The Mandarin of Mayfair

by Patricia Veryan

  "I don't suppose I am included," said Morris wistfully.

  Tummet said, "The Cap'n said all of you, mate. Which means you, too, don't it?"

  "Yes, by Jove! I say, do shake a leg, Lord Haughty-Snort! Mustn't dawdle about, dear boy! "Tis a lazy dog that leans its head against the wall to bark.' Best find us a jervey."

  Falcon gritted his teeth and reminded himself once again that nothing he was able to do for Jamie could make up for the loss of his ability to walk.

  Half an hour later, it was Morris who grumbled about his useless limbs as Falcon struggled to maneuver the invalid chair up the steps of the house on Snow Hill. When the shaken and sweating coachman had safely coaxed his scared team up the steep hill, he'd taken his pay and gone off grumbling about "mountain roads." Several horses were tethered to posts outside the house, but no one came to lend a hand, and Falcon's shins were well bruised by the time he had overcome the steps and was pounding on the front door.

  "It's open," howled a distant voice. "Come on in!"

  Falcon mumbled under his breath, and managed to negotiate the front door and the threshold. The house was dim and cold, but candlelight glowed from the family withdrawing room at the far end of the corridor. "Gideon?" he shouted.

  "Here!"

  He was almost to the door when the sense of danger set his nerves tingling. He muttered, "Stay here, Jamie," and leaving the invalid chair walked forward, throwing his cloak back over his left shoulder and easing his sword in the scabbard.

  Outside the lighted room, he paused, then sprang through the door, sword in hand.

  Reginald Smythe sat on the arm of a sofa. "So good of you to come," he drawled.

  Falcon crouched. "By God, but I've hoped for this!"

  A movement to his right caused him to swing around. A tall slim man with a really shocking scratch wig stepped from behind the door, sword unsheathed.

  "The most competent Mr. Jones," said Smythe. "And Rufus," he added with a nod to the side.

  Rufus materialized from beyond an armoire chest. He was big, with long arms. Grinning, he tossed a colichemarde with deft expertise from one fist to the other. "Ready to play, me bucko?" he enquired.

  Something sharp prodded at Falcon's back. In a lightning reaction he sprang clear. A youngish man with a dark, narrow face and a hungry look in his small black eyes raised his sword in salute.

  "Ambrose," introduced Smythe, obligingly. "You see, gentlemen, how fast he is. Be warned."

  "He'll have to be quicksilver to best all three of us," said Ambrose in a cultured voice.

  "I might have known, you slimy coward, that you'd not have the courage to do your own fighting," said Falcon. And he thought, "I walked right into this! Three of the bastards, and all looking as if they know point from grip!"

  Smythe shrugged. "Do you know, dear Mandarin, I am a much finer swordsman than you may suspect. But I see no point in risking myself when I can hire skilled assassins to wear you down for me."

  "Where have you been hiding since your ugly plot failed? In the sewers from whence you sprang?"

  The man with the awful wig— "Jones," thought Falcon— laughed. "Got a way with words, ain't he?" He twirled his sword easily. "I hates clever swells."

  "I fancy you'll never be near to another." Falcon glanced to the door, wondering tensely if Morris was safe.

  "Never fret," said Smythe. "The poor fellow you crippled won't be harmed. I'd have had you destroyed long since, save that I was consumed by curiosity. However did you manage to escape the lovely end I planned for you? Was it Kade's work?"

  Falcon was thinking that if he could cut down one of these hounds he'd have a fair chance. "There was another door," he said. "Didn't guess that, did you, poor Reggie? My friends found it."

  "Your friends…" Smythe jeered, "The cockney and the cripple! Ha!"

  Falcon tensed, his narrowed eyes fixed on that detested smirk.

  Ambrose, he of the hungry look, and the deadliest of them Falcon suspected, said eagerly, "Now, sir?"

  "I want you to know," said Smythe, "that the curse will be fulfilled this evening, dear Mandarin. You had the unmitigated gall to interfere with my plans, but 'tis a postponement, nothing more. I own a most delightful villa outside Rome, and on the day they bury you, I shall be very comfortable there, making new plans."

  "Silly block," said Falcon contemptuously.

  Smythe flushed. Through his teeth he said, "Now, gentlemen!"

