Time's Fool

by Patricia Veryan

  “Better’n twelve miles, sir.”

  “Oh, egad! ’Tis almost dark and I fancy there will be little sight of the moon tonight. Shall you be able to find your way?”

  “Know this country like the back o’ me hand, sir, never fear.”

  “Very good. Then, off you go, coachman! God speed, Jamie.”

  Swinging into the saddle, Morris said, “I may continue on to Sevenoaks. An I do, I shall call on you when I come to Town. Have a care, dear boy!”

  Naomi, however, had no intention of leaving Falcon until she knew he was in good hands. Managing to open the window, she leaned out, and called peremptorily, “Roger, pay no heed to this person. We will follow them and make sure that Mr. Falcon is carried safely to the inn.”

  Rossiter’s shoulder was aching wretchedly, he felt beyond words tired, and his impatience with this bedraggled and argumentative female boiled over. He said irritably, “Good God! Are you still nittering, woman? I vow you’re as witless as you are wet! Unless you crave the attentions of another rank rider, spare a thought for your servants and your horses and refrain from frippering about all night.” He slapped his gloved hand on the rump of the near leader and the carriage jerked forward.

  A squeal of rage rang from the carriage as Naomi was flung back against the squabs.

  The grinning coachman saluted Rossiter with a wave of his whip, then cracked it over his horses’ heads, and the cumbersome vehicle lurched and creaked away.

  Rossiter stared after it for a moment. It occurred to him belatedly that he had no idea of the identity of the infuriating woman, and in the dimness had only been able to ascertain that, as Falcon had said, she’d looked a proper fright with her hair all tangled and askew and herself soaked and muddy. To judge from the way she’d spoken to Falcon, she was probably his latest paramour.

  ‘His taste is not what it was,’ thought Rossiter dryly.

  * * *

  Leaning back against the heavy oak sideboard in the tiny parlour, Rossiter watched the girl seated on the lumpy sofa and thought that in all his life he had only seen one lady who was lovelier. “I wish you will not be so worried,” he said gently. “It did not appear to me that the bone was broke, and your brother seems in excellent health.”

  Half an hour had passed since they’d pulled into the yard of the Red Pheasant Inn, with the excited postboys shouting the news of the murderous hold-up. A great stir had resulted; an awed crowd rushing out to hear the grisly details and watch as the wounded gentleman was assisted inside. This had exasperated Falcon, who’d growled a suggestion that the host charge admission to “all the yokels having nothing better to do than gawk” at him. Miss Falcon’s appearance had brought an expectant hush, but although the beauty had turned pale, she had disappointed many by neither screaming nor succumbing to a fit of the vapours. Far from disappointed, Rossiter had ordered that a groom be sent off to summon the constable and the apothecary from the neighbouring village, and the injured man had been borne upstairs.

  The constable was small, sour, and annoyed to have been summoned from his fireplace. He had made a few notes, declared importantly that the malefactors would be “dealt with,” and gone away to send the saddler, who was also the undertaker, after the corpse. Now, Falcon lay in the bed he had bespoken for his sister, while the apothecary did what he might to aid him.

  Katrina Falcon turned her fascinating and anxious eyes to Rossiter. “I suppose, as a soldier, you have experience of bullet wounds, Captain. I only know that my father deplores pistols, for he says they are so very deadly. Indeed, whenever August fights a duel Papa begs that he will choose swords.”

  He smiled. “One might suppose your brother to be very often called out.”

  “I have lost count,” she said simply. “Has he challenged you? From what he told me when he was carried in here, I gained the impression he means to do so.”

  “He probably does, though it will be some time before he can fight anyone, I suspect. The poor fellow will have to contain his impatience.”

  His attempt at lightness failed. She said, “One could scarce blame him for being vexed, sir. To have fired a pistol at another man without taking the time to discover his identity was quite insupportable. In truth, I think your friend must be prodigious hot headed.”

  “I wish you will believe ’twas an accident,” he said earnestly. “When a man comes upon a hold-up in the darkness and a fellow rides up with a pistol aimed straight at him—well, he’d be a fool to take chances. Especially when there are already corpses lying about, and—”

  At this point, with an irked flush on his pock-marked face, the apothecary joined them, sped upon his way by a blast of profanity.

