He watched her numbly, making no attempt to restrain her, or to move away from her blows.
Gwendolyn ran to take the distraught girl in her arms and say comfortingly, "Do not grieve so, dearest. Jamie is young and strong. He will likely make a fine recover."
Over Katrina's shoulder, she met Rossiter's eyes. He shook his head grimly, and she had to hold back her own tears.
Katrina sank against her, weeping so hysterically that Gwendolyn dreaded she might suffer a complete collapse. Holding her close, she said, "We must help. Come, we'll go and make ready for the doctor."
Falcon caught at his sister's arm and said brokenly, "Trina—you must believe me! He fell! I never meant—"
Katrina's head came up to reveal reddened swollen eyes and her lovely face so twisted with grief it was almost unrecognizable. She slapped August's hand away, and said in a shrill broken voice, "Do not dare touch me, liar! I saw it! 'Twas cold, de-deliberate murder! You've killed that kind and—and valiant gentleman, just as you've longed to do. Are you proud, my dear brother? Are you happy that you've destroyed my every hope for happiness?"
"No! Trina, do not! I didn't—"
"You've k-killed more than the man I love. You've killed every spark of the love I had for you! For as long as I live I will loathe and—and despise y-you…" Her voice was suspended and she sobbed uncontrollably.
His hand fell. He met Gwendolyn's eyes and found there only a cold disgust.
She said contemptuously, "How could you?" and led Katrina away.
Chapter 12
Falcon House was too modern for any Stuart monarch to have actually honoured it with his presence, but in the autumn of 1651 when young King Charles II was being hunted through England by the merciless troops of Oliver Cromwell, Elsworth Falcon had recognized and, at the risk of his own life, sheltered the exhausted monarch. Charles, not one to accept such loyalty as his due, had rewarded Elsworth with a ring taken from his own hand, and after the restoration had bestowed on him the splendid estate of Ashleigh in Sussex. The family had prospered, and when the London house was built King Charles' ring had been mounted in a glass box displayed beneath a portrait of the "Merry Monarch" that hung in the suite reserved for very important guests.
It was to this luxurious apartment that James Morris had been tenderly carried after the duel. And it was here that Falcon waited, silent and seemingly invisible to all who passed by. He had stationed himself in an alcove of the corridor outside the King Charles suite, and when the door opened could hear Gwendolyn murmuring comfort, or Katrina's soft weeping. The case clock in the lower hall announced the hour, and he was dully surprised to count eleven chimes. He'd thought it was long past midnight. The clock ticked on and he watched the quiet procession of solemn-faced footmen and tearful maids as they carried away bowls or brought up steaming copper ewers or medical supplies.
And with each one that came, he thought, "Thank God! He's not dead yet! Stay alive, Jamie! Don't die!"
Again and again he relived the events of this disastrous night, trying to understand what had happened. He'd been feverish at its start, because of the wound in his arm; he had drunk more wine than was his habit; he had been in a quarrelsome mood because— Well, never mind that. The thing was that he'd allowed his temper to get the best of him. His wretched temper. But there was no excuse. He should never have forced Jamie into a duel when he was in such a condition. If only the moon hadn't gone out, or that drifting fog hadn't—
A hand touched his shoulder, and he shrank instinctively.
Tummet bent over him. "It's nigh two o'clock, sir. You'd oughta—"
"Don't be ridiculous! It just struck eleven! How can—" But even as he spoke, he heard the twin chimes. He hadn't slept! Hadn't closed his eyes, he would swear! Yet three hours had slipped away. He thought, "My dear Lord! Am I quite mad?"
Tummet had said "sir." How grateful he would have been for a "mate" or "Guv." Anything but that "sir"—so formal and proper. And cold. And how different the man looked with the twinkle banished from the beady eyes, the mouth set in that stern and unfamiliar line.
He asked wearily, "How is he? Has Knight come yet?"
Tummet stared at him. "Sir Jim come at once. Stopped and spoke to you. Don't you remember?"
