions that the Smallest Rossiter had teased and argued with him, she had managed to take possession of his heart. He found he could not even recal
l their disagreements with much clarity, for tonight there seemed to be a soft haze over everything.
"Mr. Falcon?"
He hugged her closer. "Yes, my lovely rascal?"
"You're very quiet. Are you thinking better of—of what you said just now?"
"It could have been better said, if that's your point."
"Did you… really mean it, dear August?"
"For as long as my life shall last, my priceless Smallest Rossiter."
She shivered, and he asked anxiously, "Are you cold?"
"No."
"Yet you shivered. Here—" He twisted out of his cloak and wrapped it around her. "Better?"
"Yes, thank you. But…"
"But—what, beloved?"
"I should rather be kissed, if you don't mind."
If he didn't mind! There was no need to turn her face, for she had it poised and ready. "I am all consideration," she murmured.
He laughed softly, and kissed her; not as he'd kissed any other woman, but as a man kisses the lady of his choosing, the perfect one who will forever rule in his heart. She kissed him back, her lips sweet and shy, and just as he would have wished them. And they held each other close and murmured of their love and the wondrous perfection of it, as lovers always have and always will, until she sighed, "I never dreamed 'twould be the same for you as it is for me. You will think me very silly, but— May I move this? It's digging into my ribs."
He blinked at the small package she had found in the pocket of his coat. "Oh," he said, shifting it to the other side. "A little gift for Trina. Which reminds me." He pulled out another package. "My first and most inadequate gift for you, dearest."
She opened the package and admired the shawl rapturously, then exclaimed, "Oh, I forgot! I've a gift for you, also!" She drew a small flat box from the pocket of her skirt. "I found it on a table with the most odd collection of trinkets. I vow I could have spent hours there, and a very strange old lady told me that her late husband had been used to bring fascinating things from his travels throughout the world."
He said smilingly, "That sounds like my friend Mrs. Quimby."
"Why, that is so! She told me her name and—" She stopped, and snatched the little box away suddenly. "No! Don't open it now." She slipped it into his pocket. "I'd rather you saved— August?" She reached up to touch his brow. "How warm you are! And—oh, heavens! You are so pale! You're hurt and you've not told me!"
Her anxious little hands were tugging at his coat, and he said in amusement that it was very sweet to be maulded over, but that he was perfectly fit, save that he felt rather tired. "It must be the shock," he murmured. "Of the amputation, you know."
She peered at him worriedly. "Amputation?"
"Of my heart. Who'd ever have guessed I should lose it to a street-walking baggage?"
She responded with mock indignation, but her words echoed unintelligibly. He pulled her close and kissed her again, and quietly fell asleep.
* * *
"How is your father… by the way?"
Falcon frowned up at the ceiling. Who had said that? He seemed to remember—
"Well, now! 'Bout time you woke up, Guv!" Tummet's broad grin hovered over him and the beady brown eyes were watching him intently. "When you takes a nap, you takes a nap!"
He yawned and stretched luxuriously. He was in bed in his own room. Odd, because it had all seemed so real. He said, "D'you know, my pseudo-gentleman's-gentleman, I had the most strange dream."
"Didyer now." Tummet touched his cheek lightly, and murmured, "Hum."
"Need a shave, do I? As I said, I dreamed I damn near… throttled—" He stopped short, reached out and jerked his valet's neat stock aside,
"Hey!" yelped Tummet. "Now you gorn and spoilt it!"
The bruises were lurid. "The deuce!" whispered Falcon, and lay back, his mind whirling. If that had been no dream, then nor had the rest of it! He'd really seen Joel Sky and Mariner Fotheringay at Overlake Lodge! He'd really had that most promising conversation with Mrs. Quimby, and spent a sprightly hour with Pamela Dunscroft, and— He sprang up in bed, then clung to the mattress as the room reeled and dipped around him.
Tummet said something and tried to lie him down again.
Resisting doggedly, he gasped, "Let be! What the—devil's wrong—with me?"
"Jest what Sir James said, mate. You tunned yerself inter a proper relapse, is what. Scared poor Miss Gwen half to death, you done! Lucky I come back quick-like."
"Miss… Gwen," whispered Falcon, and sank down again, closing his eyes. "Oh, God!"
"Pretty sharp, is it, Guv? Proper inflamed Sir Jim said."
It was more than "pretty sharp." How like Fate to creep in under his guard and deal him a lifetime leveller! He muttered bitterly, "And what a ghastly mull I made of the business."
"Now, now, Guv. don't go fretting yerself into flinders.You done good, considering yer arm were so nasty. Leastways—Wotcher doing?"
"Getting up. What would you think? Bring me some clothes!"
"Do nothing of the sort, Tummet!"