  Miss Falcon stood at once. “Is my brother very badly injured?”

  “No, ma’am.” For an instant Rossiter thought the apothecary would add “unfortunately,” but he restrained himself and reported, “I believe the bone was grazed, but if he keeps to his bed and takes the elixir I’ll send round, he should be up and about in a week or so. If not—” He shrugged.

  Anxious, she hurried into the bedchamber.

  The apothecary glowered at Rossiter. “He says you’re responsible, Captain, and will pay me.” His hard eyes fastened to the fat purse Rossiter pulled from his pocket, and he grumbled, “I work long enough hours in the daylight, and don’t usually come out at night, as I told the man they sent for me. I hope he let you know ’twould be double fee. Five guineas.”

  “Nonsense! Do you take me for a flat?”

  “’Tis clear you been away at the wars, sir,” wailed the apothecary, watching anxiously as Rossiter’s long fingers paused on the clasp of the purse. “Prices has gone up since you—”

  “They have not quadrupled! I shall pay you two guineas, only because of your disturbed slumbers.” He saw the man’s small mouth opening for a protest, and added, “But I do not care to be milked, so if this doesn’t suit we shall have in the host and I’ll enquire of him as to your regular fee, which is likely a crown. Make up your mind.”

  The apothecary bemoaned the fact that soldiers were hard-hearted men, but he snatched the two guineas as Rossiter made to draw them away, and then looked so smug it was apparent he’d not expected as much.

  Rossiter asked, “What was Mr. Falcon ranting about?”

  “My hands was too cold and too clumsy, and the bandage was too tight, and he wouldn’t swallow the medicine I tried to get down his stubborn throat. An he’s a friend of yours, sir, I’m sorry. But he’s a difficult gent. Most cantankerous.”

  Miss Falcon came out looking worried. “He desires a glass of brandy. Is it allowed, sir?”

  “By all means, if you want him in a high fever. He may have a tisane, rather.”

  Picturing the volatile Falcon sipping medicinal tea, Rossiter smothered a grin.

  “I sent my woman to fetch some tea half an hour ago,” said Miss Falcon. “I suppose they are very busy in the kitchen. I shall have to go down and see if I cannot make it myself. Could you please stay with my brother, sir, until I return?”

  The apothecary made a dart for the door. He most certainly could not stay. He had to take a man’s foot off in the morning, and must be up early. The door slammed behind him and they could hear him grumbling his way along the hall with many references to the cantankerous Quality.

  “Good Lord,” muttered Rossiter. “I pity his patient! Well, I’ll get on my way, ma’am.”

  She begged him to remain “just a few minutes” longer. He wanted nothing more than to get to his home, but he could not resist those pleading eyes, and agreed. “Though I doubt you’ll get Falcon to drink a tisane.”

  An unexpectedly militant light came into her eyes. “He will drink it,” she declared, and hurried away.

  Rossiter glanced at the closed bedroom door, then sat down and stretched out his long legs. Gad, but he was tired! He gripped his left shoulder and flexed it carefully, wondering if the confounded wound would ever stop aching. Of all the beastly luck, to be invol
ved in this nonsensical farce instead of tending to his own—

  A crash resounded, followed by Falcon’s irate howl. “Has everybody died? I require assistance! This year! Katrina!”

  From the next room came a pounding on the wall, and an irritated guest roared something about being allowed to get some sleep. His answer was a crash indicative of glass shattering against the wall, followed by shouted insults expressing Falcon’s decided lack of interest in his neighbour’s wishes.

  Rossiter stuck his head around the bedroom door. “You’ll have the Watch here if you do not cease your caterwauling. What assistance do you require?”

  “Some brandy—and your blood,” snarled Falcon, sinking back against the pillows.

  Despite his hostile manner, he was very pale and looked exhausted. Rossiter knew all too well what a visit from an apothecary could be like, especially if a bone was chipped, and he checked the scornful remark he’d been about to utter. Walking into the room, he said instead, “Try to behave with a soupçon of sense, else you’ll likely never kill anyone again.”

  “Do not refine on that!”

