Time's Fool
Page 37
She was kissed again, of course, and then they were quiet for a long while; the comfortable quiet of belonging. Holding her, loving her with all his heart, he yet was conscious of the shadow that lay over them. How would she feel if she knew what he had told General Underhill? How would she feel if she knew that the earl was responsible for all his father’s misery? Would she be enraged if she guessed how, in striving to protect her from more grief, her new husband also deceived her?
“It was so kind of Uncle Bertram to act for my father,” murmured Naomi. “Is a nice old gentleman, do you not think?”
“He gave the bride to me. How could I not think him a prince of uncles?”
“I wonder,” she said, with a small sigh, “whether I will ever again see Papa.”
Gideon started. “Why should you doubt it?”
She sat up straighter, pulled away, then turned to face him, her lovely face grave. She had dreaded this moment and now that it was here, her heart was thundering. “My darling husband, there is—is something I should have told you. But … I was so afraid, you see.” She looked down, and when she lifted her head, her lips trembled a little.
He tried to speak, but she put her fingers over his mouth, and said unsteadily, “No, beloved. You must hear my confession, now that I—I have begun it. You think you know your wanton, but—you have no notion of how very devious and sly I am. I waited, my Gideon, until we were safely wed, and—and I can only pray you will not demand an annulment.”
“Of all the idiotic—” he managed, frowning and pulling her hand away.
“Wait! Oh, wait! You must hear me! I shall never find the courage again!”
She looked so frightened, so shaken, and perhaps it was best that she tell him just how much she knew, so he waited.
“I have come to suspect,” she said in a scratchy little voice, “that … that my father schemed and plotted with Louis Derrydene to … to ruin Sir Mark.” Her eyes filled with tears as the terrible words were spoken. She cried, “Oh, Gideon! Can you forgive me for keeping silent? Do not hate me! Please! Do not—”
He swept her to him then, holding her close and dear against his heart, and murmuring between kisses, “Dear, silly, foolish little meadow sprite. How can I hate the lady I have loved all my life?”
Naomi sat up straight and blinked at him. “You knew! Oh, Gideon! Why did you not tell me? How I have agonized over the shameful business!”
“And I also. I did not dare mention it for fear that ferocious pride of yours might again come between us.” He stroked her cheek, his eyes searching her face. “How did you know?”
“I think I began to wonder about it when you became so convinced that the little jewelled man was connected to Sir Mark’s troubles. I remembered how angry my father had been when I lost the silly thing. But I did not really believe it was true until we went to the Derrydene house so that you could search Sir Louis’ study. Something Lady Derrydene said that morning troubled me, but I could not for a while think what it was. And then I remembered. She said to her butler, ‘Tell Camber to drive the team around to the stables.’ Papa had told me he scarce knew Sir Louis and had never been to his house. If that was truth, how could Lady Derrydene know my groom’s name?” She sighed, her eyes very sad. “So many things came to mind, then. Little things Papa said to slight you, or your family. The way he kept teasing me about your—your reputation with women. How insistent he was that we terminate the betrothal. I realized that he hated Sir Mark, and had set out deliberately to ruin him. And I have been so—so wicked as to let you wed me, knowing that your father—an he knew it all—would straitly, and very justifiably, forbid our marriage! Truly … I am shameless!”
“Thank heaven,” said Gideon huskily, and kissed her again. So she did not know the worst of it—that Collington had subjected her to so terrible an ordeal, and that he might be involved in even more serious plotting. God willing, he would shield her from that knowledge for as long as he lived.
He said gently, “’Tis too late for my father to stop us now. But although I honour him, I would have allowed nothing to come between us, at all events.”
Naomi gave a great sigh of relief. “My poor conscience is easy at last! I can truly start afresh and forget it all.”
He wondered if she really could forget, and said carefully, “An Lord Collington should stay abroad, shall you mind terribly, my love?”
She smiled happily and nestled closer. “I have you,” she murmured.
It was raining when they pulled into the yard of the Ship Inn at Dover. Ostlers with sacking held over their heads ran to lead in the horses. Beaming, the host threw open the door and ushered the bride and groom into a parlour warmed by lamplight and fragrant with the smells of wood smoke and dinner.
As they walked inside, laughing, and shaking the rain from their garments a shout went up.
“Here they are!”
“Thought they could slither away and escape us!”
“You’re fairly caught, you two slyboots!”
And they were surrounded by a merry crowd of well-wishers. Morris and Horatio, and Perry Cranford; Katrina, Gordon Chandler, Gwendolyn, Rudolph Bracksby, and even Tummet, looking thinner but cheerful. All throwing rice and teasing them fondly; and Falcon grumbling that he would not be within ten miles of this place save that he’d been bamboozled by his sister, but demanding a kiss from the bride nonetheless.
“Oh, I feel sure Jamie would have been glad to drive Miss Katrina down,” said Gideon with a twinkle.
