Impatient to be at home and get to the bottom of it all, Rossiter knew better than to risk a gallop on bad roads made worse by heavy rains. There were few travellers abroad on such a dismal night. An occasional solitary horseman or a labouring carriage would loom up and quickly disappear again. Rossiter swung his mount around a laden wain bound for London’s early market, oilcloth tied over the cargo, and a cheery hail issuing from what appeared to be a pile of sacking but was presumably the driver. Half an hour later, a stagecoach rushed past at reckless speed with a great blaring of the horn and a thunder of hooves. The heavy wheels sent up another spray of mud, but Rossiter was glad to see the coach, since it bore testimony to the fact that the roads were passable, at least as far as Canterbury.
He turned east three miles before reaching that city, and at once conditions worsened. The moonlight filtered between wind-whipped glistening black branches to show a lane that was a river of mud and ruts. Rossiter guided the horse along the hedgerows, but there were places where the ditch was steep and treacherous and he had to go cautiously. He had dreamed so often of returning to his home, but had pictured doing so on a bright, sunny morning, through grounds brilliant with flowers, the great house waiting in serene dignity to welcome him, and the mill lifting its ancient roof against the trees. This was a far cry from such a pleasant homecoming. There was something ominous about the stormy night. The wind seemed to howl a warning; the sudden gusts might almost have been striving to push him back the way he had come. Foolish fancies, he thought. Born of weariness and a nagging worry.
His unease intensified when he reached the lodge gates. There was no sign of life, nor did anyone respond to his hail. The rain began to pound down again. He dismounted, muttering curses, tethered the hack to a shrub and struggled with the heavy gate. Riding on again, it occurred to him that either everyone at the Point must have gone early to bed, or the trees had become very dense, for he should by now have been able to see some light from the windows of the main house.
He guided the horse along the drivepath, his eyes straining up the hill for some sign of life. By the time he reached the moat he had accepted the fact that his family must be in Town. Some servants had certainly been left, but they had evidently retired. He crossed the bridge and rode around to the stableyard. Not a glimmer showed from the long building that housed the outside staff. His shout echoed eerily but brought no response. He threw one leg over the pommel and slid from the saddle, then staggered. Lord, but he was so tired he ached with it. Angry and frustrated, he shouted again. “Dammit! Where is everybody?”
He had as well have questioned the puddle his boot splashed into, and not wasting more time he led the hack into the barn and his cold fingers groped for tinder box and flint. The feeble flame revealed a row of stalls with only one occupant, a sway-backed old grey that blinked at him sleepily. The animal must belong to a servant, but where the deuce were all the other horses? His mind was too numbed to grapple with the problem now. He must get to his bed before he fell asleep on his feet. First, however, the hack must be tended. Wearily, he lighted a lantern. Ten minutes later, having rubbed down the animal and provided it with oats and water, he took up the saddlebags, tossed them over his shoulder, and stumbled across the yard, making his way through the kitchen garden and up the back steps.
Unprecedentedly, the door was locked.
It was the last straw. With a cry of wrath he drove his boot at the handle. The wood splintered and a second kick sent the door slamming open.
The house was black as pitch and utterly silent. He groped his way across the kitchen and along the service corridor. In the Great Hall he tugged on the bell pull to no avail, then shouted again, his “Is anyone at home?” causing the prisms on the chandeliers to chime gently, but winning no other response. Disappointed, and reeling with exhaustion, he dragged himself up the stairs. His own bed would not be made up, of course, but there might be blankets in Sir Mark’s bedchamber. Coming to the door, he opened it and made his way to the great tester bed. His outstretched hand encountered an eiderdown. With a groan of relief he let the saddlebags slide to the floor, and stopping only to shed his cloak and boots and unbuckle his swordbelt, he crawled between the blankets.
