Falcon chuckled softly, and sauntered across the large room, nosegay in hand, amused by the buzz of excitement that greeted his arrival. As he had expected, the new patch created consternation and several gentlemen sprang up and surrounded him, demanding to inspect his latest contribution to fashion. He answered their questions with cool courtesy and moved on, aware of the less tolerant stares, and of the stifled titters when Sir Delbert Vardy and Mr. Neilsen deliberately turned their aristocratic backs as he approached.
It still stung. 'Faith, but he wondered sometimes if he was mad to endure it. He'd be much wiser to retire to Ashleigh and live peacefully among his country acres, where he would less often have to face scorn and repudiation. It would be a retreat, of course; a bow to those who would gloat that they had forced him out as they'd forced out his grandfather before him. Be damned if he'd give him that satisfaction! And besides, though he loved Ashleigh, he also loved this great city with its theaters and clubs, its teeming thousands, its endless excitements and challenges, even though he knew he would never win the greatest challenge—respect. He thought defiantly, "I am respected, burn it! They respect my fortune, and they fear my sword!" And not even to himself would he admit that his deepest yearning was not to inspire that kind of respect or fear, but to win the same smile that came into men's eyes when they saw Jamie Morris.
As he progressed toward the stairs Lord Cyril Eckington watched him steadily, his hard brown eyes glittering. A luscious wife had dear Cyril. Falcon met the man's baleful and frustrated glare with the amused lift of one eyebrow. Zounds, but the fool hated him. He'd no one to blame but himself, for had he shown his lovely young spouse a scrap of the attention she deserved, she might not have looked elsewhere for affection. He was said to be a good swordsman. Pity he had not the gumption to declare himself.
Eckington glanced from patch to posy, and temptation was strong. When Falcon was safely past, he said to his friend, "How sweet of the Mandarin to deck himself with flowers for our delectation."
There were some chuckles, but Eckington had underestimated his enemy's sense of hearing.
Turning at once, Falcon looked pleased and wandered to face the now uneasy peer. "So here you are, my lord," he drawled. "And I so lost in thought I almost failed to give you my humble gift." His hand flashed out. Eckington recoiled instinctively, but Falcon only tucked the posy into a thick curl of his lordship's wig and said soothingly, "Do not be frightened. I merely offer a token of my appreciation for…" He paused, rubbing his quizzing glass on the bridge of his nose.
The room had become tense and hushed.
Ramsey Talbot wrenched a pencil and pad from his pocket gleefully.
Lord Eckington uttered an inaudible snarl and flushed scarlet. He tore the posy from his wig and clutched it as though nerving himself to throw it in that hated handsome face.
Falcon murmured to no one in particular, "Now whatever have I had from you that rouses me to such appreciation? Be dashed if I can recollect. But—doubtless you will know, my dear fellow."
The peer's hand tightened convulsively on the posy, and his lips writhed back from gritted teeth, but he had once witnessed Falcon's swordplay, and the most he could bring himself to do was to splutter, "One… of these days, you'll—I'll—"
"Dear me, such indecision. Until you make up your mind, do pray take care of my gift." Falcon leaned over his lordship's chair and said with a gentle smile, " 'Tis folly to crush tender blossoms, dear Cyril. I wonder your mama never taught you such a simple lesson."
He could all but hear Eckington's teeth grinding as he wandered on amid a flurry of chatter and subdued laughter. He was hailed by a slim young Corinthian named Bertram Crisp, who, besides chancing to be an extremely wealthy marquis, liked to row with the Thames watermen. Falcon knew that Crisp admired him, and he had a grudging liking for the marquis who had once faced him on the field of honour and put up a surprisingly strong defence before being disarmed. Crisp had heard about Andante and was eager to see the stallion, but their conversation was drowned by a slurred roar from behind a group of standing gentlemen who were covertly inspecting Falcon's daring new patch.
"I toldya… need ya chair, you stu-stupid block. Get 'way!"
"Green," said the marquis with distaste. "They say he lost heavily upstairs and has been drinking like a sot ever since."
"Aha!" thought Falcon. He stepped aside so as to see the offender, only to utter a snort of exasperation. Tummet's spy had followed Rafe Green, instead of his repulsive sire! "Confound it!" he muttered. "I could have gone to the Lancer's rout!"
