Time's Fool (15 page)

“Gwen…? Is it—
Gwendolyn
?”

“Yes. But I should not have spoken. Pray—”

Her attempt to escape was hampered by her necessarily slow movements, and she was swept into a warm embrace and a kiss pressed on her cheek before she could evade it.

“My dear little Gwen!” exclaimed Naomi, the years that had separated them quite forgotten. “I've not seen you in an age! How are—”

“
If
you please, madam,” said an irate female voice, and a middle-aged lady very sharp of eyes and elbows pushed her way between them.

“Oh, dear,” murmured Naomi. “We block the way, I fear. Gwen, do come next door with me. The lending library has a charming little teashop, and we can have a nice cose.”

“B-but…,” protested Gwendolyn Rossiter in dismay. “Under the—the circumstances—”

A sharp elbow and an indignant glare came her way, and she recoiled. Naomi giggled, gripped her free hand, and they made their way into the sunny street where more bustling crowds forbade conversation until they were seated at a table in the relative peace of the lending library.

“Now tell me about yourself,” urged Naomi. “Oh, heavens! I have mislaid my maid!”

Gwendolyn smiled. “Maggie and my footman have taken a table over there.”

Naomi glanced at the pair. The footman was a well set up young man with a fine pair of bold brown eyes. “That saucy minx,” she said, amused, then ordered tea and currant cakes for two, and told the serving maid to provide similar fare to her abigail's table and add the bill to her own. Turning back to her companion, she was forestalled.

“Naomi, you should not be speaking to me. Your papa—”

“My father is still in Kent. Besides, our friendship has nothing to do with our families. Or”—she added hurriedly, seeing Gwendolyn's lips part for a comment—“let us pretend it does not. Tell me how you go on. I had thought you were to have an operation on your”—she glanced around and whispered—“on your knee. Did you not?”

“I did. But,” Gwendolyn sighed a little, “it was unsuccessful. I'm afraid nothing can be done. I shall always limp.”

“My dear, I am so sorry.”

The expressive little face clouded very briefly. “The worst of it was the disappointment for poor Papa. He was so hopeful…”

“Nonsense! The worst part was your suffering, which you are so brave as to disregard. But you know, Gwen, I think most of your friends do not even notice your small affliction. You have such a warm and sunny nature it renders so trite a thing quite unimportant.”

Gwendolyn leaned to press Naomi's hand gratefully. “How kind you are. Oh, I do so wish—” She broke off in embarrassment, and drew back. “Indeed, I wonder you dare to be seen with me.”

Naomi said with a twinkle, “I give not a button for public opinion, as you should know.”

“Yet you terminated your betrothal to my brother.”

Startled, Naomi met the candid blue eyes, then gave a rueful smile. “That gave me back my own! Lud, but I had forgot how outspoken you are.”

“'Tis a great fault, I know,” admitted Gwendolyn, with a sigh. “Most ladies have always to say just the right thing, for fear of offending the gentlemen. But since I shall never marry, there is not the need for me to guard my words.”

The serving maid brought their tea and cake, and Naomi busied herself with cups and saucers. “What a blessing, to be so at ease,” she said merrily. “But I would not refine too much upon your remaining a spinster, Gwen. You are very pretty and will make some lucky gentleman a delightful wife.”

Accepting a piece of cake, Gwendolyn said thoughtfully. “Thank you. But it must be a rare gentleman, I think, who would be willing to overlook my many faults. Despite your kindness, I am really not very pretty. Gideon used to say I was, bless him. But Newby is more honest. He says I have countenance…” She made a face. “And worse than that—I am a bluestocking. Furthermore, did my husband deny me the right to read, or to entertain opinions on books, or politics, I should very likely murder him. So you see it is much better I remain a spinster than wind up hanged on Tyburn Tree.”

This ingenuous little speech, so gravely rendered, sent Naomi into whoops of laughter. “Oh, Gwen!” she gasped. “How delightful you are! I wish I could spend more time with you so that we could talk about old times, but friends are waiting and I cannot stay. We
must
meet again. Can you come and see me? I stay with the Falcons at the moment. Katrina and August are there, and Mrs. Dudley Falcon—do you recall their aunt? Such a quaint lady. You know where Falcon House is, on Great Ormond Street? Or perhaps I shall see you at the Glendenning Ball?”

