Falcon had been chatting with Mrs. Dunbar, a flirtatious matron with a splendid bosom, but he evidently possessed excellent hearing. Turning to Jennifer, he said, "Now what is this, pray? Am I in the company of royalty?" He inspected her through his quizzing glass, and drawled with a slight curl of the lip, "Faith, but you must be a rara avis, Miss Britewell. Most ladies having the very faintest claim to a royal ancestor fairly trumpet their lineage."
She found herself wishing she had a trumpet so that she might bend it over his supercilious head, but she said with a smile, "Had I any proof, sir, I likely would be as gauche. Alas, the truth is that you are probably far more acquaint with royals than am I. You spend most of your time in the Metropolis, mingling with the mighty, no?"
He fixed her with a cold stare. "Alas for your expectations. I have better things to do with my time than spend it in so foolish a way. I am as often in the country as in Town."
"Ah, but you do not spend much of your time in Sussex, dear Mr. Falcon," trilled Mrs. Dunbar, giving his wrist a playful rap with her fan. "We all know you do not care for the country, even though Ashleigh is such a beautiful estate."
He said baldly, "You surprise me, ma'am. I'd not thought you had deigned to visit us there."
The matron's face became crimson, and she retreated in simpering disorder.
Turning back to Jennifer, he asked, "Do you often visit Town, Miss Britewell?"
She thought he must be the rudest man she had ever met, and said a rather terse, "No, seldom."
"And do not care for it, I see. Why?"
"I suppose because it is so very big and crowded, and I feel all at sea there."
"You would," he nodded.
She was rendered speechless. Lieutenant Morris again leaned toward her and said an amused but apologetic, "You will not believe me, Miss Britewell, but August is on his best behaviour today."
'Heaven forfend,' she thought, 'that I should see him at his worst!'
Falcon's grin was unrepentant, unexpected, and dazzling. He bent to her ear and murmured, "Morris thinks I am being rude."
"Why?" she asked, sufficiently irked to take up the gauntlet. "Because you quite obviously think me a country bumpkin? I have no doubt but that, by your lights, I am."
"Oh, yes," he acknowledged outrageously, and allowed himself to be drawn into conversation with the coy Mrs. Dunbar once more.
He scarcely spoke to Jennifer again, but when the meal ended, he drew out her chair, and offering his arm, threw her completely offstride by murmuring, "But you see, I like country bumpkins."
Jonathan had known that inevitably someone would recognise him. His unmasking occurred during the ample luncheon provided in the servants hall, and the revelation provoked first a disbelieving silence, then roars of mirth. He bore their taunts in silence for the most part, but when he did speak his accent caused another outburst of abuse. Enjoying this diversion, they demanded to see the "creature" he was said to have brought with him, and the head groom agreed that the bird should be displayed.
The small, grinning group accompanied him back to the stables and the Britewell carriage in which the cage had thus far escaped notice. They crowded around with genuine curiosity, most never having seen such a bird.
Duster made small nervous squawks and warblings as so many human faces pressed in around him.
A burly stablehand jeered, "He painted it! Let's give it a wash!" He made a grab for the cage, and when Jonathan promptly swung it aside, sent a knotted fist whizzing at his jaw. Duster, reasoned Jonathan, was a living being and had a right to be protected from this young bully. He ducked the flying fist and set down the cage. His left deflected a following punch, and his right struck home hard and true. The stablehand found himself flat on his back, and the momentarily silenced onlookers confronted a man whose eyes flashed menace, and who crouched in a manner that said he knew how to fight. Still, they were many, and he was an outsider who "gave himself airs of the gentry" while everyone knew he was touched in the head. They surged forward.
"That'll do," decreed the head groom, authoritatively. "The looby had a right. 'Sides, ten to one ain't fair odds and the master's a great one for fair play. Back to work!"
They dispersed with reluctance.
Jonathan gave his levelled opponent a hand up. The stablehand fingered his reddening jaw and muttered with grudging respect, "Looby or no, you got a right, all right, mate!"