  Chapter 19

  As Falcon had expected, the bully called Ambrose was first to attack, his dark eyes glittering with eagerness. In that first swift encounter Falcon took his measure and knew he was good at his trade, but that had this been a fair fight he could have bested him without much trouble. It was not a fair fight. He countered a thrust in sexte, his parry was beaten aside, and Ambrose leapt out of range as Jones of the horrid wig rushed to engage in carte. Falcon disengaged over the arm, kept his blade close to Jones' forte and thrust. Jones parried and disengaged as Falcon forced his blade a little; Falcon feinted dangerously wide, then thrust straight and hard. Jones uttered a yelp and leapt back, but before Falcon could determine how badly he was hit, the big Rufus came at him from the left and Ambrose from the right so that, parrying one blade, he had to leap away to avoid the other.

  There came an indignant shout: "Hey! Three to one ain't fair!"

  From the corner of his eye Falcon saw that Morris had wheeled his chair to the open doorway. Not daring to risk more than that swift glance, he shouted, "Get clear, Jamie!"

  "Devil I will!" Morris watched the flash and ring of blades in deepening anxiety as the deadly minutes passed.

  Falcon, who should have already fallen before such desperate odds, fought on with astonishing speed and brilliance.

  Knowing it could not last, Morris saw the move he had dreaded, and leaning forward yelled, " 'Ware your back!"

  Falcon whipped around to find Jones behind him, a bloody rent across his left sleeve, but his sword a darting silver gleam. With a parry and riposte that drew a cheer from Morris, Falcon whirled barely in time to deflect the thrust Rufus sent at his back. Ambrose's sword burned across his shoulder, and he swore softly.

  Exultant, Smythe cried, "First blood, gentlemen! Let's see more, but remember—I want to finish him myself!"

  "Come on, Falcon!" howled Morris. "Stir your stumps, you sluggard!"

  Rufus laughed breathlessly, and sprang in with a lunge in tierce. Falcon beat aside his sword, disengaged in tierce, advanced his blade and as Rufus whipped his sword to counter, he dropped his point under the wrist and thrust in seconde. Rufus uttered a choking cry, goggled in pained astonishment at Falcon's reddened sword, and went down, to sprawl before the invalid chair.

  Ambrose shouted with rage, and attacked, but, aware of his vulnerability, Falcon flung himself down, rolled under Ambrose's slashing sword, and was up again, to parry Jones' thrust. Ambrose sprang in and a splash of scarlet appeared on Falcon's left forearm.

  "You filthy bastards," shouted Morris furiously. "Fight fair, damn your eyes!"

  Jubilant, Smythe laughed. "This is not a fight, Morris. 'Tis an execution!" and whipping out his own sword he came to join the uneven battle.

  The weapon Rufus had dropped was close by. Morris leaped from the chair, shouted, "Tally ho!" snatched up the fallen sword, and plunged into the fray.

  Falcon was so astonished that his jaw and his sword dropped. It was a momentary lapse, but Smythe's blade ripped through his coat, scratching his side. With a shout he flung himself to the left, engaged Smythe's blade in carte, turned his wrist in tierce, passed his point over Smythe's arm not quitting his blade, and with a strong crossing sent the weapon spinning from his hand.

  Ambrose rushed to fill the breach, and, cursing, Smythe darted to retrieve his sword. But Falcon was in his element now. Jamie was on his feet! Jamie was at his back, his sword flying. Between them, they could best these filthy varmints!

  The battle was short and sharp. Smythe fought furiously
and surprisingly well. Falcon's blade was a blurring flash of light, his footwork masterly, his body lithe and agile, as his defense became attack. Ambrose was grinning no longer. Leaping out of distance, he panted, "Dragoons!" In the same instant, Morris thrust home, and Jones doubled up, the sword tumbling from his hand.

  Falcon and Smythe fought on; each driven by implacable hatred, both men breathing hard now, faces relentless and steel ringing as the battle swept into the passageway and along to the stairs.

  The front door burst open. Military boots stamped across the entrance hall. Running in after the dragoons with his sister beside him, Gideon grabbed Gwendolyn's hand and held her back. The troopers hesitated, but did not interrupt the fury that raged on the staircase.

  Tummet rushed in and gasped, "Rouse the house! He's at it again!"

  Gwendolyn clung to her brother's hand.

  Advancing grimly, Falcon stumbled on the stair. Smythe lunged at once. A ringing parry, a startled shout, and Gideon wrenched Gwendolyn behind him as Smythe was again disarmed, his weapon spinning through the air.

