The Mandarin of Mayfair

by Patricia Veryan

  "I'll show you." The highwayman led them across the room and into another passageway. Suddenly they were in daylight again as they entered a lean-to with two troughs, both empty, and a fine saddle propped on a bale of hay. The planks of the rear wall hung in shreds. "Kicked it dahn, drat him," said Tom disconsolately. "A beauty though, ain't he?"

  Gwendolyn heard the hiss of Tummet's indrawn breath. She was incapable of speech. Through the shattered door she saw a fine chestnut horse grazing contentedly in a small clearing. Nearby, another animal grazed. A splendid black stallion, the pale light gleaming on his glossy coat.

  Her numb lips formed the word soundlessly, "Andante!"

  The last incense stick had burned itself out long hours ago, and he'd had to sing to stay awake and to keep up his courage. Long-forgotten songs from childhood; hymns he'd not thought of since he'd left school, croaked out in a strange unknown voice that shook—only because he was so terribly cold. It was stupid to sing, because it hurt his ribs, but it pushed back the crushing silence a little. Lord knows how long ago he had taken the last sip of the water he'd hoarded in the cup they'd left him. He was parched with thirst and so hungry that he began to think of the rats in a different light—a sure sign, he thought, shuddering, that he was losing his mind.

  One thing he'd accomplished as a result of his endless scraping—it was less painful to breathe. The air was as foul, but he had made a tiny hole when a long sliver of mortar had crumbled and he'd been able to use his pencil to poke it through to the other room. It was a mixed blessing: it meant that the wall was not so thick here, but also that he had not found the locking mechanism. He could see no alleviation of the dense blackness when he tried to peep through the hole, but he knew it went all the way through because air came in, enabling him to draw a breath. Which was pointless, probably, and would only prolong his suffering.

  He had constantly to fight against giving way to terror and despair. The certain knowledge that death was near could no longer be denied, but he wanted to face it proudly, not slobbering and mindless. He was haunted by tales he'd heard of people who'd been locked in some lost room, or had perhaps been buried alive, their bones coming to light long after all search for them had been abandoned. At school he'd read of a hapless lady whose husband had offended some king or other, and who had been shut up and left with her little son to starve in darkness. When found, there was every evidence that the poor creature had gone raving mad before she'd died. A fate that probably awaited him if— He caught himself up and forced his thoughts to Gwendolyn, and her dear gravity as she'd tried to instruct him about "li"…

  Claws scratched his cheek. He'd slipped down the wall again! He dragged himself upright, jerking a hand across his eyes and uttering the rasping sound that was the closest he could come to a shout, and the rat scampered away.

  How long had he fought them off in this freezing blackness? It seemed an eternity, but he'd be dead if it was an eternity. And oh, how he yearned to live! To be able to warn Papa of the League's trap. To tell Joel Skye about the whole ugly business. To see his love and his family and his friends again. And to find Reggie Smythe! Dwelling on what he'd like to do to that miserable wart sustained him for a while, but he found that he was sagging down again. If he allowed himself to sleep, he would escape this horror for a while. Perchance he'd wake to see Grandmama Natasha smiling at him. Or would Jamie stand between them and deny him the right to see her? Probably while throwing his wretched maxims about… "Be done by as you did, August Falcon!" or some such rot. And there he went again, conveniently forgetting his own guilt, and that poor Jamie would be more than justified to lecture him! How could he forget what he'd done? Squirming, he pleaded, "I'm so sorry I sent you up there. I didn't mean it, Jamie. I was tricked. Smythe really killed you—not me. You'll let me see Grandmama, won't you, Jamie? Please, dear old fellow…"

  He seemed to lose touch with reality for a space and when he awoke he was dead at last, because he heard Grandmama Natasha calling his name.

  "August? Are you there?"

  Couldn't she see him? Come to think about it, was heaven this dark? Grandmama was in heaven, no doubt of that, so why—"

  Ah, but there was light now. Just a tiny beam—the finger of an angel reaching out to him, probably. When it touched him, his side would stop hurting, and this hellish thirst would be quenched. Awed, he whispered, "Grandmama?"

  "Guv? Answer us, for Gawd's sake!"

  Falcon blinked. Tummet?

