Time's Fool

by Patricia Veryan

  Gideon laughed. “A fine weapon for a man! But not quite your size, is it?”

  “Oh, very witty. But you’d give a deal to know where I got it, wouldn’t you?”

  “Would I?” Gideon relaxed his grip, and knowing his brother, shrugged, and said uninterestedly, “We have little in common, twin. I have no taste for gossip.”

  Newby was massaging his wrist tenderly, but a crafty expression replaced the resentment in his face and he said, “I was in the vicinity of the Dowling house last evening, and I wandered around to the back so I might look into the ballroom. I thought ’twould be such fun to see our gallant fighting man draw some of the treatment I’ve had to endure these past months.”

  “You must have enjoyed yourself,” said Gideon with disgust.

  “Prodigiously. And even more so when this interesting article”—he waved the slipper—“came sailing through the air and barely missed me.”

  Gideon’s brows went up. “Do you say a lady hurled her slipper at you? Who was this resourceful female?”

  His thoughts on the event, Newby did not heed his brother’s sarcasm. “Unhappily ’twas too dark for me to see. I waited for someone to reclaim it, for certainly it has a value. But since it very likely fell from a bedchamber…” He grinned suggestively. “The lady must have been—otherwise engaged…”

  “A hot-blooded wench, evidently. I’ve the fancy you mean to benefit from your little adventure. How? Even were you to advertise that you have found her lost property, she would scarce dare claim it. And if you sell that pretty thing for the gems in the heel I doubt ’twould bring very much at the pawnbroker. I’ve heard they only use second-rate jewels in—”

  “Give me credit for more ingenuity,” said Newby smugly. “The lady who lost this left her reputation behind. Only think how grateful she must be an ’tis discreetly returned. All I’ve to do is discover which fair creature owns such a shoe, and I may win far more than any pawnbroker would pay me.”

  Contemptuous, Gideon drawled, “As ever, you are all gallantry.” He walked out of the room, leaving Newby hot with rage but also reminded that one could push his twin only so far, and that despite his injuries those slim hands were still incredibly strong.

  Morris was dozing in the window seat when Gideon returned to his small parlour. There was no sign of his valet, and he was obliged to summon Bernard, their solitary footman, who reported that Mr. Tummet was gone out in the carriage with Miss Gwendolyn.

  Gideon stared at the bland face, wondering why the deuce Gwen would have commandeered his unconventional valet.

  The question was still at the back of his mind when he accompanied Morris down the front steps to where a sweating boy held their horses. He pulled on his gauntlets, glancing without admiration at the antics of Morris’ highly strung thoroughbred. “Can you control that nervous nag or shall you have to carry him?”

  “I’ll have you know,” panted the lieutenant, “that Windsong is a real goer and cost me a pretty penny! Wait ’til you see him run. He all but flies!”

  “I do not doubt it. I’ve yet to see him rest more than two hooves on the ground at the same time. He should have been named Whirligig not Windsong!” Stifling a smile at his friend’s indignation, he said, “At least, the rain has blown over. Whereabouts is this flat of yours?”

  “Off Clarges Street. But I ain’t going there just now, dear boy. Thought I’d drop in on Falcon.”

  Frowning, Gideon swung into the saddle. “Not very good form, is it? Surely you can arrange your meeting after he and I have fought.”

  “Yes, but the delectable Miss Katrina might be about. Damme, but I forgot about this deuced mountain!”

  With an attempt at nonchalance, Gideon said, “Close your eyes, my Tulip. Let the nags worry about it.”

  Five minutes later, he stifled a sigh of relief as his frightened mare trod on level ground once more.

  “Be damned if I can fathom why you fellas choose such ghastly residences,” grumbled Morris. “Falcon must live at the very farthest-flung reaches of civilization, and you choose to perch on some blasted eagle’s nest!”

  “Then let us dispense with your call at Falcon House. No, really, Jamie, one does not attach the heart of a lady by challenging her brother.”

  Morris pursed his lips. “Under normal circumstances, I agree. In Falcon’s case, however, I’d think Miss Katrina would be dashed glad to have the clod chastised.”

  “Best think again. Miss Falcon dotes on him.”

  “You must be mistaken, dear boy. An angel like that could not possibly be blockheaded. Which reminds me, what of the poor block who was attacked whilst returning my belongings? Have you seen him?”

