Time's Fool

by Patricia Veryan

  “Au contraire. I throttled him. And I believe I challenged him also.”

  “Can’t do both, my pippin. Ain’t done. You attack. He challenges. You’ve choice of weapons, being the challenged. Pistols? You’re a damned good shot.”

  Rossiter pursed his lips. “D’you think he’s up to swords? I don’t want to kill the silly fellow.”

  Glendenning pointed out, “You ain’t terribly good with a sword, Ross.”

  “Is he?”

  “Good with everything. Had lots of practice.”

  “He’ll likely be somewhat slowed if we set an early date, which may even the odds. Swords, Tio. Preferably in the next day or so.” His lordship was clearly preparing to enter a caveat, and Rossiter forestalled him by calling, “Tummet!”

  The valet appeared, as innocent as though he’d not listened to every word. “Yus, Cap’n?”

  “Lay out my new burgundy coat, and the white satin waistcoat with the pink clocks. I attend a soiree this evening. And tell Wilson to put out another cover. You will join us for dinner, Tio?”

  “No, no, dear boy. My thanks but—that beast of a hill! To negotiate it after dining would ruin my digestion for the rest of the evening. You shall dine with me, rather.”

  “Capital notion! In that event, I’ll change now. Oh, and Tummet—I shall wear the dress sword with the ruby in the hilt.”

  “Right, guv. But we won’t be ’aving no ship-yer-oars—that’s to say ‘little wars,’ melord—will we now, Cap’n? You ain’t proper recovered o’ all them ’oles in—”

  “No wars, you hedgebird,” promised Rossiter, touched but exasperated. “Go and put out my clothes, as I told you!”

  Mr. Enoch Tummet was not reassured, and made his way into the bedchamber grumbling audibly about high-in-the-instep young fire-eaters.

  * * *

  “But I assure you ’twas so.” Mr. Rudolph Bracksby bowed as the stately dance ended. “Certainly you must know that any gentleman once having met you counts the moments ’til he does so again?”

  The great skirts of Naomi’s white satin gown swirled as she sank into the curtsy. Her green eyes laughed at Bracksby as he raised her, but his admiration was plain, and she was pleased by the awareness that she looked well tonight. The swansdown-trimmed stomacher emphasized her tiny waist; the overskirts of her gown looped back to reveal the pink embroidered underdress. Her hair was swept up from her face and arranged into loose curls at the sides with a pink silk flower pinned above her left ear. About her white throat was a golden chain from which hung a pendant of pearls and rubies, and jewelled slippers glittered on her little feet.

  She had been surprised to find this charming but rather quiet gentleman at the Dowling Soiree, and more surprised when he had prevailed upon Lady Dowling to “properly introduce” him. Naomi was not inclined to simper or pretend she did not at once recognize him from their encounter in the cathedral. She had assumed, however, that he would soon leave her to go upstairs where many gentlemen sat at card tables, or to the large saloon where guests were gathering to hear Signor Guido Lambini read from and discuss his new book of poems. Instead, almost before Naomi knew what he was about, Mr. Bracksby had deftly appropriated her dance card, scrawled his name, and swept her from under the outraged noses of the eager group of young gallants surrounding her and into the quadrille.

  Now, as he led her from the floor, she murmured, “You’ve a silver tongue, sir.”

  “Then I shall hope it wags to your pleasure and my benefit. For example, may I call for you in the morning? An early ride, perhaps?”

  She laughed a little. “La, but it’s a determined gentleman.”

  “Be assured of that, ma’am. Shall we say—seven o’clock?”

  “I should be pleased to say seven o’clock. But—my regrets. I am engaged tomorrow.”

  “Then in the after—”

  But her admirers had regrouped and now crowded in about her. Mr. Bracksby, a decade older than most of them, was smiled on politely, stepped past gently, and gradually closed out by ardent youth. He took it in good part, wandered from the crowded room and made his way up the graceful curve of the main staircase. In the first-floor hall he was hailed by a familiar voice. Horatio Glendenning was bearing down on him, accompanied by a tall young man whose grey eyes sparked anger, and whose gaunt cheeks were slightly flushed. For just an instant Bracksby stood very still. Then, he said, “Good evening, Tio,” and extended his hand. “Hello, Gideon. How glad I am to see you safely home.”

