Time's Fool

by Patricia Veryan

  “Hey!” yelled Cranford, a note in his voice that caused Glendenning to at once run in to strike up the blades of the duellists.

  They all turned to discover the cause of the objection. Besides being very red-faced, Cranford was standing at a decidedly odd angle, gripping his right knee.

  Glendenning said, “Oh, I say! Are you stuck, Perry?” and hurried to him.

  Cranford was indeed stuck, his peg-leg having sunk deep into the mud.

  There was a good deal of hilarity and horseplay involved in the rescue effort, and Morris and Glendenning cheered lustily as Cranford was freed. Falcon’s brow was black, however, noting which Morris said innocently, “Cheer up, Falcon. The duel is quite inchoate, you know.”

  This deliberate provocation caused Rossiter to chuckle, but did little to improve Falcon’s fast-deteriorating mood. Ignoring Morris, he demanded, “Why the deuce didn’t you wear your false foot, Cranford?”

  “Blasted thing’s always falling off,” said Cranford apologetically. “Sorry, August. I hadn’t counted on that confounded storm last night, else I’d have brought it up to Town with me.”

  Kadenworthy asked, “All right, Perry?”

  Cranford said he was perfectly all right, but he eyed the muddy ground apprehensively.

  Morris suggested to Falcon that he postpone. “You look ripe for a seizure, old boy, and likely should lie down and rest awhile.”

  “Of course I shall not postpone,” snarled Falcon, and meeting Kadenworthy’s ironic glance, added in an undervoice, “fellow’s got the nous of a newt!”

  Intrigued, Morris asked, “Who has?” and peered at Kadenworthy. “Jove, but you’re right. His nose does look rather like—”

  “I said nous, you silly block!” roared Falcon. “And I referred to you!”

  “Did you, by Jove!” Morris turned to Kadenworthy, whose brown eyes suddenly were glinting with amusement. “My apologies, my lord. I thought he meant—”

  “Damn you, you thought nothing of the kind,” said Kadenworthy. “And if you must know, Morris, my nose is often admired as being truly Roman.”

  Falcon snapped, “You have my unqualified permission to stand here and admire it, Morris, so that the rest of us can get on with this.”

  There was a concerted laugh, and with an amused eye on Falcon’s choleric countenance, Rossiter requested that they move to less cut-up ground. This was soon accomplished, and the affaire d’honneur resumed.

  The interruption had provided Rossiter with a much-needed respite, but Falcon was angry now, and fought with an intensity that kept Rossiter constantly on the defensive. Time and again his sword turned Falcon’s thrusts at the last instant, but turn them it did, so that a grudging admiration dawned in Falcon’s night blue eyes, and Morris began to hope his friend might yet win this fight. Hard-driven, Rossiter risked a feint, appearing to give Falcon a wide opening. Falcon thrust savagely and for an instant Rossiter thought he’d allowed his point to stray too far to the right. His sword flashed into a lunge, but to his surprise the blade went over his opponent’s head. Falcon’s foot had slipped. He uttered a shocked cry, and impelled by the force of his attack, he shot past Rossiter, sprawled face down, and slid for several yards.

  Morris’ shriek of laughter brought howls from the others. Breathing hard, and grinning widely, Rossiter tucked his sword under his arm, and went to extend a helping hand.

  Falcon sat up and glared at him in muddy and impotent fury. His chin, his immaculate shirt and breeches, were a disaster, and his sword was plunged hilt deep in the grasses.

  Morris ran up, and grasping the weapon wrenched it forth and waved it on high, shouting irrepressibly, “Excalibur! Long live … the king!”

  The air rang with their laughter, the surgeon’s hilarity reducing him to tears.

  It was a mirth Falcon did not share. “You … damned silly dolt!” he spluttered, springing to his feet and tearing the sword from Morris’ hand. “Think it funny, do you? By God, I’ll show you—”

  Rossiter stepped in front of the enraged man and said sharply, “Control that ugly temper, Falcon, and try for a little sportsmanship. Morris meant no offence.”

  “Yes, I did, Ross,” sighed Morris, wiping his eyes. “I meant to show him how nous he is!”

  Falcon made a gobbling sound and sprang for him.

