Ask Me No Questions

by Patricia Veryan

  "The only exposition I require from you, Falcon," snapped Chandler, "is on quite another subject."

  "But—how intriguing," said Falcon with a chuckle. "Our pedantic peer presumptive hath a touch of choler. What ails you, my Buck? Love? Or liver?"

  "Since my father is a baronet, I am never likely to become a peer. As I'd think even you would know!"

  "Even me…" Falcon watched the lazy swing of his quizzing glass and said with his cynical half-smile, "Even—the Mandarin. Is that what you mean?" His beauteous grandmother had been the product of a marriage between a Russian princess and a Chinese mandarin and, knowing how deeply he was despised by London's haut ton because of his mixed blood, Falcon knew also that this was the name that was applied to him behind his back.

  Rossiter's amusement faded. "Oh, have done, man! Gordie meant nothing of the kind."

  Chandler said stiffly, "He knows that perfectly well. He seeks to pinch at me as he does poor Morris. But you'll not turn me aside, Falcon. I'll have an accounting, or—"

  "That's the ticket," said Morris enthusiastically. "Give him one of your famous set-downs."

  "Do not interrupt the adults," said Falcon, brightening as he always did when arranging a fight. "I do believe Chandler means to call me out. I will oblige you with all the goodwill in the world, my poor fool. Swords, or pistols?"

  "Best have both, Chandler," advised Morris.

  Rossiter laughed.

  Falcon said agreeably, "By all means. Sword in one fist, pistol in't'other, and a dagger 'twixt your teeth, an you desire. Is all one to me. Though I must attend to Morris first, to which end—"

  "Well, 'tis not all one to me," interposed Rossiter. "What a fellow you are, August, to come roaring in and spoil our civilised discussion with your ferocities. Chandler was telling us of an odd affair at Trevor Shipley's country seat." He gave a brief recounting of the episode, at the end of which Falcon murmured, "Pray do not leave me in suspense. Surely the intrepid Chandler was not daunted by a mere fence? Having scaled it, I hope he taught them a lesson?"

  Chandler fixed him with a level stare.

  "Pay him no heed, Gordie," advised Morris. "His tongue is so sour he takes very little coffee with his sugar."

  "Peace, children," said Rossiter, with a touch of asperity. "Will you tell us what did happen, Gordon?"

  Chandler did not at once answer. Then, reverting to his usual cool manner, he said, "I think I am neither a bravo nor a fool. I will not run from reasonable odds, but seventy to one—no."

  Startled, Rossiter leaned forward in his chair. "Do you say there were seventy gentlemen wandering about your friend's preserves?"

  "I do not. There were seventy, perhaps more, men in there. They were neither wandering, nor were they gentlemen." He paused, frowning. "It sounds absurd, but were I to hazard a guess I'd say they were—playing charades." He met their astonished stares and added defiantly, "They were a decidedly rum lot."

  "Charades," murmured Falcon. "What kind? Did you discover the solution?"

  "I discovered how fast I could run."

  Rossiter said sharply, "You were seen?"

  "Seen and marked for slaughter! My God! How they came at me! One might suppose I had spied upon a sultan's ladies at their bath! I mounted up barely ahead of the first lot, but they were after me like so many madmen. How I came through that hail of shot unscathed, I do not know."

  Incredulous, Morris said, "You were fired upon?"

  "Aye. For a mile and more. Till I gave the damned hounds the slip!"

  Falcon breathed a soft "Aha!", put down his glass, sprawled lower in his chair, and over loosely interlocked fingers watched Rossiter intently.

  Meeting that brilliant stare, Rossiter muttered, "Larchwoods. It lies somewhere near Bosham on the south coast, I think. You're a Sussex man, August. What d'you know of it?"

  "Now what should a humble social outcast know of such high-in-the-instep members of the haut ton? Never been invited to place my sullied boot across the threshold."

  Chandler pointed out dryly, "Had you not deliberately enticed Trevor's last bird of paradise away and then laughed at him, you might have been."

  Falcon chuckled and bowed his head in unrepentant acknowledgment.

  " 'Tis a splendid estate, Ross," Chandler went on. "A fine park, ringed in on all sides by woodland. The house is rather in need of repair, but it has been in their family for centuries. I cannot conceive why the old man should have sold up."

  " 'Twas not entailed, then?"

