The response was immediate and angry. "That would be counted a major error, eh, Squire? And we are permitted but one. Think well before you condemn me. I'll not suffer the punishment you mete out to others, and so I warn you."
The Squire's voice now was very gentle. "But warnings are such pointless indulgences, do you not think, my Emerald? Tell me instead who spies upon you. Gideon Rossiter and his little band of misguided patriots?"
"You must surely have expected it when you ordered me to buy his father's estate."
"I don't see that. Poor dear Sir Mark Rossiter was rained and disgraced. What more praiseworthy gesture than for his staunch friend and neighbour to buy Promontory Point and—er, hold it till the old fool is able to buy it back?"
"We may have succeeded in toppling the Rossiters, but a man don't become the head of a great financial empire by being a fool. And his son is far from one. Sir Mark's cries of 'conspiracy' were ignored until Gideon came home from the war. I make no doubt that he and his friends have taken note of the—er, untimely death of Lord Merriam; the disgrace and imprisonment of Admiral Albertson, and—"
"Even so, the useful properties of those unfortunates were not gathered in by you, Emerald."
"They were gathered in by us. And furthermore, young Rossiter cries friends with Lord Horatio Glendenning."
The Squire grunted, and said angrily, "Who eluded our net, the traitorous hound!"
"It was a close-run thing. Almost we had my lord's worthless head on the block, and his whole family with him."
"Almost… Such a sad word. Especially does one consider how very gratifying it could have been. Instead, 'twas a deplorable failure, for which a useful member of our League paid the price. But how should that sorry fiasco have turned Rossiter's eyes to you?"
There was the suggestion of a shrug. The man called Emerald said thoughtfully, "If he has detected a pattern to our successes 'twould explain why I am followed. And you may believe that I am. The unspeakable Falcon one day, Morris another. Yesterday I fancy 'twas Owen Furlong."
"Furlong! Enrolled him, have they? Hmm. He'd have a score to settle at that, if he suspects we were behind the Albertson business. Furlong and Miss Albertson were betrothed, did you know it?"
"I thought she drowned?"
"So she did, poor lady. Her brother sent her to Italy to recuperate from the shock of her papa's disgraceful descent into Newgate. What a pity that her ship went down with no survivors."
Genuinely shocked, Emerald exclaimed, "My God! I hope we had nought to do with that!"
"Do you? But how admirably gallant. Now, to revert to more immediate problems, whatever Rossiter may suspect, I think he cannot prove you linked to us only because you purchased his sire's estate."
"Which the old man now wishes to buy back."
"Egad! Has he regrouped so soon? My compliments to him. You must hedge, Emerald."
"That will properly rouse their suspicions. I promised Sir Mark I did but buy it to hold in trust for him."
"Hmm. Very well, then agree to sell it, but institute delays. Within three months we will be ready. You can hold Rossiter off till then, by one means or another. 'Tis as well we purchased the other estates through intermediaries." The Squire was briefly silent, then murmured, "Even so, Gideon Rossiter and his friends are tiresome creatures. We really must deal with them."
"Aha!" Emerald's tone brightened. "Who shall it be this time? Falcon, I hope?"
Amused, the Squire drawled, "You really do not care for the deadly August, do you?"
"In company with most of the men in London, I detest the scurvy damned half-breed."
"Such vehemence! Truly, it grieves me to disappoint you, but our next acquisition must be near Dover."
"Lac Brillant? Ah! Then you know!"
"Know what?"
"Why, this was my prime reason for signalling a meeting. Young Chandler—Gordon, I mean—was prowling about Larchwoods."
"What?" The Squire snarled furiously, "It cannot be! 'Tis a relatively small estate and we acquired it with no great drama to draw attention. "No, it must be coincidence, only. What transpired?"
"Chandler claimed to be calling on Trevor Shipley. He was denied admission, of course, but ten minutes later was caught climbing over the north fence."
"Pox on the cur! How much did he see, I wonder? Our vigilant guards let him slip through their fingers, no doubt?"
"I am told he led them quite a chase. But he got clear."
"Bastard! May he rot in hell!"
"By all means. I take it then that your move on Dover was not inspired by his snooping."