  Rossiter said sardonically, “Then you are in the minority, Rudi. I am very much persona non grata, you know. I doubt Lady Dowling will ever speak to Tio again, for having brought me.”

  “Oh, Tio can bring all the ladies round his thumb,” said Bracksby, smiling as they exchanged a firm grip.

  Heads were turning in that crowded hallway, and several quizzing glasses were brought to bear to further emphasize the affronted stares of their owners. Apparently oblivious of this by-play, Bracksby went on, “What a beast of a homecoming you have had, poor fellow. I wish—”

  “I do not want sympathy,” interrupted Rossiter savagely. “What I need is help.”

  “And some privacy,” said Glendenning, noting that several gentlemen had halted and were muttering together. He swept open a nearby door, peeped into an unoccupied ante room, and ushered his friends inside. Lady Dowling’s breeding had not failed her when he’d greeted her with Rossiter at his side, but the look of stricken horror she had directed at him as he walked away could not be ignored. He left the two men alone, therefore, and with the determination to make his peace with their hostess, went in search of her.

  “’Twas all so blasted sudden.” Bracksby leaned back in his chair, looking very much the affluent country gentleman despite his well-cut grey brocade coat and the quilted violet satin waistcoat. “One day your father’s bank was prospering; the next, frantic investors were beating the doors down. How the word spread so swiftly, is beyond me. Would to heaven I’d reacted as fast. But I was still sitting waiting for things to right ’emselves, whilst men like Collington had seen the inevitable and recouped what they might.”

  Rossiter shrank a little. “Oh, Lord! Rudi, I knew you banked with my father, but—”

  “Of course I did, dear boy,” interpolated Bracksby. “I’m not a scion of one of Kent’s old-time families, as are you. But since I bought my little place I’ve always found your papa a dashed good neighbour, and with never a whisper of height in his manner. The least I could do was take my business to him.”

  A distant part of Rossiter’s mind was amused by Bracksby’s designation of Overlake Lodge as a “little place,” for it was a splendid estate, at least half as large as Promontory Point. And it was as well the poor amiable fellow had detected no “whisper of height” in Sir Mark’s manner; he’d likely be horrified did he know that the baronet was apt to refer to him as “our nouveau riche neighbour.” Rossiter’s main concentration was on more pressing matters, however, and he asked anxiously, “Did you sustain a heavy loss?”

  “Nothing I cannot absorb, and in truth that is the least of my worries, so let us hear no more of it. I wish I had been available to you when first you came home, but now you must tell me how I may be of service. If ’tis a matter of funding, only name the—”

  “No!” Rossiter sprang to his feet, revolted. “Damn your eyes! Do you think I would come begging, when—”

  Standing also, Bracksby said contritely, “’Pon my word, but I am a clumsy fellow. I should have realized you would turn to people of your own station, rather—”

  Rossiter whirled and caught him by the shoulders. “Rudi,” he said through his teeth, “if you weren’t the most well-meaning of fellows, by God I’d deck you for that!”

  Since Bracksby was sturdily built and vibrant with health, while Rossiter for all his extra inches was thin and pale and very obviously not at the top of his form, this point was debatable. But Bracksby lowered his eyes and stood in silence, looking humil
iated.

  Releasing him, Rossiter stalked to the mantel and, gripping it, glared down at the empty hearth. “Since I came home, I’ve struggled to come at the root of all this. I’ve interviewed everyone willing to talk with me, who might know something of it.”

  “Be dashed if I follow you, Gideon. Something of—what?”

  “Of a conspiracy to effect the deliberate, calculated ruination of my father!”

  His jaw falling, Bracksby sat down abruptly. “Good God! No, dear boy—you cannot be serious! I mean, what you imply surely would indicate a large-scale plot. A dangerous business, Gideon. With all due respect, I cannot think—”

  “You cannot think the Rossiter interests sufficiently compelling to inspire such a plot? No more can I. ’Tis what makes this so confoundedly baffling.”

  “Good Lord! Does poor— Er, I mean, does your sire believe this?”

  “He does. I’ll own I did not, but I am coming to think it not so unlikely after all.”

