Cranford answered, "Lord, yes. Who hasn't? They say King Louis is wildly eager to kick him out of France, and is using the Treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle 'gainst him, now that it's finally been signed."
"And that Charles insists he's entitled to remain in Paris, under the Treaty of Fontainebleau," said Armitage.
Sir Owen nodded. "Which is now outdated, of course. One can't but feel sorry for the Prince. Did you hear that his mistress—the de Talmont, I mean—has been ordered to refuse to admit him to her house, on pain of being exiled herself if she does not?"
"He must be enraged," said Rossiter. "If he truly cares for the lady."
Morris chuckled. "Did you hear that he rented a new house, right under King Louis' nose, and has filled the place with arms? He surely means to put up a fight."
Falcon murmured, "Then none of you believe he is back in England?"
Five heads jerked to him. Five pairs of eyes stared in astonishment.
Rossiter said, "In England! Dear heaven! I pray not!"
"He would be wits to let!" exclaimed Cranford. "One step over the border and Louis would never let him back into France!"
"And one foot on English soil and he'd lose his head before he could lower the other foot," said Armitage.
Morris appropriated a piece of Falcon's loaf unopposed.
"To hear the talk at the Cocoa Tree, London's full of men who'd flock to shield him. And to join him!"
"And the ignoble Stuarts would bring down more death and destruction on more hare-brained followers," snorted Falcon.
Armitage said soberly, "I wasn't here during the Rebellion, but if only half of what I heard is truth, I cannot believe any thinking man would invite such another bloodbath!"
Watching Falcon, Rossiter asked, "Where did you pick up this rumour?"
"Tummet. He says 'tis whispered at the Rose and Crown."
"Gad!" said Cranford. "Old Ramsey Talbot patronizes that scruffy tavern. I wonder…"
"No!" Morris said vehemently, "I hold no brief for Charles Stuart, but he's not a dunce. Without King Louis' backing he'd as well commit suicide as try for another Uprising!"
Sir Owen nodded agreement. "Men may boast Jacobite loyalty in the taverns, but when it's play or pay, they go home to their wives and families. Prince Charles must know his chances would be dismal."
"Speaking of which," said Cranford, "only look at us! So dismal as any Newgate newcomers! August, I believe you've been hoaxing us!"
Falcon found himself the butt of much light-hearted scolding and when Gideon appeared to be no less amused than the rest, he dismissed his own unease. Enoch Tummet was not an educated man and couldn't be blamed for being taken in by taproom statesmen. The one who should have known better than to pay heed to such fustian was August Falcon. Admitting which, if only to himself, he felt obliged to order apple pie for everyone by way of apology.
They left soon afterwards and went their separate ways. Rossiter slowed his steps to match Sir Owen's pace and asked in his kindly fashion if he would like some company on the way back to Bond Street.
Furlong thanked him, but refused, declaring that he was quite recovered from his "most pathetic folly." His lips were tight and there was an angry glint in the blue eyes. Rossiter said slowly, "You don't much like Falcon, do you?"
"No. And it has naught to do with his—forbears."
"I know that. And I know he can be blasted abrasive. But I wish you will try not to judge him too harshly. His is not an easy path."
"I don't envy him it, certainly." Sir Owen frowned, then said, "But that doesn't excuse his sarcasm, nor his hatred for Jamie, who's as good a fellow as one could meet."
They walked outside. The rain had stopped but the short gray afternoon was drawing in and already flambeaux were being lit. The porter ran into the street and whistled up a chair. Watching him, Rossiter said slowly, "You mistake it, Owen. Despite what he says, Falcon doesn't hate Morris. In fact, I believe he's quite attached to him."
"Do you, by Jove! He has a deuced odd way of showing it!"
"Yes. But that's because he is so deathly afraid of him, do you see?"
Furlong did not see, although he was too polite to argue the point. Glancing back a moment later as he was borne towards his cozy little house on Bond Street, he saw Rossiter go striding off, his cloak billowing about him. Such a good fellow was old Ross, he thought, and it was like him to look for the good side of a man. He was far and fair off about August Falcon, though. Not that Falcon was a bad man—indeed he'd have made a jolly good soldier. But that was likely all he'd be good for—fighting!
