The Mandarin of Mayfair

by Patricia Veryan

  The ostlers were leading off the team of the luxurious coach. As she approached, the window was lowered and a familiar voice called her name. Astonished, she said, "Mrs. Haverley!" and thought, "Now why on earth should I 'be very careful' of this gentle little soul?"

  A footman swung open the door, and a neat maid alighted, curtsied to Gwendolyn, and went into the posting-house. Hector Kadenworthy's aunt said, "Get in, please do, my dear. I cannot take my face out in public at this moment. Oh, how glad I am to see someone I know! Do pray sit here beside me. I declare I am quite… distracted!"

  To prove this declaration, she drew a damp handkerchief from her muff and dabbed at her tears. She clearly had been weeping for some time, for her eyes were red and swollen and she was trembling, her hands never still. Even at such a moment however, her breeding did not desert her and she enquired politely if Miss Rossiter was well, and if she travelled alone.

  "My servant accompanies me, ma'am." By all the rules of correct behaviour Gwendolyn should now do her utmost to calm the lady and turn her thoughts from what had upset her. But Maria's warning compelled her to ignore correct behaviour, and she said, "Never mind that. Whatever has so distressed you?" She glanced up the road. "Does his lordship ride escort?"

  "No." Mrs. Haverley bit her lip, and made an obvious effort to control her emotions. "How is your father? I trust—"

  Gwendolyn took her hand. "My dear friend, what is wrong?"

  Mrs. Haverley's face crumpled and she burst into tears. "Oh, Miss Rossiter, I—I am so fearful! I have n-never seen H-Hector like this." She emerged from her handkerchief and said jerkily, "Always, the dear boy had a—a rather quick temper and—a tendency to a sharp tongue. Though never with me! Never!"

  "No, of course not, for he loves you dearly. But whatever has happened to throw you into such distress? Is Lord Kadenworthy ill?"

  "No—and yet I think he must be. In his mind, at least. But I must not talk of—of private troubles. You will think me very silly. Now—"

  "I think you need someone to talk to," said Gwendolyn, overcoming her scruples ruthlessly. " 'Tis such a coincidence that we should chance to meet here. But perhaps 'tis not. Perhaps I was meant to be here so as to—to comfort you, ma'am. And you surely know I am not one to gossip."

  Mrs. Haverley tried to smother a sob, and the dam burst. She said, "I have never known him to—to drink to such excess, or to talk so wildly, and with so little—sense! Oh, but I am not making sense either, am I?" She drew a hand across her brow, and said in great distress, " 'Tis just that—I do not know what to do!"

  "There, there." Her nephew had evidently come home over the oar, and what that had to do with herself was past understanding. Yet Maria had seemed so very frightened. Holding the older woman's trembling hand again, Gwendolyn said soothingly, "Men are so troublesome, are they not? Is it that Lord Hector came home last evening in a—perhaps inebriated condition?"

  "No! Not then! And I don't know why, but whenever he goes there he returns in a black humour, so I was a little anxious and waited up for him."

  "Goes—where, ma'am?"

  "To an inn called The Quarter Deck. 'Tis somewhere near Guildford, I believe, though I am not sure exactly where, and at all events he doesn't stay there but hires a horse and rides off again. Which of itself seems odd. And I only know that much because the coachman is walking out with my maid, and—" She sighed, shook her head and lapsed into silence.

  Gwendolyn said gently, "Ah. An affair of the heart, perhaps?"

  "No, no! I know about those, and— Oh, but never mind. The thing is that last night Hector came home in the most dreadful rage. Joe Coachman told my woman that his lordship had been thrown, but it must have been into a puddle, for his clothes were all muddied and he had the most dreadful gash on his head. Perhaps that is why—" Again her voice trailed off and her eyes became remote.

  "Why, then I expect you have your answer, ma'am. A blow on the head can—"

  "Can cause a man to close up his house? To tell me to go back to London and start packing anything I wanted to take with me? To walk the floor all night long, drinking that dreadful brandy and mumbling and swearing and saying the most hideous things about black holes and rats, and—and murders?"

  "Good gracious! That does sound alarming. Could it, do you suppose, be a fever? Did you call his physician?"

