The Mandarin of Mayfair

by Patricia Veryan

  Here was the bank at last! He shivered as he lowered himself into the icy water. The tug of the current was hard and immediate. The rains had brought the river high.

  At least, he thought, his teeth beginning to chatter again, the cold might numb his confounded side…

  Chapter 17

  "This is maddening!" Gwendolyn turned in her chair to look up at Tummet, who stood wooden and expressionless beside her. "We have been waiting in this stupid room for hours! Why do they not allow me to speak to the silly man?"

  Actually, they had arrived twenty minutes earlier, but each moment seemed an hour to Gwendolyn. Constantly thwarted by the state of the roads, they had persevered and reached London at dusk. They'd taken one swift detour to Rossiter Court, but had found neither Newby nor Gideon at home, and Gwendolyn's heart had sunk when she'd learned that her father was "away with friends." She had sent lackeys scurrying about Town to find her brothers and desire that they join her at East India House. In her anxiety it had not occurred to her that her gown was badly creased, her shoes muddy, and her hair dishevelled. Those all-important details had been noted at first glance, however, by the succession of minor officials to whom she had been referred, and who had attempted, unsuccessfully, to dismiss her.

  The important middle-aged gentleman, impressive in Company uniform, in whose office they now waited had barely concealed his disapproval. Lord Hayes, he said with a lofty smile, was not to be disturbed. Lieutenant Skye, my lord's aide-de-camp, was in conference and there was no telling when he would emerge.

  Seething, Gwendolyn rose to her feet and announced, "I cannot wait about like this! 'Tis vital that I speak with Lieutenant Skye—at once!"

  The already arched brows of the important gentleman arched higher. "Perhaps you could divulge the nature of your business?"

  " 'Tis a matter of life and death!"

  His amused glance flickered over Tummet and confirmed that the fellow was also creased and dishevelled, and looked more like a pugilist than a personal footman, or whatever he was supposed to be. "In that case, ma'am," he drawled, "you should rather take the matter to Bow Street."

  Ever more irked, Gwendolyn said, "There is to be an assassination attempt on the Prince and Princess of Wales!"

  "Is—er, that a fact? Well, well. Then I'd suggest, ma'am, that the Horse Guards would be a more suitable location to—"

  "I am acquainted with Lieutenant Skye," she snarled, gritting her teeth. "And he is most anxious to hear my news. I demand that you announce me!"

  The important gentleman was also acquainted with Lieutenant Skye, though only during business hours, and he could not envision that dashing young officer enjoying a dalliance with a lady who went about Town with muddy shoes and her hair all anyhow. He smiled politely, and returned to the important letter he was writing, which was a request for an extra day off at Christmas time. "I am sure the lieutenant will tell me if you are expected, ma'am," he murmured.

  Tummet took a deep breath, stepped forward and began to sing at the top of his lungs:

  "On a sunny morn, when we set sail

  And the ship not far from land…"

  "Stop that noise at once!" demanded the important gentleman, his face reddening as he sprang to his feet. "Are you gone—"

  Tummet roared louder,

  "When I did spy a fair pretty maid

  With a comb and a glass in her hand!"

  "Be—quiet!" howled the important gentleman, tearing his hair.

  Tummet sang louder and, delighted, Gwendolyn joined the chorus in her clear soprano:

  "While the raging seas did roar,

  And the stormy winds did blow—"

  "DESIST!" roared the important gentleman, adding to the din.

  "What the devil… ?" Sub-lieutenant Joel Skye wrenched open the door of the inner office.

  Beyond him, Gwendolyn saw Gideon, Tio Glendenning, and Peregrine Cranford gathered around a map table. She ran past the astonished Skye and hurled herself into her brother's arms. "Thank heaven," she cried. "Gideon, I must see you at once! We found out who the Squire is, and—"

  "Did you, by Jove!" Lord Hayes was coming in, the important gentleman's goggling eyes shut out as he closed the door. "We must hear this, ma'am!"

  They all crowded around, and Skye asked eagerly, "What of those fellows Rossiter brought in from Bristol, my lord? Is there a hope we can charge them?"

