The Mandarin of Mayfair

by Patricia Veryan

  Falcon took the card, kissed the lady's hand, and told her he was deep in her debt. Mrs. Quimby blushed like a girl, declared that he was a rascal, and that if he was truly grateful he'd not mind fetching her a piece of "that very intriguing currant cake."

  Soon after he performed this task her brother appeared to reclaim her, and Mrs. Quimby and Mr. Falcon parted, each pleased with the other.

  Congratulating himself on having learned something of real value, Falcon wandered to the card rooms and sat at a faro table between Hector Kadenworthy and Mr. Duncan Tiele. Play was shrewd and the stakes high and excitement began to rise. Someone moved too swiftly, overturning Falcon's wineglass and he sprang up just in time to avoid being deluged.

  Tiele said admiringly, "Jupiter but that was fast! I think I'd never wish to cross swords with you, Falcon!"

  "Nobody wishes to." Kadenworthy waved to a waiter to refill Falcon's glass. "Sometimes there's no decent way to avoid it!"

  "One has a choice, you see," said Lord Sommers, coming up behind Kadenworthy's chair. "Decent—or living!"

  Falcon bowed grandly, and thus did not see the hand that hovered briefly over his glass. There was general laughter, and the game went on. Emerging from it the richer by two hundred guineas, Falcon allowed himself to be caught up in the bargain-hunting spirit. He purchased a charming ruby pendant for Katrina, and half an hour later was paying for a blue silken shawl with a fine knotted fringe when he sensed that he was being watched. He glanced up swiftly and from across the table met a pair of brilliant dark eyes. Before he could speak, their owner walked rapidly away. He thought "Be damned! Skye! And in civilian dress!"

  That Joel Skye and Mariner Fotheringay should both be here might be the merest coincidence. On the other hand, it might mean that at long last the Horse Guards had begun to listen to the warnings of Rossiter's Preservers!

  "You devil! August! Do not dare!" Despite this warning, Lady Pamela Dunscroft made no move to extricate herself from an embrace that, in this particular time and place, would have raised the eyebrows of the most broad-minded of London's social set. Tall, voluptuously curved, and very sure of her beauty, she lay on the sofa of this secluded little parlour, her head thrown back, her dark eyes rapturously half closed.

  Assigning her warning the importance it warranted, Falcon went about his business, his hands and lips drawing soft little moans from her until she flung her arms about his neck and pulled him down to her own hungry mouth.

  "My heavens," she panted between kisses, "how I've missed you! We should never… have— Oh, Lud! We should never have… parted."

  Considerably shaken, he drew back. "I think we had best— part now, lovely one. Your brother don't admire me. If he should chance to find us—like this…"

  "Rudi's in Bath with his bosom bow, old Underhill," she said, taking up his hand impatiently. "Here, love, you know I—" She gave a little shriek and for a while there was relative quiet, if not inactivity, in the parlour.

  It was some time before Falcon could escape her clinging arms, but at length he stood and shrugged into his waistcoat. "Do you know what your difficulty is, Pam?" he murmured, smiling down at her.

  "Not enough of you," she pouted, making no move to restore her gown.

  Lying there, half clad, she was almost unbearably seductive, and it was all he could do to resist her. "You are too aware of how desirable you are," he said.

  "And you are a marplot," she responded lazily, reaching out to him. "Why must you go? So very soon?"

  "Because, you wanton witch, you've a house full of County only a door away, and if—"

  "That didn't stop you just now."

  "A marplot I may be, but I'm not made of stone, Pam."

  She sat up, her eyes glowing. "By heaven, but you're not! August, my best beloved. Don't go! I want you…"

  He watched her with the mocking half-smile that drove her to distraction. "For your husband, Pam?"

  She tensed, her chin lifting slightly.

  He chuckled. "Of course not. But that's what 'twould mean were we discovered, my dear. Is it really worth the risk?"

  "I sometimes think 'twould be well worth it."

  "But only sometimes. Come now. Your party has been a thousand times more delightful than I deserve, but—"

  "Oh, very well."

  She stood and began to order her gown. But her movements were enticing, she was all female witchery and her eyes teased him, so that in desperation he was obliged to turn away.

  Coming up behind him, she slid her arms around his neck and nibbled at his ear. "I could make you love me again," she whispered.