  “Dash it all, man! You certainly know ’twas an accident!”

  “Easy to say, when you’re standing there, and I’m lying here.” Falcon’s jaw set. After a brief pause through which he appeared to be holding his breath, he said in a less sure voice, “I fancy you think this poetic justice.”

  Rossiter leaned against the bedpost and watched him thoughtfully. “An you refer to our brawl at Eton, you must attach a deal more importance to it than I did.”

  “Importance—hell! I thought it damned ridiculous. I did not plead for your so gallant intervention.”

  “Charming as ever, I see,” drawled Rossiter. “You must not fail to write to me if ever you should plan on saying anything pleasant. I’d not miss it for the world.”

  A faint glint of amusement came into Falcon’s eyes, but the single word he uttered was not conciliating.

  “I entered your little fray,” explained Rossiter, “only because the odds were four to one. I’d have done the same for any fellow.”

  “And won yourself precisely the same reward. A black eye and broken nose as I remember—no?”

  “Your memory is reliable, at least. Most gentlemen would surely have offered a word or two of thanks. Still, I soon realized that the withholding of such courtesies was not remarkable in your case.”

  “Then I taught you something,” sneered Falcon.

  “Just so.” Rossiter straightened up. “Good day to you, sir.”

  “No—don’t just walk off, dammitall! If you must abandon me, at least have the decency to fetch me some brandy before you go. There’s a decanter in that revolting parlour.”

  “Yes, and your sister would have my ears did I give you some. She has gone to brew you a tisane.” He chuckled at the response, and when Falcon ran out of expletives, he said, “The lady has my sympathy. Is there anything you would like me to do for her before I leave?”

  “No, fiend seize you! Wait! Be sure she has enough blankets. She’ll likely insist on me remaining in this accursed bed.”

  “Yes. She seems a most unselfish creature.”

  “Does she indeed! Keep your eyes from her, I warn you!”

  “Oh, Lord! Must you be such a fool? No man could keep his eyes from her. She’s one of the most beautiful women I ever saw.”

  His eyes blazing, Falcon struggled to one elbow. He was panting, two spots of colour high on his cheekbones. “An you dare pester her whilst I’m laid here by—by the heels…!”

  “Be at ease, you silly clod. I admired the lady merely. A fine villain you take me for!”

  “Be assured of it!”

  “If you weren’t in that bed, by God—” Rossiter broke off. “No! For God’s sake—get back—” He sprang to catch the injured man as he managed to clamber out of bed, only to sag dizzily. Guiding him back onto the pillows, Rossiter wrenched his shoulder and said with considerable irritation, “If ever I saw such a fire-eater! I’ve barely set foot in England, and have no slightest designs upon your sister.”

  “You had best not have! My … prejudices are few, but ’fore heaven I draw the line at … at having Katrina plagued by a man whose name is a by-word for … treachery and dishonour!”

  For an instant Rossiter was so astounded he could do no more than stare at Falcon’s pale and sweating face. Then, he said very softly, “I think you must explain that, sir.”

  “Faith, but your astonishment is well done!” Falcon’s lip curled. “Much I need to explain! Why are you come home save to support your sire? Though ’tis little he’ll gain from your presence after the unlovely record you’ve built in the Low Countries, and—”

  Rossiter threw up one hand peremptorily. “We do not discuss my record. Why should my father need my support?”

  “Oh, stop your gammoning, man! Am I to believe you did not know that three months ago Rossiter Bank failed; Rossiter Investment Company failed; that your sire was proved a thief and embezzler, and has sunk your name in deep dis—”

  Rossiter had turned very white, but now his face became livid. His hand whipped out to fasten on Falcon’s nightshirt. Hauling him up, he said between his teeth, “Curse you for a liar! My father never did a dishonest thing in his life!”

  “Go and ask him!” Falcon beat feebly at Rossiter’s arm. “And—and then you may come back and go down on your … knees and—and beg me not to run you through!”

  “Let him go! Oh! What are you doing to him?”

  The shrieked words cut through the red haze of wrath that had enveloped Rossiter. He released his grip abruptly, derived a savage satisfaction from hearing Falcon swear as he fell back on the pillows, and stalked to the door.