  “I suppose … vengeance, perhaps?”

  “My father admits to having enemies, but none he insists who would feel so ill-used as to resort to such a scheme. The men from the shipyard suspect arson. Why? So far as I am able to determine, there have been no workers dismissed this past year who might have cause to harbour a grudge. Why arson?”

  Watching him uneasily, Bracksby said, “Well now, if it was—er, arson, might there perhaps have been a party who wanted the land? Has Sir Mark rejected an offer to buy?”

  “There have been no offers. Besides, there is ample open land in the area that I am very sure the present owners would be happy to part with.”

  Bracksby pursed his lips. “A competitor?”

  “That occurred to me. But the shipyard that was originally to have built the frigates was in Scotland, and destroyed during the Rebellion.”

  “Was it! Now, there you might have a motive, old fellow.”

  “I might, had any of the owners survived. The father was shot by drunken troopers. Both sons died at Culloden. And ’twould have to be a sadly disordered mind to lay all that tragedy in my father’s dish. Besides, where would they obtain funds for such vengeance? Any family remaining must be pauperized.”

  “Hmmn.” After a moment, Bracksby said cautiously, “So what it all comes to in the long run, is that you think Sir Mark’s troubles were deliberately contrived. But he had no real enemies, nor is there any apparent motive for a—er, plot ’gainst him.”

  Gideon smiled, then wandered closer. “In other words, hopelessly illogical. Rudi, you know him quite well, and I’ve been gone so damned long. Have you ever heard anyone speak with bitterness or malice against my father? Can you think of anything—any occurrence, any quarrel, any smallest incident —that might relate to the matter?”

  “No. ’Pon my soul, I cannot.”

  “Your country estate marches with ours. Have you ever seen anything unusual in the way of guests at the Point?”

  “Never. Er,… forgive me, but you were severely wounded in Europe. Is it not possible, dear boy, that—that you are—er, not quite yourself? That the strain of all this falling on your shoulders when you should by rights have come home to rest and recuperate, might have—”

  “Set loose a flock of bats in my attic?” Rossiter sat down again. “Very likely. But, humour me a moment longer, I beg. Derrydene is a friend of yours. Where might I find him?”

  “Moscow.”

  “Moscow?” gasped Rossiter, incredulous. “What the devil…? D’you mean—in Russia?”

  “Yes. That one. Is there another? I’d not realized…” Bracksby lapsed into thought, saw Rossiter’s expression, and went on hurriedly, “’Tis the bell, you know. No, never start snorting fire and smoke, dear boy. I am perfectly serious. Derrydene is fascinated by bells. All shapes and sizes. Collects ’em. His house is a veritable museum of the things. It seems the biggest bell in the world is in Muscovy—er, Moscow. ’Twas hung in a belfry near—what’s it called?—Uspenski Cathedral, or something of the sort. The bell weighs two hundred tons. Or it did. They’d a fire there a few years back, and it fell down and a bit broke off. Eleven tons of it. Well, Derrydene has been absolutely mad to see it. That is why he withdrew his funds, and—Egad! You never thought…? Derrydene? Oh, no—really, Gideon!”

  * * *

  Rossiter walked slowly down the stairs, paying no heed to the repulsive looks that came his way, his ears closed to the contemptuous remarks, his thoughts turning wearily on what Bracksby had said. Derrydene’s departure now seemed reasonable enough, in view of his fixation with bells. Certainly, to follow him to Russia could not be considered. Another nail in the coffin of hope. That left only one last unexplored channel: Lord Norberly, a man who travelled somewhere in Scotland. Or perhaps Wales.

  Sighing, he went in search of Viscount Glendenning. There was no need to linger in this house, where his presence was an insult to most of the guests and an embarrassment to his hostess. But Tio had tried, and he must not leave without expressing his thanks.

