Falcon reached for another scone. “Should you object to a married one? What an odd requirement. Their marital state interests me not at all.”
Naomi’s dimples flickered in appreciation of this sally, but Katrina cried, “August, pray do not jest! Do you really suppose they might be held up? Lud, Naomi, you must stay here!”
“I shall stay long enough to chat with you, after your disobliging brother has been so good as to take himself off,” said Naomi. “Then I shall wend my lonely and forsaken way back to my despised home.”
Falcon shrugged. “Upon your own head be it, wilful chit.”
Genuinely worried, Katrina said, “I had not so much as thought of highwaymen, but if you persist in travelling on, Naomi, you must leave at once! Is there a guard on your coach? August, belike you should ride escort, dearest?”
“The devil I will!” exclaimed Mr. Falcon.
CHAPTER THREE
If the earl and his sire had quarrelled, thought Rossiter, staring unseeingly at his own face reflected in the window of the carriage, it was unlikely to have been a really grim dispute. Had the two men fought a duel, that would throw an entirely different light on the situation, of course. But such a turn of events was out of the question. When the Earl of Collington had been merely Mr. Simon Lutonville, of large debts, small fortune, and no prospects, Sir Mark Rossiter had never refused to extend a helping hand to his old school friend, however the debts mounted, however remote the chance of repayment. Lutonville had been deeply grateful, and it was because the two men were such bosom bows that the marriage of their children had been arranged. So deep a friendship was not likely to have been irreparably damaged because of some silly difference of opinion, or whatever it was that had set their backs up.
At all events, whatever had caused the wrangling between their parents, Rossiter was very sure that Naomi would not have changed. She had been devoted to him throughout their early years. She would not forget. Shy and sweetly loyal was his beloved. He sighed, smiling at the rain-splashed window the fond smile of lovers. Only … His smile went a little awry. Only he’d been away for so long. Six years. Was it asking too much to expect that any girl would remain constant for such a length of time? Forever, was what they had vowed when they’d plighted their troth that lovely summer morning. “I will wait for you forever, if I must,” she’d whispered, her eyes adoring him.
But … she had been only sixteen years old. And while that exploding shell had not scarred his face, it had changed him. Sometimes, when he looked into the mirror while shaving, he scarce recognized the gaunt features staring back at him: the sunken eyes and hollow cheeks, and the lines pain had carved beside his nostrils. He’d heard Naomi had become so beautiful—so courted. The rage of London. Doubtless, the most eligible bachelors in the kingdom were vying for her hand. What would she think when they met again? She had said once in her loving way that he was the most handsome and dashing young man she ever had seen. Would she be horrified because her dashing young beau had vanished, and in his place was this worn and far from dashing stranger?
His fist clenched suddenly, and he thought a vexed, ‘Damn you for a fool, Gideon! Why could you not have done as Papa wished and joined him at the bank? Why must you enrage him by rushing off and buying a commission? All you got for it was six years of fighting and hardship!’ But that wasn’t true either; there had been good times along with the bad. He’d seen loyalty and heroism, and learned to the full what real comradeship meant. So many fine young men he had fought beside; so many shared grumbles, triumphs, and disasters. So much laughter. And all too frequent the times when he had wept for gallant lives cut short. Still, he wouldn’t change those years. If only that confounded blast hadn’t put him into the hospital only a month before the end of his fifth year away, when he had promised faithfully to sell out and come home.
Memory of the hospital brought with it a glimpse of Tranquillity Terrace. ‘Which was utter nonsense,’ he thought. At the time, however, it had been a Godsend. His companions in the crowded hospital had been the best of men and unfailingly cheerful, but there had been dreary periods when he’d been in too much pain to want to talk, and out of misery and desperation he had built his refuge.
Tranquillity Terrace was a garden. There was the shadowy outline of a nearby house; not a great house like Collington Manor or Promontory Point, but a rambling country house after the style of Emerald Farm, with whitewashed and half-timbered walls and a thatched roof shielded by venerable oaks. He had never entered the house. His dreams all took place in the garden. A garden fragrant with blossoms, with benches here and there, and a big weeping willow tree trailing its branches over a stream. It was by the stream that he’d met the girl to whom he was promised. At first, he’d pictured her as last he had seen her—a kind, pretty creature, already showing the promise of womanhood.
