The Mandarin of Mayfair (25 page)

"Mr. Falcon?"

He hugged her closer. "Yes, my lovely rascal?"

"You're very quiet. Are you thinking better of—of what you said just now?"

"It could have been better said, if that's your point."

"Did you… really mean it, dear August?"

"For as long as my life shall last, my priceless Smallest Rossiter."

She shivered, and he asked anxiously, "Are you cold?"

"No."

"Yet you shivered. Here—" He twisted out of his cloak and wrapped it around her. "Better?"

"Yes, thank you. But…"

"But—what, beloved?"

"I should rather be kissed, if you don't mind."

If he didn't mind! There was no need to turn her face, for she had it poised and ready. "I am all consideration," she murmured.

He laughed softly, and kissed her; not as he'd kissed any other woman, but as a man kisses the lady of his choosing, the perfect one who will forever rule in his heart. She kissed him back, her lips sweet and shy, and just as he would have wished them. And they held each other close and murmured of their love and the wondrous perfection of it, as lovers always have and always will, until she sighed, "I never dreamed 'twould be the same for you as it is for me. You will think me very silly, but— May I move this? It's digging into my ribs."

He blinked at the small package she had found in the pocket of his coat. "Oh," he said, shifting it to the other side. "A little gift for Trina. Which reminds me." He pulled out another package. "My first and most inadequate gift for you, dearest."

She opened the package and admired the shawl rapturously, then exclaimed, "Oh, I forgot! I've a gift for you, also!" She drew a small flat box from the pocket of her skirt. "I found it on a table with the most odd collection of trinkets. I vow I could have spent hours there, and a very strange old lady told me that her late husband had been used to bring fascinating things from his travels throughout the world."

He said smilingly, "That sounds like my friend Mrs. Quimby."

"Why, that is so! She told me her name and—" She stopped, and snatched the little box away suddenly. "No! Don't open it now." She slipped it into his pocket. "I'd rather you saved— August?" She reached up to touch his brow. "How warm you are! And—oh, heavens! You are so pale! You're hurt and you've not told me!"

Her anxious little hands were tugging at his coat, and he said in amusement that it was very sweet to be maulded over, but that he was perfectly fit, save that he felt rather tired. "It must be the shock," he murmured. "Of the amputation, you know."

She peered at him worriedly. "Amputation?"

"Of my heart. Who'd ever have guessed I should lose it to a street-walking baggage?"

She responded with mock indignation, but her words echoed unintelligibly. He pulled her close and kissed her again, and quietly fell asleep.

* * *

"How is your father… by the way?"

Falcon frowned up at the ceiling. Who had said that? He seemed to remember—

"Well, now! 'Bout time you woke up, Guv!" Tummet's broad grin hovered over him and the beady brown eyes were watching him intently. "When you takes a nap, you takes a nap!"

He yawned and stretched luxuriously. He was in bed in his own room. Odd, because it had all seemed so real. He said, "D'you know, my pseudo-gentleman's-gentleman, I had the most strange dream."

"Didyer now." Tummet touched his cheek lightly, and murmured, "Hum."

"Need a shave, do I? As I said, I dreamed I damn near… throttled—" He stopped short, reached out and jerked his valet's neat stock aside,

"Hey!" yelped Tummet. "Now you gorn and spoilt it!"

The bruises were lurid. "The deuce!" whispered Falcon, and lay back, his mind whirling. If
that
had been no dream, then nor had the rest of it! He'd really seen Joel Sky and Mariner Fotheringay at Overlake Lodge! He'd really had that most promising conversation with Mrs. Quimby, and spent a sprightly hour with Pamela Dunscroft, and— He sprang up in bed, then clung to the mattress as the room reeled and dipped around him.

Tummet said something and tried to lie him down again.

Resisting doggedly, he gasped, "Let be! What the—devil's wrong—with me?"

"Jest what Sir James said, mate. You tunned yerself inter a proper relapse, is what. Scared poor Miss Gwen half to death, you done! Lucky I come back quick-like."

"Miss… Gwen," whispered Falcon, and sank down again, closing his eyes. "Oh, God!"

"Pretty sharp, is it, Guv? Proper inflamed Sir Jim said."

It was more than "pretty sharp." How like Fate to creep in under his guard and deal him a lifetime leveller! He muttered bitterly, "And what a ghastly mull I made of the business."

