The Mandarin of Mayfair (20 page)

"But a very human folly," said Cranford.

Rossiter remarked gravely, "And to fall in love is a folly you do not mean to commit, eh, Falcon?"

"Certainly not. I have my loves, mark you, but my heart is—and will remain—both intact and my own." Morris was regarding him steadily. For some inexplicable reason, he felt his face get hot and was unable to meet that fixed stare. Intensely irritated, he snapped, "Well? Say whatever is rattling around your brainbox, Sir Numps!"

Morris said solemnly, " 'He that will not when he may, when he will he shall have nay.' "

Amid more laughter, Falcon closed his eyes and shuddered.

A waiter at last hurried to their table. "Your wishes, gentlemen?"

"You'd not dare grant 'em," growled Falcon.

Rossiter said, "Oh, ale all around will suffice. Unless—is anyone hungry?"

There being no answers in the affirmative, the waiter went off looking disappointed.

"Now let's to business," said Rossiter. "If Owen's right and Miss Barthelemy is in this country, she is probably working for the League."

"Not so!" argued Sir Owen, firing up. "Her only reason for stealing the Agreement was to protect her brother. And 'tis no use glaring at me like that, Falcon. I will
not
testify 'gainst her! She did
not
mean to kill me! Heaven knows, she warned me. I just didn't believe—" He bit his lip, and shrugged. "I moved the wrong way, unfortunately."

Rossiter was watching Falcon's expression and he interrupted quickly, "Did Miss Barthelemy speak to you, just now? Or did she perhaps not even see you?"

"I walked around the corner, and there she was. It seemed— I mean—" Still not fully recovered and easily overcome by emotion, Sir Owen's voice trembled. "I think she was as taken aback as was I. She stopped dead, and—and spoke my name. Before I could say a word, she had been whisked into a carriage and was gone."

Cranford said understandingly, "It must have been a devilish shock for you. Still, 'twould be nice to know what she's up to this time."

Morris pursed his lips. "Perhaps nothing. Who's to say she didn't come back only to make sure Owen was going on all right?"

"I am," said Falcon. "If she's back, 'tis because that darling of France, her famous brother, has her doing his bidding again. And look who's just come in! Another pariah!"

"Hi, Johnny," called Morris cheerfully. "Let you out of your chains, did they?"

The unguarded remark carried all too well. Conversation in the large room died away. Heads turned, and not a few frowns were directed at the new arrival.

"Don't restrain yourself, my good block," drawled Falcon. "Climb on the table and proclaim our felon's presence to all London."

Morris looked abashed. "Oh, Jupiter! Spoke out of turn, did I?"

"Let us say your silence would have been golden."

"Never fret, Jamie." Jonathan Armitage pulled a chair up to the other end of the table and joined the group. "I'm not ashamed of being recognized."

Someone said clearly and contemptuously, "And there brays a man with no conscience!"

There were murmurs of agreement, and other voices were raised:

"Such rogues should not be permitted to mix with decent people!"

"But he's not doing so, dear boy. He's sitting with the Mandarin!"

There was a burst of laughter.

Falcon shoved Morris off the end of the settle, and it screeched across the tiles as he pushed it back and rose to his feet.

The laughter died an abrupt death and two sneering Macaronis at the far side of the room leapt from their chairs and departed in an inglorious scramble.

Falcon put up his glass and surveyed the now silent company with slow deliberation. Smiling, he enquired, "Did the person with the overgrown tongue wish to—ah, address me?"

Several of those present would have very much liked to address him, but it was said that August Falcon was at his deadliest when he smiled, and the quiet went unbroken.

He let the quizzing glass drop to the end of its ribbon. "What a pity," he murmured and sat down again to the accompaniment of a subdued burst of conversation.

Morris grinned. "Jolly nice!"