  The mighty East India Company Director relaxed his lined face into a rare smile and turned to Gideon. "Thanks to you and your friends, those treacherous rogues are convinced their entire scheme is known. How you did it is beyond me, but they're falling over themselves to betray each other, hoping to win transportation rather than the gallows." He frowned suddenly. "When I think of the positions of trust they held, and so mercilessly abused—!" He squared his thin shoulders and said in a lighter tone, "Well, I suspect we've only begun to see that ugly web unfold—but unfold it will, I promise you! And we've you young fellows to thank for it!"

  " 'Twas August Falcon gave us the clue we needed," said Owen Furlong.

  Rossiter added, "And Captain Jonathan Armitage who followed it."

  "Hum," said the Director. "Now, my dear lady, pray sit down and tell us your story."

  "Well, I will," said Gwendolyn. "But you must promise me, my lord, that my brother and his friends will escort me home then, for I have also some personal news of great importance to them all."

  Gideon looked at her sharply, the triumph in his lean face fading into uncertainty.

  Lord Hayes nodded. "Agreed. Now—who is this mysterious Squire, and how did you unmask the wretched creature?"

  "His name is Reginald Smythe," she said, and over-riding their stunned exclamations, she rushed on. "He has hundreds of men scattered throughout the southern counties. At this very moment August Falcon is risking his life to try and stop them, but if he—if he fails, they mean to stage a full-fledged revolt." She held up her hand for quiet. "It will begin at Leicester House, with the assassination of the Prince and Princess of Wales, and—"

  All, then, was pandemonium.

  "Devilish odd, if you were to ask me!" Sir Brian Chandler stood with his back to the fire in Ashleigh's smaller withdrawing room, his aristocratic features betraying annoyance. He was tall and distinguished, rather too thin, and with a pallor that spoke of indifferent health. Intensely patriotic, he had been heart-broken two years ago when he'd discovered that his younger (and favourite) son was a Jacobite rebel, and terrified when that reckless individual had almost paid with his life for his allegiance to the Stuart Cause. Quentin Chandler was safely in France now, but Sir Brian's doctors forbade him the Channel crossing and he'd not yet seen his baby granddaughter. In fact, he seldom left Lac Brillant, his great estate near Dover, and to have journeyed almost a hundred and fifty miles over frightful roads on an invitational he'd felt it impossible to refuse had tired him. To have then been met with what he'd sensed was more shock than delight had at first astonished, and then enraged, him.

  He glanced at the men assembled in the luxurious room. He was well acquainted with Sir Mark Rossiter and the Earl of Bowers-Malden, both of whom looked as annoyed as he was himself. He had not previously met Piers Cranford, a handsome young man, astonishingly like his twin, Peregrine; nor did he know Captain Derek Furlong, younger brother to Sir Owen, who had recently brought his East Indiaman into Bristol Harbour. Both were well-bred young fellows of good family and it was understandable that they should refrain from criticizing their host, a man twenty years their senior. Unfettered by such restraints Sir Brian said impatiently, "Am I the only one to have gained the impression I wasn't expected at all? Be damned if Neville's jaw didn't drop a foot when he walked into the hall as I arrived! Have I the straight of it, gentlemen? This is a surprise party for our sons—no?"

  Derek Furlong nodded, his sun-bronzed face anxious. "And our brothers, sir. Cranford's and mine, that is."

  Sitting on a deep sofa before the fire, Bowers-Malden boomed, "It appeared to
me that the party was a surprise for Neville also. The butler put me in here, and when Neville came to greet me, he looked as if he couldn't believe his eyes!"

  They all, it seemed, had received the same impression.

  "If that's the case, by Jupiter, I'll hear it from him!" said Sir Brian angrily. "And I'll not be fobbed off by some slippery-tongued butler!" He set down his glass and marched to the door.

  The corridor seemed remarkably devoid of servants. Any great house was well supplied with footmen and maids, and whatever Neville Falcon's eccentricities, this was most decidedly a great house. Increasingly astonished as he wandered past a succession of darkened, unheated rooms, Sir Brian thought, "Be dashed if the entire place isn't deserted!" A possible explanation dawned. He scowled at a splendid candelabrum in the stair hall and advised it explosively that the scatterwitted Neville had forgot the date of the party and had installed one of his confounded lightskirts in the house! Fuming, he lit a candle, stamped up the handsome staircase, and was just about to shout a demand for his host when he heard voices. Male voices, holding a note of urgency. If this really was a hoax, Falcon would get a proper flea in his ear! He flung open the door to a large study. "Neville, I'll know what the deuce—" he began, and stopped short.