"No. I knew, of course, that he was one of Rossiter's revolting friends, but our web was fashioned about Lac Brillant some time ago. I'd no notion that the heir to it had ranged himself 'gainst us."
"Perhaps he has not. Perhaps 'tis as you said, merest coincidence. But tell me of your plan, Squire. Did Sapphire design it? He has no love for the Chandlers."
"He has no love for anyone, save that wanton he married. In truth he's an unpleasant creature, and vindictive in the extreme, but he has his uses. No, this time our plan was devised by Topaz. 'Tis somewhat oblique and much hangs on chance, but if it works it holds a double trap that should serve us well." He said musingly, "Lac Brillant… a prize worth the having, eh?"
"It meets many of our requirements certainly, and is of a rare beauty besides."
"Just so. I've had little to do with the family. How do you judge them?"
"I've only seen Sir Brian a time or two. He's seldom in Town and at all events," bitterness crept into the deep voice, "likely considers me nouveau riche and beneath his touch. I believe it's a close-knit group. Quentin inherited his sire's good looks but is a reckless fool and a fugitive, conveniently obliged to languish in France, as you know. The heir's a haughty young buck and holds himself aloof."
"Like Falcon?"
"No. A very different article. There is no malice in Gordon Chandler, I give him that. But his nature is cold and proud, and his temper hasty. I think he loves the estate though. He'll fight to save it."
"If all goes well," purred the Squire, "he'll not have the chance."
Chapter 1
St. James's Park, always a peaceful oasis in the heart of the bustling city, was a riot of colour on this pleasant afternoon, for the warmth of the sun had lured much of fashionable London out of doors to see and be seen. The white gowns of shy and jealously chaperoned damsels not yet presented provided a demure contrast to the vibrant scarlets of military coats. Gentlemen in wigs or powder escorted their fair charges gallantly, or joined friends to share such fascinating topics as the latest Toast, horses, sports, or the more ponderous matters of politics and diplomacy. Young ladies with their first Season behind them paraded in great-skirted gowns of pastel silks and satins; and the greys and purples affected by the dowagers mingled with the brighter hues that might safely be worn by young matrons.
Seemingly out of place among this bright and merry throng, a slight lady clad in deep mourning strolled towards the area reserved for the dairy cows. Her black veil was sufficiently sheer to allow a glimpse of delicate features framed by hair of pale gold. She was accompanied by a small boy and a woman whose neat but plain garb marked her for a superior servant, perhaps a companion or the child's governess.
"Poor creature. How sad she looks," murmured a young lady of small stature, whose awkward steps were steadied by the use of a cane. "And no older than me."
Despite her infirmity and the fact that she fell short of being designated a beauty, Miss Gwendolyn Rossiter was escorted by two decidedly dashing gentlemen. One was a military man of about five and twenty, with a fair-skinned cherubic countenance lit by merry green eyes. The other, a few years his senior, was very dark, his neatly tied-back hair jet black, his lean and superbly clad figure marked by the grace of the born athlete, and his countenance so extraordinarily handsome as to win admiring glances from every lady they encountered, and as many frowns from the gentlemen. Despite his
good looks, under their flaring brows August Falcon's midnight blue eyes had a faintly Oriental slant that betrayed his mixed blood. He held his head high and proud, but there was no warmth in his eyes, and his lips, although shapely, were down-trending and disdainful. "With but one glance," he drawled, "you have penetrated her veil to discover that the lady is poor, sad, and youthful. Incroyable."
Lieutenant James Morris asked, "Have you her acquaintance, ma'am?"
Gwendolyn's brown curls bobbed as she shook her head. "Only I looked at her, whereas August did not deign to notice her. Besides, I cannot but feel sorry for any widow. How dreadful it must be to lose the one you cherish."
"Always supposing—(a) that she is a widow and, (b) that she cherished her defunct mate," qualified Falcon. "But so long as this is merest speculation, what if yon dainty relict loathed her lord and master and, as Tummet would say, 'done him in'?"
Miss Rossiter uttered an indignant exclamation and informed him that he was a horrid cynic.