Tall and fair, with steadfast gray eyes and a strong nose and chin, Jonathan Armitage had been one of the East India Company's most promising and valued young officers. Three years earlier, with a loving family and a fine inheritance waiting in England and a bright future ahead of him, he'd been in Suez, en route to take command of his ship. While there, he had chanced to witness a clandestine meeting between a distinguished Frenchman and two middle-aged English ladies. If someone had told him that the Frenchman was the much admired soldier, Marshal Jean-Jacques Barthelemy, or that his companions were Lady Clara Buttershaw and her spinster sister, Lady Julia Yerville, it would have meant nothing to him. But all three were deeply involved in the schemes of the League of Jewelled Men, and Armitage had become a potential threat. He'd been attacked and left for dead when his ship foundered off the coast of Cornwall, his honour fouled and his reputation destroyed. Surviving the wreck by a fluke, but with an impaired recollection of his identity or his past life, he had endured two years of brutality and despair before the love and faith of a courageous girl, and the assistance of Falcon and Morris, had helped him win back his health and self-respect. He was happily married now, and fighting to clear his name, but he was still under a cloud, not knowing from one day to the next if he would be brought up before the High Court of the Admiralty and charged with dereliction of duty, a hanging offence.

"My thanks," he now said quietly. "But I can defend myself, August."

Falcon raised his eyebrows. "Whatever gave you the impression I was defending you? Do not give yourself airs."

Armitage grinned. He admired Falcon and was undeceived by the apparent set-down, but he delayed his response while the waiter served their ale. As the man went off, he said, "I went round to your house to pay you a sick call, August. I think your pretty sister was as surprised as I to find you gone out."

Falcon glanced apprehensively at the door. "You weren't such a clunch as to bring her here?"

"Never fear, you're not about to be ordered to your bed. Your sister and Miss Rossiter went out with Mrs. Haverley."

"Mrs… Haverley…" Falcon sampled his ale, and muttered, "I know the name, but be dashed if I can— Ah! Kadenworthy's aunt, no? You remember her, Jamie. We met her down at Epsom in June."

Morris nodded. "A dear little old soul." Watching Falcon from the corner of his eye, he asked innocently, "Where were they off to, Johnny?"

"Do not even think of it," warned Falcon.

"Only look at him lash his tail," exclaimed Morris, injured.

"Well, that's one thing you cannot interfere with, August My thoughts are my own."

"And as such are wasted on building silly castles in the air, instead of being used for something sensible."

"Nothing wrong with having castles in the air." Morris sighed, then added with a twinkle, "Unless you step out of the door!"

Falcon experienced a little difficulty in refraining from joining in the mirth. When it faded, he enquired idly, "Speaking of castles in the air, has anyone heard the rumours about Prince Charlie?"

Cranford answered, "Lord, yes. Who hasn't? They say King Louis is wildly eager to kick him out of France, and is using the Treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle 'gainst him, now that it's finally been signed."

"And that Charles insists he's entitled to remain in Paris, under the Treaty of Fontainebleau," said Armitage.

Sir Owen nodded. "Which is now outdated, of course. One can't but feel sorry for the Prince. Did you hear that his mistress—the de Talmont, I mean—has been ordered to refuse to admit him to her house, on pain of being exiled herself if she does not?"

"He must be enraged," said Rossiter. "If he truly cares for the lady."

Morris chuckled. "Did you hear that he rented a new house, right under King Louis' nose, and has filled the place with arms? He surely means to put up a fight."

Falcon murmured, "Then none of you believe he is back in England?"

Five heads jerked to him. Five pairs of eyes stared in astonishment.

Rossiter said, "In
England
! Dear heaven! I pray not!"

"He would be wits to let!" exclaimed Cranford. "One step over the border and Louis would never let him back into France!"

"And one foot on English soil and he'd lose his head before he could lower the other foot," said Armitage.

Morris appropriated a piece of Falcon's loaf unopposed.

"To hear the talk at the Cocoa Tree, London's full of men who'd flock to shield him. And to join him!"

"And the ignoble Stuarts would bring down more death and destruction on more hare-brained followers," snorted Falcon.

Armitage said soberly, "I wasn't here during the Rebellion, but if only half of what I heard is truth, I cannot believe any thinking man would invite such another bloodbath!"

Watching Falcon, Rossiter asked, "Where did you pick up this rumour?"

"Tummet. He says 'tis whispered at the Rose and Crown."

"Gad!" said Cranford. "Old Ramsey Talbot patronizes that scruffy tavern. I wonder…"

"No!" Morris said vehemently, "I hold no brief for Charles Stuart, but he's not a dunce. Without King Louis' backing he'd as well commit suicide as try for another Uprising!"

