Time's Fool (13 page)

He was being half-lifted into a carriage. The door slammed. A flask was at his lips. He drank, choked, and swore. But after a few minutes he was able to gather his thoughts.

The carriage was moving smoothly, and the noise seemed to lessen. He opened his eyes and saw trees and the green of well-kept lawns.

“Feeling better?” asked his lordship.

“Much.” He peered out of the window. “Where are we going?”

“My flat, off the Strand. Shall that suit?”

“No.” Gingerly investigating the back of his head Rossiter muttered, “Hold up a minute, will you please, Tio?”

Glendenning pulled the checkstring, and called to the coachman to turn onto a quieter side street. “Not going to cast up your accounts, are you, Gideon?” he asked uneasily.

“No, I promise you,” said Rossiter, with more conviction than was altogether warranted. “It was jolly good of you to —to help. Did I really … fall under your team?”

“You came very close, dear boy.” The viscount turned his neatly wigged head, scanned his companion's pale face and asked, “What happened?”

“A brick. Deedily tossed.”

“Curious.” His lordship tapped a handsome amber cane against his chin. “I think I know you well, but after all this time I'd not have recognized you at first glance. I wonder anybody else did. You're—something changed, dear lad. Bayonet?”

Rossiter grinned faintly. “Shell.” And then, in sudden hideous comprehension, “Jove! My apologies, sir! You'd best let me out at once. I think my presence must be an humiliation, and—”

“Do you know,” interposed his lordship mildly, “if you didn't look as if you'd been spat out by a warthog, I should punch your head for you.” He passed the flask again. “Have another pull at this. I've no desire to be arrested for corpse stealing. I have enough trouble.”

Grateful, Rossiter complied, and asked, blinking, “Trouble?”

“I suppose you'd not be aware, but I am suspected of having been—er, embroiled in the late Rebellion. On the wrong side,” he added with a wry grin.

“I see.” Rossiter looked at him steadily. “Kindred spirits, is that what you mean?”

It was the viscount's turn to be discomfitted. “I do not scruple to remark that you've dashed unpleasant eyes. Are you saying there is more to your father's unhappy predicament than is generally believed?”

“I don't know. I don't even know what is my father's ‘unhappy predicament.'”

“Good God!” Glendenning looked aghast. “I thought that was why you had come home.”

“So do others, I gather. No, do not tell me of it, Tio. I had prefer to hear the whole story from Sir Mark. An I can find him.”

His lordship pulled on the checkstring again, and when the coachman peered down from the trap, “Snow Hill,” he said. The coachman uttered an audible and shocked exclamation. With a sly grin Lord Horatio added, “It really don't seem fair to you, Gideon. But since you have more or less survived shells and bricks, you might live through the ride.”

Half an hour later, white and shaken, Rossiter descended the steps and clung to the open door. “Damn you, Tio,” he croaked. “How can you be so heartless as to sit there and—and laugh?”

His insensate friend's mirth rising to a howl, Rossiter started towards the back of the coach, clinging to the wheel as he went.

Glendenning leapt from the carriage and offered his arm. “Just—just do not look down, my heroic friend,” he chortled.

Rossiter, who was petrified by heights, took one glance at the sheer hill they had climbed, and moaned. “Why in the name of Beelzebub must my father elect to remove to the side of a mountain? No, really, Tio. However will your poor cattle get down?”

“The same way they got up, I fear.” They came around to the back of the vehicle, and Glendenning went on, “Here is your hack, safe and sound.”

“Aye. And only look—he has turned white, poor fellow!”

Laughing, Glendenning said, “What—had he not a blaze when you hired him?”

“I cannot—” Rossiter interrupted himself wrathfully, “I'll tell you something he
did
have. My saddlebags! Where the devil are they? Did your coachman throw them in the boot?”

Sobering, Glendenning questioned his servants, but neither coachman nor footman had removed the saddlebags. The footman searched about, but it was soon determined that the missing articles were neither on, in, nor under the coach, and he was sent back down the hill to see if they had fallen en route. Watching his mincing and reluctant progress, Glendenning said, “I'd think we could see them from here, wouldn't you, Ross?”

“I would. But I do not.”

“Small doubt then. They must have been stolen. Gad! Whatever is old London Town coming to? Nothing of great value, I hope?”