"Yes, well we all know that," agreed the lieutenant. "Poor Falcon cannot help but judge everyone by himself. As always, he is 'the pot that calls the kettle black.' "
"I am neither a pot," retorted Falcon witheringly, "nor have I murdered anyone. Though"—he slanted a thoughtful glance at Morris—"with luck, any day now…"
Accustomed to this bickering, Gwendolyn's attention had returned to the widow. "At least," she murmured, "she has her little boy, and her woman looks kind."
"Her maid, if such she is, may be kind," allowed Falcon, "but the brat is ready to explode. Only see how he tries not to skip. What is he? Ten, perhaps?"
Falcon's parents had been blessed with only two children. Morris, who came from a large and boisterous family, jeered, "Ten! Good God! Much you know of children!"
"One must give thanks for small mercies. How old, then?"
"I would guess five. Six perhaps. What d'you say, ma'am?"
Gwendolyn's limp was becoming a little more noticeable, and she said apologetically, "That I would like to sit down, an you do not object. But to answer your question, I agree with you, August, that the child's energy cannot for much longer be suppressed; and with you, Jamie, that he is likely five, or thereabouts." Ushered to a vacant bench, she sat down gratefully and remarked that were she the little boy's mama, mourning or not, she would send him off to see the cows.
The object of their interest had also taken a seat. She said in a soft cultured voice, "Poor Thorpe. Were your brother here you could play, my love."
"Jacob was silly to catch a cold." The small boy gave a hop and, his blue eyes alight, added, "I never get colds might I go and see who that man is the one they're all bowing to might I please Aunty Ruth?"
"Mercy on us," exclaimed the woman who accompanied them. "Three sentences with not a single breath 'twixt 'em! And 'tis rude to point! For shame, Master Thorpe!"
The widow's gaze had turned to the wide grassy area the boy indicated, where stood a splendid gentleman surrounded by a small and fashionable group. His habit was rich, orders flashed on his breast, and, although they were a merry company, those about him treated him with deference, while passers-by bowed respectfully.
"Why, I believe 'tis Prince Frederick," said the widow.
"And see, Grace, over there, by the trees, is that not the King?"
Grace Milford had been five and twenty when she'd been hired to serve as abigail to fourteen-year-old Miss Ruth Armitage. Three years later, Miss Armitage had become Mrs. Thomas Allington, and Grace had accompanied her into her new life. Now thirty-five, she was a combination of governess, companion, confidante, maid, and housekeeper. She had never lost the rosy cheeks and buxom figure of the countrywoman, but the hazel eyes she turned upon the royal group were shrewd. "Aye, that's the Prince of Wales," she said. "And the King only yards distant, but pretending not to see him! A fine pair! Will I take the boy over, Mrs. A.?"
The widow hesitated.
"Please, let me go and see him!" Master Thorpe jumped up and down vigorously. "Please, Aunty! An' then the cows?"
Mrs. Allington smiled at him. "Very well. But—not too near the royal parties, Grace."
She watched fondly as they left her, the woman walking sedately, the child leaping and hopping along. They were soon lost amongst the crowd and the widow's gaze wandered. She loved the park, but this would be her last visit here, for the house on Mount Street was no longer her own, and she must go down to Lingways and see that things there were set to rights. After that— She forced away any thought of "after that" and concentrated on the beauties of dancing sunlit leaves and air spiced with the scents of blossoms and newly scythed grass. Soft talk and lilting laughter drifted to her and her gaze turned to the other occupants of the park. How gay they were; how happy and free from care. And how cut off she felt. Banished from them and the way of life she had always known and that had slipped away so gradually yet so inexorably, like a satin rope that had frayed even as she clung to it until the last fine threads were now sliding through her fingers. Within a few days it would vanish altogether and be as lost to her as were her dear father, her beloved brother, her gentle husband. And whatever was to become of—
At this point she was startled by the discovery that a young lady and two gentlemen seated nearby were watching her. The lady and the military gentleman looked away at once, but the second gentleman continued to stare at her, his brows haughtily arched, his dark eyes bold. Lud, but he was a handsome creature. And very aware of it to judge by that arrogant manner. But perhaps, even with the veil, they had recognized her. Perhaps they knew about her brother's shameful death; and about poor Papa's ruinous attempts to prove his son's innocence. She turned her head away in time to see Thorpe galloping towards her, laughing, and calling over his shoulder that Miss Grace must make haste to see the cows.