The head groom waited till they'd gone, then said sternly, "I don't want no trouble while you're here, my cove. His lordship likes things nice and quiet like. Get yourself cleaned up, and take your cage up to the house. Miss Britewell wants to show that bird to Miss Caroline."
The afternoon heat was oppressive as Jonathan crossed the turf. Only a few guests were outside, most probably being laid down upon their beds for a peaceful nap. He proceeded to the servants entrance, and asked a formidably elegant footman for Miss Britewell. The footman gave him a brief glance, and extended one gloved hand. "Give it here."
Jonathan said, "Miss Britewell particularly asked that I bring the bird to her. She wants me to tell her friend about it."
The footman's eyes rested on him briefly. "You'll be the coachman what I have heard tell of. Well, you may put on your fancy airs among the grooms, me good man, but you need not think as to gull me! Hanson!" He waved to a hovering parlourmaid. "Take this here person to the conservatory. And see as you comes back by the servants' stairs, Coachman. You need to learn your place. Which in a great house like what this is—is low. Very low indeed!"
Hanson was thin, wispy, and timid, and looked not much older than fourteen. She conducted Jonathan up a narrow flight of stairs, along a corridor redolent with the smells of cooking, and through a baize door into the main part of the house. She then scurried along a wide and very different corridor, the gleaming oak floors spread with colourful rugs, and the walls hung with fine paintings. At the far end was an open glass-roofed extension which was, she advised in a nervous whisper, "The conservy-tory!" With a quick look at Duster, she hissed, "Oh, my! Fancy that!" then jerked her head to a closed glass door, and scurried away in apparent terror as Jonathan knocked and entered.
The air inside was close and damp. Plants of all shapes and sizes crowded wooden benches, overflowed on to the stone floor, or were in pots suspended from wooden beams. It was very neat and clean, and there were ample walkways through this miniature jungle, but there was no sign of Jennifer.
Jonathan called, "Miss Britewell?"
She materialised from behind a large fern, and gestured urgently. His pulse quickened as it always did when he saw her. She wore a gown of cream silk embroidered in pink, and a cream cap with pink ribands was set on her powdered curls. He hurried to her, resolutely ignoring her outstretched hands, but unable to refrain from murmuring, "How very lovely you look."
She seized his arm, and drew him deeper into the "jungle."
"Thank heaven there is no one else in here!'
He detached himself from that dear but dangerous contact. "Did you really want Duster?"
"No, no. 'Twas a ruse." Searching his face, she asked wistfully, "Are you not glad to see me again?"
"I—How could any man not be glad to see you?"
She sighed. "And how well you evade, my Jonathan. I am glad to see you, and always will be. But I'll not tease you, for we could be interrupted at any second, and I've something to tell you! First, this bearded man, the one who—er, helped you when Blary smashed the cage. Did he give you any name?"
"He said his name was September."
She gave a little squeal of excitement. "Yes! I'd think that is just the sort of thing he would do! To hide his identity, yet give so blatant a clue that might betray him!"
Jonathan asked eagerly, "You've met him here?"
"If I'm right, he sat beside me at luncheon! His name is not September, but August! August Falcon. And—" She checked, "What is it? Do you recall the name?"
"I thought—for a moment—Never mind that. Please g
o on."
She told him of her encounter with Falcon. "What do you think? Why would he be here? Why did he disguise himself at first, and then come back as himself?"
Jonathan shook his head frowningly. "There's a reason somewhere. Would that I knew it. You say he cries friends with this cousin of Lord Kenneth's. What like is he?"
"A very pleasant man, some two or three years Falcon's junior, I would guess, and not at all like him. Indeed, 'tis a peculiar sort of friendship, Johnny. Were I James Morris, I—"
"James?" he interrupted sharply.
"Yes. Lieutenant James Morris. Why?"
"One of the men I encountered at the mine mistook me for his companion, and called me Jamie."
She exclaimed, "Then it must have been Falcon and the lieutenant! Only Mr. Falcon came to Cornwall first, disguised as a tramp. And whatever they are about is in some fashion connected to the Blue Rose!"