  He swung around and on the instant she was pressing against him, her lips apart, inviting.

  He said huskily, " 'Twould be all too easy, I fear. Egad, but that scent you wear is enough to make any man's—" The words froze on his tongue. His head jerked up.

  It had been very faint, but now he knew what had been so incongruous about the little flower-girl!

  "Oh… Jupiter!" he snarled.

  Lady Pamela drew back. He was flushed, his eyes glaring wrath. She thought he looked even more magnificent than usual, but she asked uneasily, "What is it? What did I say?"

  He lifted clenched fists and shook them at the ceiling. "Of all the stupid, blind, idiots!" He threw on his sword-belt, snatched up his coat and shrugged into it, then stamped to the door, saying through his teeth, "I'll murder the wretched chit!"

  "August!" shrilled my lady, quite unaccustomed to such cavalier treatment.

  Falcon turned back and looked at her as if he'd forgotten she was there. "Oh." He marched to take up her hand and kiss it hard. "Thank you, m'dear!"

  Another second and he was gone. Lady Pamela gazed after him. She knew men, and, raging, she snatched up the nearest article, which chanced to be a beautiful Sevres vase, and hurled it to shatter against the door. "Beast!" she screeched. "Faithless! Fickle! Horrid half-breed!"

  Passing the object of her wrath on the stairs, the Most Honourable Bertram Crisp, Marquis of Pencader, said brightly, "Oh, there you are, dear old pippin. Come and—" Falcon rushed past without a word, the black scowl on his face cutting off that friendly greeting. Looking after him, Crisp murmured, "Whomever you seek, the poor fellow has my most profound sympathy!"

  Falcon neither saw nor heard him. The lackey who strolled with lofty condescension in response to his gesture, started, went off at the run, returned with his cloak and tricorne, and then raced to the stables.

  Seething, Falcon walked to the top of the steps, his gaze raking the scene. It was past eight o'clock and full dark but the drive-path blazed with the light of a hundred flambeaux. The air was cold and spiced with the pungency of sweetmeats, hot pies, and toffeed apples, and the all-pervading aromas from the barbecue pits. The crowd was larger and noisier than ever. His initial scan failing to locate the face and figure he sought, he marched down the steps and entered the throng. The flickering light illumined the faces he passed, like so many portraits, briefly and brightly painted on a dark canvas. There were more young people now; farm folk who might well have walked most of the day so as to get here in time for the country dancing that would start at nine o'clock in the marquee. Falcon searched among an endless stream of cheerful humanity: rosy-cheeked lassies, their innocent eyes bright with happiness; stalwart youths guarding their sweethearts jealously; buxom farm wives aglow with health; men with the bronzed and leathery skin that spoke of a lifetime spent in the fields; children allowed to stay up long past their bedtime, racing about squealing excitedly and unintelligibly, eluding the plunges of older brothers and sisters who attempted to capture and restrain them; venerable elders fussed over by protective sons or daughters, their eyes as bright as those of their grandchildren. All wearing their Sunday best for this so long-looked-forward-to entertainment. Many of them had wrapped warm woollen shawls about their shoulders, but none walked with a limp, or wore a shawl of that particular shade of forest green. Perhaps she had already left. Falcon swung about and s
trode back the way he had come, shouldering his way through the crowd with an impatience that won him not a few resentful glances.

  He skirted the maze and followed the drive-path toward the stables. Grooms were shouting to each other as they poled up a team. His own, one hoped. And then he saw her. She stood with her back to him, talking animatedly to a sturdy individual who was shaking his head in seemingly dismayed disagreement.

  Falcon half-whispered, "Tummet! Now damn your slippery eyes!"

  In half a dozen long strides he was upon them.

  Catching sight of the advancing menace Tummet paled and his jaw sagged.

  Falcon's scorching glare encompassed him. "Bring up the team!"

  Tummet gulped and fled.

  Gwendolyn spun around. Falcon stood close behind her, his expression so murderous that for an instant she was speechless.

  He seized her wrist and said with a smile that chilled her blood, "You forgot to cross your eyes."

