Time's Fool (2 page)

Blanching, Morris gasped, “Me? Now, God forbid!”

“You are a coward, Lieutenant,” accused the major sternly.

“You've the right of that, sir! A downright poltroon! Never will win any medals! M'father said so. M'brother said so. Everyone who—who knows me…” The panicked declaration from this young man who had faced massed enemy bayonets with not the blink of an eye, faded into an awkward silence.

They looked at each other.

Major Sturtevant sighed. “Alas, I am a coward too.”

*   *   *

“Oh, Maggie! Did you ever in your life see such an awe-inspiring sight?”

A tall, powerfully built gentleman, moving softly down the nave of Canterbury Cathedral, overheard the quiet words and paused to smile admiringly at the young lady who had uttered them. She was, he thought, an awe-inspiring sight herself. Her figure was dainty, her complexion fair, the features delicate and lit by wide green eyes. Thick, powdered ringlets clustered charmingly beside her left ear and flirted with the shoulder of her light cloak. Altogether an adorable little creature, from the lacy ruffles that edged her pink cap, to the hem of her wide hooped skirts.

“But 'tis so hugeous big, milady” murmured the neatly clad girl who accompanied this delicious vision. “And though I look and look at this map, I hasn't found it yet.”

The young beauty leaned to knit her brows over the map, and the gentleman moved nearer.

“Your pardon, ma'am,” he said with a graceful bow. “I could not but overhear. An I may be of some small assistance, 'twould be my pleasure.”

How swift the upward sweep of the firm little chin; how haughty the flash of the green eyes. The gentleman was enchanted. He was a good-looking man of early middle-age, with an exceptionally fine pair of dark eyes deep-set under bushy black brows. His smooth skin was bronzed by the sun, his wig was neat, his attire of the finest style and cut. Both voice and manners were cultured, and he had a very kind and winning smile. “I mean no disrespect,” he murmured. “But I am fairly well acquaint with the present plan of the cathedral. It has been rebuilt several times since the days of St. Augustine, you know. Might I direct you to some particular spot…?” His eyes glinted, and he said whimsically, “The shrine of St. Thomas à Becket, perchance?”

The hauteur in the lady's eyes gave way to a sparkle of amusement. “La, but we are sadly inept pilgrims,” she said in a rich, musical voice. “Yes, sir. Your assistance would be most appreciated.”

“My
lady
!” exclaimed the abigail, eyeing the stranger askance.

Despite the many visitors wandering about the enormous cathedral, voices were kept low, and a reverent hush prevailed. Two older ladies looked censoriously at the small group.

The gentleman grinned, and acknowledged in a whisper, “Your woman is quite right, ma'am. May I present myself properly? My name is Bracksby. Rudolph Bracksby. My estate lies about two miles east of here, and I promise you my reputation is not too sadly tarnished. St. Thomas' shrine is in the Trinity Chapel. This way.”

He led them along the north aisle, pointing out the choir with its splendid screen, and the tombs of St. Alphege and St. Dunstan, and guiding them at last via the lovely curve of the arcades into the Trinity Chapel.

As they approached the saint's tomb, Lady Naomi halted, and with pretty politeness thanked Mr. Bracksby for his aid. It was very apparent that he desired to know the name of the lady he guided, but her demeanour, though pleasant, was not encouraging, and he was much too well bred to press her. He accepted his dismissal, therefore, bowed again, and took himself off.

In the south aisle he was pleased to recognize a friend, and prevailed upon that clerical individual to accompany him back to the Trinity Chapel.

“There,” he murmured, nodding his head toward the shrine. “The enchanting creature in pink. I know she is Lady Somebody, but for the life of me I cannot recollect her name.”

“Then you're a regular chawbacon, Rudi,” said his friend with a grin. “That little beauty is the Lady Naomi Lutonville. The reigning Toast. You surely must have heard of some of her escapades.” He winked. “Rather a minx, they say.”

Mr. Rudolph Bracksby's dark eyes grew troubled. “Oh, is she, by Jupiter!”

“I'm amazed you are not acquainted. Did you but spend more time in England, Rudi, you might keep abreast of such vital matters. Well, I must be off. Looks as if we're in for a storm, and I'd as lief get home before it starts.”

That his decision was wise was soon apparent. The mist became drizzle, and the drizzle turned to rain. By half-past two o'clock my Lady Lutonville's luxurious carriage was caught in a downpour, and having already suffered a damaged wheel, turned off the highway and proceeded gingerly along a lane that was soon little better than a mass of puddled ruts. The wheel was bumping ominously, and Maggie Osgood's scared brown eyes became even more apprehensive when Roger Coachman opened the trap and shouted his opinion that they'd do better to let him leave them under a tree while he rode in search of aid. “This wheel's going to split any minute, marm,” he howled, raindrops coursing down his weathered and forbidding countenance. “And there ain't any lodge gates as far as I can see.”