"And," he said grimly, "to Lord Hibbard Green! Where are their rooms?"
"On the third floor. But—my heavens! You never mean to go up there? No, no! I will keep watch on them for you, and—"
"You would have to watch night and day to discover what they're about. I can learn more from searching their rooms, and learn it sooner."
"Yes, and be caught! Besides, you cannot get up there without being seen."
"I'll find a way. Somehow."
She clung to his arm. "How? By deciding to climb up the outside of the building tonight? Never look so innocent! 'Tis just the kind of—" She bit her lip.
He said with a twisted smile, "The kind of crazy thing I might do? Is that what you were going to say? Sometimes, the only sensible answer is a crazy one."
"Don't you care that if you should fall, it would break my poor heart?"
Between that wistful question and the poignancy in her beloved face, he was sorely tried, and it was all he could do to declare gruffly, "Your heart will mend for—for a better man than me, Jennifer."
He tried to remove her hand, but she tightened her grip and said with fierce desperation, "There is no better man than you! And you are a much better man than you realise, my dear one! Now listen to you future wife. No, 'twill avail you nothing to flinch and try to escape me! You had as well accustom yourself to the notion. If you will persist in going up there, I've an idea of how we can manage. You must follow me to their rooms carrying the cage, and—"
"A single lady to go to a gentleman's bedchamber? Certainly not! Your reputation would be—"
"Oh, pish! If we're questioned, I shall simply explain that Mr. Falcon desires to see the little bird."
He said through his teeth, "You—will—do—no—such—thing!"
She sighed blissfully. "Do you see? Already you are ordering me about as though I belonged to you…"
Chapter 10
There was no response to his knock. Jonathan eased the door open and slipped into a luxurious and fortunately unoccupied bedchamber.
With some revisions, Jennifer's scheme had worked perfectly. She'd told him the exact locations of the rooms assigned to Falcon and Morris and had reluctantly agreed to wait for him in the conservatory. At this hour on a hot afternoon the halls were deserted, and much to his relief, he'd not once been challenged.
He set Duster's cage on a small table and made a quick scan of the room. It was large, and furnished throughout in red and gold. The curtains drifted lazily in the warm breeze from the open windows, and sunlight slanted across the pegged oak floor to illumine a vase of roses on an elegant mahogany secretary. Red velvet hangings were tied back on the canopied bed. A book lay open on the adjacent table. Toilet articles were neatly arranged on the dressing table. He went first to the desk, but found only the Standish, some sheets of writing paper, a well-trimmed pen, and a wax jack. He decided on luggage next, and dragged two valises from under the bed. Both were empty. Replacing them, he started to the chest of drawers, then sprang behind the door, breath held in check, as he heard footsteps in the hall.
A woman's voice trilled, "… very strangest people.Londoners, you know. What can one expect…?" A man laughed softly, and the voices faded.
He could breathe again, and hurried back to his search.
The book beside the bed was entitled Mysterious China. A folded paper used to mark the reader's place was a note directed simply to "August," written in a firm feminine hand, and signed with a flourishing "G." It read: "You will find an interesting history of the Kung family herein. Not that I expect you to own 'tis of interest." Jonathan replaced it quickly and moved on.
The drawers in the pair of exquisite inlaid chests that he was very sure had been imported from India, yielded only the evidence of a fine valet, but in the third drawer of a matching tallboy he found a powerful spyglass, and a list that intrigued him.
Squire—?
Collington
Derrydene
Noberly
Bracksby
Buttershaw
Underhill—?
Trethaway
Green—?
?
?
?
The last name caused him to whisper a shocked, "Jupiter!"
On the back of the sheet was a neat sketch that so astounded him that he failed to note the sudden inward billow of the window curtains.
An instant later, he sensed that someone was behind him. His reaction was instinctive and very fast, but even as he started to whip around something sharp bit into the back of his neck, and a deep voice drawled, "Do not."
He stood perfectly still.
A face appeared in the small oval mirror atop the high-boy; a very dark and extremely handsome face with a pair of cold eyes whose shape confirmed their owner's identity.