  “Yes. Byrd was properly mauled, but he is going along well now. He said the louts who attacked him were masked and vicious in the extreme. And that they seemed to be looking for something.”

  “Egad! One might think we had stole some highly secret plans and smuggled ’em home.” Morris paused, frowning. “You know, Gideon, we all had you marked for a downy bird. Might you be—” His eyes began to glow, and he exclaimed, beaming, “You are! You work for Intelligence, by Jove!”

  With difficulty, Rossiter subdued a shout of laughter. He glanced up and down bustling High Holborn, and leaning closer to his friend, hissed, “Weeds and winkles!”

  Morris’ jaw dropped. “W-weeds and—winkles…?”

  “Quiet, you dolt! There are ears everywhere! That is the password.”

  Flushed with excitement, Morris exclaimed softly, “Stap me! I knew there was something smoky afoot! All this business about conspiracies and chessmen and rank riders, and thieves who go in terror of ‘the Squire!’ All of a piece, is’t, dear boy? Well, I’ve rumbled you, so you’ve no choice but to own up. What’s to do?”

  “Insurrection,” whispered Rossiter.

  “Good God! But—we just had one! Those curst Jacobites, what?”

  “They only wanted to seize the throne. This lot plan a bloody rebellion. And death to all cows,” added Rossiter, inspired.

  Morris blinked at him, stunned. “All—er, what?”

  “Cows. Fiendishly clever, no? Only think on it, Jamie. Without cows there would be no milk, no cheese, no beef. England without roast beef?” He shuddered. “We would be lost! At the mercy of any aggressor who—”

  Despite himself a twitch had appeared beside his lips, and with a cry of mortification Morris tore the tricorne from his head and began to belabour his companion furiously. “Of all the—cheating—lying—devious…!”

  Ducking frantically, and racked with laughter, Rossiter pleaded, “Par pitie! Par pitie! I could not resist it! No, really, Jamie, spare me! Everyone stares.”

  Indeed, many amused faces were turned their way, and a lady wearing a great deal of paint and far too many jewels leaned from her sedan chair, shaking her fan at them in laughing reproof.

  Morris flushed scarlet. “Well, I trust you enjoyed your fun,” he said huffily. “I am very sure that as usual, gullible Morris provides a perfect foil for his clever friends. And you, sir, would be the better for a companion as quick witted as yourself. Good day to you!”

  He drove home his spurs and was away. Rossiter was after him like a flash. A glance over his shoulder and Morris’ ready grin dawned. He bent lower in the saddle and it was a race, the two young men galloping at reckless speed through the heavy traffic, leaving behind a trail of cursing coachmen, profane riders, and hooting boys.

  At the corner of Gray’s Inn Road Rossiter caught up, leaned from the saddle and seized Morris’ rein. “Wait up, Jamie!” he panted. “I’ve but now realized what you said.”

  “What did I say? And I want no more of weeds and winkles, damn your eyes!”

  “Thieves who go in terror of ‘the Squire.’ ’Tis exactly what Tummet said! That the louts who attacked him were desperate to find something for—‘the Squire.’”

  Morris looked dubious. “Don’t see anything remarkable in that, dear boy. Lots of servants refer to t
heir employer as the Squire.”

  “Perhaps. But surely, some would tend to say, ‘the master,’ or ‘the governor’ or something of the sort? Does it not seem odd that in both these instances the same phrase was used, the same sense of desperation conveyed?”

  “You say that the robberies were not coincidences, eh?”

  “Consider, Jamie. The ransacking of Promontory Point, your thieves, the attack on Byrd—By heavens! Perhaps my stolen saddlebags as well! There must be some connection!”

  Deep in thought, they rode on slowly, turning at length onto Great Ormond Street, where the distant roofs of the Foundling Hospital could be seen, with open countryside beyond.

  “But a’God’s name, why?” said Morris baffled. “It makes no sense unless somebody wants something we brought back from Holland. I brought nothing to inspire such frenzy. No more did—Oh, what luck!”

  Glancing up, Rossiter’s reaction was slightly different.

  Three ladies strolled towards them, followed by a footman. Two were startlingly lovely and clad in the height of fashion. The third had a fine-boned face and a mischievous look, and walked with the aid of a cane.