He had scarcely closed his eyes than the sounds awoke him. Violent sounds. Thumps, crashes, voices raised in wrath and anguish. For a few seconds he thought himself back with his regiment, then he remembered and, groaning a curse, pulled the covers over his head. The sounds grew louder and the floor vibrated. A full-throated howl propelled him from the bed. Seething with rage, he took a step, then paused, taken aback to see sunlight streaming through the windows of his father’s vast bedchamber. He must have slept the night away. His swift scan of the room revealed only the furnishings—no trace of clothing or personal effects. They were away, all right. Nothing in that to cause alarm. If they were not in Town at Rossiter Court, Papa could have gone into the shires, or taken Gwen to Bath for the waters. Still, ’twas odd that not one servant had come to wait on him, for the grooms must surely have seen his hack in the stable and realized someone of the family was home. Besides, even when Sir Mark departed for a lengthy journey, most of the staff remained at Promontory Point, and never had this room been so stripped of all personal belongings …
Another crash recalled him to his purpose. Not waiting to pull on his boots, he wrenched the door open and strode along the corridor.
From the head of the stairs he had a full view of the altercation. “What the devil? Have done!” he shouted.
The larger of the combatants hurtled across the Great Hall, slammed against a medieval oak chair, and slithered to the floor. The survivor ran one hand through his considerably dishevelled hair and looked up.
“As you … wish, dear boy,” panted Lieutenant James Morris. “Sorry to throw your … your people about, but the silly fella wouldn’t listen to a … word I said.”
Rossiter ran down the stairs and clasped his hand strongly. “Jamie! Welcome! Did you just arrive?”
“Got here last night, my pippin. Couldn’t raise a soul at the front, but found a back door open. Wouldn’t have intruded y’know, but you have all my gear, and my spare lettuce is in my razor case.”
“Gad! I should have thought of that! My apologies, but I couldn’t hire a coach, so left most of our things at the Red Pheasant, meaning to—”
“What? D’you say I’ve to ride all the way back to that blasted inn again? Well, if that ain’t the shabbiest thing I ever heard! Pox on you, Ross!”
“I’ll send one of my father’s servants down there and have your things delivered, I promise you. Meanwhile, you can use my razor. How the deuce did you find your way here?”
“With considerable difficulty! Luckily I was given quite understandable directions by a most obliging midwife making a late call. Thought I might not find you here, to say truth. Had I not seen my lady for six years, I’d likely head first in her direction.” The smile faded from Rossiter’s eyes, noting which Morris added warily, “Ah! You did, I see. No—er, difficulties, I trust?”
“None I cannot come to the root of speedily enough. Why have you such a glum face? Are you thinking my lady has forgot me? Well, do not. She’s not the type to vow and forget.”
“Still … six years…,” said Morris, watching him from the corner of his eye. “A frightful lapse, old lad. Not that I wish to blow out your candles, but—anything might have happened, y’know.”
“What a dismals dispenser! Come now, cheer up. You’re in need of sustenance is what it is. Where did you sleep?”
“Took the liberty of racking up in your withdrawing room. Too tired to climb the stairs.” Taking in his host’s rumpled appearance and shoeless feet, Morris asked, “Your man—ah, away, old lad?”
“Don’t have one at present, but there must be someone keeping an eye on the place. With luck there’ll be food in the—”
“Ho, no you don’t!” interrupted a grim and husky voice. The lieutenant’s antagonist had risen and w
as aiming a large horse pistol at them. “The imperdence of it,” he said, his scratch wig tilted over one eyebrow, but his square features flushed and belligerent. “A fine state of affairs we’ve come to in this ’ere country when military coves break into the ’ouses of the gentry, make theirselves at ’ome, and then—wiv not so much as a twinge of conscience fer their sins—plan to raid the larder! Shocking is what I calls it! Proper shocking! I’m taking you two soldier boys in charge.”
“Who the devil are you?” demanded Rossiter.
“If it was any of your bread and butter, which it ain’t, I’d tell you as me name’s Enoch Tummet. Now you and yer friend is going to take a little trot to the cellar where you can stay while I fetch the constable. The idea! Trying to mill a ken while Tummet’s guarding it! The very idea!”
“You are a fool,” said Morris. “I stole nothing. Furthermore, this gentleman is Captain Gideon Rossiter and he lives here.”
“My eye and Uncle ’Arry,” scoffed the large Mr. Tummet, stepping forward and waving his pistol suggestively towards the kitchen hall.
“I cannot vouch for your relations,” said Rossiter. “And why the deuce my father would hire you to guard his house I cannot guess. But I assure you that I am Gideon Rossiter.”