"Mr. September," said Jonathan mockingly. "Do I mistake the month, or are you in the wrong room, sir?"
August Falcon said softly, "The point of my sword is at your back. Put that down, and turn around. Carefully."
Jonathan replaced the sketch in the open drawer. The spyglass looked solid and he snatched for it. The sword bit deeper, and his hand checked.
"I could spit you where you stand," purred Falcon. "And no one would question my word that you tried to rob me."
The door was flung open.
"What the devil—?" began a surprised male voice.
Without an instant's hesitation, Jonathan threw himself to the side. The swordpoint scratched him, but the spyglass was in his hand, and he flailed it hard at the sword sending it spinning across the room.
"You—unmitigated clod!" howled Falcon, turning on the newcomer in a fury, and ignoring Jonathan who had leapt to snatch up the fine Colichemarde.
"Well, well," said this pleasant-faced young man, looking with interest from one to the other. "Called me up here to watch you butcher a groom, did you, Lord Haughty-Snort?"
This would be Lieutenant James Morris, thought Jonathan. The "Jamie" of the two he had encountered during his flight from the mine. "Close the door," he said curtly.
Morris directed a curious look at him, then obeyed.
Falcon said, "We are graced by a visit from the fellow who goes about pretending to be a looby."
"What, the one they call the shadow of a man? You're slipping, poor fellow, to let a shadow disarm you." Morris glanced at Duster's cage. "What the deuce is that? Trying to turn some cat up sweet? I doubt you'll—"
Jonathan interrupted, "I want to know why you slink about in disguise, Falcon. And what the pair of you were doing at the Blue Rose Mine."
Morris regarded Jonathan curiously. "I say! Are you the fella—"
Falcon's hand blurred to his pocket and emerged with a pistol held steady as a rock.
"You'd not dare fire that thing in here," said Jonathan scornfully.
"I really think you should not place too much reliance on that," said Morris. "Logical enough, I grant you. But August ain't. Logical, I mean. Devilish reckless, in fact. His motto is 'a duel a day keeps the doctor away.' Not that this is a duel exact—"
Falcon's
eyes glinted. "Have done, confound you! When this is all over, I'll give you a duel!" He turned to Jonathan. "You may take your choice. Tell me your real name, and why you were searching my room, or I'll hand you over to the authorities. I fancy they'll be glad to bring you to book!"
Morris saw Jonathan whiten. "That hit went home fairly!" he exclaimed. "D'you know him, August?"
"I know he is not what he pretends to be. Is obvious he was born a gentleman, and no gentleman would live as I gather he has done, unless there was some compelling reason. Ergo: he has something to hide. And it must be a something so shameful as to have put him beyond the pale. I fancy he has been disowned, to say the least of it."
Jonathan's eyes fell and he was silent.
Vastly intrigued, Morris said, "D'you know, I've the feeling we've met somewhere."
"Oddly enough, I've the same impression. I've an excellent memory, but be damned if I can call to mind what I know of him. Well, Mr. Coachman? Make up your mind. Do you lurk about to hide your guilty self, or is there more to it?"
Jonathan put the sword aside and pressed his handkerchief to the cut on his back. "My name is Jonathan. My family name I cannot recall. You are perfectly right, Mr. Falcon. I am disgraced and—and dishonoured. I was destitute when I arrived at Roselley, and with no other reason for being there than an attempt to survive. But now, I think something damnably havey-cavey is going on out at the mine. Miss—The Britewells have been kind to me. I'll not stand by and see them hurt."
Falcon and Morris exchanged a sober glance. Falcon walked over to close the window, then pocketed the pistol and propped his shoulders against the mantel.
"Don't know that you should've put up your pistol, August," said Morris, crossing to peer into the birdcage once more. "Our remarkable coachman has brought a most odd creature with him. Could be what they call a 'familiar,' y'know."
The notion of poor Duster being the daemoniac companion to a witch drew a shout of laughter from Jonathan.
A Shadow's Bliss Page 17