  The two men dismounted at once. Very aware of the aloof hauteur in Lady Naomi’s eyes, and the frown on Miss Falcon’s beautiful face, Rossiter bowed and paid his respects.

  Miss Falcon, a vision in a walking dress of light rose, nodded to him with cool disapproval. Lady Naomi wore a pale green toilette and a cream damask cape richly embroidered in the same green as her gown. A broad-brimmed hat of cream straw with green ribands hanging down the back was set à la bergère atop the belaced cap perched on her lightly powdered curls. She bowed politely but there was a sparkle of vexation in her green eyes.

  “I am so glad we fell in with you, Gideon,” said Gwendolyn merrily. “Are you come to fetch me?”

  Rossiter started and wrenched his gaze from the lady who had been for so long the embodiment of his every dream. “Er, no. I thought you had gone out for a drive, under Tummet’s escort.” An elbow was in his ribs. He ignored it, but the succeeding jab almost made him stagger.

  It was quite apparent that two of the ladies wanted nothing so much as to terminate this encounter. Gritting his teeth, Rossiter introduced the persistent lieutenant, and Miss Falcon’s chilly demeanour was replaced by an expression of horrified accusation. “You are the man shot my brother!” she exclaimed, drawing back.

  “Pray do not take me in deep aversion,” pleaded Morris earnestly. “I’d not have done so had I not thought he was a rank rider. ’Twas a perfectly natural mistake.”

  “’Twas nothing of the kind…,” she began indignantly.

  Morris attempted a gabbling and involved explanation, during which Rossiter turned aside and said quietly, “I’d not realized you and my sister were still—ah, acquainted, ma’am.”

  Lady Naomi turned her cool gaze to him. “You object, Captain Rossiter?”

  “Of course he does not,” said Gwendolyn. “We have had such a lovely cose, Gideon. Mr. Falcon has the finest dog, and let me throw a stick for him, only he took a little tumble. Mr. Falcon did, I mean, and was in such a humour we decided to leave him alone with it, didn’t we, Naomi?”

  My lady smiled at her. “He was rather cross, but you must not regard it.”

  “Just so,” agreed Rossiter. “August Falcon is renowned for several traits, but a conciliating manner is not among them.”

  “True. It has in fact become a rare quality in a gentleman,” sighed Naomi regretfully.

  Rossiter gritted his teeth. “Am I obliged to offer him an apology, Gwen?”

  “No, no,” said Naomi. “You must not trouble yourself with the niceties.”

  “Still, Apollo did break a vase when I was playing with him,” admitted Gwendolyn with a sparkling look.

  “Then I shall most certainly replace it.”

  “Thank you, dearest. That would be nice.”

  “If a trifle difficult,” murmured Naomi, watching a sparrow hop along the iron railings beside them.

  “How so, ma’am?” asked Rossiter. “Do you infer this vase to have been the only one of its kind in the entire world?”

  “Not at all. I imagine there must be others. In China. His grandmama brought it with her, I believe.”

  Gwendolyn halted with a distressed cry. “Oh, how dreadful! I could see he was terribly angry, but I thought ’twas because—Oh—Gideon!”

  “Never worry so, Gwen,” said Naomi, relenting. “I doubt Mr. Falcon ever looked at the silly thing.”

  “Of course he did. Clearly, he worships his grandmother’s memory.”

  Naomi patted her hand kindly. “Then we shall find another vase. My father is quite expert on antiquities. I’ll ask him to—” Glancing up, she stepped aside hastily.

  They were blocking the flagway, and the two large matrons now approaching did not propose to share the right of way. Rossiter guided Gwendolyn away from their aggressive advance. Still striving to win a kindlier attitude from his goddess, Morris was lost to all else and became the recipient of a sharp prod from a parasol. He uttered an involuntary yelp. The matron who had folded her weapon so as to attack him, now snapped it open again. It was of brightly hued purple and white silk with a scarlet fringe, and it turned Morris’ Windsong into the whirligig Rossiter had named him. Neighing his terror, the big horse reared and spun. Morris tried to pull him down, but was sent reeling. He collided with Katrina and knocked the dainty reticule from her hand. Gwendolyn was well clear of the debacle, and Rossiter sprang forward, swept Naomi into his arms, and whirled her around.