  The dozen or so gentlemen in the brilliantly lit room had whipped around to face him. He was vaguely aware that a short dark man held a levelled pistol, and that one of the group was tall and with a commanding air of pride about him. His eyes were fixed on another man, however; a handsome, well set-up individual with a lean, high-cheekboned face and a pair of brilliant green eyes. Shock staggered him. He whispered, "Quentin!" And then strong arms were about him; a beloved and so-missed voice was saying huskily, "Papa! Oh, dear sir—you should not be here!"

  Someone said harshly, "Falcon, what the devil—"

  Neville Falcon stammered, "Sir—I don't know how— I mean I cannot imagine what—"

  A cool voice drawled, "Are we betrayed?"

  The word cut through Sir Brian's dizzying joy. He released his son and jerked around.

  Quentin said helplessly, "Sir, may I present my father, Sir Brian Chandler? Papa this gentleman is—Baron Renfrew, of Paris, and—"

  "The devil he is," growled Sir Brian staring at a lean, handsome face and a pair of steady hazel eyes. "He is Prince Charles Stuart! Neville, you fool! Have you dragged us all into a treasonable conspiracy?"

  A plump gentleman in his middle fifties, Neville Falcon was pale and aghast, but he drew himself up and said, "I'll be frank with you, Sir Brian, I cannot guess what brings you and the others here, but you must leave at once, or—"

  There was an immediate chorus of protest. Recognizing most of those present at this deadly meeting, Sir Brian was not surprised when an extremely wealthy industrialist exclaimed fiercely, "The devil they must!"

  Beside him, a renowned diplomat high in the favour of King George said with matching heat, "And betray us all, and His Highness to the first dragoon they meet? I say—no, sir!"

  "You are already betrayed."

  The new voice brought all heads turning to the door and the butler, who supported a bedraggled and sagging figure, soaked, mud-covered, and clearly in the last stages of exhaustion.

  Neville Falcon gave a cry of dismay. "August! My God, boy—what on earth—"

  "I'm sorry, sir," said the butler, much agitated, "but he was crawling across the terrace, and in such terrible condition, and when I recognized Mr. August and he demanded to see you at once— Well, sir. Life and death, he said 'twas."

  Quentin Chandler ran for the brandy decanter. August was deposited gently onto a sofa and Neville sent his butler to fetch hot water and blankets.

  The Prince came to look down on the battered wreck and said compassionately, "My poor fellow, are you able to explain what happened to you and how we are betrayed?"

  August could barely hold his head up and was quite unable to take the glass Quentin offered. He gulped down a mouthful when his father knelt and held the brandy to his lips. "No time to explain," he panted. "Estate's surrounded. Dragoons… here any second." He turned a grim gaze on his hovering father. "Sir… what in hell were you thinking of— No, never mind that. Take your… friends down… smuggler's path… my boat… Now! Or, we're all… dead!"

  Without a word Neville led the Prince and his companions from the room. Sir Brian followed, Quentin's arm across his shoulders.

  Scant minutes later, the butler rushed into the room, white-faced. "Dragoons, Mr. August! Coming up the drive-path!"

  "Treason?" bellowed the Earl of Bowers-Malden, rising to his impressive height and dwarfing even the tall colonel. "Be damned to you, Fotheringay! Since when is it treasonable to attend a surprise party?"

  The colonel strode across the withdrawing room followed by a lieutenant and two troopers. He said coldly, "Since a member of the party chances to be Prince Charles Edward Stuart, my lord! His lip curled as he took in their stupefied expressions. "But, I've no doubt you will deny all knowledge of the presence of His Highness!"

  "You're wits to let!" said Sir Mark Rossiter.