"Oh, do take care!" cried Mrs. Allington, coming to her feet hurriedly.
She was too late. The tall, gaunt, but extremely elegant matron who had just passed by was proceeding towards the Prince and her attention was no more on the boy than his was on her. Her footman, whose eyes had lingered upon a pretty nursemaid, gave a shout, but he also was too late.
A violent collision. A shriek. A small, frightened face turned to the widow. A torrent of infuriated accusation capped by a sharp box on the ear.
Mrs. Allington hastened to the debacle, and slipped an arm about the boy. Thorpe shrank against her skirts, one hand pressed to his reddened cheek.
"I apologize for the accident, ma'am," said the widow angrily. "But you had no right to—"
"Right?" screamed the victim, turning a rageful countenance. "So you are the little monster's mama, are you? I do not scruple to tell you that he should be—"
"He did not mean to run into you." The widow raised her voice a trifle. "And there was no—"
"Do not dare to interrupt, you impertinent creature! I will say again that this vicious young ruffian—"
"He is not a ruffian, but—"
"—all but knocked me down!" Inspecting the rich green silk of her wide-hooped skirts even as she spoke, she uttered another shriek. "Ah! He has muddied my gown! Insufferable little beast!"
"If you would but moderate your tone, madam, I—"
"Moderate my tone, is it! That you dare say such a thing to me is a fair indication of your lack of manners and breeding! And only look at my reticule! Hackham, fetch the Park Keeper! People like these should not be allowed…"
On and on she went, her harsh tones attracting attention so that every head was turned their way.
Her warm heart touched, Gwendolyn Rossiter said, "Oh, how awful for her! August, do go and see if you cannot calm that dreadful woman!"
With an incredulous stare, Falcon enquired, "Are you run mad? Even were I so inclined, which I am not, I've no least intent to come within range of that female!"
Lieutenant Morris asked curiously, "A formidable lady? Should I know her?"
"Not if you can help it," said Gwendolyn with her customary bluntne
ss. " 'Tis Lady Clara Buttershaw. An odious woman. August, you know very well she fairly hangs on your lips. One word from you and she would cease persecuting that poor widow. Have you no compassion for your fellow man?"
"Precisely as much as my fellow man has for me. And as for allowing that skirted adder to flirt with me—I thank you, no! Let the widow fend for herself." He stood, and bowed with easy grace. "In point of fact, I refuse to share the same park with her noble ladyship. Adieu."
"Heartless coward!" hissed Gwendolyn as he strolled off.
Falcon laughed and waved airily, but continued on his way.
Turning to the apprehensive lieutenant, Gwendolyn pleaded, "Jamie—you are so kind. Only listen how she screeches, the wretch! And she has sent her footman to fetch the Keeper. You cannot allow that poor widow to be so publicly humiliated."
The lieutenant whimpered and quailed. And, of course, a minute later, was asking Lady Buttershaw in a scared voice if he could "be of some assistance?"
The widow, very pale, threw him a grateful glance.
Lady Buttershaw rounded on him, flushed and raging. "I think we have not been introduced, young man. Mind your business!"
'Jove, what a dragon!' thought Morris, and drew back, but there were tears on the boy's white face and his scared eyes pleaded. Wherefore, "By your leave, ma'am," he persevered bravely, "I am Lieutenant James Morris. I was presented to you at—"
"You have not my leave! And I will tell you, because I am honest in all things, that did I know a gentleman cursed with freckles and sandy hair, I would assuredly remember him, since I despise both. At all events, I number no junior officers among my acquaintance, so—" Her ladyship checked, and her hard dark eyes narrowed. "Morris? Of the Cornwall Morrises?"
"Lord Kenneth is my father's cousin, ma'am."
"Which lends you little consequence," she observed with a sniff. "Indeed, one can but wonder that you've the gall to boast of such a distant connection." She brought her guns to bear upon the widow once more. "I shall charge you and your brat with assault upon my person, and destruction of my—"
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