"My—father?"
"Well, of course! Don't you—" Morris paused, looked dismayed, and came to his feet. "Think I'll be toddling, old boy. Ain't yourself. Should've known when you said I was a good man. Fever, that's what 'tis. Beastly business."
Falcon frowned at the closing door. A fine game they were playing with him! First Johnny, now Morris. He might have forgot that he'd told Ross about Mrs. Quimby's offer, but he was blasted well sure he'd not have sent Morris down to Ashleigh to check on the old gentleman! Certainly, he would remember having done so outlandish a thing. It must be that they were trying to keep him chained to his bed so as to shut him out of some new mischief of the League's making. Or perchance Ross was uneasy about that stupid bag of feathers that had been hurled at him in Cornwall. Lord, but how could grown men be such fools?
He flung back the coverlet. Inactivity always galled him, and inactivity just now was an invitation to thought, and to think was disaster. Especially if he allowed himself to remember all the things Gwendolyn had murmured in his ear after Trina and the housekeeper had left just now. He shouted, "Tummet!"
His coat still lay across the foot of the bed. The coat of blue and silver brocade he'd worn on that magical November Mid-summer's Eve. He pulled it to him, touching the sleeve lingeringly.
Tummet hurried in, and groaned.
"Never mind that," said Falcon briskly. "I've wasted too much time, lounging about in this damnable bed. I want a bath and a shave, and clean clothes."
"Now, Guv—"
"Exactly so. Now! Oh, and I'll wear this coat."
"That one? But—it wants pressing!"
"Then—press it!"
* * *
Katrina jumped up as Gwendolyn came into her private parlour, and ran to embrace her. "Dearest Gwen! The more I think about it, the more hopeful I become! Sit here and tell me everything. What did he say after we left? Oh, the way he looked at you! My darling brother has lost his heart at last! I cannot believe it!"
Smiling, Gwendolyn allowed herself to be led to the small sofa by the hearth. "There is nothing to tell. After you and Mrs. Vanechurch left, August fell asleep. Or pretended to. I didn't believe it, of course, and I gave him a thorough talking to, I promise you."
Katrina hugged herself rapturously. "But after the accident he kissed you, so he'll have to ask for your hand, which means he won't be able to refuse his consent to Jamie and me! Oh, I never dared hope— Now, why must you look so grave? You never think he has changed his mind? Already?"
"I think he means to be difficult, Trina. I am very sure he loves me, though why he should, when I am so—ordinary—"
Katrina wrapped her in another strong embrace and said with vehemence, "You are not ordinary! You are pretty and bright and kind, and always there is a smile in your eyes, and—"
"And I am crippled."
"Pho! You go with a little limp is all! Perry Cranford lost his foot and is one of the most attractive men I know! And if it comes to that, we are—"
Gwendolyn put a silencing finger across her lips. "You had a lovely Grandmama who was half Russian and half Chinese, which is of no concern to me whatsoever and would not, I am sure, weigh with Gideon."
Katrina said gravely, "It might weigh heavily with your other brother, and with your Papa."
That was very true. Gwendolyn felt a qualm and said with more confidence than she felt, "Oh, I'll bring them around my thumb, never fear. But—may I ask you something? I know August has fought many duels. Has he been wounded before?"
"Once. Some years ago, when he fought a German count—Von somebody. I forget the name. August said he was the finest swordsman he'd ever met, and they parted best of friends. But even then, 'twas no more than a shallow cut across his shoulder. The only other time he was hurt was when Jamie accidentally shot him last Spring, and you know about that."
"Yes. Were the symptoms the same?"
Katrina answered slowly, " 'Twas a gunshot wound, which is always more dangerous, so they say. And you know how impatient he can be. He suffered a slight relapse because, as usual, he would not obey the doctor."
"When you say 'a slight relapse,' do you mean he was delirious at all? Did he suffer… lapses of memory?"
"Good gracious, no! Has he done so now?"
"Well, he seemed to think today was Sunday."