  A rat raced across his legs and he flailed at it with a renewed surge of strength. "Get away, damn your filthy hide!"

  A shriek. A joyous shout.

  They'd found him!

  Oh, my dear God!

  They'd come!

  An ear-splitting screeching sound, a rumble, a blinding light. He blinked behind a hand half-raised against the sudden glare, but he recognized the Smallest Rossiter, running to him, tears streaming down her face.

  Half-sobbing, half-laughing, she cried, "August… my darling! How like you to… to swear at us when… we come! Oh, Tummet! He's alive! He's alive!"

  Soft, warm arms about him; smacking kisses on his bristly cheek; hands caressing him, holding him close—blessedly, wonderfully close. Dazed, scarcely daring to believe, he clung to her and tried to speak, but his throat was choked with emotion, his teeth chattered with the cold, and he couldn't say a word. She was murmuring repeatedly that it was all right now, and not to try to talk—it was all right. He knew that Apollo was racing about madly, scattering small shapes in all directions. Tummet patted his head in clumsy but affectionate comforting while growling curses under his breath and saying in a very gruff voice that he'd like to get his hands 'round someone's throat. A stranger was there; a big man who hovered about with a flare in his hand, but he couldn't seem to see who it was. Everything was very blurred and fragmentary and wonderful. And he was so grateful, so unspeakably thankful… If he could only stop shaking… If he could only tell them…

  "It was really Apollo who found you." Gwendolyn had to struggle to keep her voice steady as she tended Falcon's hurts with the medical supplies that the Dancing Master kept in his "ken." The shock of finding him in that stifling ghastly room, his haggard, beard-stubbled face and terribly battered condition, but most of all the look of horror that was still not gone from his eyes, would haunt her for as long as she lived. After Tummet had given him a few swallows of the brandy the terrible convulsive shuddering had eased somewhat, but he'd seemed dazed and not quite aware until the two men had supported him back to this room. They'd sat him at the Dancing Master's table and, cautiously, they'd satisfied his craving for water, and between water and brandy and the bread and cheese he was now trying not to eat too ravenously, he was looking much better. He seemed incapable of speech, however, gazing from one to the other of them with a look of humble rapture that wrung her heart, so that she had told their story first to give him a chance to recover himself.

  "We were going back out to the path," she went on, bathing a bite in his arm. "We'd hoped to find a way into the ruins farther along, but Apollo went rushing off down a pitch bla—er, a side passage. Mr. Dancer told us he'd once explored along there and that it went on and on into what he guessed to be some ancient dungeons."

  "So we followed Apollo, on the off-chance he were after that there incense he was so took with," put in Tummet eagerly. "We come up in a reg'lar maze of dungeons. 'Twould have took us years to find you, Guv. But that there hound follered his nose, and soon we could smell the incense, too."

  Falcon thought, "The incense you gave me, my love." He smiled at Gwendolyn but she was blurred and again there came the fear that he would wake to find this was just another dream, so that he reached out and touched her cheek anxiously. She was really here, thank God! And good old Tummet. And there was so much he wanted to say to them. But how could he make them know what it had been like, trapped in that foul impenetrable blackness, suffocating from the lack of air, crushed by the even more dreadful silence? How
explain the paralyzing alone-ness, or the fear?

  Gwendolyn felt him shudder, and read something of it in his eyes. She nestled against that trembling hand and kissed it, winking away tears because of the splintered nails and lacerated fingers.

  "It must have been a miracle that you had it with you," she gulped. "Apollo loved the scent and followed it to a tiny room behind the one where you… were."

  "And there was a great rusted old lever in the wall," put in Tummet. "And the smell of that there incense strong 'round it. So Dancer and me give it a tug, and stap me if the wall didn't come open, and there you was! If ever I see such a perishing hole, without no doors and no light, and no air neither! And all them rats! Gawd! I'd have gone orf me tibby in—" He broke off as Gwendolyn nudged him sharply.