  Weak with mirth, Glendenning pulled Falcon back. “Morris, will you behave? No really, August, you’re supposed to be fighting Rossiter. At all events, we must terminate this fiasco. You’re in no condition to—”

  “Devil I’m not,” snarled Falcon, livid. “We’ll finish. Here and now! Unless Rossiter’s looking for the coward’s way out.”

  All amusement faded. Breaking the sudden hush, Rossiter said coolly, “I’ll allow your man a moment to clean his hands, Perry.”

  “Good of you,” said Cranford, frowning.

  Falcon used his handkerchief to wipe the mud from his hands, then took up his sword, and the unconventional duel went on.

  If Falcon had been dangerous before, he was deadly now, fighting with a grim savagery that left little doubt of his intent to take revenge for his humiliation. Rossiter occasionally managed to attack, but without fail his blade was parried and the answering thrusts taxed his skill to the utmost. His left shoulder throbbed fiercely, and his breath came hard from lungs that burned. Every movement of the sword seemed to tear at his bruised side, and his footwork was markedly less agile than at the start. Falcon’s sword was a brightly shining living thing that attacked with never-ending speed and vigour, darting at him from all angles. Rossiter fought on doggedly, but no one was more surprised than he when a desperate glizade sent the weapon spinning from his opponent’s hand.

  A shout of excitement went up from the seconds, and the doctor, who had dropped his apple and gazed, riveted, at the ferocious fight, gave a whoop.

  Nobody moved to pick up the weapon, and Falcon stood mute, staring in obvious amazement at his adversary.

  Pantingly incapable of speech, Rossiter wiped his sweating sword hand on his breeches, and waited.

  Through that startled moment came a shriek. “Gideon! Gideon!”

  “Oh, my God!” groaned Falcon.

  Rossiter stared in disbelief. “Gwen…?”

  “Stop! Stop at once!” Holding up the skirts of her riding habit, and leading her horse, Gwendolyn limped to them.

  “I say,” muttered Morris, aghast. “This ain’t proper, Ross! Get her away!”

  “The first sensible remark you were ever heard to utter,” said Falcon, walking over to reclaim his sword.

  A flurry of draperies, a whiff of roses, and a very small boot stamped down on the weapon. “You must stop!” she panted. “Listen to me!”

  “Here—get off,” growled Falcon, gripping the hilt and tugging tentatively.

  “I will not! Oh, you horrid man, will you desist?”

  Much embarrassed, Rossiter panted, “I don’t know how—you discovered where we were, Gwen, but you really—must not interfere in a—”

  Falcon, who had dropped to one knee, drew back. “She’s going to bend my sword,” he protested fumingly. “Get her off!”

  In response, Gwendolyn dealt him a telling blow with her riding crop. “Wretched creature! Have done!”

  He gave a yelp, and threw up one hand to protect his head while holding the grip of the sword with the other.

  Titillated, seconds and surgeon retreated to a safe distance, while watching avidly.

  Gwendolyn saw Rossiter advancing, stern-faced, and jumped up and down twice.

  “Stop that at once!” cried Rossiter. “You’ll cut yourself!”

  “Cut herself, my eye!” said Falcon bitterly. “Now look what she’s done!” He held up a sword that curved rather pathetically. “You’ve bent my Colichemarde, you silly chit!”

  Morris wheezed. “Try it for a scythe, old boy.”

  Ignoring the barely suppressed laughter, Falcon raged, “I told you I wouldn’t kill your stupid clod of a brot
her!”

  “You—what?” demanded Rossiter.

  “She came and begged me to spare your life,” said Falcon.

  A horrified gasp went up.

  Momentarily diverted, Gwendolyn said sternly, “Gentlemen do not tell tales!”

  Rossiter flushed scarlet. “Gwen! You never did so awful a thing?”

  “Oh! What am I thinking of,” cried Gwendolyn, recovering herself. “Listen to me! Something—”

  “Besides, I ain’t a gentleman,” jeered Falcon. “And you may think you’ve spoiled our duel, my girl, but—”

  “Damn you! Don’t call her ‘my girl,’” interrupted Rossiter fiercely.

  “Will—you—stop?” shrieked Gwendolyn at the top of her lungs.