"Yes, poor dear. And he quite forgot he'd sent Jamie down to Ashleigh. Still, 'tis natural enough he'd be muddle-headed, you know. And he slept most of yesterday away." Katrina said with a fond smile, "How dear it is to see you worry for him, but pray don't worry too much. Papa says August is fashioned from Toledo steel. He will be quite recovered, and rushing about in his usual fashion in no time, wait and see."
Gwendolyn smiled, and wished she could stop thinking of a foolish old superstition, and a bag of feathers.
Chapter 11
The large and comfortable study in Laindon House on Curzon Street was briefly silent. Then, "Dead?" Sir Mark Rossiter leaned forward in his chair, and said an aghast, "All three?"
Gregory Clement Laindon, the Earl of Bowers-Malden, shrugged his massive shoulders impatiently. "Why should that surprise you? Heaven only knows how many deaths can be laid at the door of that murderous League. They don't balk at executing their own—look at Norberly, and Burton Farrier, and now that sorry fool, Gil Fowles! Why should they hesitate to put a period to my poor fellows?"
Sir Mark leaned back again and stared at the earl, shocked by what he judged to be a hard and callous attitude.
Both in their mid-fifties, they had known each other most of their lives and their heirs were close friends, but the two men had little in common. Although the earl did not run to fat he was very tall and of muscular build, and his great booming voice and sometimes fierce manner tended to put others in awe of him. His head was often described as "leonine," his features were strong but not unpleasant, and a gleam of humour lurked in the green eyes that were so like those of his son, Horatio. Sir Mark was also tall, but he appeared slight by comparison with the earl. Still handsome, and always elegant, he had waged and was winning a desperate struggle to restore both his good name and his financial empire after having been all but ruined by the machinations of the League of Jewelled Men. He said now, "Then you don't believe that Lord Norberly's death was accidental?"
The earl drew a breath as if exercising strong restraint. "Accidental? My dear fellow, do but consider! For some odd reason Norberly delighted to climb mountains, and by all accounts was good at the game. Yet—and conveniently while walking alone—he suffered a fatal fall from a not especially precipitous Scottish hillside. We know he was a member of the League of Jewelled Men. We know he had a large hand in contriving your ruin. And that he blundered the task set him by an organization whose leader punishes failure with death! An accident? Nonsense!"
Irked by the note of condescension, Sir Mark concealed the reaction. He said gravely, "Then 'twould seem that your poor fellows must have been close to learning something of import. They were watching Fowles, I take it?"
"Yes. I have no doubt the newspapers will raise a great to-do and claim they were thieves and murdered him."
Sir Mark looked somber. "So much violence. Does Gideon know of the ugly business?"
"You've not seen him today?"
"I returned to Town scarce an hour since. Both my sons were from home."
"Of course! Blister me if I hadn't forgot! You've been in the west country. At your shipyard, no? I trust all was well there?"
"Very well, I thank you. One good thing to come out of such a disaster is that we've now been able to improve and modernize. I've installed a new dry dock that—" He broke off and added guiltily, "Not that anything can compensate for the lives that were lost in the fire, you understand."
"No, of course not. But those tragedies can be laid to the League's account. You were no way responsible." Sir Mark gave him a grateful look, and the earl asked, "So, have you been able to put your people back to work yet?"
"We h
ave, indeed. The sheds are all rebuilt and work has begun on two new frigates!"
"My congratulations. And today you came seeking Gideon, did you? Not here, I'm afraid. In fact, Horatio's out looking for him. If he don't find him at your house, I fancy he'll know where to search."
"I'm very sure he will. However, I actually called on you because of a letter I received from Neville Falcon."
"About his great surprise party, eh? D'you mean to go down to Ashleigh?"
"I suppose so, though 'tis a deuced awkward time of year. Shall you go?"
"Don't see how I can avoid it, my dear fellow. Neville apparently means to honour our sons for their efforts 'gainst the League. 'Tis a nice gesture, and Lord knows, they've earned a deal more thanks than a surprise party."
"I agree, but be dashed if I see the need for all the secrecy. It seems a touch childish for us parents to creep down there and cry "Surprise!" at the young fellows when they arrive. Shall you take Lady Nola? If I know Neville, he has something outlandish in mind."