Besides being Lord Hector Kadenworthy's aunt, Millicent Haverley's mother had been second cousin to Mrs. Dudley Falcon's mama, and while in town with her nephew, Mrs. Haverley paid a courtesy call in Great Ormond Street. She was a gentle little lady with a singularly sweet face and a somewhat timid disposition, and she and Mrs. Dudley thoroughly enjoyed a scandalous exchange of family confidences and the latest ton gossip. Their cose was terminated when Mrs. Haverley recollected that she was promised to attend a Literary Afternoon of poetry and readings at the home of Lady Dowling. Her nephew had intended to accompany her but was detained on a matter of business. "A horse, no doubt," she said with a doting smile, and upon learning that Gwendolyn was fond of poetry, begged that all three ladies go with her, because Lady Dowling had told her to bring anyone she knew who enjoyed readings. Mrs. Dudley was engaged for an early dinner party with friends and had to decline. Katrina and Gwendolyn, however, were pleased to accept, and within the hour were comfortably ensconced in the music room of the Dowling mansion.
Lady Dowling, tall, elegant, and with a pair of kindly hazel eyes, had welcomed her unexpected guests graciously. She liked Katrina, and while hoping that none of the more conservative guests would be offended by her arrival, thought it quite possible that the presence of London's most controversial Beauty might add lustre to what had begun to seem a dull gathering.
Katrina was breathtaking in a robe volante of pink damask, the stomacher edged by tiny embroidered red roses, and with a little cluster of red silk roses nestled amid her glossy black curls. Gwendolyn had donned a robe à la française of soft blue taffeta with a dainty floral pattern and a square neckline trimmed with lace. Less in the habit of attending ton parties, she looked about her with interest, noting the elaborate gowns and jewels of the ladies, and amused by the stares of gentlemen who were strangers to her.
Mrs. Haverley murmured behind her fan, "I think I have never before drawn so much attention!"
"Nor I, ma'am," answered Gwendolyn merrily. "If I could believe that any of those admiring glances came my way."
Even at this early hour the room was ablaze with candlelight. The glow awoke golden gleams in Gwendolyn's light brown hair, and the colour of her gown accentuated her blue eyes. Considerably astonished by such an unassuming remark, Mrs. Haverley said, "But my dear, you must certainly know that many of them do indeed come your way!"
Touched by such kindness, Gwendolyn smiled, and never for a moment believed it to be anything more than that.
A magnificent footman rang a little bell for quiet, and Lady Dowling introduced a large young man with a red face and a careless habit of dress. He scanned his audience critically and at such length that Gwendolyn thought he had forgotten what he meant to say and she jumped when he suddenly embarked upon a thunderous and impassioned poem concerning the flight from Scotland of Prince Charles Stuart and a lady named Flora MacDonald. Gwendolyn's eyes grew ever more round as the poem progressed, and when it ended she whispered, "La, ma'am, was the Prince really so naughty?"
Mrs. Haverley, her cheeks rather pink, said that whether he was or no, she scarcely thought such lurid implications were proper with young damsels in the company.
Lady Dowling evidently agreed, because when her protege prepared to launch into another reading, she circumvented him by announcing gaily that she was sure her guests must be exhausted after hearing of such heroic exploits, and that refres
hments would be served in the adjacent saloons.
At once Katrina was surrounded by eager and admiring gentlemen clamouring to be allowed to escort her. To her surprise Gwendolyn found quite a number of gentlemen, equally admiring, who suddenly recalled that they had once met Mrs. Haverley and hurried to renew their acquaintance and beg an introduction to Miss Rossiter. At four and twenty, Gwendolyn believed herself to be far past the age to attract eligible suitors. She regarded these young gallants as pleasant new friends rather than as matrimonial prospects, and was neither shy nor coquettish with them. Her natural warmth and good-humoured view of the world won her more admiration than she would have guessed, and it was a merry group that proceeded to the refreshment room.
She was chatting with an attractive young man named Duncan Tiele when Lord Kadenworthy joined them. She had met the tall peer on several occasions, the most recent having been in April when he had seconded Falcon in a duel with Gideon. She knew that both her brother and August liked him, and Morris, several years his junior, had described him as "a good old boy even if his tongue is almost as scalding as Lord Haughty-Snort's." Kadenworthy had never shown her that side of his nature. He was unfailingly gentle with her and his rather hard brown eyes would soften whenever he spoke to her. She must, she realized, be the most contrary of females because, while she felt quite comfortable with August who never made the slightest attempt to cater to her or to curb his quick temper in her presence, she found Lord Hector's obvious sympathy to be extremely irritating, a reaction she straggled to conceal.