Lord Hibbard Green's son and heir was sprawled in a chair, his coarse features brooding and flushed, his eyes glassy. Clearly, he was in an ugly temper and by the looks of things had decided to turn it on some hapless fellow seated near him. Who was it? Ah—Reginald Smythe. Poor game, but Green took after his sire and delighted to bully weaklings.
Smythe's voice, thin and trembling, was raised. "Really,'s-sir. You already have a chair. I am w-willing to oblige, but I do not see why—"
"Wanta put m'feet up," bellowed Green. And before Smythe could move, he swung up his chunky legs, planted his feet deliberately in the lap of the tall Dandy, and uttered a wheezing snort of laughter. "Y'too slow, by half!"
Smythe seemed to have stopped breathing. The insult was not one any gentleman could overlook, and once again necks were craned and there was a hum of interested comment.
Falcon swung his quizzing glass and watched the little drama thoughtfully. They were two excessively unlikeable men, but despising one, he had a deep and unalterable loathing for the other.
During the first of his unhappy years at Eton, Reginald Smythe had been the ringleader of a group of young bullies who had mocked and derided him mercilessly. Oliver Green, or Rafe as he preferred to be named, had been as vicious but lacked the subtlety of the others, his heavy fist less painful than the sly taunts and name-calling of Smythe and his cronies. It was Smythe who had dealt him the deepest wound he had ever sustained, and who had taken advantage of his own stunned immobility to make good his escape before retribution could be exacted. During the weeks that followed Falcon had tried often to even the score, but always Smythe had either been surrounded by his cronies, or had, as was his habit, spread his poison and run. At last, he'd cornered the toadying sneak, and had attacked, having warned with a boy's implacable hatred, "To the death, you unspeakable cur!" It had come perilously near to being so. Smythe, a year his senior, had proved the adage that even a worm will turn, and had fought with desperate ferocity. He had not, of course, fought fair, resorting to every possible unsportsmanlike kick and gouge, while screaming for help. It had taken two masters to pry Falcon's hands from his throat. Both boys had wound up in the infirmary, and Falcon had been expelled, although when the facts were conveyed to the headmaster by his outraged sire, the expulsion had been revoked. He'd never forgiven Smythe, and in later years had attempted several times to maneuver him into a duel, but without success. As slippery as ever, Smythe knew the enormity of his offence, and being sure that Falcon's boyhood challenge still held good, had chosen to be branded a coward sooner than risk almost certain death.
Falcon's thoughts drifted. It was at Eton that he'd first met Gideon Rossiter, who had collected a broken nose and a black eye in coming to his aid when he'd been waging a solitary battle against four "sporting" young aristocrats. He had rejected Gideon's offer of friendship that day, as he'd rejected all such overtures. Who'd have guessed that almost twenty years later they would stand side by side in this far more deadly struggle 'gainst—
"I say, Oliver! Poor fellow. Fell over, did you? Here, I'll help you up." James Morris, looking somewhat battered, but wearing a well-tailored habit of dark gold, and with his sandy hair neatly powdered, was tugging at Green's arm.
Falcon scowled. What the devil was the birdwit about? Morris disliked Green just as much as he did. He excused himself to Crisp and strolled nearer to the trio.
Reginald Smythe was a pall
id man with pinched features and large gray eyes that managed always to avoid meeting the gaze of another. They were now fixed however, and Smythe watched Morris as a drowning man might watch the lifeline thrown his way.
Irritated by the use of his abhorred Christian name, Green hiccuped and uttered a glowering recommendation that Morris keep his damned silly nose in his pocket.
Morris glanced up.
Meeting an angelic smile, Falcon grinned and entered the farce. "Trying to unearth poor Reginald, are you Jamie?" he enquired. "Going about it the wrong way, dear boy. I'll help."
"If you would just… get him off me, Morris," muttered Smythe, slanting an uneasy glance at the other half of the rescue party.
"But of course we will, Reggie," drawled Falcon, standing close beside the chair and levelling his glass at Green's large shoes.
"Devil you w-will!" snorted Green, heaving himself upward.
Morris caught his elbow and tugged, throwing him off balance.