  She was tempted to do so, but this was not the time for either levity or evasion. She said, "Thank heaven you are come! I was just—"

  "You will not thank heaven when I've done with you," he interrupted in that hushed and fierce undertone. "If ever a chit needed spanking—"

  "Oh, stop being so foolish and listen to me! August, I have—"

  The team came prancing alongside and a stableboy ran to open the door and let down the steps.

  Falcon threw him a coin. "Get in the coach," he grated, his piercing glare not shifting from Gwendolyn.

  "Yes, I will, but you must—"

  "Get—in—the—coach!" He added through his teeth, "Or would you prefer that I put you across my knee here and now?"

  The stableboy stood as if rooted to the spot, his jaw hanging open.

  Falcon's gaze turned on him. "Enjoying the performance, are you?"

  The boy gave a gasp, and fled.

  Exasperated, Gwendolyn said, "How can you be so stupid? If you will just—"

  A molten glare was levelled at her. With a squeal she jumped up on the step and dove into the coach.

  He slammed the door so hard that the team snorted and sidled in fright.

  Standing with his left hand on his sword hilt, he looked up to the box. "Down!"

  Tummet moaned, put up his whip, and obeyed. "Guv—it ain't what you—" He was caught in a grip of iron and pinioned against the wheel.

  "You knew!" snarled Falcon, without a trace of "li." "You miserable, scheming, traitorous hedgebird—you knew!"

  "N-not first orf I didn't. Sir. But—"

  His cravat was caught and twisted mercilessly. Choking, he gasped out, "What was a cove… to do, mate? I—"

  "You let her go out into the streets at night!" In his fury, Falcon's lips drew back from his teeth. "A sheltered, innocent—child, who couldn't know what she risked! But you knew! With half London ravening bloody murder, and brute beasts roaming about in packs, you let an unwed lady of Quality walk out alone like a common—tart!By God, if I—"

  "But I din't, Mr. Falcon, sir! Crost me heart… I should'a—"

  "I'll tell you what you should have done, Enoch Tummet! You should have—at once—come to me!"

  Tummet tried to free himself from that cruel grip and looking into the face of murder, squawked, "Mate… sir… I—can't… breathe!"

  "And I'll tell you something else," snarled Falcon, his grip tightening. "If you ever—ever let that lady put one toe into danger I shall, with the greatest pleasure, break your neck with my bare hands!" He shook his captive savagely. "Do you understand me?" he thundered.

  His face purpling, Tummet made a sound vaguely resembling "Yussir."

  "Ow!" cried Falcon and relaxed his grip as something hard swiped at his shoulder.

  Leaning from the open window and flailing her shoe at him, Gwendolyn cried angrily, "Let him go, you savage beast! He didn't even—"

  He whirled on her and she jumped back inside. "I'll deal with you in a minute," he growled. "On the box, Tummet! Though it will likely be the last time you work for me!"

  Tummet had sunk to his knees and was wheezing helplessly, but at this he hove himself to his feet and struggled back onto the box like a drunken man.

  Ignoring the small crowd of gaping onlookers, Falcon wrenched the door open and sprang inside.

  Gwendolyn crouched in the far corner, her eyes very wide, her shoe upraised in one hand.

  "Now," said Falcon through his teeth, "to attend to you, madam!"

  Chapter 10

  "If you think to br-brutalize me, as you did poor Tummet—" began Gwendolyn, lifting her shoe higher.

  Falcon interrupted ruthlessly, "You'll likely never understand how near you came to being truly brutalized when you flaunted yourself about The Madrigal after dark. What in Hades did you think you would achieve by following me—"

  "Following… you?" Outraged, she sputtered, "Why, you conceited, p-puffed-up great—great stupid! I wasn't following you!"

  There could be no doubting her sincerity; resentment fairly radiated from her grubby face. Perversely his fury doubled. He growled, "Who, then?" and pounced to tear the shoe from her hand and seize her by the shoulders. "What tulip of the ton has so captivated you that—"

  With a sob of wrath she clawed at his hand, and as he gave an instinctive gasp and drew back, she slapped his face so hard that a lock of hair bounced down across his forehead.

  For a second he looked dazed, then it seemed to Gwendolyn that blue daggers darted at her from his narrowed eyes. He swore, soft and viciously. Instead of fear, she experienced a stab of really acute pain and, closing her eyes, lifted her face. "Very w-well," she said. "Prove yourself a real English gentleman, and strike me back. It's what I deserve for trying to help Gideon."