  Cranford muttered nervously, “We’ll have the Watch here in a—” He shrank into silence as Gwendolyn’s wide eyes flashed to him.

  “Naomi…” she said, turning to her brother. “Naomi…”

  Falcon pushed between them. “What about Naomi?”

  She looked up at him, her eyes suddenly brimming. “She has been—stolen!” she wailed, and throwing herself on his chest, burst into tears.

  * * *

  Three carriages raced across London on that cool Saturday morning, scattering traffic and avoiding disaster by a hair’s breadth. Rossiter, his sister, and Lieutenant Morris occupied the first coach. Falcon and Lord Kadenworthy followed close behind; and bringing up the rear, Horatio Glendenning and Peregrine Cranford were accompanied by Dr. Lockhart.

  With his arm tight around his sister, his face pale and strained, and a sick terror gnawing at him, Rossiter asked, “Did you recognize any of them, Gwen? Did you see anything at all that might help us find them?”

  Gwendolyn shook her head miserably. “We were riding, you see. There weren’t many people in the park because it was rather chilly. We heard some horses coming up behind us, and before I realized what was happening, they’d pushed in between us, and Naomi was—was sort of … swept away at the gallop! It happened so fast! At first, I thought it a mistake … I couldn’t believe…” Her voice scratched into a sob.

  Scowling, Morris said, “And Lady Naomi did not cry out? She made no effort to get away?”

  “No. I think she would have had no chance. She was quite surrounded. There were five men, and all wearing cloaks with the collars turned up, and hats pulled low. I—I didn’t even see one face! Oh, poor Naomi! She was so kind to invite me to ride. And—now…” Gwendolyn looked up into her brother’s drawn face frantically. “They won’t hurt her? You don’t think they would hurt her?”

  That fear was tearing Gideon’s nerves to shreds. Naomi was spirited and courageous, but she was a lady of gentle upbringing, suddenly helpless and alone in the hands of a set of vicious criminals. She must be terrified—praying for him to come to her. And by God, he would come! Somehow, he’d find her!

  Full of sympathy for the anguish in his friend’s eyes, Morris said bracingly, “Oh, I wouldn’t be imagining such villainy as that, ma’am. You said they shouted that Lady Naomi would not be harmed if you kept away from the Watch. You’ve done that.”

  Rossiter pulled himself together. “Yes. You’ve been splendid, Gwen. Tell me, was Camber with you? You surely did not ride alone?”

  “He was with us at the start, but Naomi wanted to go for a gallop, since there were so few riders in the Row. She said Camber would not approve, so we—er—”

  “So you gave him the slip.” Morris shook his head. “My sister was used to do hare-brained things like that.”

  Rossiter asked, “How did you find us?”

  “I knew about the duel,” she replied in a small, shaken voice. “And I know duels are often fought in the park, but I didn’t know where to look until Tummet came up and—”

  “Tummet!” interrupted Rossiter harshly. “Was he with them?”

  “No, no. I think he was following them. I was so frightened, and so glad to see him! I explained what had happened, and he said I must find you, and told me where to come.”

  The eyes of the two men met. Morris said softly, “You never think—Derrydene?”

  “By God, but I do! I left Tummet watching that house. He must have seen the bullies come and decided to follow them. I only pray he keeps after the filthy swine!”

  “And you believe they will be in touch with the earl?”

  Gideon nodded. “Unless I’m very much mistaken, Jamie, Naomi is being held for ransom. And the ransom price is those two damnable little jewelled men!”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Simon Lutonville, the Earl of Collington, ran in most undignified fashion to the open front door of his London mansion as the three lathered teams came at the gallop around the corner from the Strand and lurched to a halt at the kennel.

  His face set and grim, Rossiter sprang from the leading coach without waiting for the steps to be let down, and was first to reach the earl.

  “You’ve heard what happened, sir?”

  “Aye, and unable to move a muscle ’til you saw fit to come here, blast you!”

  The earl looked wild and distraught as he took in the small crowd assembling on his doorstep. “Who the devil are all these people? Oh, it’s you, Glendenning. Well, come in. I collect you’re all aware of this damnable business!”