Simultaneously, Falcon grasped one of the legs Green was lowering from Smythe's lap. It was a large and muscular limb, but Falcon jerked it upward without apparent effort, drawing an alarmed oath from Green as he was sent lurching back. "Here you go, Reggie," said Falcon kindly.
Smythe's efforts to escape, which had redoubled, were thwarted by the weight of Green's other leg across his lap, and the fact that Falcon stood close by. "I cannot unless you move out of the way, damn you!"
"Is that gratitude?" asked Falcon, aggrievedly.
Necks were craning, heads turning in their direction. Morris was popular here, and judged to be a gallant soldier and an honourable man. Falcon, whatever else, was acknowledged to be a gentleman. Green had been expelled from Eton for cheating—a stigma he would carry to his grave—and he shared his sire's reputation for shady dealings and unbridled brutality to man and beast. He had been blackballed at White's and several of the leading clubs, and was believed to have bribed his way into the Madrigal.
It was with delight, therefore, that spectators were gathering, while others drawn by the laughter, hurried down from the gaming rooms. More pressed in, and even the most conservative among them, while frowning at such "schoolboy horseplay," stretched their ears so as not to miss anything.
Morris said in a judicial manner, "I don't think we are going about this the right way, August." He tightened his grip on Green's arm, was sent reeling by a wild swipe, but at once returned to the fray. "I—er, cannot seem to get a purchase," he said, watching that flailing arm in bewilderment.
Laughter rang out unrestrainedly.
"Get a… purchase…" gasped Bertie Crisp, convulsed. "Oh, begad! Oh, stap me, I can't bear it!"
"I'll… purchase you…!" howled Green, adding a lurid description of Morris' forbears.
Morris blinked. "I say, Falcon," he called. "He wants to purchase me. Whatever for?"
"To teach him manners, probably." Falcon maintained his steely grip on the elevated limb. "Better not haggle over price now, Jamie. We've to get poor Smythe out from under all this—pork."
Green's virulent curses were cut off when Morris stood behind his chair, seized him by the throat, and pulled. Equally obliging, Falcon hoisted the captive limb higher.
Rendered helpless, Green looked like nothing so much as a gross and overturned beetle as he flailed his arms about, and the room rocked with hilarity.
Alternately white and livid, Smythe snarled, "Having a jolly time, ain't you, Falcon?"
"Wouldn't have missed it for the world, Reggie. Now just be à l'aise, dear friend of my youth, and we'll get you out of this yet."
All but sobbing with fury, Green wrenched free of Morris' hold. "Get away, you miserable Chink lover!"
The laughter faded into gasps.
Morris' hand clenched, then was lowered slowly.
"D'ye think we've not all noticed," panted Green, "how you—"
The words were drowned as Falcon took a full tankard from a nearby table and poured the contents deliberately over Green's wig. "You are too heated, by far, my poor insect."
Coughing and spluttering, and unable to free his right leg from Falcon's grip, Green panted, "May you rot in hell, Falcon! You'll meet me for that!"
Morris said, "You never plan to fight this rubbishy person, August?"
"He is not worthy of my steel, I grant you," said Falcon. "However," he looked down at the enraged Smythe, "whatever else, he is at least man enough to challenge."
At this there was a flurry of excitement and Lord Eckington was heard calling for the betting book.
Morris saw a steward trying to push through the titillated throng. "We really must help poor Olly," he murmured, and stepped out from behind Green's chair.
Falcon released the captive limb. Green roared, and kicked out with such force that his chair shot over backward, spilling the infuriated man heels over head to the floor where he lay sprawled, gulping like a fish out of water.
"Bravo," murmured Falcon. "Clever trick, that."
Smythe seized his opportunity and fled.
The steward reached them and said in agitation, "Really, gentlemen! This sort of conduct is most inappropriate. Mr. Green, allow me to help you up."
Green put a chubby hand under his cheek, curled up, and snored raucously.
Morris tapped the steward on the shoulder. " 'Let sleeping dogs lie,' " he advised solemnly.
Over the laughter, the steward said indignantly, "But we cannot leave him lying in the middle of the floor!"
"Move him to the side, then," advised Falcon. "But you must look for volunteers elsewhere. I am not in the business of rubbish hauling. Besides, I now have another matter to attend to."
Morris volunteered, "Be glad to second you, August."