“Ar, but even if you is, which you ain’t, number one: I’m a proper guard executing of me duty, and number two: this ’ere ’ouse don’t belong to the Rossiters no more, it don’t. Now you two fancy talking scroungers best get along ’fore me finger gets tired of ’olding back this ’ere trigger.”
The colour drained from Rossiter’s face and a blaze came into his eyes. He said grittily, “I will move not a step ’til I know what the devil you’re talking about.”
“Here we go gathering nuts in May,” sang Morris, starting to skip about holding out his coattails. “Nuts in May, nuts in May. Here we go gathering nuts in May, all of a Sunday morning.”
Mr. Tummet’s jaw sagged, and watching this performance glassy eyed, he whispered, “Cor lumme! The poor cove’s gone orf ’is tibby!”
Rossiter blurred across the space between them. Before Tummet could recover, the pistol was smashed from his hand. A brick seemed to explode under his chin, and for a while he quite lost touch with the performance of his duty.
Massaging bruised knuckles and looking down at the sprawled guard, Rossiter muttered, “Jolly well done, Jamie.”
Morris looked at him with compassion. The poor fellow was white as any sheet. “That was a hell of a way to learn of it, Gideon,” he said. “My apologies. I should have warned you.”
* * *
“Bin in all the newspapers,” said Mr. Tummet, spreading butter thickly on a slice of toast. “’Course, you two gents couldn’t be ’spected to know that, seein’s you bin orf fighting.” Apparently holding no grudge for having been knocked down, he winked at Rossiter across the laden kitchen table, and once again expressed his admiration for “any gent what ’as such a beautiful right. Furthermore,” he went on, “bein’ as I’m yer prisoner o’war, sir, might I be allowed another slice o’ that there ’am? Partial to ’am, I is. Not as I’d ’ave took it uninvited, like. Agin the law. But since yer forcing me into crime, as y’might say, I can’t be blamed. Right, sir?”
They had placed the guard under what Morris called a “flag of truce,” to which bending of the law he had agreed when presented with a gold sovereign and the promise of a hearty breakfast. In no time he had started the kitchen fire and set a pan of water to heat. Their raid on the larder had shown it well stocked, which, Tummet explained, was because the family had been in residence only yesterday. While the two officers washed and shaved, their “prisoner of war” had cheerfully fried ham and eggs, found a keg of ale, and a slab of cheese, and toasted several slices of bread.
By the time they had come down to the fragrant kitchen, Rossiter was somewhat recovered from the initial shock, and now, sliding another slice of ham onto Tummet’s plate, he said, “I find it all so inexplicable, Jamie. My father is a very rich man.”
“So ’e was, sir,” said Tummet around a mouthful of ham. “’Til ’e tried to pay orf them as ’e owed.” He waved his knife at the stunned soldier, and added lugubriously, “Ruinated ’isself is what he done. Don’t do no good, mate. They got ’im anyway, and now the Courts is trying to force ’im to sell this ’ere loverly mansion fer debt. Cor! ’E’d ’ave done better to grab what ’e could lay ’is ’ands on and clear orf outta the country.”
‘Twill break his heart,’ thought Rossiter.
“Sir Mark Rossiter is an honourable gentleman,” declared Morris, then spoiled this impressive reproof by adding, “but there’s something in what Tummet says, Gideon. If your papa had—”
“Don’t talk such fustian,” interrupted Rossiter, his voice harsh. “Do you fancy my father would let his stockholders and investors down?”
“They didn’t waste no time in letting ’im dahn, guv’nor.” Tummet reached for another piece of toast. “I dunno the whole lot, mind, but from what I ’eard, some o’ the richest gents as ’ad funds in Rossiter Bank, drawed out every last groat, the night ’fore the scandal got known. Dirty, I calls it. Proper dirty.”
“My … God…,” breathed Rossiter, leaning back in his chair and staring blindly at the bowl of mustard.
“If you don’t mind my asking, Ross,” said Morris. “Who —er, were they?”
Rossiter drew a hand across his eyes. “I don’t know all of them. My father and I disagreed on business matters and my interests were more with the shipyards. I wish to heaven I’d—” He caught himself up and added, “Norberly was one. And Derrydene. And some others, to a lesser extent, I think.”