"If I remembered, would I have asked?" He could have bitten his tongue the moment he spoke. He had no right to use such a tone. Not he, who was such a poor excuse for a human being. He must learn humility. If Jamie died he'd have murdered one of the best men who ever lived. A man he'd come to be as fond of as—as the brother he'd never had. If Jamie died, he'd never forgive himself any more than Trina would forgive him. Or—the Smallest Rossiter. He sighed heavily. She'd be free of him. She already was free of him, for the look she'd directed at him, and those three scornful words, had spoken volumes.
He jerked away as a hand touched his brow. Tummet was gone. Sir James Knight straightened and said brusquely, "He has no fever. What gave you that notion?"
Peregrine Cranford said rather lamely, "He was behaving in an—odd sort of way all evening. I thought perhaps…"
"You are too kind. He don't deserve such consideration." Knight looked at Falcon as he might regard a slug that had crawled onto his surgical knife. "Do you wish that I look at that arm, sir?"
Falcon stood and said quietly, "No. I am perfectly well, I thank you."
Sir James snorted. "Which is more than one could say for your latest victim. You'd best set Tummet to pack your portmanteau, sir. An extended stay in foreign parts is indicated."
Falcon felt sick. As from a great distance he heard himself ask, "What—what d'you mean? Are you saying—"
"I am saying, you murderous idiot," said Sir James harshly, "that you need have no more worries. The very fine young man you have seen fit to destroy in the prime of his life will never marry your sister."
Crushed with grief and remorse, Falcon bowed his head and half-whispered, "He's—gone?"
"I doubt he'll last the night out. Even if he does, he'll never walk again. Congratulations, sir! You have opened my eyes. Like a perfect fool, I never thought you really warranted what men said of you. Till now!"
Some indeterminate time later, Tummet said, "Sir?"
Falcon looked up, vaguely surprised to find that he still stood here, and that Tummet was watching him in an aghast fashion. He said dully, "Yes?"
"The lieutenant's asking for you."
Falcon cringed inwardly. He couldn't go in there and face poor Jamie. And the terrible loathing that would glare at him from Trina's dear eyes. And—Gwen… ! Well, he must, that's all. This, he supposed, was what was meant by one of Jamie's oft used old proverbs, "He who calls the tune must pay the piper." He had called the tune, God forgive him! A dance of death! And the piper must be paid. He straightened his shoulders and walked across the small parlour and into the sick room.
The bedchamber was dim, a single candlestick on one of the chests of drawers providing the only illumination. Two chairs were drawn close to the right side of the bed. Katrina was asleep in one, a blanket spread over her. She was pale, her face ravaged and dark circles under her eyes. Coming up on the other side he did not look directly at Gwendolyn, but he could feel her eyes on him. A nurse had withdrawn to the window seat, and watched, a silent faceless silhouette.
He had to force his feet to carry him closer, and the sight of the wounded man was like a blow to the heart. Jamie looked already dead. He lay on his back, arms at his sides, and his eyes shut. Save for the freckles his face was without colour, even his lips were pallid. "He looks so young," thought Falcon achingly, and bending over that still figure murmured, "Jamie, Jamie! If only I could make you understand! I didn't want her—or you—to go through what—"
Morris stirred slightly. He coughed, a thin painful sound, then looked up, panting distressfully.
Dropping to one knee beside the bed, Falcon said, "Jamie— I am so very sorry! Please believe that had it not been for the moon disappearing so suddenly, and that damnab
le fog rolling in from nowhere— But I never never meant to—"
The hand on the coverlet, so strong just a few hours since, moved feebly. Incredibly, the pale lips were twitching into the shadow of a smile, more wounding than the vilest curses. Stricken, Falcon took that helpless hand and held it between both of his own.
'Tried… tell 'em," Morris whispered. "Not—not y'fault I… slipped."
He was gasping for breath. Gwendolyn called softly, and the nurse hurried to wipe a damp cloth across her patient's lips. "That's enough, if you please," she said, with a cold glance at Falcon.
Morris' head moved in agitation. "No! Must listen… Find her… good man, Lord—Lord Haughty-Snort. Are… some about, y'know. Let her have… chance at… happiness…"
His head tossed and he coughed again, then groaned.
The cloth the nurse held was crimson. She said sharply, "Go, sir! Go!"
Falcon stumbled to the door and, blinded by tears, groped for the handle.