  "Not to my knowledge. But it might as well have been—or so I thought—for Trevor and his papa regarded it almost as hallowed ground."

  Falcon murmured, "Is there not an elder brother? Robert…? Roderick… ? or some such name? Of decidedly murky repute, if memory serves. Oh, never look so damned prim, Chandler. If only half the scandals laid at that lad's door are truth, it must have cost Sir Bertram Shipley a considerable fortune to buy off his victims and avoid disgracing their name."

  Morris looked solemn. "He'd be stuck fast, like a cow in wet clay."

  Chandler stared at him.

  Between his teeth, Falcon said, "Don't ask him, Chandler. Do not! An we ignore the gudgeon, with luck he'll content himself with just one of his revolting homilies."

  Rossiter muttered, "That's how they did it, then. The poor old man was blackmailed till he had to sacrifice his estates."

  "They?" echoed Chandler, bewildered. "Who?"

  Rossiter stood and refilled glasses. His voice ringing with suppressed excitement, he said, " 'Twould fit! By God but it would! Another of the League's devilish tricks! And this estate they've filled with rascals to do their murderous—" Struck by an afterthought, he exclaimed, "Jove, Gordie! Were you recognized?"

  "Perhaps. What the devil difference would it make? And what a'plague are you jabbering at? What League?"

  "It might make a difference to your continued existence," said Falcon. "He should be warned, Ross. An you think he deserves it."

  "My existence?" echoed Chandler incredulously. "What in Hades have I come upon?"

  Looking grave, Morris said, "Something we are sworn not to speak of. Though that don't weigh with old August."

  "Certainly not," agreed Falcon, "since we've reason to question the integrity of the man who swore us to secrecy. We may have a likely recruit here, eh, Gideon?"

  Rossiter frowned, but after a moment's consideration said, "Falcon's right, Jamie. I'll accept the responsibility." He turned to Chandler. "It began whilst I was in the Low Countries, Gordie. I came home to find my family ruined, our shipyards and estates lost to us, our name a by-word for dishonest dealings, and my father raving of some malignant and powerful conspiracy 'gainst him."

  "Yes. I recall. 'Twas a beastly homecoming for you, Lord knows. You did damned well to bring your sire clear of that bog. I fancy 'twas easy enough for him to imagine a conspiracy under the circum—"

  "Fool," put in Falcon contemptuously. "He did not imagine."

  Chandler stared at him, then glanced to Rossiter, who nodded in sombre verification. " 'Twas indeed a conspiracy, perpetrated by a secret and most malevolent group of aristocratic gentlemen calling themselves the League of Jewelled Men." He sat beside his astounded friend and said earnestly, "Allow me to explain…"

  Ten minutes later, Gordon Chandler broke a long silence to say in a dazed voice, "Let me see if I have the right of it. You suspect that this League of Jewelled Men hatches some dastardly plot 'gainst England. Their leader is someone calling himself the Squire, but their true identities are unknown, even to one another. You believe they carry jewelled figures as a means of identification at their secret meetings; that they contrive to discredit, disgrace, and destroy highly regarded and highly placed gentlemen for some unknown purpose. And that they may have schemed to acquire several large estates."

  "Not may have," exploded Falcon impatiently. "Have!"

  "They succeeded in wresting away my father's country seat," said Rossiter. "We suspect they are respon
sible for the ruination and imprisonment of Admiral Albertson, and for the death of Lord Harlow Merriam—"

  Chandler interrupted, "But—Merriam was a suicide!"

  "Because he was caught cheating at cards?" Falcon gave a derisive snort.

  Rossiter said, "You knew Merriam, Gordie. Did ever you know a more upright, honourable gentleman?"

  Chandler looked troubled. "Never," he admitted, trying to grasp all this.

  "Furthermore," went on Rossiter, his face stern, "their connivings came damnably close to causing the death of my dear wife, and only a few weeks back they came within a hair's breadth of sending Tio Glendenning and all his family to the block for high treason."

  "Good God!" gasped Chandler.

  Morris put in, "And we are perfectly sure that Glendenning Abbey was their target."

  "But you are quite at liberty to question that conclusion," said Falcon, bored. "As you very obviously question all the rest."

  Chandler frowned. "If you are right, then you also hold this pack of noble wolves responsible for the death of Lord Norberly—"

  "Who was a member of the League," nodded Rossiter. "As was—or perhaps is—my father-in-law, I regret to say."