  Falcon's blade was at the throat of his lifelong enemy. Smythe cowered back until he was sprawling, both hands clutching the stair.

  Falcon said softly, "You'll answer now, Reggie, for the lives you've squandered; for your treachery even to your own people; for the men you've ruined and the hearts you've broken! Do you care to beg, crawling venomous thing that you are?"

  His sword bit deeper, and Smythe gulped, "You'll… kill me… anyway!"

  "You let him off too easily, dear old pippin," panted Morris from the foot of the stairs.

  "Aye," said Tummet. "Don't soil yer hands, Guv! Let 'em put the dirty—er, let 'em put Mr. Smythe to the question, 'fore they give him a traitor's public execution!"

  "He's right," urged Rossiter. "Leave him to the tender mercies of the Tower."

  White and shaking, Smythe gasped, "Strike true, you damned Mandarin!"

  Falcon smiled. He had the right to avenge himself for that hideous black hole where he'd been left to face a ghastly death. And how many of Smythe's victims would cheer him on! He drew back his sword for the thrust that would rid the world of this filth.

  From behind him came a faint scent of lily of the valley. Gwendolyn said gently, "Why would you wish to offer him a clean and honourable death, my love?"

  For a long, hushed moment, Falcon did not move. Then, he stepped back and slipped his sword into the scabbard. "You are, as always, perfectly right, Smallest Rossiter."

  Dragoons were pushing past. Smythe was hauled to his feet and marched off, his face a frozen mask of terror because he knew what lay ahead.

  Looking after him, Falcon's gaze fell on Morris. It dawned on him that nobody seemed surprised to see the invalid on his feet. Frowning, confusion became comprehension. His eyes narrowed. He whispered, "You cheating… lying… villain!" and trod slowly and with infinite menace down the stairs.

  Grinning broadly, Morris held up a delaying hand. "Now, August…"

  "You never were in real danger," gritted Falcon. "That's why you didn't send for your father!"

  Morris stepped back. "No, really, old fellow…"

  "You've always been able to walk!"

  "Er, well, not for the first week or so," said Morris, taking refuge behind Rossiter.

  "That slippery James Knight was in it with you all along, wasn't he?"

  Morris chuckled. "Thought you needed a lesson."

  "A lesson?" He remembered his anguish and guilt, sleepless nights, waiting on the "invalid" hand and foot, countless indignities meekly endured, including an endless flood of maxims, and that confounded cat (which, foolish little creature, had taken a great liking to him). And with a howl of wrath he charged.

  Morris gave a whoop and fled.

  Attempting to restrain the outraged victim, Rossiter was hurled aside.

  "August!" he shouted laughingly. "Don't forget you're a new man!"

  Racing through the dining room and back up the stairs, Falcon raved, "He died! And a rascally invalid-impersonator is about to follow him!"

  Half turning, his face alight with mischief, Morris tripped, was tackled and went down, fighting off Falcon's enraged attack. "No! Let be! I am not a well man and—and you deserved… every minute!"

  Rossiter ran to wrench Falcon back. "Haven't you had enough today, you maniac?"

  Struggling, Falcon snarled, "You knew he could walk, didn't you? And you let him take advantage of my good nature!"

  "What good nature? No, really August, we had to do something—your saintliness was driving us all to distraction!"

  "And you call yourselves my friends? Pox on friendship! Let go, damn you!"

  Breathless, Morris gasped, "Rejoice! Lord Haughty-Snort is back among us!"

  "Oh, rejoice, indeed," said Gwendolyn happily.

  "If we do not get to St. James's quickly, we'll be rejoicing in the stocks," said Rossiter.

  Falcon stared at him. "We really are summoned? I thought 'twas all part of the trick to get me here."

  Gwendolyn explained, "Luckily, Tummet chanced to meet Gideon, and asked if he was on his way to Snow Hill. He never had sent you a note, and when Tummet explained, we came at once."

  For the first time Falcon realized that Rossiter was in full dress uniform and that Gwendolyn wore a splendid ball gown under her cloak. Dismayed, he looked down at his own torn and bloodied garments. "Oh, Jupiter! I cannot face His Majesty in this condition!"

  Gideon said, "I make no doubt the groom of the chambers, or whatever passes for one at the Court will make you presentable. Now, for the love of heaven—hurry!"