  Piers Cranford, plagued by a premonition that there was a vengeful hand behind this business, said, "My brother was maimed at Prestonpans, Colonel. You may be very sure I'd have no part of any meeting with a Stuart! And nor, I doubt, would the rest of these gentlemen."

  "I demand to know what brought you here on such a wild goose chase," said Derek Furlong.

  "Some blockhead playing a prank, I'll warrant," snorted the earl.

  "Like the prank Viscount Glendenning played on Major Broadbent in June?" purred Fotheringay.

  Bowers-Malden's eyes became veiled. In June his heir had barely avoided being arrested and charged with high treason. He had escaped execution so narrowly that just to remember it brought sweat starting onto the earl's brow. He said, "I fancy you've as much proof of this tom-foolery as you had then!"

  Fotheringay bowed slightly. "When my men are finished searching this house, my lord, we'll see how—"

  Very white, his lips twitching nervously, Neville Falcon hurried into the room. Sir Mark Rossiter turned on him in a fury, but before he could speak, Falcon exclaimed, "Thank God you've come, Colonel! It's this way, if you please."

  They all stared at him for a frozen moment of bewilderment, then Fotheringay allowed himself to be ushered to the door, pausing only to instruct the lieutenant that no one was to leave the house.

  A sergeant, clattering down the stairs with a jingling of spurs and the stamp of glossy boots, came to attention and saluted. "No sign of anyone, sir. 'Cepting the poor gent upstairs."

  It was not what Fotheringay wanted, or had expected to hear. His thin lips tightened. He barked, "The estate runs down to the river. Make damned sure all boats were seized!"

  Neville's heart bounced painfully. He said, "You look in the wrong place, Colonel. This way!"

  Entering the main withdrawing room with his rapid springing stride, Fotheringay paused, frowning at the unrecognizable figure on the sofa. "What the deuce…" He bent above the limp form and the eyes opened and blinked at him dazedly. "My God! August? I thought you had more sense than to ally yourself with that Stuart—"

  "No such thing, Mariner," muttered August. "No Stuarts. Trap. League of—of Jewelled Men."

  "Rubbish! You'll not fob me off with some mud and that mystical League of yours! Come now, man, let's hear some truth for a—"

  August managed to get an elbow under him and dragged himself up only to clutch his side and sink back, swearing feebly.

  His father unbuttoned his shirt, and both men gasped when they saw the great blackened bruise across his ribs. "My God!" said Neville, horrified. "However did you manage to get here?"

  August reached out and seized Fotheringay's hand in an icy grip. "Mariner, you must listen!"

  "Aye, while your traitorous friends make their escape!" Fotheringay pulled away, but August clung desperately so that he was dragged from the sofa and sprawled, groaning, on the fl
oor.

  Neville rushed to take him in his arms. "For shame, Fotheringay! The boy's badly hurt! Have some compassion!"

  Fotheringay liked August. He flushed darkly and bent to help lift him. "My apologies. You should have let go. Now I must—"

  August gripped his swordbelt. "You'll have to—to kill me first! Mariner—I beg you! If you've any love for—for England… Give me two minutes—no more… And you may be a general 'fore the—the year's out!"

  Fotheringay could not fail to be impressed. Clearly the man was in much pain, clearly he'd been very badly handled. Frowning, he hesitated.

  August was so weary he could scarcely find the words, but he fought to stay awake and gasped out, "I've proof now. Know who they all are… can show you where their forts are… throughout… southland. This was to've been the signal…"

  Five minutes later it was very silent in the big room. Neville Falcon looked down at his son in awe. August, who had improvised somewhat upon the true facts, had gone his length and could only lie very still and keep his failing gaze locked on the wavering blur that was the colonel's hawk face.

  Fotheringay said harshly, "So to set this seditious ball rolling, I was to ride out with your father and friends under close arrest, eh? And what of the rogues who were—er, 'masquerading' as Prince Charles and his friends and supporters? How am I to arrest you if they cannot be found?"

  There came the staccato cracks of a volley of distant gunfire.

  Fotheringay sprinted from the room and along the corridor. When he reached the ground floor the front door burst open and a trooper ran in and reported breathlessly, "Big group of—men, sir! Dunno where they come—from! Boat slipped past in—in dark!"