“Er—no, I fear not,” said Gwendolyn, concentrating upon stirring her tea, and looking miserable.

“Oh!” exclaimed Naomi, staring at her in belated comprehension. “What a ninny I am!” She paused, then said rather sadly, “There is a wall between us now. Because of Gideon we can no longer be friends.”

Irked by any criticism of her favourite brother, Gwendolyn's little chin came up. “An we cannot be friends 'tis because you chose to believe all the rumours about—about the lady he is said to er, call upon.”

“And his children.” Naomi jabbed her fork rather savagely into the cake.

“What?”
Gwendolyn flushed and her eyes sparked with anger. “Now that is the outside of enough! If ever I heard such vicious gossip!”

“So I thought,” said Naomi. “And like a fool, closed my ears to it—for months! But now I have had it straight from the horse's mouth, as they say.”

Frowning, Gwendolyn asked with cold hauteur, “You have been to Holland, ma'am?”

“Holland? Why—no. Gwen? Have you not seen your brother?”

The ice between them was banished. With breathless eagerness Gwendolyn asked, “Do you mean—
Gideon?
He is home? You—you have spoken with him?”

“Yes. I thought you would know by this time.”

“Oh! Thank God! I was sure—” For an instant it seemed she would burst into tears, then she asked in a voice that shook, “He is well? Is he much changed? Oh, heavens! He will not know where to find us!” Taking up her cane, she said, “I must go home at once. Pray forgive me! Lud, but I am forgetting! Thank you so much for the tea.” She stood. “Good—good day to you, my lady.”

Her footman came hurrying to usher her out, and Naomi was left staring after her.

*   *   *

“If ever I saw such a start!” Reining down his rambunctious grey stallion, August Falcon had to ride out two whirligigs before he could continue with his tirade, but he did so, in spite of the irrepressible dance of mischief in Naomi's eyes. “Not content,” he said, avoiding a heavily laden baker's cart with an inch to spare, “with drawing half the gentlemen in London to your side—”

“Come now, August. Few of London's gentlemen have left their beds by seven o'clock in the morning. I may have met one or two acquaintances, perhaps, but—”

“One or two score! 'Twas like a blasted parade! And then you've to go off at the gallop with Tio Glendenning and that starched-up Chandler!”

“'Twas a fast trot, merely,” she protested demurely. “And Gordie Chandler is
not
starched up, August. A little reserved, perhaps.”

The great city was relatively quiet at this early hour, the air clean and brisk, the work-bound throngs not yet crowding the flagways, and as they turned into Great Ormond Street, Naomi said cajolingly, “'Tis such a glorious morning. Only see how the sun shines on those pretty geraniums. How can you be so grumpy? Smile, my dear friend, before that handsome face of yours forgets how!”

He directed an irked glance at her, but she was a sight to banish vexation, dimples peeping as she easily controlled the spirited bay mare, the sunlight gleaming on her powdered curls, the wine-coloured riding habit accentuating the shapely curves of her figure. With a reluctant grin, Falcon prepared to be less stern with this lively creature, but his forbearance fled when another irritant met his eye. “Smile, is it!” he exclaimed. “I'm more like to laugh aloud. Only look what you've attracted now, you siren!”

Startled, Naomi turned her head.

A man was running along behind them. A most disreputable figure, his clothing old and shabby, his scratch wig dishevelled, a battered hat flourished in his hand, and one eye decidedly blackened. “Poor thing,” she said with ready sympathy. “'Tis just a beggar. Have you a florin, August?”

“A florin my eye! He'll take a sixpence and like it!” He spun the coin at their pursuer. “Now be off with you!”

To their mutual surprise, the man ignored the coin and continued to stagger after them, waving his hat and calling gaspingly, “My … lady! Wait! Please … wait a bit!”

“Good gracious,” said Naomi, reining to a halt. “He must have a message for me.”

Falcon swung his mount between Naomi and their pursuer, and demanded, “What is your business with this lady?”

The runner, however, was so breathless he could not at once reply, but stood clinging to the railing outside a great house, and wheezing distressfully.