  Chandler's jaw sagged. "The Earl of Collington? Naomi's father?"

  "Had she another?" enquired Falcon sweetly.

  Staring at him unseeingly, Chandler muttered, "Lord above, what a coil! 'Tis so hard to believe that—"

  "That—what?" demanded Rossiter. "That villainy exists? That there are those who so hate our Hanoverian King they would conspire to destroy him? Cast your mind back a year or two, Gordie."

  "Yes. But Charles Stuart was a Scot and fought openly for what he considered, with some justification, to be his birthright. And—"

  "And lost. So perchance this little covey of maniacs fancy they'll succeed by following a more devious route."

  Awed by the enormity of it, Chandler shook his head. "If you're right, what d'you mean to do?"

  Morris said, "We've come at the identities of a few members of the League."

  "But unhappily, most of 'em died—from one cause or another," put in Falcon.

  "Not our doing—directly, that is," said Rossiter. "The man who leads the League is called the Squire. He don't permit failures."

  "So now we attempt to discover who buys up forfeited estates," said Falcon.

  Morris grinned. "And then we follow 'em."

  "Jolly good!" exclaimed Chandler. "That should surely—" He interrupted himself. "But 'twas Bracksby bought Promontory Point! Oh, Gad! You never believe Rudi could be a member of this league?"

  "Don't we just," drawled Falcon.

  Rossiter stood. "Gordie, there's much you don't yet know, and we could spend all night in explanations. You have enough, I think, to make a judgment. Either we are ripe for Bedlam, or we are uncovering a threat of such magnitude that it would spell sure execution for all those concerned."

  "Whereby we are each of us marked for execution," said Morris.

  Despite that terrible assertion, Falcon laughed softly. "Look at him. He don't believe a word of it!"

  Standing also, Chandler looked from Rossiter's clean-cut face and steady eyes, to Morris' earnestness, to Falcon, all lazy insolence. He drew a deep breath. "I wish to heaven I did not believe it. But I cannot doubt the word of such men as yourselves."

  "Good," said Rossiter, smiling. "Then—will you join us, Gordie?"

  A faint flush lit Chandler's cheeks and his cool grey eyes were suddenly ablaze with excitement. "Yes, by God! I shall be proud to—" He broke off abruptly, and for a moment stood very still, his eyes remote, as though they scanned a scene only he could see. The animation died from his face, and when he spoke again his voice was cool, and the grey eyes were veiled. "No. My regrets, but I cannot"

  Falcon gave a muffled but contemptuous exclamation, and lay back in his chair.

  Chandler resumed: "We are already under a cloud. My father's health is uncertain, and were I to become involved in anything that might—er, bring us into the public eye once more, the strain upon him…" His jaw tightened. "No. I am sorrier than I can say, but I must stay clear of this. Besides, I am soon to be married." He hesitated, clearly mortified, then said, "You will, I hope… understand?"

  Morris said kindly, "Only a fool turns a waggon in a narrow lane."

  "A predictable idiocy," snorted Falcon.

  "Of course we understand," said Rossiter. "But I'll ask that you keep all this to yourself, Gordie."

  Chandler nodded. "You have my word. Now, I must be off. I can only wish you well, with all my heart." He shook hands with Rossiter and Morris, then turned to Falcon.

  Still lounging in his chair, Falcon stared fixedly at the ceiling.

  Flushing, and still numbed by the shocking disclosures he'd just heard, Chandler walked to the door. With his hand on the latch he turned back. "If you want to know something, August," he said angrily, "that was a damned stupid letter!"

  Falcon jerked upright. "Eh? What a'plague—"

  A look of guilt overspreading his suddenly scarlet countenance, Morris gabbled, "I'm coming, too! Wait up, Gordie!"

  "Hey!" cried Falcon to the closing door.

  There came the sound of galloping steps on the stairs. Misinterpreting Morris' abrupt departure, Falcon settled back again. "He wastes his time, the block. Katrina didn't come with me. She and my father are still recuperating from the influenza."

  Rossiter, who was fond of Morris, said nothing, and there was a short silence. Then, Falcon asked idly, "When does Chandler wed?"

  "In the autumn, I believe."

  Falcon's lips curled. "How fortunate for him."