The lieutenant’s honest hazel eyes grew round with astonishment. “What, Lord Norberly and Sir Louis Derrydene? Damme! I can scarce credit it! They’re very fine gentlemen.”
Rossiter jerked upright in his chair and glared fiercely at him. “My father is a fine gentlemen too, I’ll have you know!”
“Oh, I’ve not—not the least doubt of it,” stammered Morris, dismayed. “I meant no—That is, I only mean—well, one would think they were not the type one would find mixed up in—”
“Mixed up in—what, pray?” snarled Rossiter, a flush of anger on his thin face. “Embezzlement, perchance?”
Tummet said soothingly, “Now, now. Be easy, gents. Don’t go getting all warm round the perishing ear ’oles.”
Rossiter stood, fists clenched and eyes blazing. “I would like an explanation, if you please, Lieutenant.”
“Hello…? Is anyone about…?”
The three men stared speechlessly at one another as the gruff male voice rang from the direction of the front hall.
“’Ere,” said Tummet, heaving himself from his chair with a scared look. “I’d best go and find out who’s come to pay me a morning call.” He ran out, then stuck his head around the door and hissed, “You gents better get ready to ’op ’orf. Quick-like!” He vanished from sight.
Morris said urgently, “I’ll go and collect my things.”
“Afraid to be seen with me?” sneered Rossiter.
“Don’t be such a gudgeon.” Considerably irritated, Morris stamped along the hall to the rear servants stairs.
Tummet ran back into the kitchen, his brown eyes very round. “A lady’s come calling, Cap’n,” he wheezed. “But not fer me, more’s the pity! ’Er groom says it’s you as she’s looking fer. A Lady Naomi Lutonville! Cor! Whatta piece of toast!”
CHAPTER FIVE
So she had come! Rossiter’s heavy heart gave a leap. “Glory, glory!” he whispered, and ran for the door.
Lady Lutonville was sitting in the Great Hall, a riding crop in her hand. She came to her feet as Rossiter entered, and faced him in silence. He paused for a moment, staring, trying to equate this poised and bewitchingly lovely creature with the shy girl he had left behind so long ago.
She watched him unsmilingly, her head very high, her firm chin tilted upward. Her riding habit was of
a dark green that made her fair skin look almost translucent, and white lace gleamed at her throat and wrists. A broad-brimmed green hat, one side turned up and decorated with a sweeping white feather, was set upon her powdered hair, and thick ringlets had been pulled into a cluster below her left ear. Her beauty was not as exotic as that of Miss Falcon, but he found her delicate little nose adorable, the moulding of her face superb, her mouth sweetly curved and very kissable, the slim but well-rounded shape of her exactly as he had dreamed. The top of her proud head reached to his ear, just as it should. She was the personification of his gentle lady from Tranquillity Terrace, only inestimably more perfect.
“Naomi!” Hands outstretched, he started eagerly towards her.
She sank into a deep curtsy. “How kind in you to recognize me today, Captain Rossiter.”
There was a mocking edge to her voice, a hauteur to her manner, and after one disdainful glance at his hands, she ignored them.
She had as well have thrown a jug of cold water in his face, and Rossiter halted, and stood motionless.
“Faith,” she said with a brittle laugh, “I cannot wonder at your surprise. ’Tis most improper for a single lady to call at the home of a bachelor. Particularly”—a spark came into those great green eyes—“after he has brutalised her.”
Brutalised…? Bewildered, he said, “What—on earth—?”
“So you did not recognize me after all. Yesterday evening, sir. The hold-up.”
“Good God! You were the silly chit who—?” He cut the words off quickly, but not quickly enough.
Naomi’s lips tightened, and anger deepened the colour in her cheeks. “A true gentleman, sir, might have found it in his heart to show some compassion to a lady in distress, rather than reviling her.”
How coldly she spoke, with no least vestige of affection. And what an ironic twist of fate, that of all the women in the world, it had to be his dream wife he had handled so shabbily! Forgetting her infuriating obstinacy, he could think only of how impatiently he had tossed her into the carriage, and, dismayed, he stammered, “I did not mean—That is, I would not for the world—Oh, Lord, Naomi! I wish you will believe—”
Time's Fool Page 7
