On the afternoon of Christmas Day seven members of Rossiter's Preservers and their families attended a celebration at the palatial Curzon Street residence of the Earl of Bowers-Malden. It was a merry party, made merrier when Falcon stood and made a formal announcement of the betrothal of his sister to "Sir James Morris." When the excitement died down, Gideon proposed a toast "To absent friends." August knew that everyone was thinking of Sir Owen, but his own thoughts strayed to his father, and when they all were gathered around the fire in the withdrawing room he told Gwendolyn that as soon as possible he meant to journey to Venice and make sure the "poor old fellow" was comfortably situated
She said that was a lovely idea and added dreamily that she had always wanted to see Venice. He smiled, but did not rise to the bait. She thought that he looked rather strained. She herself felt as if a terrible shadow no longer threatened at any instant to destroy him and, thereby, her. It was stupid, of course, that she had allowed that Cornish curse to so prey on her mind, but even now she was unable to dismiss the notion that it had come horribly close to being fulfilled.
Similar thoughts were in Falcon's mind, but he made a great effort to appear lighthearted, joining in the laughter when Morris complained that Colonel Haughty-Snort now out-ranked him.
"Sorry Jamie, but that's how Fate treats us in this life. A demotion for every promotion!"
"Very true," said Katrina, "only think, Jamie, no sooner do you gain a title than you marry a commoner!"
There was more laughter. Falcon drifted farther back to stand where he could watch the group. How contented they were, chatting amiably on this Christmas afternoon, the mellow light of the fire flickering on their happy faces. They had all been so kind to him; never a word of anger that they'd been placed in such jeopardy by his father. Not that Papa had intended to involve them, of course. But this afternoon might well have been so different. His gaze drifted to Gideon and Jamie, and the rest of the Preservers, these fine young men and their valiant ladies, who truly were his friends, and who had come to mean so much more to him than he would have believed possible. He was quite aware that underneath the gaiety and good-fellowship they were seething because he had not been awarded a title, and because the King's remarks had been overheard and widely circulated. He shrugged mentally. He had no desire for a title and he'd been given the best possible reward: his family, his love and his friends were safe. And he was alive!
A need to be out under the sky and alone overwhelmed him. He slipped quietly into the corridor, and five minutes later was walking briskly toward the flagway. The pale winter sun was low in the west and sinking toward a flying rack of clouds. It was very cold; an occasional wind gust sent his cloak billowing and carried on its wings the smell of snow to mingle with the aroma of roasted fowl and mulled wine and Christmas pudding. He passed windows aglow with candlelight, where people gathered together about the table or around the hearth. In one house a lady in a scarlet gown played Christmas carols on a spinet, her family and guests singing merrily; in another, children squealed to the excitements of Blind Man's Bluff.
Quite a number of people had ventured out for a little exercise after their holiday feast. He was of course recognized, and since all London knew he had won the Royal praise, gentlemen raised their tricornes politely, and ladies offered shy smiles. And the instant they had passed he heard the whispered questions and comments, so that he strode along faster.
And ever as he walked, he thought of her. The fine-boned face that was so far above mere prettiness, the candid blue eyes, the high forehead and generous mouth. Her merry sense of humour, and the quick mind that had so bravely adapted to her affliction and faced the future with courage and resolution. He could recall so clearly the first time he'd met her, when she had called at Falcon House in April to ask that he not use pistols in his duel with her brother. Incredibly, he had judged her dull and ordinary then; until she'd given him some splendid set-downs. Countless of their verbal battles came to mind. Her sudden appearance at the really ridiculous duel with Gideon, during which he'd slipped in the mud and her little boot had stamped down on his sword as she demanded they stop fighting. She'd bent his favourite colichemarde, and when he'd attempted to retrieve it, had whacked him on the head with her riding crop. He chuckled to himself, causing passers-by to stare at him curiously. Hurrying on, he conjured up a picture of her sitting on the steps of the summer house with a pretty pink gown billowing about her, while she brushed Apollo—and infuriated his owner by discussing China and his dear Grandmama. Was that when he'd begun to love her?
Somewhere a clock struck four. He glanced up, and found that he was sitting on a bench in Bloomsbury Square gardens. He drew his cloak closer against the rising wind, and leaned back, his eyes remote, experiencing again the rush of emotion that had so nearly overcome him just now in Laindon House. It was as well that he was alone because he couldn't seem to subdue that emotion, and he was horrified to find his eyes blurred and his throat tight. He was so inexpressibly grateful that he'd not died with only the rats for company in the blackness and despair of Sundial Abbey's dungeons. If the Smallest Rossiter had not come, with faithful Tummet— But she had come. And praise God, he had not murdered Jamie! And— well, he was seven kinds of a fool to be sitting here in the cold when he might be in a warm cozy room with his friends. Dear old Gideon and his lovely wife who soon would make him a father; Jamie and Katrina; Tio and his beautiful gypsy fiancee who had clearly enslaved his formidable parent; Perry and his brave little Zoe; Gordon, so soon to wed Ruth; Johnny and Jennifer. Each man with his love, and all so radiantly happy.