“My dressing case. Some small gifts for my family. Nothing to warrant taking such a risk, and in broad daylight.”

The footman waved from the bottom of the hill, his gestures clearly indicating failure.

Rossiter swore, and turned back to the tall and rather shabby house that stood silent and unwelcoming among its more prosperous-looking neighbours.

Of a somewhat superstitious nature, Glendenning caught his arm. “If ever I heard of so wretched a homecoming! Your stars must harbour a grudge against you today. Indeed, I shudder to think what tidbit Fate prepares to hurl at you next! You will do much better to come home with me and hide in bed. In the morning you can start afresh.”

Rossiter clapped him on the back. “You really are a good fellow, and I thank you, Tio. But I'd not wish to be held responsible should your rooms catch fire!”

They shook hands, Rossiter promised to attend the Glendenning Ball on the seventeenth, which was invariably one of the first highlights of the Season, and they parted.

Rossiter mounted the two front steps and gave the door knocker a vigorous exercise. He heard measured footsteps, then the door swung open and a haughty countenance was scanning him. He was hatless, and undoubtedly looked dishevelled, and that he was judged and found wanting was immediately apparent. He said curtly, “I am Captain Gideon Rossiter. Conduct me to Sir Mark, if you please.”

The butler stared, admitted him with obvious trepidation, and sketched a bow. “If you will wait here, sir, I will apprise Sir Mark of your arrival.” He started for the stairs. In two swift strides Gideon reached the flight. The butler checked and drew back. “Sir Mark does not care to be disturbed without—” he began.

“Idiot,” said Rossiter pithily, and passed him.

The upper hall was long and narrow and rather gloomy. He heard voices from a room on the right. Pausing, he nerved himself, and entered a formal withdrawing room.

Sir Mark Rossiter stood with one hand on the mantel, and turned, frowning at this intrusion. His bag wig was elaborate; an inspired tailor had fashioned his velvet habit of dark gold; and the quizzing glass he raised to a pale blue eye was richly jewelled. “The devil, sir,” he began, indignantly.

Gideon was momentarily struck to silence. His father was still as tall and well-built; still carried himself with prideful arrogance. But he had aged more than might have been expected in six years, and the lines in the distinguished face, the pallor of the skin, came as a shock.

Elegant in shades of rose, his wig of the very latest style, Newby Rossiter rose from a wing chair. Briefly, baffled fury glinted in his eyes. Then, “Well, well, well…,” he murmured, strolling closer to his brother and scanning him mockingly. “Damme if our Prodigal ain't come home, after all! We thought you was dead, twin.”

“I wonder you are not in black gloves.” Gideon walked over to his father who had let the quizzing glass fall and stared at him in stunned disbelief. They had parted bitterly and there was still a constraint between them. “Hello, sir,” he said awkwardly.

“Gideon…?”
The word was almost indistinguishable. Sir Mark put out a trembling hand.

Gideon bowed over it and touched the cold fingers to his lips. “I'm aware I have not pleased you, father, but I came as soon as I was able.”

Sir Mark gripped his shoulder emotionally, felt his son shrink away, and pulled himself together. “I was prepared to give you a proper raking down for not coming home as arranged. I collect I cannot do that. Sit down, boy. Hit, were you? When?”

Sinking gratefully into the chair, Gideon said, “Lauffeld, sir.”

“Lauffeld?”
Sir Mark frowned. “But—that was nigh a year since! Why was I not notified?”

Gideon took a swallow of the wine Newby handed him. “I had caused you exceeding vexation when I purchased a commission against your wishes. I'd a mind to worry you no further.”

Pulling another chair closer, Sir Mark sat down, and stared at this son who had always seemed such an enigma. “Be so good as to overcome your scruples.”

“There's not much to tell,” said Gideon uncomfortably. “I was too close to an exploding shell. It—er, took the doctors a confounded age to put me back together again.”

“Good … God!” breathed Sir Mark. “And how fit are you now?”

“Not sufficiently so to attend to his toilette, evidently,” purred Newby. “You look like an unmade bed, twin.”

Gideon flushed, ran a tidying hand through his hair, then winced. “Some rabble rouser hove a brick at me. Not a markedly warm welcome home.”