"Now, now, Guv. don't go fretting yerself into flinders.You done good, considering yer arm were so nasty. Leastways—Wotcher doing?"

"Getting up. What would you think? Bring me some clothes!"

"Do nothing of the sort, Tummet!"

Gwen's sweet, clear voice. His heart turned over. Her hands were on his shoulders, her eyes, soft and tender, were scanning his face. And somehow, he must deal with this like—like a gentleman.

She asked gently, "How do you feel, my dear?"

"I would feel better, ma'am, if you would take yourself from my bedchamber."

Shock came into those honest blue eyes. Then, she smiled. "So that's your game, is it? 'Twill avail you naught, August Nicolai K. Falcon, and so I warn you!"

"God bless your valiant soul," he thought, and threw back the bedclothes. "The choice is yours, ma'am."

She glimpsed a nightshirt and a shapely but hairy leg.

"Gwendolyn!"

Katrina hurried in, followed by Mrs. Vanechurch, who said in a near scream, "Mr.
August
!" and put her hand across Gwendolyn's eyes.

Tummet stood with his arms folded, grinning from ear to ear.

Falcon knew when he was beaten, and he lay down again. "Women!"

"Wanted to see me?" Jonathan Armitage stuck his fair head around the edge of the door and looked cautiously at Tummet, who sat by the bed reading a newspaper aloud.

" 'S'all right, mate," said Tummet, standing. "Doc Sir Jim says he can have visitors, so long as they don't get him all stirred up."

"Come on in, Johnny," growled Falcon. "And pay no heed to this varmint."

Armitage approached the bed and scanned the patient, propped against many pillows and looking, he thought, considerably wrung out.

Falcon told Tummet to fetch his coat. "The one I wore to the Fete yesterday."

"Day afore yestiday," corrected Tummet, going into the dressing room.

Shocked, Falcon exclaimed, "Good Gad! Have I lost a day, then? Is this not Sunday?"

"Monday." Armitage sat on the side of the bed. "What a fool you are, August, to go rushing about from Land's End to John o'Groats with that ugly hole in your arm. You'll accomplish nothing for us if you get yourself knocked up, you know."

"Oh, will I not?" Falcon felt in the pocket of the coat Tummet offered him, and took out a small flat box. An invisible mule kicked him in the ribs, and his hand trembled slightly as he replaced the box and felt in the other pocket "Where the devil is that card? A lady is expecting you to visit her on Thursday afternoon, and—" He checked, noting the uneasy exchange of glances between Armitage and Tummet. "Now what are you two looking so greasy-eyed about?"

Armitage said in a very gentle voice, "I expect you've forgotten, August. You told Gideon all about it, and he sent for me at once."

Falcon stared at him. "I—did? You know that you're to send in your name—"

"As Mr. Tide. Yes, old fellow. You gave me her card. And I cannot thank you enough."

"Devil with your thanks! I just must have forgot, is all. Did I also tell you—" He glanced aside as the door opened.

Morris. Transfixed as by a saber, Falcon thought, "Now I know how you feel, my poor dolt. I know all too well." He turned his face away, heard some whisperings, then the door opened again and closed softly. Morris had gone, thank heaven. But when he looked up, it was to discover that Armitage had left. Morris was sitting beside the bed, watching him.

"No," he said wearily.

"I didn't ask."

"I can feel it, winging to me on the air. Why else would you have come?"

Morris looked offended. "Fella's—er, not up to par, his fr—acquaintances come to say how-dee-do and—er, so forth."

He'd always said he didn't need or want friends, and Jamie had respected that. Poor old Jamie. If things were different… He said, "Give it up, Morris. You're too good a man to waste your life, and you'll never have my consent. The only hope for you is to bury me, and even then, I doubt she'd accept you."

Morris looked aghast. "You really are sick! You never said I was a good man before!"

"It must be the effect of all these well-wishers calling. Are you the last? Or is the hall thronged with lovely ladies preparing to descend upon me with tearful eyes and heaving bosoms?"

Morris pointed out solemnly, " 'A heaving bosom is often nothing more than a hope chest.' "

Unable to restrain a grin, Falcon protested, "You villain! Coming here and throwing maxims at my head when I'm a helpless invalid with nothing to throw at you in return! Begone! And keep away from my sister!"

