Time's Fool (12 page)

“No,” said Naomi, stripping off her gloves. “And I fancy most of the soldiers have no least idea of what they're fighting for—or against. However, I would not refine upon there being a speedy end to the war, dearest. There will always be wars, simply because men delight in them.”

It was unlike Naomi to be cynical, and Katrina set aside the newspaper and looked at her in surprise. “Rich men perhaps, for the sake of trade. But do you think the poor men who have to fight, really enjoy it? Surely they cannot, when they see how many are killed and wounded.”

“Much they care,” said Naomi ferociously. “At all events, 'tis the officers who are first to be slain in every battle. Most of them are rich men's sons and do not
have
to follow the drum. But they go anyway. Is in keeping with the male nature. Only l-look how … how little boys are always … fighting.” She dashed her gloves and whip onto the bed, and tearing off her hat, suddenly burst into tears.

“Good heavens!” Katrina flew up to hug her friend and lead her to the window seat, then sink down beside her, murmuring soothing endearments. When the storm eased a little, she said in her gentle way, “Men are hopeless, I own, my love. Never waste your tears upon them.”

“W-Well, they are!” wailed Naomi, groping for her handkerchief. “And—and they do enjoy to—to fight! Oh, how—
stupid
! Why am I crying like this?”

Katrina dabbed with care at the tearful eyes. “Because you are overwrought, my dear. And quite rightly so after what you have gone through. I doubt your grief had anything to do with the fact that gentlemen are prone to fight. Though I must admit,” she added with a sigh, “my brother fits that description.”

Naomi blew her nose daintily, summoned a tremulous smile, and crossed to tug on the bell pull. “What a ninny I am, to behave like a watering pot. I should instead be telling you how sorry I am that poor August was shot! And only for trying to protect me!”

Secretly disturbed by such an unusual display of emotion, Katrina said kindly, “'Twas not your fault. Certainly August does not hold you responsible. And, Lud! What a frightful experience! Were you quite distracted? I should have fallen down in a swoon, I know it.”

“No, you would not.” Naomi sat beside her again. “You appear so gently delicate, yet you have an inner strength and fortitude that awes me. Indeed I often marvel at how well you bear up under”—she broke off with a mental groan, wishing she had not spoken so impulsively—“under life's buffets,” she finished lamely. Katrina's grave little smile told her that what she had started to say had been guessed at, and she was grateful for the interruption when Maggie came in, bobbed a curtsy, and went scurrying off again when asked to fetch tea.

“Now,” said Naomi, “do pray tell me how poor August goes on, and why you are here. Never say you have abandoned him in that horrid little inn?”

“Of course I have not, you goose. The wound is painful, but the apothecary said 'twas not serious. But when Captain Rossiter came back last evening they immediately came to cuffs and—”

Shocked, Naomi interrupted, “Your pardon, but how can one come to cuffs with a wounded man?”

“The captain appeared to find no difficulty in doing so. Nor in wrenching my poor brother about in a most savage fashion!”

“Good God! Is the man
quite
without honour?”

“You may be sure I was furious and cried shame on him. As for August, he was practically berserk, and raged and ranted half the night, and this morning swore at the poor apothecary until he washed his hands of the entire case and went off in a huff.”

“I think the apothecary has my sympathy. Was he dreadfully inept?”

“I rather think he was not of the first stare, but 'twas because he refused to allow us to return to Town, that my brother became so angry. He soon repented, and suffered such pangs of contrition that nothing would do but I must go into the village and beg the apothecary to call again in the afternoon. Whilst I was gone, my sly brother bullied the landlord into finding him a coach and postilions, and off he went at the gallop for London!”

“A true feather wit!” said Naomi indignantly. “Leaving you to worry yourself into a proper pucker. A country apothecary would have been better endured than a long and bumpy ride to Town. Men!”

“Well, I did worry, because even if 'tis not serious, the wound is quite nasty and he will likely run himself into a fever.” She murmured thoughtfully, “Which may not be a very bad thing, now that I think of it … But I found myself quite out of charity with him, and was of no mind to follow him straight away to Falcon House as he no doubt expects me to do.”