  There was no sign of the viscount in the large music room that had been made over to those who wished to dance. The five-piece orchestra was playing a lively air, but there was no dance presently in progress. People stood about in little groups, the gentlemen impressively gallant in their full-skirted coats, gems flashing from lace cravats and white hands; the ladies delightfully feminine in their colourful gowns, plying their fans with the graceful coquetry that was not as easy as it appeared, since movement of their arms was restricted by the great panniers of their skirts. Watching the charming scene rather wistfully, Rossiter suddenly became aware that the merry chatter had ceased, and that everyone was staring at him. For the first time, the extent of his rejection by the society of which he had been a part came home to him. How many of these people had been dealt crippling losses by the failure of Rossiter Bank? How many had been ruined when the investment company had failed? Or had held shares in Rossiter Shipping? He could scarce blame them for the disgust with which they regarded him. But his father was wrongfully judged. And he was not, nor ever would be ashamed of his name! His chin came up slightly, his shoulders squared, and he faced them unflinchingly.

  Far to the side of that hushed room, Sir Gilbert Fowles said with a curl of the lip, “Someone really should remove that blot from our landscape.”

  Marguerite Templeby, Viscount Glendenning’s shy young step-sister, murmured softly, “Oh, but he is magnificent!”

  Sir Gilbert scowled and opened his mouth for another sally that was cut off as a burst of excitement sounded from the hall.

  Not sorry for the interruption, Rossiter turned to discover the cause. A clamorous group of gentlemen was assembling at the foot of the stairs. A lady wearing a gown of white satin and having a remarkably tiny waist, stood halfway up the stairs, her back to those who waited below. Rossiter wandered closer, trying to see what was happening. Without warning, the lady tossed a posy over her shoulder. The flowers were in a tiny vase mounted in a filigreed container, and it flew high over the heads of the crowd. Rossiter saw something whizzing at his face. He threw up a hand to protect his eyes, felt something strike him, and clutched it instinctively.

  An excited roar went up. “Who won? Who caught it? What lucky fellow will escort our goddess to the ball tomorrow?”

  The excitement faded. Through a stupefied hush, Rossiter saw every face turned to him, saw the aghast expressions; heard a man exclaim, “Good God, no! Not him!”

  On the stairs, my lady whirled about, her wide skirts swirling to reveal her glittering jewelled slippers. Her laughter died abruptly. Gideon Rossiter’s lean features seemed to leap at her and all the colour left her face.

  He glanced down at the flowers he held. “I seem to have intruded on a private lottery,” he drawled coolly. “You would doubtless prefer to throw again, ma’am.”

  A young exquisite lisped, “Thath right! Throw again, lovely one.”

  Over the immediate chorus of agreement, my lord Kadenworthy sna
pped, “Don’t be such a clunch. Fair’s fair.”

  Naomi heard both comments. She drew a steadying breath. What a perfectly frightful thing! But to turn back was unthinkable. She said frigidly, “You have won, sir. Unless you do not choose to be my escort?”

  All eyes turned to him; some hopeful, most condemning. He longed to be able to toss the flowers back into her proud, beautiful face; to free her from this contretemps and show his indifference to her—to them all. But to do so would be to insult her.

  He lied stiffly, “’Twould be my very great pleasure to escort you, my lady.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  “Surely you are not leaving, Naomi?”

  Not only was my lady Lutonville leaving this wretched soiree, but she could scarce wait to make her escape. Fate, with cruel whimsy, had played a very unkind trick on her. She was seething with rage, but because that rage must not be shown to a cynical world that would be all too ready to misconstrue it, she affected a bored amusement. It was not easy to refrain from gnashing her teeth at the gentle ladies who gushed over her “unhappy predicament,” while glee sparkled in their eyes; or to keep from giving a sharp set-down to the gentlemen who either moaned that she was placed in a ridiculous situation, or vowed bloody reprisals ’gainst Captain Rossiter.

  Recognizing the voice of an old friend, however, it was with genuine pleasure that she turned to embrace a tall young woman with a lovely and intelligent face and smiling hazel eyes. “Mitten! How wonderful to find you here! How are you, my dear? And how is little Joanna?”

  Lady Anthony Farrar patted the hand she held and leaned closer to say confidingly, “Five months old, delectable, and doted upon by far too many willing slaves. ’Tis as well that by Christmas time she will have either a small Gilbert or Helen competing for the attentions of her father and her uncles, who already are in a fair way to spoiling her!”

  Naomi’s laugh held a note of wistfulness. “You look so happy, and so well. It must be wonderful to be cherished and protected by such a fine man as your Anthony. Truly, I envy you.”