"Now there's a grand incentive for you to hurry back to your customary pose of surly gaoler." Morris lifted a restraining hand as Falcon sat up menacingly. "No, no, you really cannot murder me yet, August. I've not given you my report."

Staring at him, Falcon echoed, "Report?"

"Yes. I trotted down there yesterday. Shouldn't have. My parent don't hold with Sunday travel. Still, all's well, so far as I could see. Though, dashed if I know what you expected me to find."

Mystified, Falcon said, "Find—where?"

"Well, that's it. If
you
knew, you should've told me, so—"

"Fiend seize you, Jamie! You're enough to try the patience of a saint! Where—have—you—been?"

"You know dashed well where I've been! Why you cod's head, 'twas you begged me to go down there, wasn't it? Said you was worried about the old gentleman, but—"

"My—
father
?"

"Well, of course! Don't you—" Morris paused, looked dismayed, and came to his feet. "Think I'll be toddling, old boy. Ain't yourself. Should've known when you said I was a good man. Fever, that's what 'tis. Beastly business."

Falcon frowned at the closing door. A fine game they were playing with him! First Johnny, now Morris. He might have forgot that he'd told Ross about Mrs. Quimby's offer, but he was blasted well sure he'd not have sent Morris down to Ashleigh to check on the old gentleman! Certainly, he would remember having done so outlandish a thing. It must be that they were trying to keep him chained to his bed so as to shut him out of some new mischief of the League's making. Or perchance Ross was uneasy about that stupid bag of feathers that had been hurled at him in Cornwall. Lord, but how could grown men be such fools?

He flung back the coverlet. Inactivity always galled him, and inactivity just now was an invitation to thought, and to think was disaster. Especially if he allowed himself to remember all the things Gwendolyn had murmured in his ear after Trina and the housekeeper had left just now. He shouted, "Tummet!"

His coat still lay across the foot of the bed. The coat of blue and silver brocade he'd worn on that magical November Mid-summer's Eve. He pulled it to him, touching the sleeve lingeringly.

Tummet hurried in, and groaned.

"Never mind that," said Falcon briskly. "I've wasted too much time, lounging about in this damnable bed. I want a bath and a shave, and clean clothes."

"Now, Guv—"

"Exactly so.
Now!
Oh, and I'll wear this coat."

"
That
one? But—it wants pressing!"

"Then—
press
it!"

* * *

Katrina jumped up as Gwendolyn came into her private parlour, and ran to embrace her. "Dearest Gwen! The more I think about it, the more hopeful I become! Sit here and tell me everything. What did he say after we left? Oh, the way he
looked
at you! My darling brother has lost his heart at last! I cannot believe it!"

Smiling, Gwendolyn allowed herself to be led to the small sofa by the hearth. "There is nothing to tell. After you and Mrs. Vanechurch left, August fell asleep. Or pretended to. I didn't believe it, of course, and I gave him a thorough talking to, I promise you."

Katrina hugged herself rapturously. "But after the accident he kissed you, so he'll have to ask for your hand, which means he won't be able to refuse his consent to Jamie and me! Oh, I
never
dared hope— Now, why must you look so grave? You never think he has changed his mind? Already?"

"I think he means to be difficult, Trina. I am very sure he loves me, though why he should, when I am so—ordinary—"

Katrina wrapped her in another strong embrace and said with vehemence, "You are
not
ordinary! You are pretty and bright and kind, and always there is a smile in your eyes, and—"

"And I am crippled."

"Pho! You go with a little limp is all! Perry Cranford lost his foot and is one of the most attractive men I know! And if it comes to that,
we
are—"

Gwendolyn put a silencing finger across her lips. "You had a lovely Grandmama who was half Russian and half Chinese, which is of no concern to me whatsoever and would not, I am sure, weigh with Gideon."

Katrina said gravely, "It might weigh heavily with your other brother, and with your Papa."

That was very true. Gwendolyn felt a qualm and said with more confidence than she felt, "Oh, I'll bring them around my thumb, never fear. But—may I ask you something? I know August has fought many duels. Has he been wounded before?"

"Once. Some years ago, when he fought a German count—Von somebody. I forget the name. August said he was the finest swordsman he'd ever met, and they parted best of friends. But even then, 'twas no more than a shallow cut across his shoulder. The only other time he was hurt was when Jamie accidentally shot him last Spring, and you know about that."