  Two women stood on the threshold. One was a thin and stern-faced abigail who carried a laden tray; the other was Katrina Falcon. Her horror-filled eyes accused him. She pulled her skirts closer as he passed. “For shame, to attack a helpless man,” she said in disgust.

  “Your brother will never be helpless, madam,” he riposted, “until someone amputates his vicious tongue!”

  Running down the stairs, his conscience acknowledged that he had behaved like a cad in handling Falcon roughly. It was a small and barely heard voice. Most of his concern was with his father. He must get home at once and learn exactly what had happened.

  He frowned grimly. He had thought his fighting days were done. Now, it appeared, they might be just beginning!

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Naomi coaxed a tendril of her damp hair into place and inspected herself in the dressing table mirror. Wet and witless, he had called her. The horrid boor! She had, perhaps, been a trifle upset. Who would not be after such a terrifying experience? But he’d shown her not the slightest compassion. Wet and witless, indeed! She had been soaked and dirty, true, but her face was free of mud now, and Maggie had brushed her hair into a richly shining mantle about her shoulders. She was a little pale from shock and weariness, but this served to emphasize the clear green of her eyes. If the tall soldier could see her now … She tossed her head impatiently, and drew the lacy collar of her white satin dressing gown higher. Much she cared what he would think. Only, although it had been almost dark and she’d not really seen him clearly, there was something about the captain that troubled her. Something that hovered at the back of her mind, refusing to be drawn to full recollection.

  “I know as you’re worrying for poor Mr. Falcon,” said Maggie, hurrying from the door and a whispered conversation with the first footman. “But—”

  “Mr. Falcon!” exclaimed Naomi with a guilty start. “Yes, of course I am. I think his wound was not serious, but poor Miss Katrina is likely in need of me. I should be with her now but for that horrid soldier!”

  “Wicked, I calls it,” agreed Maggie with gratifying indignation. “To pick you up like a sack of oats and toss you—”

  The memory of that unheard-of indignity brought rage smouldering into Naomi’s eyes once more. �
��He was an arrogant brute!”

  “What had no right to seize your sweet self in his great strong fists and throw you in the coach like any—”

  “If I’d but had my little silver pistol to hand he would not have touched me so, I promise you!”

  “Touched you, milady! Mauled you, more like! And heaved you about as if you was any bale of hay, with no least—”

  My lady’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Refer to me as a sack or a bale once more, wretched minx,” she warned between her teeth, “and I shall pinch you! Hard!”

  Maggie lowered her big brown eyes demurely, and murmured her apologies, but her lips twitched suspiciously. Long before Mr. Simon Lutonville had gone out to Italy, or entertained any hope of acceding to the earldom, little Maggie Osgood, the head gardener’s daughter, and Miss Naomi had played with their dolls together. They had been mistress and maid since Naomi had returned to England, but the affection between them remained. The pert village lass knew just how far she could go before she was in danger, and that however heinous her offence she would never collect a hard box on the ear, or have to endure the endless succession of slaps or scratches that many of her friends received from their employers.

  “’Tis because I so loves you that I am put about to think of him daring to treat you so rough,” she declared earnestly. “And after his evil friend shooting down that dear handsome Mr. Falcon like he was a common thief! Whatever the earl will have to say, I dassen’t think. Best hasten, milady. His lor’ship be waiting for you like a proper thundercloud.”

  Naomi stood, stifling a yawn. “I wish my father would let me explain in the morning.”

  “Aye, you’re proper wore out, poor lamb. Just tell his lor’ship as quick as you can, and don’t loiter about down there.”

  Naomi’s smile was rueful. Maggie followed her into the hall and said, “I be going to put a hot brick ’twixt the sheets, so by the time you come back upstairs your bed will be all toasty warm waiting for you.”

  Naomi thanked her and walked along the hall.

  Watching that rather slow progress to the stairs, it seemed to Maggie that her lady’s glowing head was not held quite as proudly as usual. She thought, ‘I hope she doesn’t tell his lor’ship where we was today.’ She had seen the earl’s scowl, and picturing his reaction to that piece of news, murmured, “Lawks a mussy! The fox would be in with the hens and no mistake!”