His lordship was on his best behaviour this afternoon. He apologized to his aunt, who obviously adored him; laughed at Duncan Tiele, who protested indignantly because Kadenworthy squeezed a chair between himself and Gwendolyn; and flirted charmingly with Katrina. When Lady Dowling came up and bore Katrina off to meet someone, he went with them, pausing only to drop a kiss on his aunt's forehead and promise to return Miss Falcon promptly.
"He is such a darling," said Mrs. Haverley as she and Gwendolyn joined several other ladies who were refreshing themselves in one of the guest suites. " 'Twas monstrous kind in him to come, for he purely detests poetry. I recall when he was a little boy and I would read to him at bedtime, he would always say 'Not pomes, Aunty Missent, stories! He had a dreadful time with his pronunciation, poor little mite."
Gwendolyn adjusted her cap, and said with a smile that she'd had the same preference as a child. "Do you enjoy living in Epsom, ma'am?"
"Mimosa Lodge is a lovely estate. I cannot conceive of anyone disliking to live there." Mrs. Haverley sighed ruefully. "Though I do rather miss Cornwall, I'm afraid."
Preparing to leave, Gwendolyn took up her reticule and asked eagerly, "Cornwall? Is that your home, then?"
" 'Tis where I was born. The family home is near Penzance. I was widowed only two years after my marriage, so I lived there and took care of the children from the time their parents died. Hector became a wealthy orphan at the age of five, poor boy." She smiled. "Now there is a proper contradiction in terms! Are you ready, my dear?"
"Yes. But I wonder if we might stay here just for a minute? I've some friends just returned from Cornwall, and can scarce believe some of the wondrous things they've told me of it."
They moved to a cushioned window seat and sat together, watching the other ladies come and go. Mrs. Haverley was only too glad to answer Gwendolyn's questions about the county of her birth. She laughed when told of August's remark that the wind had nearly blown the hair from his head, and admitted that when the gales rushed at the wild northern coastline it was as much as a strong man could do to stand against them. It was indeed, she confirmed, a land of legend and superstitions that had been handed down through the centuries and were still firmly rooted.
Gwendolyn prompted, "Some of them are rather dreadful, I heard."
"Very dreadful. Indeed, child, I'd not dare tell you some of the cures for having been 'ill-wished' as we call it. You'd not sleep a wink!"
"Ill-wished. That means put under a curse, does it not?"
"Well—I suppose it does." Uncomfortable with that definition, Mrs. Haverley qualified, "Though most of them are comparatively mild little threats, actually." Mentally eliminating the ill-wish that was believed to result in serious illness, or the death of one's cattle, she hurried on, "Hens stop laying, or a cow ceases to give milk. Not that those are minor things for a poor family, I grant you."
"Is it true that there are—let me see now, Charmers, I think that's the name—people who can banish warts and such-like? And is there not something to do with curing a child of measles by passing it under a donkey?"
"Whooping cough, my dear, not measles. And the child must be passed under the, er—tummy of a piebald horse." Amused, Mrs. Haverley patted Gwendolyn's hand. "My goodness, but you've an interest! I didn't think Londoners knew of such things. Come along now, we must go and find Miss Falcon before my naughty nephew falls in love with her!"
Gwendolyn smiled and rose obediently, but as they went into the busy corridor she said, "It seems there was something else I heard that I thought most strange. I cannot quite recall… Oh, I know! 'Twas to do with feathers; a sack thrown into the sea, yes?"
"Ah," said Mrs. Haverley. "Now that is one of the ugly 'ill-wishes.' But 'tis a bag of feathers, or a pillow, actually. The sack thrown into the sea is called being 'put to the cliff,' and is a way, an unkind way, I'm afraid, of getting rid of some living thing that is unwanted. Kittens, perhaps; or a destructive puppy or a dog that barks continuously."
"Oh dear! But—what has that to do with feathers, ma'am?"