“A far cry from the parade and hero's welcome you no doubt expected,” said Newby with his neighing laugh.

Gideon gritted his teeth, but Sir Mark ignored the remark. He insisted upon inspecting his heir's damaged head, pronounced it a very nasty bump, and told Newby to ring for the butler. “We'll get you to bed, Gideon, and my physician must have a look at you. We can talk later.”

The thought of bed in a quiet room was enticing, but Gideon resisted temptation. “If you do not object, I'd as lief talk for a while, sir. I collect we are in some kind of trouble.”

“Oh, come now,” said Newby in disgust. “Do not pretend you don't know. We are ruined, brother mine. Your arrival is well timed, for you've contrived to miss most of the ugly business. You may be able to escape back to your regiment before we have to face the final act. Arrest. Trial. Conviction, imprisonment or deportation!”

“Good God!” exclaimed Gideon. “Is it really that bad, sir?”

Sir Mark paced over to the window. “You must have heard some of it, surely?”

“No, father. On my honour, the first I knew of it was—was from a remark someone made after I'd landed.”

“How very convenient.” Newby sniggered. “Perchance that is part of the lure of army life. In addition to the pretty uniform that so impresses gullible ladies, you are shielded from the mundane affairs that bedevil ordinary mortals!”

Gideon leapt up and said with flashing anger, “Come with me to the Low Countries, twin. I'll conduct you through the bones of those shielded from ‘mundane affairs'!”

Sir Mark jerked around. “'Twas your own decision to join the military, and desert me for six years!”

Fighting anger, Gideon met his father's eyes across the suddenly quiet room, and it was as if the clock rolled backward; as if they again confronted each other on that icy November afternoon. Almost he could hear the angry voices …

“I sent you up to Merseyside to meet my superintendent and familiarize yourself with the shipyard and its operation. 'Twas my hope you might learn something of the business. Instead, in one month you set my staff in a turmoil, damn near caused a riot, and brought work to a grinding halt! It will take weeks to undo the mischief you've done with your damnable revolutionary notions!”

“It was because I
did
learn something of the business, that I intervened when—”

“Intervened! What right had you to intervene in
anything
? You are two and twenty and know
nothing,
yet you dared to challenge the ability and authority of a man who has spent his life building ships!”

“Murchison is a callous bungler, who cares less for his people than—”

“Be silent, sir! Your opinion is neither valued nor asked! You are a pest, sir! An unfailing source of dissension in this household and out of it. You quarrel with your brother, affront my friends, and now you have upset my shipyard! Well, I'll not have a hostile, ill-mannered, dog in the manger rabble rouser succeed me as head of this family! Mend your ways, or—”

“Mayhap I would offend you less by my absence, sir. In which event, I'll ride to Whitehall this afternoon. I've no doubt my quarrelsome nature will be more welcome in the Low Countries than in Mayfair…”

Returning with an effort to the here and now, Gideon said, “I fear that even had I known you were in trouble, sir, I was in the hospital, and—”

“And who is to blame for that unhappy circumstance? No one but yourself! I suppose you will say you did not receive my letters apprising you of my situation and requiring that you return home at once. Well, you
should
have received them, sir! I wouldn't even entrust 'em to the servants for fear some dullard might drop one along the way. I sent Newby off to the post office to deliver every one with his own hands. Right, boy?”

Newby said smoothly, “We certainly did our possible, father.”

Gideon viewed his twin's bland smile and knew that battle was not worth the fighting. “The post was unreliable, to say the least. But at all events, that's water under the bridge now and—”

As always, the trace of impatience in his son's voice goaded Sir Mark. “Aye, it is,” he said angrily. “Over and done with, so forget it quickly—that's your philosophy eh, Gideon? Still the same hot-headed young here-and-thereian!”

Frowning, Gideon attempted to speak, but with an autocratic wave of one hand his father swept on. “Perchance you are well satisfied with what you've accomplished these six years. 'Fore God, you're a fool if that's the case, and so I tell you! You were a splendid-looking young Buck when you stamped out of here sooner than submit to my authority, and now look at you! What did independence win you, eh? You'd to submit to authority in the army, I am very sure, and your sole reward was to be put out of action for months, at a time when you were sorely needed here!”