  They followed him inside, the doctor still clutching his bag. Leading the way to his study, Collington said in a voice harsh with strain, “I demand to know why my daughter should be held to ransom because of some havey-cavey affair involving you, Rossiter! I told her to keep clear of you! God knows, I warned her that your entire family is an unmitigated disaster! Had she but—”

  Rossiter broke into the hysterical tirade with a sharp, “My lord, we have time only to find a way to free Naomi. I beg that you will tell us what you know of it.”

  Collington stared at him in shocked fashion for an instant, then drew a hand across his mouth. His eyes closed, and he swayed a little. Morris jumped to steady him, and Dr. Lockhart ran forward and helped guide him to a chair. Rossiter went to a credenza where was a tray with decanter and glasses. He poured a generous amount of brandy and hurried to thrust the glass at the doctor.

  “Oh, very good,” said the little man. “Take some of this, my lord.”

  Collington sipped, sighed, and appeared to recover somewhat. He blinked up at them, and muttered in bewilderment, “The deuce! You’re all mud, Falcon!”

  “Sir,” said Rossiter, seething with impatience. “Naomi…”

  The earl’s hand jolted. “Lord! What am I thinking of? There—on my desk!”

  Falcon was closest, and snatched up a grubby sheet of paper. He read aloud:

  Collington:

  Lady Lutonville will be released when Gideon Rossiter returns the two icons he stole. Alone, and at the earliest possible moment, he must bring the icons to the Duck and Mermaid Inn, which lies one mile south of Gravesend, on the Maidstone Road. When he arrives, he will go to the room which has been reserved in his name, and there await instructions.

  If you fail to persuade him to this, or if anyone follows, or accompanies him to the inn, you must accept full responsibility for the result.

  It has been necessary to confine your daughter in an old house which is in exceeding poor condition. ’Tis remarkable that it has not yet burned down. It could catch fire at any minute.

  How sad if such a rare beauty should meet so tragic an end.

  I trust it is unnecessary to warn you that any attempt to contact the authorities will be fatal. For the lady.

  There will be no further communication.

  You have until midnight, Sunday.

  Through a moment of total silence Rossiter stood perfectly still, his face a white enigmatic mask.

  Collington rasped, “Well, sir? Well? I hope you know what ’tis all about, for by the Lord Harry—I do not! Where are these icons you stole? And what d’you mean to do about it?”

  As one in a dream, Rossiter reached out. Falcon handed him the sheet of pap
er and Rossiter scanned it, noting the crude printing, the lack of any direction or signature. He folded it neatly and deliberately, but they all saw his hand tremble.

  “I mean to find her, sir,” he said.

  Collington snatched the letter and brandished it wildly. “Damme, sir! I demand to be told—”

  Already striding from the room, Rossiter flung over his shoulder, “The moment I learn anything, you will be informed, sir.”

  Following him, Morris asked quietly, “Derrydene’s, Ross?”

  “No,” said Rossiter. “Snow Hill.”

  Twenty minutes later Wilson opened the front door in his stately fashion, then sprang aside as seven gentlemen rushed past him.

  Running to the stairs, Gideon shouted, “Is Sir Mark at home, Wilson?”

  “He is gone, sir. To the—er, Horse Guards, I believe.”

  “Has Tummet returned?”

  “No, sir.”

  Gideon raced on, Morris close behind him.

  Falcon threw a disgusted glance around the hall and demanded, “Where is the dining room?”

  Wilson gestured. “There, sir. Would you wish to—”

  “Bring a luncheon. For all of us.”

  “But—sir,” Wilson’s chin sagged. “I doubt the chef can cook—”

  “I don’t mean a hot luncheon, you fool! Anything you can get here within five minutes. And wine.”

  “B-But, sir! I must—”

  “At—once!” said Falcon in a tone that brooked no argument.

  Wilson fled.

  Flinging open the door to his bedchamber, Gideon strode to the desk.

  Morris said, “Then you mean to hand them over? You ain’t going to search for her first?”

  Gideon wrenched at the drawer and took out the box in which he’d placed the two jewelled men. “If ’twas Katrina Falcon, what would you do?”

  Morris shuddered. “Lord! It don’t bear think—”

  A choking exclamation cut off his words.

  His face ashen, Rossiter was staring down at the large pebble he had unwrapped. “Dear God!” he whispered, and tore open the second small wrapping. Another pebble fell into his hand.