The earl laughed. "And you think Neville's 'something outlandish' will be feminine in nature, do you? One of those harem dancers, for instance? Might be so, at that, he's a frippery fellow. Well, my lady's broad-minded and would likely thoroughly enjoy it"
Sir Mark thought that most probable. A stickler for proper behaviour, he failed to see the kind heart that dwelt behind the loud voice and bluff manners of the Countess of Bowers-Malden, and found her both intimidating and more than a shade vulgar. Afraid that his reaction might be noted, he murmured evasively, "Neville wasn't always frippery, you know."
"Really?" Nobody's fool, the earl had seen that brief prim pursing of the lips and was annoyed. He glanced rather pointedly at the clock on the mantelpiece.
"As I recall," said Sir Mark, settling back in his chair with a reminiscent look, "when his wife was alive he was very much interested in the Exchange. Had a jolly good head on his shoulders. I fancy the family coffers grew, rather than diminished, under his care. At one time, I thought he'd run for Parliament…" Lost in the nostalgia of bygone days, he expanded on the subject at some length.
"He's going to go prosing on forever," thought the earl, who wanted to talk with his wife before she left for a luncheon party. He took out his pocket watch and wound it ostentatiously. "I rather think that August has done well enough," he said. "Say of him what you will, he's a young fellow with no cobwebs in his brainbox! Speaking of which, I—er, fancy you've heard about his accident?"
"I've not! More trouble? Nothing serious, I trust?"
"Fortunately not, but, er—your daughter was with him at the time."
Five minutes later, Bowers-Malden was free to seek out his spouse.
Tummet alerted Gwendolyn, and when Falcon hurried down the stairs she limped from the library, book in hand, and nerved for battle.
She was wearing a morning dress of white, embroidered with bluebirds, and about her shoulders was a fine shawl of blue silk with an elaborately knotted fringe. Her eyes were a deep azure glow in her pretty face, and the many petticoats she wore in lieu of hoops swirled softly as she moved and emphasized, he thought, her dainty fragility.
His fingers tightened spasmodically on the flat box in his coat pocket. He thought, "This is going to be hell!" and he drawled, "If I dare remark it, the shawl becomes you, Gwen."
Her smile was a caress. "I'd have felt cheated if you'd not noticed. I shall always treasure it. I suppose I am not to comment on the fact that you have not rested nearly long enough, and are being exceeding foolish."
"Your own behaviour has been far from wise." He waved away an interested footman, walked into the library beside Gwendolyn, and closed the door.
She sighed and faced him. How calm he looked. How coldly remote and quite in control of himself. "I guessed you would not give up easily," she said wryly. "Do you mean to pretend you don't remember the things you told me after the accident?"
"I'll confess my memory of the entire time is, to say the least, clouded. But it makes little difference. Whatever I said was spoken at a moment of great emotional shock, besides which I evidently was in the grip of a fever, and—"
"Oh, do stop being silly! I love you, and I know that you love me, but if you don't want me, I quite understand. I harbour no delusions, August. I am neither beautiful nor accomplished, and I go with a limp."
He caught his breath hissingly. Very briefly his eyes glared rage, then the thick black fringe of his lashes concealed them, and he murmured, "I'd not have put it in just those words, m'dear, but"—he shrugged—" 'tis perhaps best that we be honest with each other."
"I agree. When do you mean to begin?"
He frowned and turned away to draw a chair closer to the fire that burned brightly on the hearth. "Perhaps you should sit down."
She put aside her book and followed obediently. "I collect the inference is that I am too frail to stand for long." With a sudden dart she avoided the chair and was breast to breast with him, her hands tight on his coat. "Tell me that you don't love me," she demanded huskily.
Her little face was upturned and so inviting, her eyes full of tenderness, and he could smell the fresh but tantalizing fragrance that had betrayed her pose as a poor flower-seller. More than he had ever wanted anything in his life, he wanted to crush her to his heart and kiss those soft, rosy lips. With a really heroic effort he said, "I shall never tell you that I do."
"Foolish man! Your eyes tell me."