Each man with his love… Shaken by a deep ache of longing, he put a hand over his eyes. He had no right to grieve. He had been given so very much. "Especially," he thought in embarrassment as he heard people walking on the path behind him, "that there is a hedge between us so that they do not see my stupidity!"
Abruptly, the cold didn't feel quite so cold. He separated his fingers and peeped through, although he knew. His heart contracted. He groaned. "Go away!"
Gwendolyn groped about in her cloak pocket and passed him a handkerchief. "How silly you are to feel ashamed. 'Tis not surprising you would be moved, now that it is all over at last. You feel things so very intensely."
"What I feel…" he gulped, "is a perfect… blockhead!" His hand shook, and he had to resort to the handkerchief again. "Oh—egad! I'm—I'm sorry!"
"So am I." She sighed. "It is all over. Isn't it?"
He blew his nose, and nodded.
"And you do not mean to offer for me."
"No."
"Never?"
"Never."
"Yet you gave your permission to Jamie." Her voice quavered a little. "Perhaps you think he loves Katrina more than—than you love me."
A pause. "Perhaps I do."
"Liar!" She reached up and jerked his face around, and surprised such a desolation in his tearful eyes that she cried, "Oh, my dearest! Do you think I don't know? You love me with all your great brave heart!"
He said hoarsely, "Too much to make you endure what we endure! The sniggers, the knowledge that we are tolerated only because we have wealth; the fear that any children we might have would be as scornfully despised! No! And no! I will never ask you to share that degradation!"
Tears stung her own eyes. He was so determined. So sure he was right. She took his hand and said, " 'Tis only degradation because you fight it so proudly! August, don't you see? If you would but smile when they call you the Mandarin; if you would only take some pride instead in your—your beloved Grandmama's people, the mockery would fade, and I do believe 'twould die away."
"Wishful thinking, m'dear. Do you imagine that because I may have rendered some small service, they have forgiven me for—for existing? Not so! Nothing has changed, Smallest Rossiter. To the rest of the world this has been no more than a momentary excitement—something they can chatter about and exclaim over for a little while. But the ton remains the same. The prejudices as deep and un
yielding." She was very still and silent. It hurt him to see her look so small and so crushed, and he said in his gentlest voice, "Come now, 'tis getting dark, we must go—"
"No!" To his horror, she sank to her knees beside the bench, still holding his hand tightly. "A lady is not allowed to do this," she said tremulously. "But I am going to—"
"My dear God!" he cried, looking about wildly. "Get up! What will people think? Gwen, for pity's sake—"
"I love you, August Falcon," she said loud and clear. "I beg that you will do me the honour of becoming my husband."
And it had happened! The only way he could claim his love. The one unthinkable course he had never dared hope she would follow. With a choking sob, he pulled her to the bench and into his arms, and muttered brokenly, "My darling… Smallest Rossiter. My only love! My own!" He crushed her against him and kissed her long and hard and with all his heart. Then, he put her from him, and peered at her through the deepening dusk. "Now you are weeping too—why? You've won—you shameless hussy!"
Gasping for breath, she said through happy tears, " 'Tis because I—love you so terribly much… and I have waited so long and… and been so very frightened."
He said adoringly, "My very dearest girl, can you possibly love me that well? Be very careful—I'll still let you draw back. I am all you despise, remember? I'm cynical, and harsh, and—and arrogant."
"Yes."
"And I have a—dreadful disposition and far too much pride."
"Yes."
"Wretched girl! Must you agree so readily?"
"There is no pleasing you, Colonel. I'd fancied you wanted a conformable wife."
He laughed shakily. "Gwen, Gwen! You know what they will say. That you had to settle for a half-breed. My darling one—are you very sure?"
Two dark figures hove up through the dusk. Cyril Crenshore peered, then, somewhat the worse for holiday cheer, called gaily, "Hi there, Mandarin!" And then halted, frozen, as his friend clutched his arm and gasped a horrified, "Cyril!"
Falcon waved easily. "Merry Christmas, old fellow!"
"Praise the Lord!" whispered Crenshore.
"Come away quickly!" hissed his friend. "He must be as far over the oar as you are!"
Falcon stood and bowed and offered his arm. "Are you ready to go back and break the news, my love?"
Bibliography
By Patricia Veryan (League of Jewelled Men)
TIME'S FOOL
HAD WE NEVER LOVED
ASK ME NO QUESTIONS
A SHADOW'S BLISS
NEVER DOUBT I LOVE
THE MANDARIN OF MAYFAIR
The Mandarin of Mayfair Page 35