Watching him, Naomi said, “Why, I do believe I know you! Were you not at Promontory Point the other day?”

Falcon looked at her sharply. “
He
may have been, but what the deuce were you doing there?”

“I will tell you later. Oh, he is exhausted. Follow us to Falcon House, poor soul, and you shall have something to eat and then tell me why you have come.”

“Now see here,” grumbled Falcon. “I'll not have any of Rossiter's people hanging about my father's—”

“I know what it is, dear August,” said Naomi. “Your arm troubles you, that is why you are so out of sorts. I am scarce surprised. You had no business riding today. Truly, you are a most difficult patient. Come along now, do not sit there mumbling or you'll be taken up for a drunkard!” And with a furtive twinkle, and a flourish of her whip, she was off, Falcon following her perforce, and Mr. Tummet bringing up the rear.

Despite his exasperated protests that he was
not
tired, and that he would take his breakfast with the ladies, Falcon's arm was indeed paining him, and he was secretly repenting his earlier decision to accompany Naomi on her morning ride. With a great show of indignation, he eventually obeyed his sister and stamped upstairs. Once inside his bedchamber, he submitted meekly to the strictures of his man, was divested of riding boots and coat, and went grumbling but grateful to rest on his bed. He had dropped off to sleep by the time a tray was brought to him. His valet rested his fingers lightly on the pale forehead, noted the slightly flushed cheeks, and shook his head worriedly.

Mrs. Dudley Falcon was a plump and amiable widow who might have inspired the term “creature comforts,” for she was a creature who had dedicated her life to comfort. No matter what the circumstances, she was always to be found in the coziest corner, in the softest chair, or commanding the prettiest view. She was never disappointed in achieving her aims, for if an occasion carried even a whiff of discomfort, she avoided it. It pleased her erratic brother, Mr. Neville Falcon, to suppose that his sister-in-law made an exemplary chaperone to his beautiful daughter. Actually, Mrs. Dudley, as she was known, paid small heed to the activities of her charge, beaming on her fondly from a comfortable distance while comfortably convinced that the gentle Katrina could never behave improperly. She never arose before noon, and at this early hour she was, as usual, comfortably in bed, a tray across her lap, while she enjoyed the scandalous gossip conveyed in the several letters which lay about the eiderdown.

Downstairs, Katrina and Naomi chattered merrily over breakfast, deciding which of many invitations to accept for tomorrow, and what to wear to the musicale they were to attend on Monday afternoon. These were lengthy discussions and half an hour had passed before Naomi rang the handbell and told the footman he might bring “that poor man” to her if he had finished his breakfast.

“I hope you will not object, dearest,” she added turning to her friend. “He was following us along the street, and looked half starved, so I sent him to the kitchen for a meal.”

“But—who on earth is he?” asked Katrina.

“I believe he is one of Gid—the Rossiters' servants. He admitted me to Promontory Point when I called there yesterday morning.

“You
called
there? Again? Good heavens!”

“Well, never look so sanctimonious. I told you that my papa was enraged because I lost his silly chess piece.”

“Yes. But—what has that to do with—”

“Only that he thought Captain Rossiter might have found it. So he asked me to enquire.”

Knitting her brows Katrina said a mystified, “But—surely, your papa should better have sent one of his menservants on such an errand?”

“Perhaps, but”—Naomi shrugged airily—“I was curious to see what my notorious ex-fiancé looked like after all these years, and I thought 'twould be fun to watch him implore my forgiveness for his disgraceful behaviour in Europe. To say nothing,” she added, with a sudden scowl, “of how he tossed me into the carriage, the wretch! And then I could trample him! In the mire!”

“La, Naomi,” exclaimed Katrina, admiringly. “How daring you are. You told me none of this. They have lost the estate, you know.”

Naomi blanched. “Oh, no! That lovely old place? Gideon must be—” She caught herself up. “'Tis passing tragic!”

“Well, so I think, but August says Sir Mark brought it on himself by placing his faith in idiots. And that he has dragged many innocents down with him. Which is truth, I suppose. But pray tell what you said to Captain Rossiter? What did
he
say? Was he repentant?
Did
you trample him in the mire?”