Outside, Tummet saw his face. A moment, he watched the erratic stumble along the corridor. Then, "Cor!" he muttered, and guided his "guv'nor" to his own apartments.
In the days that followed it seemed to Falcon that he had been relegated to some private hell in which he could neither undo what he had done, nor endure the consequences. Begging to be allowed to help, he was politely refused. Katrina seldom left the bedside, and if she encountered him in the corridors acknowledged by neither word nor look that he existed. To see the sister he adored so utterly reject him was scarcely to be borne, and to know that he deserved such treatment plunged him into despair. When Gwendolyn passed by him she turned her head away and he did not dare address her.
He was allowed to visit Morris for two minutes once a day, but with each visit the condition of the sick man appeared to have worsened, and there was no longer any attempt to smile or to speak.
Morning and evening he waited fearfully for Knight's calls, but the great doctor had little to say to him. When he pleaded to be allowed to go down to Sevenoaks and break the news to Mr. Fletcher Morris, then bring him back to London, Knight looked through him and said that Lieutenant Morris had given strict instructions that his family was not to be notified while there was the faintest hope of recovery. "If it becomes necessary for them to be sent for," he added, "his friend, Captain Rossiter, will go and break the news."
Crushed, Falcon retreated.
The members of Rossiter's Preservers called frequently, but Dr. Knight had decreed that in addition to the other "pests" who bothered his patient, only one each day was to be admitted, and they were not to speak, but could wave, or smile, no more.
During these visits they could not fail to see Falcon waiting in his usual corner near the sick room door, but he was, for the most part, ignored. Gideon Rossiter looked at him tight-lipped, his eyes blazing as though he yearned to do bloody murder. Horatio Glendenning and Gordon Chandler would not look at him at all. Jonathan Armitage frowned but at least nodded as he went by, and Peregrine Cranford looked distressed and told him that the news was "all over Town," his expression warning of the kind of reception that awaited Falcon when he showed his face to the ton. To his astonishment, the most compassion he received was from Sir Owen Furlong.
Astounded when Furlong stopped beside his chair in the alcove and asked how Katrina went on, he told him, and thanked him humbly for deigning to talk to him.
In his calm fashion Sir Owen said, "Jamie swears 'twas an accident. That he slipped."
"He did. But—I had plenty of time to swing my sword aside."
"Yet did not."
"No." Falcon drew a hand across his brow distractedly. "That is what I cannot understand. It seemed as if I was standing aside, watching it all, but—but caught in a sea of mud and scarce able to move."
"Perry Cranford said you were not yourself all the evening. He thought you had a fever."
"Yes. So did I. But James Knight said I had no fever. So I cannot use that as an excuse."
Sir Owen looked at him thoughtfully. "How is your arm now?"
"As good as new, almost. Owen, 'tis kind in you to be so generous. Dare I ask if you've seen your—your lady?"
"I've not. But," he reached into his waistcoat pocket and took out a note which he passed to Falcon.
It read: "My brave English gentleman. Forgive me. Forgive me. I shall always love you. Maria."
Falcon stared at those words and returning the note, said, "That must be very dear to you. Perhaps, someday, when this is all over…"
"Yes." Sir Owen sighed. "Perhaps, someday."
On Friday, ignoring Tummet's carefully uttered warnings, Falcon left the house. Jonathan Armitage had been engaged to meet with Mrs. Quimby the previous day, and he'd hoped Johnny might stop in at Falcon House and tell him what happened. Only Rossiter had called, however, and he had marched past without "seeing" him and left as icily remote as ever.
Again ignoring Tummet's advice, he called up his new carriage. It was a racy vehicle which had attracted a good deal of attention when first he drove out in it. Lightly built, with oversize wheels for speed, it was a bright maroon red picked out in cream, the interior all cream, the rugs cream with maroon trim, and his initials painted in graceful gold script on the door panels.
"Jest in case," grumbled Tummet, "some friend o' the Squire wiv a cocked barker in his pocket don't reckernize the coach first time his peepers rest on it!" This remark eliciting no response, he enquired, "Is I going?"
"No."
"Is I allowed to know where yer going?"
"I want to have a word with Mr. Armitage. Wherever he may be."