In Tranquillity Terrace he had allowed her to grow up, and he had made her small and petite, with a rather breathless soft voice, and a gentle manner. She had begun to go into Society, and he’d costumed her in the latest fashions: great-skirted gowns of softly swirling and delicately hued silks, satins, and velvets, trimmed with laces or embroidery. By the time she was nineteen, she was bewitchingly lovely, her every movement a study in grace, her laugh like the trill of a nightingale. Her fame spread so that other young men began to come and call to her from the wall he’d hurriedly thrown up about the garden. But his lovely Naomi saw only him. Never once did he arrive to find the garden empty. Always, she was there, her arms reaching out yearningly to embrace him; her kisses for him alone. She was the one person who would never change, the unfailing refuge, the ever-faithful heart. He unburdened himself to her, sharing his joys and sorrows, while she listened with ready sympathy, or helped him plan their future; a golden plan that even encompassed the three fine sons and two gentle daughters who would come to share the garden with them.
Smiling faintly, he set memory aside. His lady of Tranquillity Terrace had served him well in those dark days, but there was not the need for dreams now. If Naomi had been at the Manor she would have come to him. Since she had not come it was very likely that she was at the earl’s residence in Town. Lord, but he longed to see her! And with luck he would be able to seek her out tomorrow, or the next day. He must first mend his fences with his father, but hopefully he would be forgiven and would soon discover the quarrel with Lord Collington to have been a trifling matter that could easily be set to rights.
The carriage lurched and he saw that the postilions had turned the team into the yard of a small inn. They would rest the horses here before completing the journey. He opened the door and climbed out, his boots splashing onto the puddled cobblestones. In his preoccupation he hadn’t noticed how the weather had deteriorated. The postilions were soaked, and he tossed them a florin and told them to dry out and buy themselves a meal. To cross the yard was a hazardous business, and he had to dodge muddied vehicles and stamping horses; ostlers who darted about, poling up one team, unharnessing another, all the while heartily damning the stableboys; and impatient grooms and coachmen in hot pursuit of and just as heartily damning the ostlers.
Escaping the cold bedlam of the yard, Rossiter entered the warm bedlam of the parlour. Over the din, mine host bellowed redundantly that the Red Pheasant Inn was full to capacity, and there was not a table to be had in the dining room. Rossiter’s uniform won him a place with a group of military men, and although their table was in a chilly corner far from the fire, he spent a pleasantly uproarious half-hour with them. The roast beef he ordered was tough as leather, but the apple pie that followed was succulent, the coffee hot and strong, and he felt renewed and more optimistic as he left his new friends and made his way from the noisy room.
Near the door, a hand on his arm arrested him. A familiar voice cried an exuberant, “Blister me, but here’s good luck!” Rising from a table littered with used crockery Lieutenant James Morris grinned engagingly. “Do you stay here, old lad? If you’ve snabbled a room, I’ll
share it with you.”
Rossiter said with an answering smile, “You’re too kind, Jamie, but my stay has been only for an hour, and is now done. I’d supposed you to have reached Sevenoaks by this time. Trouble?”
“No. Just dawdling about.” Morris walked to the door with him. “Riding in this weather is a bore, so thought I’d rack up here. Hah! I say, did you rest your orbs on those two beauties who just left? Be dashed if ever I saw such a pair. I’d have wangled an introduction, but the fellow with them was a curst cold-looking old duck, so I daren’t try my hand.”
Rossiter expressed his regrets at having missed the “two beauties” and enquired what Morris meant to do. “If you’d care to come to the Point with me, you can overnight there, then continue to your home tomorrow. Out of your way, I know, but you’ve no chance of hiring a coach tonight. We can tie your hack on behind, and at least you’ll have a dry ride and a decent bed.”