  The shock and ecstasy of rescue were merging into exhaustion now, and for Falcon the room had become smaller and smaller, the outer areas fading into a dim mistiness. His head nodded, but he fought sleep away and slumped in the chair, ecstatically breathing the cold and clean air and the heavenly smell of rain; glorying in their dear and familiar voices, and in the knowledge that they had cared enough to… to search for him…

  His shirt felt odd, and he discovered he was wearing a garment several sizes too big, but clean and freshly ironed. He didn't seem to remember them doing these things for him. Confused, he knew there was something he'd meant to say; something important. He began hoarsely, "You are so good…"

  Gwendolyn had been brushing his coat, and she put it down and knelt beside him. "Your own shirt was in rags and so dirty and Mr. Dancer very kindly loaned you one of his!" She touched his side lightly. "My poor dear—what a frightful bruise! Does it hurt very badly?"

  "It doesn't matter, now that— What I mean is— I don't know how—how I shall ever be able to thank you for coming to find me. I never dared hope… That is, I did not expect you would forgive me… for—for what I did to poor… Morris."

  She held his hand and said in her gentlest voice, "Jamie told us that he slipped. And Tummet thinks—we both believe you were drugged."

  "Yes, I was." He sighed. "But—that won't bring Jamie back, will it? I am still the man who—who killed him!"

  She exchanged a startled glance with Tummet, and exclaimed, "But—dear one, Jamie is not dead."

  The faint colour that had returned to Falcon's drawn face drained away. He stammered, "But—but I saw his sister come, and J-Jamie said his family was only to be told if— Gwen?" He searched her face frantically, then turned to Tummet. "For the love of God—do not try to spare me!"

  "The lieutenant's sister come to London to shop." explained the valet, "and heard 'bout the doo-ell, and that's why she come calling. Mr. Morris is alive, Guv, but Doc Sir Jim says—"

  "That he is going along much better than we dared to hope," interpolated Gwendolyn hurriedly.

  It was too much. Overcome, Falcon bowed his head into his hands.

  Gwendolyn stroked his hunched shoulder and said gently, "My poor dear. Is that why you went off all alone, without a word to any of us?"

  He mumbled, "I wanted to try in—in some small way to—"

  With a thunder of big paws, a flapping of ears, and some happy panting, Apollo raced into the room and hurled himself at his master.

  Tummet howled; Gwendolyn gave a shocked cry as she was staggered; Falcon uttered an involuntary shout and doubled up, clutching his side. The sudden sharp pain wiped the haze from his mind. Straightening as Tummet chased the exuberant hunter outside, he gasped, "Jupiter! What am I doing? What day is this?"

  "Why—'tis Thursday, my dear, but—"

  "Dear Lord! What is the hour?"

  Tummet came back in and tugged out a large silver pocket watch. "Five and twenty minutes to two o'clock, Guv!"

  Falcon dragged himself to his feet.

  Standing also, Gwendolyn protested, "August! You must rest!"

  "I must get to Ashleigh! I may already be too late! Tummet—is Andante—"

  "He's outside, Guv, and frisky as any colt. And if yer thinking on riding him dahn to Sussex—"

  "Nonsense!" Gwendolyn clung to Falcon's arm. "You cannot even stand up straight! Tummet, he is delirious! We must not let him kill himself!"

  Falcon said, "Should you prefer that your father be executed?" He saw her become perfectly white, and went on grimly, "My sire hosts a surprise party at Ashleigh this evening. The parents or brothers of the men who have helped Gideon fight the League have been invited, which will surprise Papa, for none of them are on his guest list. The invitations are forgeries sent out by the League of Jewelled Men!"

  Maria Barthelemy's pale worried face came into Gwendolyn's mind. This must be the party she had spoken of. She asked in bewilderment, "But—but why would the League trick our parents into going to a party at Ashleigh?"

  "Because the guests my lamentable father has invited include Gordie Chandler's madcap Jacobite brother, and Prince Charles Stuart! Association with either is punishable by death. And unless I mistake it, dragoons have been informed of the business and are likely already on their way to arrest the lot of 'em!"

  Gwendolyn gave a gasp of fright.

  "And that," muttered Enoch Tummet, "leaves the devil to pay, and no pitch hot!"

  Daylight was fading to dusk when the coach rattled over the old hump-backed bridge and bounced onto the ground again with a jolt that almost threw Falcon from the seat. Accustomed to the atrocious roads, he awoke and blinked drowsily at the dim-seen countryside.