Tummet said, "Ar," and watched the coach out of sight, heavy-hearted. Turning, he found Gwendolyn standing in the open door, also looking after the coach. He joined her and they walked across the hall together.
At the foot of the stairs, she paused and said softly, "Speaking as a friend, not a valet, Tummet—how is he? Do you think he—regrets what he has done?"
He hesitated. "I think as he would do it all over again, Miss Gwen. 'Cause in his eyes, he's pertecting of Miss Katrina. But I don't think he meant the doo-ell to turn out like it done. I think it's tore the heart right outta him."
She nodded, and said sadly, "Yet, even now, he must lie about it."
He frowned a little. "I ain't never heard him do that, Miss Gwen."
"I'd not have believed it, had I not heard it with my own ears. Twice. When he came to see poor Lieutenant Morris after they fought, he tried to excuse himself on the grounds that the moon had disappeared, and that fog had rolled in. You know as well as I that there was a bright full moon all evening, and not a trace of fog. Only yesterday, I overheard him tell Sir Owen Furlong that during the duel his feet were trapped in a sea of mud so that he was unable to move, whereas in fact the grass where they fought was very dense and though it was wet it wasn't at all muddy. Besides, you know how lightning fast he can move when he fences, there was time to spare for him to have retired his blade when he saw Jamie slip. Had he wished—"
"Beg pardin, but hold up a bit, Miss! Let's have that agin, willya? Every single word as you can rec'lect, if you don't mind."
Puzzled, Gwendolyn repeated her remarks. When she finished, Tummet was silent, his craggy face twisted into an horrendous expression of concentration. She asked curiously, "What is it?"
He started. "Eh? Oh—just a bee in the old brainbox. Think it'd be orl right fer me to step out fer a bit, Miss? I'd like to have a word wiv me real guv'nor. Well, me guv what was, as y'might say."
"My brother? Why, yes, of course. I'll speak to Mr. Pearsall. You run along."
She would have been surprised to find that Tummet took her at her word, and did, indeed, run along.
"At least," said Hector Kadenworthy, dabbing at the back of Falcon's neck with the wet cloth the host had provided, "it wasn't rotten."
"Thanks be for small mercies." Falcon raised his head and glanced around the sparsely occupied dining room of the
Turk's He
ad Coffee House. If anyone present had witnessed the collision of the egg with the back of his neck, there were no grins evident. Though that would be hard to verify, since every head was turned away from him. He said grimly, "I'd like to meet the coward who threw it! You run a risk by helping me, Kade."
His lordship shrugged. "I'm not likely to embrace you, I'll own. You're a sight too hot-at-hand, as I've told you before. But I'm not such a fool as to think you deliberately set out to slaughter poor Morris. How does he go on, by the way?"
"The same. Rather—rather hovering… between life and death, I suppose you'd say."
Despite himself, his voice had trembled. Kadenworthy glanced at the haggard face, then said, "Our riotous populace has been busy these past few days. You'll have heard Sommers' coach was overturned in the Strand yesterday?"
"The devil! Ambrose Sommers? Why he's one of the best-liked men in Town."
"Not by some elements, apparently! Night before last, all the ground floor windows of Dowling House were smashed by rock-throwers. Our old London is not the town it was. I wonder you reached here without being set upon."
"More or less. We were surrounded by an unfriendly crowd on Ludgate Hill, but I was recognized." Falcon's smile was fleeting and did not reach his eyes. "My—er, nickname was shouted, and I was given a rousing cheer when some ruffian proclaimed I was on their side, and was helping them to— reduce the aristocratic population."
Kadenworthy was silent for an awkward moment, then said heartily, "So you're on the hunt for some luncheon, are you? You've chosen a good spot. The food here is not too awful."
"Actually, I was hoping to find Armitage. Have you seen him?"
"Not today. Did you try Rossiter's or Furlong's?"
"Both. I'll keep looking."
"Stay and take luncheon first. You look half-starved."
Falcon thanked him, but declined, saying he wasn't hungry. As he left he heard someone remark scornfully, "You've some devilish odd friends, Kade! I'd have thought you liked Jamie Morris too well to hob-nob with the murderous Mandarin."
The Mandarin of Mayfair Page 22