“So you came instead to visit me.” Naomi swooped to embrace her. “Then 'tis my good fortune. But what did you mean by saying it will not be a bad thing if August frets his way into a fever?”

Katrina folded her hands in her lap and said demurely, “Simply that he cannot fight a duel if he is ill.”

“Ah. Lieutenant Morris?”

“And Gideon Rossiter.”

“Oh.” Naomi began to curl the lace at her cuff, then asked in a subdued voice, “Did you know who he was, Katrina? When he brought August back to you at that dirty little inn, I mean?”

“Not at first. He told me his name when he arrived, but I was so shocked and upset, it did not occur to me it was your—” She broke off, watching the downbent head curiously. “I mean—that it was Captain
Gideon
Rossiter. From what you'd told me, love, I had expected quite another type of man.”

“So had I,” said Naomi, stifling a sigh. “He is so changed, which, of course, I should have anticipated after six years. If all that is said of him is truth, you know, he
must
be far different from the gentle boy I knew. He was horrid at the hold-up, and
threw
me into the coach most brutally!”

“Monstrous!” gasped Katrina. “And you so terrified, besides being distraught for August's sake! How could a gentleman be so unfeeling?”

Naomi lifted a rather guilty face. “Well, I may have been—just a trifle—er, tiresome. But, I'd never have judged Gideon Rossiter the type to strike a wounded man.”

“Here comes your tea, milady,” announced Maggie cheerfully, carrying a laden tray through the door a lackey held open for her. She darted a keen look at her mistress. “Are ye feeling well, ma'am?”

“Her ladyship is disturbed,” said Katrina.

“Little wonder.” The abigail set the tray on the table by the windows. “Why, the earl hisself was saying—”

“The earl!” gasped Naomi, one hand pressed to her temple. “Oh, heavens! His chess piece!”

Arranging teacups, Maggie asked anxiously, “Had the captain found it, milady?”

“No,” wailed Naomi. “We quarrelled, and Captain Rossiter was rude, and—and I became so angry … Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Papa will be furious!”

An infuriated Lord Collington was the last thing Naomi needed, thought Katrina. His lordship's tongue was almost as acid as her brother's. She said, “You plan to attend the Glendenning Ball next week, Naomi. Why not come to Town with me? Now. Maggie can follow with your portmanteau, we can shop and have a lovely cose. By the time the ball is over, your papa will have come out of the hips, I daresay.”

Naomi considered for only a moment. “'Tis a splendid notion! I shall be a wretched coward and leave him a note. Maggie—do you go and tell Miss Falcon's coachman to get the team ready. An we hurry, Katrina, I can leave before Papa ever knows I had returned!”

Acquainted with his lordship's rages, Miss Falcon thought that would be as well.

CHAPTER SIX

London had grown to an astonishing extent during Rossiter's absence, and the traffic seemed to have doubled. Great wains and waggons, luxurious coaches, carts, sedan chairs, and horsemen vied for space on the busy streets. The flagways were crowded with people from all walks of life and in every imaginable mode of dress; the rags of link boys, the laces and velvets of aristocrats, the magnificence of stern Life Guardsmen in their scarlet, blue and gold, the smocks and gaiters of country folk, housewives with their baskets, immaculate and haughty servants, darting, whooping children, gentlemen of the Halbardiers in their long red coats. It seemed to Rossiter that the noise had increased tenfold. A Portsmouth Machine rumbled past, the coachman bellowing warnings to the outside passengers and bullying surrounding drivers. Vendors hawked their wares at the tops of lungs apparently strengthened by their trade, and chairmen sang lustily as they bore their passengers through the throng.

A great new house was being built on Conduit Street, the sound of hammers adding to the din. Unnerved when he was all but run down by a coach and four, Rossiter dismounted and led his horse along the kennel. His attention was caught by a scrawny fellow who carried what must have been a heavy hod of bricks, but who scampered up the scaffolding as nimbly as if he carried feathers.

“Pies! Getcher pies! Hot pies! ChickenpizenporkenfineolEnglishbeef!” A vendor took the tray of steaming wares from his head and swung it enticingly under Rossiter's nose.

The pies smelled delicious, but he was close to home now and although he was ravenous he smilingly declined.

“Poor fellow,” came a sneering voice. “I fancy he cannot afford one. Should we take up a collection, do you think?”