"Nothing, my dear. The feathers serve a very grim purpose in which, if you really mean harm to an enemy, you fill his pillow with the feathers of wild birds. Folks have changed that procedure a trifle so as to extend it to an intended victim who cannot be reached in such a way. In that case, a bag is filled with the feathers and delivered, or even tossed at him. If he takes it up, the curse is fixed upon him."
Time for Gwendolyn seemed to stand still. She could see the bright book room with the fire roaring up the chimney, and hear Enoch Tummet grumbling to Apollo… "Wot must he do but pick up that there nasty bag o' feathers…" She tried to speak lightly. "Any old curse, ma'am?"
"Oh, dear me no! One of the more wicked ones." Mrs. Haverley lowered her voice and said dramatically, "Whoever takes up the bag is doomed to die a slow and painful death!"
"But," gulped Gwendolyn, halting at the top of the stairs, "but that's silly. Unhappily, such an end may come to any of us in our old age, no?"
'True, but the curse is to be fulfilled by Christmas Eve of the same year it is invoked. If the unhappy victim survives till the coming of Our Lord, the curse is broken, so— Good gracious me, Miss Rossiter, you are become so pale! Oh, how naughty of me to have frightened you with those gloomy old superstitions." Mrs. Haverley crossed her fingers under a fold of her gown. "There are several different versions, but to say truth, 'tis all nonsense for the uneducated and the credible to shiver over, and not to be regarded by intelligent folk. Dismiss it from your mind, my dear."
Gwendolyn smiled and said she would follow that excellent advice. But even as she spoke she knew that it would be easier said than done.
Chapter 9
It was said that Overlake Lodge lacked the magnificence of the neighbouring Promontory Point, the ancestral home of the Rossiters, but it was a fine estate, nonetheless. Located not far from Canterbury, in the green and lovely garden that is the county of Kent, the house contained some thirty rooms and was set in neat grounds distinguished by a large maze, a shrubbery, and a pleached acacia walk. Beyond the wilderness area were well-kept woods and a thriving dairy farm. Some critics murmured that Overlake Lodge belonged to no recognizable architectural period, and the Duke of Marbury had described it as Early Indeterminate and Late Atrocious. Mr. Rudolph Bracksby, the present owner, had expended vast sums to bring the interior up to style, but the exterior was still a gray box, its neo-classical columns and
extremely large pediment ostentatious, while the abundance of griffins and gargoyles (also added by the new owner) were referred to as an appalling vulgarity. Noble shoulders were shrugged, knowing looks exchanged, and voices lowered to murmur those deadly words "nouveau riche" and "Cannot really be expected to know…" and, most ominous of all, "Family? Bracksby? But, my dear…!"
On this crisp November afternoon the gates to the estate stood wide, and the drive-path was crowded. This was the day of the annual Winter Fete, a fair and sale that had been held on this same week-end for at least two hundred years, and cheerfully continued by Mr. Bracksby during the decade since he had acquired the property. All proceeds went to aid widows and orphans, and if the county judged Mr. Bracksby to teeter on the brink of social acceptability, they were willing to flock to his estate to contribute to so worthy a cause. And perhaps pick up a few bargains.
Barbecue pits had been dug in the wilderness area, and the aroma of woodsmoke and roasting meats hung enticingly on the air. A large marquee had been erected next to the maze, where trestle tables and benches had been set up. Innumerable covered stalls and tents lined the drive-path, and those whose blood was sufficiently blue to warrant personal invitations were admitted to the mansion, where, for a substantial donation, they could wander about the various tables in the corridors and the ballroom which displayed the more costly items donated for sale, or make their way into the saloons and ante rooms where various games of chance were offered. Later, they would be given plates and mugs, and could patronize the long tables in the dining room, helping themselves to juicy slices of the fruits of the barbecue pits, augmented by cold meats and cheeses, breads, pies, cakes, tarts, jellies, cider, ale, or wine. Excellent fare, of which a few guests would partake so liberally that in addition to their willing charitable contributions they would later and less willingly contribute to the coffers of their personal physicians.
The afternoon was waning when Falcon's carriage moved cautiously along the drive-path. He saw little of the good-natured throng or the colourful flags and bunting that fluttered from booths and tents. The wound in his arm throbbed determinedly, and he was irked by the awareness that if it continued to be annoying he might have to pay heed to James Knight's warnings and take to his bed for a day or so. A damnable coil, for he could scarce have chosen a worse time to be laid by the heels.
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