  Tense with excitement, Gwendolyn stood beside Katrina in the great audience hall at St. James's Palace, one of a glittering throng summoned by His Majesty to honour those who had won the royal favour and would today receive their reward.

  The hall buzzed with chatter, and although voices were kept low, excitement was high. Rumour had spread its wings and there were whispers that in addition to the usual awards to diplomatists, civil servants, public figures and the military, there was today to be a special award, though who was to be honoured, and why, were unanswered questions. Thus, little groups formed and eddied and formed again around those "in the know," while eyes turned constantly to the wide open doors at the far end of the hall through which their majesties would pass.

  There was a sudden ripple of activity among those closest to the doors and conversation ceased abruptly. A magnificent major domo entered and struck his staff of office three sharp raps on the polished floor. In a booming baritone he announced the approach of the King and Queen, and recited a long list of titles and possessions. The royal couple entered, followed by their lords- and ladies-in-waiting, and the assemblage, with whisperings of satin and taffeta and rustlings of whale-boned coat skirts, bowed low.

  Gwendolyn had seen the King at several functions and thought him rather insipid looking, but Queen Caroline was a handsome woman, with a clear skin, blue eyes, and quantities of flaxen hair. She sailed past, smiling graciously, her magnificent bosom very much in view despite her robes.

  When they were seated, the major domo struck his staff on the floor again, and the first honouree was escorted to the royal dais. The gentleman was stately and magnificently dressed and, having performed some deed of great value to his king and country, became a baron. The next to be honoured was an emotional Member of Parliament who was awarded a baronetcy, and appeared to be in danger of bursting into tears. Several gentlemen were knighted, their exploits read off at great length to the accompaniment of much furtive whispering from the onlookers.

  It all seemed to take a great deal of time, and Katrina leaned to Gwendolyn and whispered a nervous, "Where are they?"

  As if in answer, the major domo struck the floor once again and read off a list of names that made Gwendolyn give a little leap and sent a ripple of excitement through the chamber. Another rap of the staff, and seven young men appeared and marched briskly along the center of th
at long, crowded hall.

  Gideon Rossiter and Morris were in the lead, both wearing full dress regimentals, gleaming helmets under their arms. Next came Gordon Chandler, very fine in purple and silver, beside Peregrine Cranford, also clad in dress uniform, his peg-leg awakening a little stirring of sympathy from the onlookers. Bringing up the rear, three abreast, were Jonathan Armitage, splendid in the uniform of an East India Company commander, Horatio Glendenning, elegant in dark green velvet, and August Falcon, at the sight of whom an audible gasp resounded through the chamber. He wore the blue and gold uniform of a colonel in the King's Guard. A glittering helmet was tucked under his left arm. His head was held high and proud as he strode past, well aware of the sensation he was creating, his face unreadable until he drew level with Gwendolyn, whereupon a quick wink was directed at her.

  Several ladies resorted to their fans. Lady Dowling, standing nearby, said dazedly, "My heavens! Say what you will of him, Falcon is superb!"

  In full agreement, Gwendolyn was overcome and had to press a handkerchief to her lips. Katrina murmured, "My rascally brother casts them all into the shade, but truly, Gwen, are they not magnificent?"

  " They are," she gulped. "Every one!"

  And so they stood before the monarchs, and heard themselves described as "seven of Britain's finest," while a royal aide read out summaries of their deeds in French, which came easier to their ears than German, and the onlookers, increasingly amazed, applauded with growing enthusiasm. The honours were bestowed. Gideon Rossiter, Horatio Glendenning, and Gordon Chandler, all heirs to titles, received medals for outstanding devotion and valour; James Morris and Peregrine Cranford were knighted, the kneeling and the tapping of the royal sword on their shoulders reducing both shy young men to a state of near collapse. Jonathan Armitage also was knighted, much to the delight of his twin sons, who were present with their aunt, the widowed Mrs. Ruth Allington, sister to Jonathan, and betrothed to Gordon Chandler. Last of all, Falcon was given an award of merit and made an honourary colonel in the King's Guard, the ceremony somewhat marred when His Majesty turned to the Queen and said in German, "We wanted to make him a baron, m'dear, but the peers said it wouldn't do. Still, the fellow looks splendid in my uniform, don't you agree?" Her Majesty, with an appreciative eye on the man she was later to describe as "a sinfully handsome rascal," agreed.