Morris hesitated. He had no wish to become involved in what he suspected would be a sticky homecoming. On the other hand, his wound was a little troublesome and he was rather tired, and the prospect of a night spent on two chairs did not appeal. His was not a quick mind, and his silence had caused his friend’s eyebrows to lift enquiringly. He reddened and said hurriedly, “Jove! Yes! Thank you, Ross. Dashed good of you. Wouldn’t want to intrude, mind. Family gathering, what?”
Rossiter assured him it would be no intrusion and they started out to pay their reckoning. Morris said, “Did I tell you about those two beauties? One was the small, vivacious type. A real Fair. But the other! Curse me if ever I saw such loveliness. Graceful as a—a young—er, gazelle. And—”
“And went leaping out of your life, eh?” interposed Rossiter, laughing at him.
Morris said aggrievedly that some insensitive clods had no understanding of matters of the heart, and debating this, the two men paid the host’s cheerful wife, and repaired to the stableyard. The rain had stopped, the horses were rested, and the postilions having eaten well and enjoyed some good Kentish ale, were ready to leave. They were just as eager as their customers to complete the journey before nightfall, and in no time Morris’ heavy saddlebags had been loaded into the boot, his horse tied on behind, and the light coach was off, rattling along the muddy roads at a respectable pace.
It very soon became obvious that Rossiter would have little chance to dwell on his problems. Morris, in a garrulous mood, continued to rave about the dark-eyed goddess who, with one fatal smile, had apparently won his heart. She was sublime, exquisite, and as kind as she was beautiful, he dare swear. He discoursed upon her dainty nose, the sweet curves of her red lips, the pale purity of her skin, until Rossiter cried for mercy.
“Enough, Jamie! I beg of you! I acknowledge her to be incomparable. I apprehend you are aux anges and have met your Fate. If ever you see the lady again, you must at once drop to your knees before her and beg her hand in marriage. Either that or shoot yourself, old boy!”
He had no sooner spoken than both men tensed to a distant sound. Through the deepening gloom of this very gloomy dusk their eyes met.
Morris said, “A shot. No?”
Rossiter opened the window. “What’s to do?” he shouted.
“Looks to be trouble ahead, sir,” called a postilion. “You want as we should take another road?”
“Devil I do! Spring ’em!”
The horses leaned into their collars and were off at the gallop. The coach fairly flew.
Soon, another coach loomed up with several men about it. A dark shape lay motionless on the ground. A woman was struggling with a big, roughly dressed individual.
“A hold-up, by Jupiter!” exclaimed Rossiter, and was out of the vehicle and running before the coach stopped. Morris charged along behind, trying to extricate a pistol from his pocket.
The woman had fallen and was sprawled in the mud. With the arrival of reinforcements the big man fled, one of his cronies hobbling along after him.
“Stop! In the King’s name!” thundered Rossiter, sword in hand.
A fourth man had ridden up and flung himself from the saddle. At Rossiter’s shout, he swung around, a long-barrelled pistol levelled.
“No you don’t, you murdering hound!” roared Morris, and fired.
The rider dropped his weapon, staggered back, and went down.
Dragging herself to her feet, the woman let out a piercing scream. “You monster!” she cried wildly.
“Eh?” said Morris, surprised.
She ran to drop to her knees beside the fallen man. “Oh! My heavens! Are you much hurt?” She reached out imperatively. “One of you, give me something I can use for a bandage.”
“Women!” said Morris in admiration. “They’re saints, curse me if they ain’t. Here’s the lady willing to bind the wound of the very scoundrel who robbed her and—”
“You triple-damned … clodpole…,” groaned August Falcon, blood trickling between the fingers that gripped his left arm.
Peering at his victim, Morris exclaimed, “If it ain’t the cold old duck! Be dashed if I’d have taken him for a rank rider.”
“Fool!” hissed Lady Naomi Lutonville, glaring at him furiously. “He was my escort!”
“Whoops!” muttered the lieutenant and drew back.
Rossiter passed his large handkerchief to the distraught lady, and looking down at the injured man said ruefully, “I suspect we erred, Jamie. Falcon—isn’t it, sir?”