Gwen's sweet, clear voice. His heart turned over. Her hands were on his shoulders, her eyes, soft and tender, were scanning his face. And somehow, he must deal with this like—like a gentleman.
She asked gently, "How do you feel, my dear?"
"I would feel better, ma'am, if you would take yourself from my bedchamber."
Shock came into those honest blue eyes. Then, she smiled. "So that's your game, is it? 'Twill avail you naught, August Nicolai K. Falcon, and so I warn you!"
"God bless your valiant soul," he thought, and threw back the bedclothes. "The choice is yours, ma'am."
She glimpsed a nightshirt and a shapely but hairy leg.
"Gwendolyn!"
Katrina hurried in, followed by Mrs. Vanechurch, who said in a near scream, "Mr. August!" and put her hand across Gwendolyn's eyes.
Tummet stood with his arms folded, grinning from ear to ear.
Falcon knew when he was beaten, and he lay down again. "Women!"
"Wanted to see me?" Jonathan Armitage stuck his fair head around the edge of the door and looked cautiously at Tummet, who sat by the bed reading a newspaper aloud.
" 'S'all right, mate," said Tummet, standing. "Doc Sir Jim says he can have visitors, so long as they don't get him all stirred up."
"Come on in, Johnny," growled Falcon. "And pay no heed to this varmint."
Armitage approached the bed and scanned the patient, propped against many pillows and looking, he thought, considerably wrung out.
Falcon told Tummet to fetch his coat. "The one I wore to the Fete yesterday."
"Day afore yestiday," corrected Tummet, going into the dressing room.
Shocked, Falcon exclaimed, "Good Gad! Have I lost a day, then? Is this not Sunday?"
"Monday." Armitage sat on the side of the bed. "What a fool you are, August, to go rushing about from Land's End to John o'Groats with that ugly hole in your arm. You'll accomplish nothing for us if you get yourself knocked up, you know."
"Oh, will I not?" Falcon felt in the pocket of the coat Tummet offered him, and took out a small flat box. An invisible mule kicked him in the ribs, and his hand trembled slightly as he replaced the box and felt in the other pocket "Where the devil is that card? A lady is expecting you to visit her on Thursday afternoon, and—" He checked, noting the uneasy exchange of glances between Armitage and Tummet. "Now what are you two looking so greasy-eyed about?"
Armitage said in a very gentle voice, "I expect you've forgotten, August. You told Gideon all about it, and he sent for me at once."
Falcon stared at him. "I—did? You know that you're to send in your name—"
"As Mr. Tide. Yes, old fellow. You gave me her card. And I cannot thank you enough."
"Devil with your thanks! I just must have forgot, is all. Did I also tell you—" He glanced aside as the door opened.
Morris. Transfixed as by a saber, Falcon thought, "Now I know how you feel, my poor dolt. I know all too well."
He turned his face away, heard some whisperings, then the door opened again and closed softly. Morris had gone, thank heaven. But when he looked up, it was to discover that Armitage had left. Morris was sitting beside the bed, watching him.
"No," he said wearily.
"I didn't ask."
"I can feel it, winging to me on the air. Why else would you have come?"
Morris looked offended. "Fella's—er, not up to par, his fr—acquaintances come to say how-dee-do and—er, so forth."
He'd always said he didn't need or want friends, and Jamie had respected that. Poor old Jamie. If things were different… He said, "Give it up, Morris. You're too good a man to waste your life, and you'll never have my consent. The only hope for you is to bury me, and even then, I doubt she'd accept you."
Morris looked aghast. "You really are sick! You never said I was a good man before!"
"It must be the effect of all these well-wishers calling. Are you the last? Or is the hall thronged with lovely ladies preparing to descend upon me with tearful eyes and heaving bosoms?"
Morris pointed out solemnly, " 'A heaving bosom is often nothing more than a hope chest.' "
Unable to restrain a grin, Falcon protested, "You villain! Coming here and throwing maxims at my head when I'm a helpless invalid with nothing to throw at you in return! Begone! And keep away from my sister!"
"Now there's a grand incentive for you to hurry back to your customary pose of surly gaoler." Morris lifted a restraining hand as Falcon sat up menacingly. "No, no, you really cannot murder me yet, August. I've not given you my report."
Staring at him, Falcon echoed, "Report?"
"Yes. I trotted down there yesterday. Shouldn't have. My parent don't hold with Sunday travel. Still, all's well, so far as I could see. Though, dashed if I know what you expected me to find."
Mystified, Falcon said, "Find—where?"
"Well, that's it. If you knew, you should've told me, so—"
"Fiend seize you, Jamie! You're enough to try the patience of a saint! Where—have—you—been?"
"You know dashed well where I've been! Why you cod's head, 'twas you begged me to go down there, wasn't it? Said you was worried about the old gentleman, but—"
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