“Any where, at any time,” declared Morris fervently.
“Sooner than allow such a horrid contretemps—” began Falcon.
The commotion had attracted attention. A slender dark lady with a small girl beside her turned from the desk to glance their way.
A shrill scream rent the air. “Papa Ross! Papa Ross!”
Naomi whirled around, and turned chalk white as the curly-haired dark child ran across the suddenly hushed parlour, arms outstretched.
“Mignon! My babe!” Gideon bent, scooped her up and kissed her heartily, then turned to gather the lady into his embrace. “And my lovely Lilla!”
She clung to him, her voice breaking as she said in rapid French, “Ah, Gideon! At last we find you! My dear! My very dear! I feared you must be dead!”
Katrina whispered faintly, “Dear God!”
“I should have killed the bastard,” said Falcon through his teeth.
Gideon turned to Naomi. “Here’s a fine coil,” he said guiltily. “Of all times to have to make you known to my family! This is Madame Jean Favre and the very young lady is Mignon, my—”
“You unprincipled ’ound!” The voice came from the door, and a tall man with his left sleeve pinned up came in, water dripping from his tricorne. “Do you seek my loved ones to steal away ze very moment we ’ave land in your country?”
He threw his arm wide and caught Gideon into a hug. “This it is well met, mon ami! Mon cher ami to whom I owe so much! Ah, and ’ere is Lieutenant Morris! We shake ze ’and, all so!”
Setting down the child, Gideon said, “Mrs. Rossiter, allow me to present Capitaine Favre, whose family became my own when—”
“When my dear ’usband ’e is left for dead on ze battlefield, and taken prisoner,” interposed the lady. “We would ’ave starve, madame, save that my Jean and Gideon, although they fight on different sides, they ’ave the fine friendship from school days, and Gideon take us under ’is—’ow you say this, James?”
“Under his protection,” said Morris, grinning.
“Stumblewit!” muttered Falcon.
“Oh, Gad!” gasped Morris, turning very red as many shocked eyes turned his way. “Only I—er, should not say that, of course! Assure you, Naomi, old Ross merely looked after ’em! N-nothing more, do promise you! Didn’t do a curst thing, actually!”
“’E do a very great deal,” protested Madame Favre, bewildered. “Without my Gideon’s always ’elp I ’ave not know what it would become of us!”
“Ah!” cried madame. “Then, you ’ave know, mon cher? Nurse, she take my twins up ze stairs!”
“Twins!” gasped Gideon. “Jupiter! I thought I was making it up!”
“Wicked, wicked man!” said Naomi happily, her last shadow vanishing.
Madame Favre exclaimed in French, “So this beautiful creature, she must be your lady of the garden, and you are married to her! Ah, it is good, my dear, dear, Gideon!”
Much later that evening, when the festivities had finally ceased and the celebrants had all gone their separate ways, Naomi reminded her husband of madame’s remarks. “There were,” she called to him sternly, “altogether too many ‘dears!’ ’Tis quite obvious to me, Captain Rossiter, that you and Madame enjoyed a very agreeable relationship.”
Sitting up in bed, his eyes glued to the door of the dressing room, Gideon agreed provocatively, “Exceeding agreeable. With regard to Mignon, especially. I am very fond of children. Speaking of which … are you ever coming in?”
“Oh! How naughty you are,” she said, dimpling as she dabbed Mysterious Moonlight here and there. “I wonder that you dare say such things when you deliberately allowed me to think that all those horrid rumours were true! Why, sirrah?”
“Because you were so willing to believe the worst of me, of course.”
“Your pride was hurt, was it?” she said indignantly, standing and blowing out the dressing room candle. “I think you are far more full of pride than ever I was, Captain Rossiter!”
“I grant you, ’tis a dreadful vice,” he admitted with a grin. “I promise never to indulge it a—” And he stopped, because Naomi had come in at last.
Her very décolleté nightgown was a drift of salmon pink lace and net that allowed a tantalizing glimpse of the loveliness it veiled. Her glorious hair rippled in a glowing mass about her creamy shoulders, and as she stood there, her eyes were tender but very shy.
“Oh … egad,” he whispered. “And I am telling another lie! ’Fore heaven, I must be the proudest man alive!” He reached out to her. “Come to me, my love—my life.”
“Do you truly welcome a—a guttersnipe to your bed?” she asked, walking slowly and demurely across the room.
“I told you once,” he said breathlessly, “that I must be time’s greatest fool.”
Naomi looked into his adoring face and ran to him. “The dearest, bravest, most gallant fool who ever…”
Captain Gideon Rossiter pinched out the candle.
EPILOGUE
It was very quiet in the darkened room, and although the air was wreathed with tobacco smoke, it held the clammy chill of a place where sunlight never shines. The single candlestick, set on a very old credenza against one wall, threw a dim light on the table and the five men seated there. They were as so many statues: silent, waiting, all clad in dark cloak and hood, and each face, although barely visible, covered by a mask.