  "No, for he would have none of it, and kept saying 'twas not his health but his common-sense that had betrayed him. And he seemed not to notice that I was even there, but ranted on and on making half-finished remarks like—oh, that he should have got out long ago. In August, I think he said. And foul smells, and—"

  Gwendolyn's ears had perked up. She interrupted, "Your pardon, but might he rather have been speaking of Mr. August Falcon?"

  "What? Oh, no, no! And why Neville should have given his son a month for a name, I shall never understand, but he was always a rattle-brain, you know. 'Twas something that had happened, in some hideous place. Hector kept saying that, only with the most dreadful language! And he said that he might as well be—be dead! And that he had brought it on himself, and we must go away, because they—whoever they may be!—had lied in their teeth! And—Oh, Miss Rossiter, I do not want to go away, unless it could be back to my loved Cornwall! But he speaks of—of the Americas! Away from everything and everyone we know! And—oh dear, oh dear! I am too old to start all over again!" Having come to the end of which bewildering recitation, she burst into tears once more.

  Gwendolyn's heart was beating very fast. She made an effort to comfort the lady, and murmured, "Never worry so, poor soul. Chances are 'twas the drink talking and by the time your nephew comes to join you— I suppose he intends to meet you in Town?"

  Mrs. Haverley's head jerked up. "So he said!" she cried hysterically. "But I wonder— Miss Rossiter, he was so— almost crazed! I dread to say it but—but I fear he—he may intend to—to do away with himself! Oh, my poor, poor Pen! Always so good and—"

  Gwendolyn's heart seemed to stop. She caught Mrs. Haverley by the arm and demanded, "What did you call him?"

  "Pen." Mrs. Haverley blinked at her wonderingly. " 'Tis a childish nickname. I told you that when he was small he could not pronounce words properly. He could never say Penzance when people asked him where he lived, and they would laugh and say 'twas not 'pen' but Penzance, and the child would become enraged and shout 'Pen! Pen!' So it became a nickname. Why, some of his friends call him that to this day." She smiled nostalgically. "I remember once…"

  Gwendolyn scarcely heard the rest of that reminiscence. Her heart was pounding, her mind racing wildly. She had seen Maria Barthelemy driving away from Overlake Lodge with a man called "Pen." He had appeared to be a very large individual, and Kadenworthy was slender, but he was tall and a many-caped cloak tended to exaggerate a man's size. August had said that Mr. Penn was a member of the League. Was it possible that 'twas not a surname, but a nickname? If that were so, then Lord Hector Kadenworthy must be a traitor, which did not seem likely. August and Gideon liked the man, and why would someone of great wealth and possessions seek to destroy the system under which he was so happily endowed? And, yet, down through history rich and influential men had rebelled against the status quo. Certainly, the coincidences were too strong to be dismissed, and she'd always suspected that Lord Kadenworthy could be ruthless. Furthermore, he had been in the great house at the fete and had probably enjoyed a glass of wine with his "friend" August. And August's erratic behaviour had started that very night. How easy 'twould have been for a friend, trusted and above suspicion, to slip a drug into his wineglass, just as Tummet suspected.

  "Miss Rossiter?" Mrs. Haverley's tearful eyes were peering at her anxiously. "Are you all right?"

  "I—er, I beg your pardon, ma'am. I was trying to think how to help. Is Lord Hector still in Epsom? Perhaps, were I to go down and see him—"

  "How kind of you, my dear. But—he won't let you in. The knocker is already off the door."

  There were advantages
, thought Gwendolyn, to having a former burglar acting as one's coachman!

  Falcon was awakened by another stab of pain; in his wrist this time. With a shout of mingled revulsion and terror he jerked his hand away. His voice was hoarse now and didn't seem to scare them off as much as it had at first and once again he was sickened by the horror of feeling them all around him, of knowing that if his movements startled them their sharp teeth or claws would sink into his flesh.

  He was still on his knees, and had dozed off while leaning against the wall and trying to compose a prayer. He had not been much in the way of praying, but he prayed now, with all his heart. "Dearest Grandmama Natasha—I know I deserve to be punished, but please ask—Him, or—or one of the saints you've met, to help me find a way out! Not just for me, dearest, though I'm… very afraid. But if I don't get out, you know, my father and my sister, and my dearest love, will either perish by the ax, or starve! And the rest of those fine men and their families, also. And they don't deserve such a terrible fate. You know that, Grandmama!" He added a postscript to his prayer, requesting that Natasha would kindly take care of poor Jamie, who would likely not know his way about up there.