“Yes. Curse you! Confound it but—but you and your idiot friend … will answer … to me.”
Naomi had fashioned the handkerchief into a pad which she now pressed against the wound in Falcon’s upper arm, and he lapsed into tight-lipped silence.
Lieutenant Morris started to apologize, but checked as he stepped on an extremely sharp pebble. He glanced down instinctively. Beside some wet and crushed papers something gleamed faintly in the dim light from the carriage lamps. Curious, he bent and took up a tiny figure crafted from pink stone and set with red beads. A child’s toy, probably, dropped here by some youngster. He started to throw it aside, but it was rather quaint and his little niece might like to have it. He dropped it into his pocket, then joined Rossiter as a liveried coachman ran up, wheezingly out of breath.
“They had hacks … waiting, and they got clean away.… Leastways, they didn’t get your … jewels, milady.”
“And they didn’t all get away,” observed Morris. “Unless that fella lying over there is one of your people, ma’am?”
Naomi jerked her head around. “Oh, the poor creature! Well, do not stand there like stones! Cannot one of you help him?”
“He’s dead,” muttered Falcon rather faintly.
“Shot to kill, did you?” said Morris. “Better check, coachman. Just in case. Can’t always trust your aim in this kind of light, sir. I’ve known—”
“Check and be damned t’you,” snarled Falcon. “I never miss—as you’ll discover when … when…” His voice trailed off.
Distressed, Naomi said, “Oh, he is faint, poor soul!”
“A good time to get him into the coach,” said Rossiter with calm common sense. “Give a hand here, coachman. We’d better take him back to the inn. Would you wish that he journey in my carriage, ma’am?”
Morris and the coachman lifted Falcon, and ignoring his protestations that he could walk, started towards Rossiter’s carriage.
“No,” said my lady autocratically. “Nor shall we take him back to that horrid inn! You will come home with me, August, where you can receive proper care. This person can take a message to—”
“The devil!” Falcon’s drooping head jerked up again. “I’ll not be maudled over in that pretentious pile, thank you! We’ll go back to the inn. My sister’s the best nurse I know.”
Naomi said with considerable indignation, “If you are not the most perverse and ungrateful of men! That inn is dirty and stuffy, and you will have much better treatment with us! We will take my coach, if you please, gentlemen!”
Obediently,
they turned to her coach.
“Stop!” roared Falcon. His bearers halted, and he said heatedly, “Had it not been for you, Milady Wilful, we might all be cozily in … in feather beds by now. Instead of … me having this stupid hole in my arm, and you being dragged through the mud till you look a—proper fright! Now do as I say, you dolts, and put me in the carriage of the block who shot me.”
Back turned the bearers with their burden.
“Do not listen to him,” said Naomi angrily. “Can you not see that—”
“Enough!” Rossiter’s voice cracked like a whip. “Be dashed if ever I heard such tomfoolery!”
“Your opinion carries no weight here,” she flared.
“And yours is rubbishing,” he said unequivocally. “The gentleman needs medical help, and the closest place for him to get it is the inn. If you persist in journeying on, so be it. I shall escort you. Jamie, put Mr. Falcon in my coach, and—”
“No such thing,” raged Falcon, struggling in the arms of his much tried bearers. “I’ll not trust myself to the man who tried to murder me!”
“Good God,” groaned Rossiter, exasperated. “Must we spend the night here while you two ridiculous people argue? Do you escort the lady then, James. I’ll take Falcon in charge.”
“Had it not been for you, he would not be shot,” exclaimed Naomi, who was trembling now and too close to hysteria to be sensible. “Do you fancy I mean to abandon him to your bloodthirsty—”
Her words were cut off by an enraged squeal as Rossiter swept her up in his arms, carried her to the carriage and tossed her inside. “Be quiet, and do as you’re told,” he said curtly. His stern gaze turned to Maggie who huddled weeping in the far corner. “As for you, my good girl—stop snivelling and tend to your mistress! She’s soaked through by the feel of it. Have you far to go, coachman?”
Time's Fool Page 4