He pulled her hands away. "Then I must take care not to let them rest on you." He stepped back as she reached out to him once more. "Gwen, stop! Go back to your family. The longer you stay here, the harder 'twill be, for both of us."
"No!" She hurried to block his way as he turned towards the door, and seized his arm. "August—my dearest love—"
"Don't!" Anguished, he pulled free. "Do not!"
"I will! I must! You choose to be a noble martyr to nonsense, but don't you care that you are sacrificing my happiness, also?"
"Nonsense?" He wrenched her small gift from his pocket and thrust it at her. "Is that why you chose to present me with this box of incense? To remind me of 'nonsense'?"
She said hotly, "I sought, as I always have sought, to make you learn more of the wonders of China. To help you see that there is nothing shameful about your lineage. That there is much, in fact, to be proud of! No, do not shake your head! If you were not so blindly arrogant and stubborn—"
" 'Tis because I am far from blind that I ask you to leave." He slipped the incense back into his pocket, seized her arms and went on, low-voiced and with passionate intensity: "You had your say, now listen to me. If you truly love me, then you are incredibly stupid! You have, from the beginning, told me of my faults. God knows, you have seen my horrid temper often enough. If you now add stubbornness to the list of my failings, so be it. I never sought your love, nor the love of any lady, especially an unwed lady, who could so easily be ruined in the eyes of that merciless clan known as The Polite World! Whatever you or I might think of my forbears, do you think they would look upon us with less revulsion? Or—"
"Much care I for what the ton—"
"Of course you care!" He shook her, and said fiercely, " 'Tis the world you've known all your life. 'Tis every friend you've ever had, everyone you've ever known, every member of your family, wherever they may be scattered. You cannot begin to realize what it means to be looked upon with contempt, to be cut and mocked and ostracized. Have you so soon forgot what I told you of the fate of my dear grandmama? Do you suppose that the scorn shown to her would not be visited on you, if I asked for your hand and was accepted?"
"You have done considerably more than ask! You kissed me, which to any man of honour constitutes a proposal of marriage."
"Yes. I'll own that I behaved very badly at a moment when I truly believe my mind was—was scrambled."
" 'Twas not too scrambled to prevent you calling me your—your beloved, and saying that you would love me for as long as life—"
He interrupted hurriedly, "The fact that I said anything of that nature to you under any circumstances will be to my everlasting discredit! I am very, very sorry for that lapse, and beg you will forgive and forget it!" Unable to meet her eyes, he released her and said huskily, "Go away, Gwen! Else I must!"
"And if I do go," she said in desperation, "you will be proud, and feel you have behaved as a gentleman should, is that it? Four lives ruined: four chances for happiness shattered, only for the sake of your selfish and foolish would-be nobility! A pretty cause for pride, Mr. August Falcon!"
Stung, he riposted, "Oh, do not tittup around it, Miss Rossiter! Say the whole! August—Nicolai—Kung—Falcon! Or as your world names me, the Mandarin of Mayfair!"
She stretched out her hands to him. "August, oh my dear, 'tis your world too. You are more English than Chinese."
"To be part one thing and part another," he said bitterly, "is, en effet, to be neither!"
"Then go on as you are, if that is your wish. But do not throw love away! Do not break my poor heart."
Moving out of reach of those small beseeching hands, he demanded, "Can you not see that 'tis because I would move heaven and earth not to break it that I send you from me? Do you really think that, having rejected Katrina's many suitors, having denied her marriage with the man she thinks she loves, I would now be so irresponsible as to shrug off everything I have ever held true, and snatch my own chance for happiness? Can you truly believe I'd carelessly subject you to the years of misery my Grandmama suffered? Or allow Katrina to be snubbed and slighted until eventually, inevitably, despite all his fine vows of fidelity, Morris turned from her? No, by God! Selfish, bad-tempered, arrogant, and all the rest of it, I may be. But I'm not that base!"
He tore his gaze from her grief-stricken face and strode to wrench the door open. With harsh finality he said, "Go back to Rossiter Court, Gwen. To the world you know and where you are respected and more admired than you guess. If you do not, you will give me no choice but to take Katrina to—to India for a year or so!"
The Mandarin of Mayfair Page 20