  It was appalling to realize that he should have allowed his eyes to close for an instant. But he was so tired, and it was ever more hard to breathe. Green had warned him with great jollity to remain as still as possible so as to preserve his supply of air, but—the devil with that! Did they expect him to lie down and let the rats gnaw on him while he slowly smothered? He was shamed by the memory of having come perilously close to abandoning hope before he'd found the gift from his beloved. It had made him laugh, rather hysterical laughter unfortunately, when he'd remembered how she had begged him at the Fete not to open it at that particular moment. He'd forgotten the gift and had discovered it when the candle was almost gone and he'd been searching the great pockets of his coat in a frenzy of desperation to find something to burn before all light vanished from this ghastly cell.

  He'd been overjoyed to find the small flat box, and more overjoyed when he realized what it contained. Having succeeded in lighting the first stick of incense he'd found that the pungent aroma did much to drown the foul smells of his prison. And tiny as it was, the glow had heartened him and enabled him to cling to his sanity through the long nightmarish hours since the candle died. He'd stumbled about until he found the bowl on the alcove and had begun to scrape and chip away at the crumbling mortar below it, reasoning that the locking mechanism must be somewhere inside. The work had proven hard on his hands, and on his knees, and a jeering little voice whispered that even if he loosened the block it would likely only grant him a glimpse of the outer darkness. But there was the hope that if he could come at the locking device he might win to freedom! Freedom and fresh air, and a chance—please God!—to warn his father and his friends of the pit yawning at their feet, and perhaps to also prevent the murders of the Prince and Princess of Wales!

  He ran his fingers along the shallow groove that was the result of his hours of scraping. He didn't seem to have accomplished very much and the prospects for success seemed faint indeed. But the Smallest Rossiter and Grandmama Natasha had given him the miracle of hope, and to that hope he would cling for so long as his strength and his lungs and his mind prevailed.

  His knees were bruised and stiff and he held his ribs as he went to the credenza and bent closer to the incense box. He'd made a small hole in the top to form a makeshift holder for the sticks. The little spark was still bright, and there was an inch or so left on this one. Whatever happened, he must not let it burn out before he used it to kindle its successor. Once before he'd fallen asleep, and the rats had awoken him— providentially in time to prevent that precious spark from dying altogether. There were only two sticks left now. When they were gone…

  He wouldn't think about that. He must get back to work. Smythe had taken his spurs and the small pocket knife he carried, which would have been invaluable. The diamond pin in his cravat had served for an hour or so, but then had snapped and he'd been unable to find it. He had despaired until he thought of his boot buckle. He'd had quite a battle to tear it off, but once in his hand it had proven a fairly efficient tool. It must have fallen when he dozed off, and he groped about anxiously.

  His questing fingers touched a cold wormlike thing and he gave a shuddering cry as the long tail whipped away and the rodent scampered across his hand. He huddled against the wall, eyes closed, shaking convulsively and whispering Gwendolyn's name… concentrating on her laughing, mischievous little face.

  And after a while, he summoned the courage to grope about again until he found the precious buckle and could fight on.

  Mimosa Lodge was gloomy and hushed, the only signs of life emanating from the wainscotted study. Here, a single branch of candles shone on the gentleman seated at the desk, his quill pen scratching rapidly across a sheet of paper. The slim, well-manicured hand paused and the gentleman glanced over what he had written. "I, Hector Chauncy Jefferies, Lord Kadenworthy, being of sound mind—" He gave a derisive snort, and muttered cynically, "Extremely un-sound mind, if truth be told!" He read on, "—sound mind and body, do hereby declare this to be my last—"

  The candles flickered. He glanced up, then leapt to his feet. "How the devil did you get in here?"

  "We broke in," said Gwendolyn Rossiter coolly, limping from the open door.

  His lordship scowled at her, then his crooked smile dawned. "I am flattered." He stifled a hiccup and offered a rather wobbly bow. "And here I'd fancied you did not care for me overmuch."