  “Oh! Put me down at once!” cried Naomi angrily.

  An iron-shod hoof flailed down about four feet from her cheek.

  Katrina gave a cry of alarm.

  “Oh, Gad! I am so very sorry,” groaned Morris, belatedly succeeding in controlling his rambunctious animal.

  Katrina’s footman, who had been engaged in conversation with a shabby individual, now came running up, and he and Morris bent simultaneously to retrieve Katrina’s reticule. Gideon heard the thump as their heads collided. The footman gave a shocked cry and his wig and tricorne fell off. Gasping, Morris snatched determinedly for the reticule. Unhappily, he retrieved it upside down. Coins rolled in all directions; a pencil, notepad, card case, chain purse, handkerchief, a brush, an advertisement for cucumber lotion, a small pair of scissors, a brooch, two letters, a pot of rouge, a scone wrapped in paper, a flea comb, and a carrot were scattered about the flagway. A hand mirror shattered as did a vial of scent, the latter splashing Miss Falcon with cloying fragrance that was customarily applied by the drop. She uttered a wail of embarrassment. The footman knelt and started to retrieve the numerous casualties, and Morris groaned dismally.

  Passers-by had found the incident highly amusing, and a big man accompanied by a very fat and hilarious lady, shouted that it was “as good as any farce.”

  Naomi pulled away from Rossiter’s arms and fixed him with a stern frown.

  He enquired blandly, “Are you all right, ma’am?”

  “I was perfectly all right, and nowhere near—”

  He made a gesture of dismissal. “There is not the need for thanks,” he said, with somewhat questionable magnanimity. “A gentleman must always stand ready to protect a helpless damsel.”

  “Hmm,” said Naomi. “Katrina, you are not harmed?”

  Miss Falcon might be unharmed but she was close to tears of mortification. In a shaken voice she urged that they return home at once, for they must have a nap this afternoon.

  The three ladies embraced and said hurried farewells. Rossiter engaged to call for Lady Naomi at half past nine o’clock, and poor Morris, hanging his head in shame, wished the earth might open and swallow him.

  Turning back towards Falcon House, Katrina all but sobbed, “I reek! Oh, I shall smell of Camellia Caprice forever! I have never been so humiliated! Whatever must they have thought?”

  “That you carry a vast amount in your reticule, love.”
Her eyes alight with mischief, Naomi said, “Never fret. Your laundress will get the scent out, I am persuaded. But in truth, you carry some unexpected articles when you go out for a stroll.”

  “I took the scone to feed the ducks in the park yesterday, and quite forgot! And the carrot was for my mare. But—the flea comb, Naomi! ’Twas for Apollo, but—What if—Oh, how awful!”

  Naomi chuckled. “No, really. Even those two would never think ’twas for your own lovely head, dearest.”

  “I do hope not,” sniffed Katrina. “Faith, but I marvel Lieutenant Morris survived the war. He is a perpetual disaster!”

  “And so terribly smitten, poor fellow. He could scarce have played his cards worse! He must first shoot August, then come nigh to trampling you with his half-broke horse, next engage in the fiasco with your footman, and compound his offenses by emptying your reticule. Truly, I could not but feel sorry for him. He looked ready to sink!”

  “And I was of a mind to sink him! Bad enough he must make me a figure of fun, but had it not been for Captain Rossiter—Naomi, I was sure that wild animal’s hoof was going to strike your face!”

  Naomi said tartly, “He would certainly have done so—had he the legs of a camelopard, or whatever ’tis they call them now.”

  “Giraffe, I believe. No, was the horse that far from you? Then I wonder why Captain Rossiter must snatch you up like that?”

  Naomi gave her a level look. “Do you, indeed.”

  Momentarily forgetting her own humiliation, Katrina said with saintly innocence, “I suppose it must have been very dreadful to be crushed and swept up in his arms like that. In view of—er, everything.”

  Infuriatingly, Naomi felt her cheeks burn. She said, “I vow I purely dread this evening! Whatever has become of your footman?”

  The footman in question, having collected all the contents of the reticule and restored his own dignity, was presenting Rossiter with a folded paper. “A h’individual h’asked me to put this in your ’and, sir,” he said. “Jest before”—he flashed an aggrieved glance at the glum Morris—“the h’incident with the ’orse.”