"Thank you, but it won't serve. You're going to meet me next."
"So I am. Forgot. Well, you'll find someone else."
Bertie Crisp waved, and hurried over to the betting book, calling, "I'll act for you, Falcon."
"And I." That noted sportsman Hector Kadenworthy was pushing through the crowd on the stairs, his rather saturnine features wreathed in a rare grin.
"Thank you, your lordship," said Falcon, with a magnificent bow. "I stand in your debt."
"You do." Kadenworthy nodded. "That'll make the third— and last time."
" 'Faith, but your generosity is positively dizzying. The ground shakes 'neath my feet. Or is that Green snoring?"
Laughing, Kadenworthy took him by the arm. "Come upstairs, you rascal. I'll give you a chance to beat me at hazard." He glanced at Morris. "That's a damned ugly bruise on your noggin, Jamie. Are you up to joining us at the tables?"
Morris refused the offer, explaining that he wanted to see them get "dear Olly" on his feet.
"When he's sufficiently sober," said Kadenworthy, "tell him to send his seconds to call on me."
Morris nodded, and the two men left him and went upstairs, a renewed outbreak of comment and laughter following them.
Falcon liked very few men, but he was drawn to this laconic peer, whose tongue was almost as sharp as his own. If ever he should decide to gather a few friends about him, Bertie Crisp and Hector Kadenworthy, he thought, might just qualify to enter that select circle.
"You are freezing!" Katrina wrapped a blanket about Gwendolyn's shoulders and set a steaming mug of chocolate on the dressing table in her bedchamber. Sitting on the bench beside her friend she watched her convulsive shivering, and moaned, "I thought you would never get back! I have been beside myself with anxiety! I should not have allowed you to take such risks!"
Gwendolyn scanned her reflection in the mirror. "I'm sorry you worried so." She crossed her eyes, smiled broadly, and added, "But—oh, I do look deliciously dreadful, you must admit."
Katrina's laugh was a trifle shrill. "You look a sight, you mean! That horrid wig! And—you'd best take that hideous stuff from your teeth before you drink your chocolate!"
"Yes, indeed!" Gwendolyn peeled the dark wax away, revealing her "missing" teeth, t
hen sipped the chocolate gratefully. "But 'twas my idea, not yours, Trina. Besides, I think there was really little risk. Most of the establishments in the area have flambeaux lighting."
"Yes, but 'twas night. And foggy!"
"Not sufficiently so to conceal my ravishing complexion." Gwendolyn removed the black wig with care and handed it to Katrina, then began to spread cucumber cream over her unfortunate face. "My very ugliness was my protection, do you see? Even my brother was repulsed when he 'finished' me."
"So I should think!" Arranging the wig on a stand, Katrina said, "Though had Newby guessed you meant to take such risks instead of going to a masquerade party—"
"He'd likely have thought it great fun, and insisted upon accompanying me!"
Katrina did not admire Newby Rossiter, and she said dryly, "I think Gideon would not have shared that view."
"Heavens, no! He'd have straitly forbidden it. They are alike in face and form, my twin brothers, but they are very different men. And though I fibbed, Trina, 'twas a fib committed in a good cause. Newby was pleased to give me what I would need, and show me how to do it all. He is very good at theatricals, you know. When he was at school he was marvellous as Othello."
"Perhaps so, but if Gideon should find out what you are about, I think he would do more than 'mourn a mischief that is past and gone'!"
Gwendolyn chuckled. "Clever one! That is a quote from the Bard, I collect. Though I do not count my spying as having been a mischief."
"No. Far worse! A horribly dangerous risk for a lady to run. And—for what? We learned nothing!"
Gwendolyn put down the rag she had used to remove her "spots," and turned to her friend. The dark blue eyes were wide and strained, and the cheeks pale. "Poor dear," she said, patting Katrina's hand comfortingly. " 'Twas worse for you, having to wait here. But this was only the first time. We cannot expect to be lucky right away."
"I know, I know. I suppose I would feel better could I take my turn at watching. But my foolish eyes would betray me at once," Katrina said wistfully. "Which is just as well, for I am not brave, like you, and would be much too afraid to be out alone at night, much less daring to address strange gentlemen, and beg them to buy the nosegays."
The Mandarin of Mayfair Page 7