Sir Owen nodded agreement. "Men may boast Jacobite loyalty in the taverns, but when it's play or pay, they go home to their wives and families. Prince Charles
must
know his chances would be dismal."

"Speaking of which," said Cranford, "only look at us! So dismal as any Newgate newcomers! August, I believe you've been hoaxing us!"

Falcon found himself the butt of much light-hearted scolding and when Gideon appeared to be no less amused than the rest, he dismissed his own unease. Enoch Tummet was not an educated man and couldn't be blamed for being taken in by taproom statesmen. The one who should have known better than to pay heed to such fustian was August Falcon. Admitting which, if only to himself, he felt obliged to order apple pie for everyone by way of apology.

They left soon afterwards and went their separate ways. Rossiter slowed his steps to match Sir Owen's pace and asked in his kindly fashion if he would like some company on the way back to Bond Street.

Furlong thanked him, but refused, declaring that he was quite recovered from his "most pathetic folly." His lips were tight and there was an angry glint in the blue eyes. Rossiter said slowly, "You don't much like Falcon, do you?"

"No. And it has naught to do with his—forbears."

"I know that. And I know he can be blasted abrasive. But I wish you will try not to judge him too harshly. His is not an easy path."

"I don't envy him it, certainly." Sir Owen frowned, then said, "But that doesn't excuse his sarcasm, nor his hatred for Jamie, who's as good a fellow as one could meet."

They walked outside. The rain had stopped but the short gray afternoon was drawing in and already flambeaux were being lit. The porter ran into the street and whistled up a chair. Watching him, Rossiter said slowly, "You mistake it, Owen. Despite what he says, Falcon doesn't hate Morris. In fact, I believe he's quite attached to him."

"Do you, by Jove! He has a deuced odd way of showing it!"

"Yes. But that's because he is so deathly afraid of him, do you see?"

Furlong did not see, although he was too polite to argue the point. Glancing back a moment later as he was borne towards his cozy little house on Bond Street, he saw Rossiter go striding off, his cloak billowing about him. Such a good fellow was old Ross, he thought, and it was like him to look for the good side of a man. He was far and fair off about August Falcon, though. Not that Falcon was a bad man—indeed he'd have made a jolly good soldier. But that was likely all he'd be good for—fighting!

Besides being Lord Hector Kadenworthy's aunt, Millicent Haverley's mother had been second cousin to Mrs. Dudley Falcon's mama, and while in town with her nephew, Mrs. Haverley paid a courtesy call in Great Ormond Street. She was a gentle little lady with a singularly sweet face and a somewhat timid disposition, and she and Mrs. Dudley thoroughly enjoyed a scandalous exchange of family confidences and the latest
ton
gossip. Their cose was terminated when Mrs. Haverley recollected that she was promised to attend a Literary Afternoon of poetry and readings at the home of Lady Dowling. Her nephew had intended to accompany her but was detained on a matter of business. "A horse, no doubt," she said with a doting smile, and upon learning that Gwendolyn was fond of poetry, begged that all three ladies go with her, because Lady Dowling had told her to bring anyone she knew who enjoyed readings. Mrs. Dudley was engaged for an early dinner party with friends and had to decline. Katrina and Gwendolyn, however, were pleased to accept, and within the hour were comfortably ensconced in the music room of the Dowling mansion.

Lady Dowling, tall, elegant, and with a pair of kindly hazel eyes, had welcomed her unexpected guests graciously. She liked Katrina, and while hoping that none of the more conservative guests would be offended by her arrival, thought it quite possible that the presence of London's most controversial Beauty might add lustre to what had begun to seem a dull gathering.

Katrina was breathtaking in a
robe volante
of pink damask, the stomacher edged by tiny embroidered red roses, and with a little cluster of red silk roses nestled amid her glossy black curls. Gwendolyn had donned a
robe
à
la française
of soft blue taffeta with a dainty floral pattern and a square neckline trimmed with lace. Less in the habit of attending ton parties, she looked about her with interest, noting the elaborate gowns and jewels of the ladies, and amused by the stares of gentlemen who were strangers to her.

Mrs. Haverley murmured behind her fan, "I think I have never before drawn so much attention!"

"Nor I, ma'am," answered Gwendolyn merrily. "If I could believe that any of those admiring glances came my way."