Rossiter stiffened and jerked around.

Two elegant gentlemen watched him from the windows of a dark red carriage. Raising a jewelled quizzing glass for a closer look, the younger of the two said indignantly, “His sire took up a collection, Smythe. From half the demned population of the demned south country! Let the beastly fellow starve, I say. Drive on, coachman. Blasted stench hereabouts!”

Taut with anger, Rossiter sprang for the door of the coach, only to leap for his life as a troop of horse, breastplates and helms glittering in the sunlight clattered past.

“'Ere,” said the pieman. “Where you orf to, soldier?”

Rossiter had recognized those two cowards. One had been Reginald Smythe, and the other Sir Gilbert Fowles. Simpering dandies who'd made themselves thoroughly obnoxious at school and had since become pests who spent their time in gormandizing, gaming, and gossip. Both would probably faint if faced with a closed fist, but they were not above throwing insults from carriage windows.

He answered the pieman's question mechanically. “My home lies just along the street.”

“Ar. Yer name wouldn't be Rossiter, by any chance?”

There was unconcealed impudence in the tone. Gideon threw a quick glance at him, saw the smirk on the dirty face and said icily, “How is that your concern?”

It appeared to the pieman that the thin soldier had grown in both height and menace. He replaced the tray on his head and retreated a few paces. “'Cause I'm grateful as it ain't mine,” he jeered. “And if you'd like ter know, yer home ain't just along the street. Not no more it ain't. The high an' mighty Rossiters don't live there no more. Come dahn in the world, they has! A long way dahn!”

His anger supplanted by anxiety for his family, Rossiter sprang to the saddle and turned the hack. Fearing reprisals, the pieman took to his heels, his shrill voice echoing after him, “Rossiter! Yah! Boo! Fer shame!”

Several people had paused to listen to this exchange, and a man said sharply, “What did he say? Is that fellow a Rossiter?”

Another man shouted, “I'll lay odds he is! One of 'em was in the army I heard!”

“Seize the thieving bastard!”

“Pull him off that there nag! Quick! 'Fore the Watch comes!”

They surged towards him. Someone snatched up a brick and threw it. Rossiter ducked and a passing horse squealed and bolted. Another brick flew. Surrounded by rageful faces, he decided that this was no time to take a stand. He touched home his spurs. The hack bounded forward. The crowd scattered, shouting in alarm. A third brick caught Rossiter across the back of the head, the impact sending his tricorne flying and half stunning him. Dimly, he heard a triumphant howl. The pain was blinding. He had lost the reins somehow. Bowing forward, he clung to the hack's mane, determined not to fall … The morning was growing strangely dark …

“There, I think he's coming around now.”

“Poor fellow. Badly wounded you say, sir?”

“Yes, sad to tell. I believe he's just now returned home. Must have hit his head when he tumbled out of the saddle.”

The words echoed at first, gradually becoming clearer. The final voice was familiar. Rossiter tried to smile and said rather feebly, “Hello, Tio. That you?”

A hand gripped his shoulder. “'Tis myself in all my glory.”

Rossiter blinked up into a pair of green eyes with laugh lines at the corners. The aristocratic features were uncharacteristically grave at the moment, and Horatio Clement Laindon, Viscount Glendenning, son and heir of the powerful and formidable Earl of Bowers-Malden, went on in a very gentle voice, “What a slowtop you are, to be riding when you ain't fit to go. Came down from your hack right under the hoofs of my team. My poor coachman nigh suffered a seizure.”

The mists surrounding his lordship faded away, and Rossiter found that he lay on a settle in a low-ceilinged room. Several men stood watching him with sympathetic curiosity. One of these individuals, wearing a grubby white apron, was holding a rag that dripped water, but the rest were either customers of this ordinary (for such he guessed it to be), or pedestrians who had come in from the street. “Oh—egad,” he muttered, and horribly embarrassed started up.

His head seemed to split in two. An arm was about his shoulders, supporting him.

Glendenning said sharply, “If one of you gentlemen would be so kind as to lend a hand, I'll take him to my rooms.”

“I … can walk…,” declared Rossiter thickly, and managed somehow to stumble where they led him.