  Irritated, Rossiter said defensively, "A man about to be wed has a right to steer clear of this ugly business."

  "You did not steer clear."

  "I had no choice."

  Falcon smiled his cynical smile. "If Chandler was recognized down at the Shipley estate, he may find he also has no choice."

  "The Prince of Wales," observed Lady Nadia de Brette, smiling, and bowing her lovely head as an acquaintance passed by, "is a very great rascal, and will do anything to annoy his father."

  The afternoon was warm, and Covent Garden Market was well patronized. My lady was enjoying this stroll with her fiance. Her new gown of gold and white brocade with the flattened panniers, which had become so popular, was not perhaps the best choice for a stroll through the market, but she was fully aware that it set off her dark beauty to admiration. She was aware also of the envy in the eyes of the ladies, and could not fail to be pleased. The man on whose arm her hand rested lacked the heart-stopping good looks or the devilish allure of August Falcon; nor could one enjoy a delicious gossip with him, as one could with dear Reggie Smythe. But he was heir to a great fortune and a splendid country seat, and was considered one of the finest catches in the matrimonial stakes. All of which my lady found satisfactory.

  "Papa," she went on, "says that Lord Hervey's dislike of the Prince is absurd. Pitt likes him very much, of course."

  Gordon Chandler forced his mind from its preoccupation with the appalling business of the League of Jewelled Men, and his uneasy feeling that, in some inexplicable fashion, his life had been changed by his awareness of it. He said unequivocally, "Pitt is a lunatic. Shall you come down to Lac Brillant with me?"

  Dismayed, she wailed, "Oh, Lud! You're never going back there? I thought you surely meant to attend the Fowles' boat party. No, really! 'Tis prodigious tiresome of you, Chandler!"

  "I expect it is, but I do not enjoy Town even during the Season, and in the summer time I find it unbearable. Furthermore, now that we are officially betrothed, I think you might sometimes address me by my Christian name."

  With a petty moue, my lady said, "You are cruel, Ch— Gordon. La, but I vow you care nothing for what I enjoy! Truly, you think more of your silly old farms, and tenants, and—and gardens than you do of poor me!"

  She looked young and wistfully beautiful, and he laughed and
patted her dainty fingers. But instead of assuring her that she was the centre of his world, as many of her admirers would have done, he said lightly, "You love Lac Brillant, or so you have always told me. Though we seldom see you there."

  "How can you say such things, sir? Why, only a month or so ago I spent a—a week at the dear old place."

  "You came down to see the shipwreck, an I recall."

  "Yes, yes! Oh, how frightening it was to see the poor broken thing tossing about on your rocks, and to know how many lives were lost! Everyone was agog in Town when I described it, for there have been so very many. And I actually saw one!"

  "A rock?" he asked innocently.

  "Wicked tease! The shipwreck. Papa says 'tis a veritable epidemic."

  "Yes, well our wreck took place in February, m'dear— considerably more than a 'month or so ago!' And as I recall you stayed for three days only. Did I not know better, my lady, I'd think you dislike Lac Brillant."

  "Well, you do know better, Mr. Chandler! I adore it. But I'd not want to live there."

  He slanted a startled glance at her, and she retrenched swiftly. "All the time, I mean. I enjoy to visit your dear papa, and I know you do not like to leave him, now that Quentin is gone." She sighed. " 'Tis so very sad."

  Her sorrow was genuine, if fleeting. It had once seemed to her a pity that Quentin had not been the heir. He was the dashing one; the one always with a laugh on his lips and some outrageous escapade either in hand or in mind. She glanced up at Gordon. His face was stern again. He did not like to be reminded of his brother. Beyond doubting, he must envy Quentin his good looks, his popularity, and the fact that he was Sir Brian's favourite. Such emotions she found perfectly understandable.

  When, at seventeen, she had made her come-out, she had also made a private vow to ensnare Quentin Chandler. But although she had flirted with him determinedly, and although she had swiftly become a reigning Toast, Quentin, while always ready to flirt, had never succumbed to the point of becoming a member of her court. Eventually, he had vanished from the London scene without so much as a farewell. Not for one second had she entertained the notion of marrying anyone but the heir to the Chandler fortunes, of course, but she had been piqued. If handsome Quentin Chandler was ever able to return to England, he would find her the mistress at Lac Brillant, and she would see to it that he received short shrift for his folly.