  His revelation of the deadly threat at Ashleigh had spurred an immediate rebellion in the Dancing Master's "establishment," during which his intention to ride posthaste for Sussex had been rejected out of hand by both a determined Smallest Rossiter and an equally determined Enoch Tummet. There were too many lives at stake, they'd argued, for their fate to be entrusted to one man, especially a man in such a weakened and exhausted condition that he would most certainly topple from the saddle before coming anywhere near his objective. Instead, Gwendolyn and Tummet would drive to Ashleigh, and Falcon could snatch a short rest before starting to London and the Horse Guards. To this plan, he in turn had said a flat and emphatic "No!" If the League had its mercenaries stationed all about the estate, and if the military was already en route, the only hope of getting through such a blockade was to approach Ashleigh by stealth. He knew every inch of the property; every hidden way onto the grounds, every curve of the river, every cove in the coastline. He alone could hope to elude the watchers and then gain access to the great house without betraying his arrival. He had also dismissed Gwendolyn's alternative plan in which Tummet would drive the coach down to Ashleigh so that Falcon could sleep en route, while she would go to the Horse Guards alone.

  They'd been so intent on a swift resolution of their difficulties that they'd not noticed when the Dancing Master returned. He'd announced his presence by remarking that dang him if he'd ever heard of such wickedness, and he'd do whatever he might to help "old England." He had gone on to remark that they would be the better for another coach and horses and offered to go and "borrow" these articles from the Yerville stables. Tummet had assisted in this illicit enterprise while Falcon appropriated the highwayman's razor and shaved himself hurriedly. The two men had returned to report contemptuously that the earl's remaining servants were all "drunk as lords," and had shown very little interest in the theft of their employer's property.

  The end of it was that Gwendolyn and Tummet had set off to London in the Earl of Yerville's elegant but ponderous equipage, while Falcon, his faster carriage tooled by a highwayman, had benefitted from a few hours of deep sleep.

  His side was no less painful, but he felt inestimably refreshed and his head was clear again. He saw that they were far past Haslemere, for a fading band of gold streaked the darkening skies, and looming black and distant against it was a great fortification that could only be Arundel Castle. He called to Dancer and when the coach stopped climbed out and advised that they were dangerously close to Ashleigh and r
an the risk of encountering the Squire's men at any second. The highwayman was reluctant to let him go on alone, but fearing that the coach may already have been seen, Falcon sent him off on the Brighthelmstone road while he himself slipped silently into the trees.

  It was just past five o'clock, and every second increased the risk of the arrival of the military. He could only pray that the troop would wait so as to be sure that all the traitors were in the trap before they sprang it; and that somehow he would get there before them. The woods were dark and hushed and the need for haste desperate, but he resisted the impulse to run, and instead crept along. His caution was justified. All too soon he heard the murmur of voices to his left; a muffled laugh, and the snapping of twigs under booted feet. Then, from the right came a squelch, an irked exclamation, and a soft but forceful flood of French deploring the "sodden English lands."

  They were all about him; but they were watchful and waiting, which meant the dragoons had not yet arrived.

  He crouched at the base of a tree considering his next move, then caught his breath as a man passed within a yard of him.

  It was perilously close, and he dare not fail. He pulled off his boots and Dancer's coat and shoved them cautiously under a shrub. Then, with every nerve strained and taut, he crept forward. There was only one chance, and it would tax his strength and endurance to the limit. But surely, Grandmama Natasha had spoken for him, else he'd still be dying by inches in that hellish cellar—with the rats.

  A splash. A London voice snarling, "Quiet, damn yer eyes! Fotheringay's got ears like a hawk!"

  So Mariner was in command of the dragoons. One wondered for how long he'd known of the plot, and if it was chance that at the Fete he'd enquired, "How is your father, by the way?" And if it was also chance that the remark had so haunted him.

  The hurrying voice of the river was close by. Papa had taught him to swim when he was a very small boy, and with the river bordering the estate and the Channel so close, most of the summers of his youth had been spent more in the water than on land. But he'd been in his teens then, and in perfect condition, and the days had been warm, and he'd been able to stop whenever he wished. Now he was not exactly in perfect condition, and it was a cold November night and he had a long way to go.