  He stared down at that small upturned face, very pale between the streaks of grime. The thought of striking it made him feel sick. Frustrated and confused, he flung her from him and took out a handkerchief to dab at the scratches.

  A stifled sob brought his head up. By the glow from the carriage lamps he saw tears creeping down her cheeks, but she made no attempt to wipe them away. It was as much as he could do not to pull her close and comfort her. Overcoming that weakness, he thrust the handkerchief at her, and conjured up a sneer. "Typical! A cunning but infallible woman's weapon."

  Gwendolyn wiped her eyes with a corner of the handkerchief, then snatched his hand and peered at the scratches. "Oh, how dreadful," she said shakily, winding the handkerchief around the damage.

  "Don't pretend to be sorry," he grunted.

  "No, I won't. You deserve much worse for ruining everything!"

  Despite himself, at this his jaw dropped. "If that don't beat the Dutch! You've more than your share of effrontery, madam! What have I ruined, pray tell? Your venture into prostitution?"

  She made a sound that put him in mind of a small puppy trying its first growl. Her little nose was thrust under his chin and she said in a voice that quivered with renewed wrath, "My brother would kill you for that foul remark, August Falcon! And you will live to be ashamed of it, I am very sure!"

  He was already ashamed of it, and he muttered, "If Ross ever discovers how I failed to protect you whilst you were under my roof—"

  "He would be proud!" She threw up her hands and wailed, "I tried so hard! And I was so frightened! But I triumphed at last! I triumphed! And then the mighty conquering hero, August Nicolai Falcon must come galumphing into my adventure and let them get clean away! Oh, the pity of it! When Gideon hears that—"

  "Hold up! What are you talking about? Who got away?"

  "Maria Benevento or Barthelemy, or whoever she is! And someone called Mr. Penn!"

  "What?' he roared. "Why the devil didn't you say so?" He sprang up and lowered the window to howl, "Tummet!"

  "I tried to tell you, horrid wretch that you are, but—"

  The carriage slowed.

  "Which way did they go, Gwen?" demanded Falcon.

  "Back toward Town. Tummet knows, poor dear thing. B
ut it's too late now, thanks to—"

  He said grimly, "You don't know my team!" He leaned from the window. "Miss Gwen says you know the coach and which way it was going. Try if you can follow them."

  A hoarse croak answered, "I am, Guv. But they got a good lead on us."

  Falcon glanced westward. "The moon's coming up. Can you see their coach?"

  "No. But I'll reckernize it if we get near enough."

  "Good man. Then spring 'em!"

  The coach lurched. Falcon closed the window and sat down.

  "All right," he said sternly. "Tell me the whole. But—first, did you see this Mr. Penn?"

  "No. It was too dark and I was too far off. But I once heard Miss Barthelemy read at a party, and I recognized her voice when she called to him. She got into a coach, and a big man ran over and climbed in and they drove away. I thought it might be important so—"

  "So you came to me and I behaved like the world's prize dunderhead! But even so, that don't excuse your shocking—"

  "Is it important?" she interrupted impatiently. "Who is Mr. Penn?"

  "Would that I knew. And 'tis very important indeed! We first heard of him early in September when Morris and I were in Cornwall trying to help Johnny Armitage. Jennifer, she was Miss Britewell then, overheard Lord Kenneth Morris talking high treason with a man named Penn."

  Gwendolyn's lower lip sagged. Aghast, she echoed, "Lord Kenneth Morris! Not—not Jamie's uncle?"

  He'd supposed Gideon would have told her the details, else he'd not have mentioned the matter. He thought, "Damn! Too late now," and said, "Not exactly. Some sort of cousin to his father, I believe. But he's the head of the Family Morris and up to his ears in the League of Jewelled Men. With luck, our mysterious Mr. Penn and Maria are going to one of their secret meetings. If we can just come close enough to find out where they rendezvous! Jove, what a piece of luck that would be!"

  Caught up in his enthusiasm, she clasped her hands and said eagerly, "Oh, how grand if we could think we had helped a little."

  "We?" he asked with a faint smile.

  She nodded. "Katrina and me. You cannot know how—"