At last, one of them muttered irritably, “The Squire is late.”
The man to his right shrugged. “And likely vexed.”
Across the table, a man drawled, “’Tis all made right, and we achieved what was planned.”
The smoke stirred, giving the only sign that the door had opened.
A sixth man entered. Tall, and clad exactly as the others, he moved soundlessly to the table, and at once the rest came to their feet.
“To the contrary, Two,” he argued in a thin, colourless voice. “We achieved only part of what was planned, and suffered a considerable setback.” His head turned, the eyes glittering through the slots in the mask as they rested upon one after another of those present. “I do not care for setbacks, and each of us is allowed but one mistake.”
A silence.
Then, the man he had addressed as Two said, “We are six again, Squire.”
“Happily so. And must proceed.” The Squire raised one gloved hand in which was a small figure glittering with diamonds. “Despite our failure, we have achieved much, and all done with the authorities suspecting nought.”
“As yet,” muttered a tall, bulky figure.
The Squire chuckled. “Just so, Four. By the time they suspect, ’twill be too late. I am told young Rossiter tried to warn one of our splendid generals, and was writ off as a likely candidate for Bedlam.”
A huskily built man asked in a growl of a voice, “Will it serve?”
“For the time,” said the Squire. “But those interfering fools must, and will be punished, which is annoying, as it will disrupt our schedule. Meanwhile, however, to business. Will our new member identify himself by displaying his emblem?”
A man to his left held up the tiny figure of lapis lazuli and sapphires that Rossiter had found in the home of Sir Louis Derrydene.
The Squire raised his diamond-studded miniature. In turn, the others lifted their figures, the emerald, then the ruby, followed by a topaz, and finally, an opal.
“You know, new bearer of the sapphire, to what we are committed?” asked the Squire.
“To a new England,” replied the novice, bowing. “Purged of the yokes of royalty and religion. A republic wherein the common men may share equally and none rise above the level of his neighbour.”
“You know,” intoned the bearer of the emerald figure, “who shall rule?”
The new member bowed again. “The land and all within shall be ruled by a committee of gentlemen qualified not merely by birth but by intelligence, an ability for leadership, and a willingness to act without regard for the conventions and restrictions of the past.”
“And you know,” said the man holding the ruby figure, “who selected you? And who is known to each of us?”
“I was selected by letter,” answered the newcomer with yet another bow. “I do not know who sent it. None of us is known to any other. Save only the Squire.”
The Squire bowed to him, and each in turn, the others bowed.
“Are you prepared,” enquired the man with the emerald figure, “to submit to the initiation?”
“I am prepared.”
The Squire turned and led the way to the rear of the room. The holder of the opal emblem carried over the single candlestick. It could be seen then that the walls were fashioned of stone blocks, shiny with moisture and green with lichen. An archway stood out from the solid rock of the rear wall, enclosing what appeared to have been at some time in the distant past, a small marble trough or water bowl. Set at waist level, it was dry now, but around the edge of the top ran a most elegant carving wherein deeply etched flowers and leaves intertwined.
The Squire stepped back and as the others moved closer to the bowl, he levelled a deadly duelling pistol. “You may proceed,” he said. “In the appointed order. And then we shall begin our meeting.”
They gathered closer about the bowl and one by one stepped back. At the end, the Squire relinquished the pistol to the man who had held the emerald figure. The pistol was trained steadily on the Squire and he stepped forward.
There was a whisper of sound.
A moment later, the room was empty, and the darkness and chill of the centuries once more held sway.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Patricia Veryan was born in England and moved to the United States following World War II. The author of several critically acclaimed Georgian and Regency series, including the Sanguinet Saga, she now lives in Kirkland, Washington. You can sign up for email updates here.
Previous novels by Patricia Veryan
Logic of the Heart
The Dedicated Villain
Cherished Enemy
Love Alters Not
Give All to Love
The Tyrant
Journey to Enchantment
Practice to Deceive
Sanguinet’s Crown
The Wagered Widow
The Noblest Frailty
Married Past Redemption
Feather Castles
S
ome Brief Folly
Nanette
Mistress of Willowvale
Love’s Duet
The Lord and the Gypsy
Thank you for buying this
St. Martin’s Press ebook.
To receive special offers, bonus content,
and info on new releases and other great reads,
sign up for our newsletters.
Or visit us online at
us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup
For email updates on the author, click here.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Epilogue
About the Author
Previous novels by Patricia Veryan
Copyright
TIME’S FOOL. Copyright © 1991 by Patricia Veryan. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
Our e-books may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at (800) 221-7945, extension 5442, or by e-mail at MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.
First Edition: September 1991
eISBN 9781250101402
First eBook edition: September 2015