  "Do not be flattered, my lord." He was obviously half drunk, and she prayed that condition might aid her.

  Tummet drifted in from the corridor, and stood watching stoically, arms folded, but with a horse pistol in one hand.

  "Aha!" Kadenworthy hiccupped again, and apologized. "So your visit is not of a—er, social nature, ma'am."

  "I do not socialize with traitors."

  He stiffened. The high flush vanished from his saturnine features, and he sat down abruptly. " 'Twould be interesting to know what—"

  "Nor have I the time to bandy words with you, sir." Gwendolyn advanced to sit, uninvited, in a deep chair facing the desk. "We have proof that you are a member of the League of Jewelled Men. We know you are planning to leave the country." His faint bitter grin caused her to add hurriedly, "Or take what is termed the 'honourable way out.' One gathers you can stand no more of the Squire's methods, or perhaps he distrusts you, and you know what happens to his people in that event."

  Kadenworthy drew a deep breath and leaned back in his chair. He looked older suddenly; bitter and drawn and defeated. " 'Pon my soul but you do know a lot, m'dear. Does it not occur to you that 'twas foolish in the extreme for you to have come here—even with the—er, fabled, cockney valet standing guard?"

  "No. For I knew you had turned off all your servants. I have spoken with your aunt, you see, and—"

  His face contorted and he leaned forward to interrupt harshly, "You've not told her of your suspicions?"

  So this conscienceless man cared for the lady at least. Gwendolyn replied, "She knows nothing. As yet."

  "Which means—you may feel obliged to tell her. To do so will serve you no purpose, madam, save to break the heart of a gentle woman."

  "An unhappy result, which may be averted, sir, if you will tell us where to find August Falcon."

  His reaction was startling. He flinched and actually shrank back in the chair. Briefly, his eyes closed. Then he appeared to recover himself and sat straighten "You really judge me a villain! You not only believe me a traitor to my king and country, but you expect me to betray the men you judge to be my fellow-conspirators. Are there no limits to my infamy, ma'am?"

  Gwendolyn considered him thoughtfully. Despite the sardonic words, his lips twitched and a little nerve pulsed beside one eye. Trying not to panic, she said, "I do not know. Are there? I had thought you a hard man, my lord. I would never have judged you capable of treason; or
of the heartless murders of hundreds of innocents aboard the ships you have sunk; the fine men you have ruined, the families you have destroyed only to—"

  "Have done! Have done!" He wrenched from his chair and paced to the window. After a brief silence, he slumped down on the window-seat and stared at the polished floor muttering, "I've not the heart to put up an impassioned denial. We were engaged in a war. An undeclared war, perhaps, but a war nonetheless. And in war one fights with whatever weapons come to hand. I have nothing to lose by withholding the truth; and nothing to tell you that could in any way help you to reach Falcon." He glanced up, and smiled without mirth as Tummet raised the pistol and trained it on him steadily. "Shoot, friend, and you likely do me a favour. I swear to you, Miss Rossiter, that were it the dearest wish of my heart to help Falcon, there is no possible way to do so."

  Gwendolyn had pinned all her hopes on this man, and her heart convulsed. She dashed a hand across her eyes, and said, her voice trembling, "I can only beg you, sir. 'Twould be a—a blot removed from your heavenly accounting."

  He watched her curiously. "By Jupiter! You care for the rascal!"

  "Yes." She said with pride, "I love him."

  "Poor child. I cannot help you. Even if I pointed you in the right direction, 'twould avail you nothing. It is too late, you see."

  She gave a little anguished cry.

  Tummet growled, "D'you say me guv'nor's dead?"

  "For his sake—I hope so."

  Tummet swore softly.

  Gwendolyn's clenched fists pressed at her lips.

  As if very weary, Kadenworthy stood, strolled back to his desk, and poured a large portion of brandy. He drank deep, then sat down, muttering, "The time is long past when anything might be done. The time was past two years ago and more, when I performed one of my—my few acts of kindness, and helped a man escape execution." He laughed loudly, and poured more brandy into the glass.

  Enraged, Tummet started for him, but Gwendolyn waved him back. "I think none of us is wholly evil, sir. Perchance you fell into bad company, but—"