“Yes, but you cannot see very far,” pointed out Naomi, ignoring Maggie's wail. “And I do not propose to sit in this plaguey wet for an hour while you ride about looking for a smithy. If the wheel splits we shall have to stop, but 'til then, keep on, Roger. I'm sure this is the right lane and it cannot be very much farther.”

“Was Promontory Point half a inch round the next raindrop I dunno what the earl would say about me taking you there, marm,” he grumbled.

“Roger Coachman is right, milady,” put in Maggie tearfully. “An the coach turns over—”

“Do not be such a goose,” scolded Naomi. “He will not allow the coach to turn over, will you, Roger? Hasten, now. I chance to know that Sir Mark is in London at Rossiter Court, but I am very sure his people will have something to warm us all.”

The vision of a mug of hot rum, the better for some lemon and cloves, did much to lighten the coachman's mood, and they were soon limping along once more. My lady gave a little crow of triumph when iron lodge gates loomed through the deluge. There was another delay while the guard shouted in vain for the gatekeeper, resorting at length to the yard of tin. The stentorian blast he awoke from that instrument brought a drowsy-looking man hurrying to open the gates and stare from the crest on the door panel to the beauteous face of the lady who leaned from the window to enquire if there was anyone up at the house.

“Sometimes,” he said, stifling a yawn.

Adjured by the coachman to keep a civil tongue in his head, the gatekeeper offered belligerently to darken his daylights for him.

“You are insolent,” said Naomi, frowning at him. “Drive on at once, Roger.”

The coachman, who had started to climb down from his perch, obeyed with reluctance, hissing some sizzling epithets at the gatekeeper, who responded in kind but with a wary eye on her ladyship's now closed window.

The carriage jerked into motion once more and proceeded unevenly along the drivepath, which seemed to wind for miles through a wilderness area that at length became a spacious park.

Lady Naomi peered about, curious to see if she recollected anything of this great estate of which she had for so many years expected to become mistress. Lined by dripping yews, the drive swung in a wide easterly curve. A grey mist hovered, limiting the view, but at last the gables of the three-storeyed Elizabethan house loomed up. It looked only vaguely familiar to Naomi, although she did remember the gardens in what had once been the moat, which surrounded the original pile. Noting the impressive entrance front, its forecourt sheltered by projecting wings, the countless latticed casements, the tall works of art that were the chimneys, she thought it a truly beautiful old place, so much more inviting than Collington Manor. The ancient mill and the now shallow millstream near the west side of the house evoked the shadowy image of a youth with brown curls and laughing grey eyes, playing with a liver and white spaniel …

The coach rumbled over the narrow wooden bridge spanning the sunken gardens, and creaked to a stop. No stableboy or groom came running. No footman appeared at the deeply recessed front door. The house slumbered quietly under the steady beat of the rain.

The guard swung down from the box and opened the carriage door. Naomi gave him her card and sent him off to request assistance.

“There bean't no one at home,” said Maggie, watching him nervously. “We'll have to send Roger Coachman for help and goodness only knows when—”

“No, but somebody
is
there,” Naomi interrupted. The front door had swung wide, and after a hurried colloquy the footman ran back to the coach, followed by a manservant with a far from pleased expression, and a large umbrella.

“An my lady's coachman 'e will drive to ze stables,” said this fussy little individual, his French accent pronounced, “zere should be ze wheel you can 'ave. Meantimes, you will be kind to come in ze 'ouse.”

Naomi was more than willing to avail herself of this offer. She and Maggie were handed from the vehicle and ushered into a great hall with a fine, though coldly empty, fireplace at one end. The only furnishings were several bishop's chairs and some ancient-looking chests. The air was chill and there were no maids bustling to greet them, no candles or lamps sending out a welcoming glow. The withdrawing room, however, was a wainscoted delight, richly furnished, and lit by the flames of a dying fire. The manservant left them, muttering something about tea, and after a few minutes an elegant gentleman hurried into the room.

“'Tis my very great pleasure to welcome you, Lady Lutonville,” he said with a sweeping and magnificent bow.

She had believed that Gideon Rossiter was safely in Europe with his regiment, and that she might suddenly come face-to-face with him had not occurred to her. For a panicked moment she was speechless, staring blankly at the tall young man who advanced to bow over her hand, and taking in the meticulously curled and tied wig, the lean, proud face with its finely cut features, the splendid physique, the peerlessly tailored riding coat of dull gold, the moleskin breeches and gleaming top-boots. She drew a breath of relief when she realized that the eyes watching her with such patent admiration were hazel. ‘Newby!' she thought, and said, “Your pardon. La, but I must seem a proper wool gatherer! I had not expected to—”

“To find anyone here?” He smiled faintly. “To say truth, we were on the point of leaving. Is my good fortune that I am tardy as ever, and thus win the privilege of being of some service to so lovely a lady.”

‘Hmm,' thought Naomi, and gently detached the hand he still held. “I am truly grateful for your hospitality, Mr. Rossiter. Especially in—in view of the circumstances. I would not have dreamed of intruding, save that one of the wheels of my carriage split, and I recollected that your—that Promontory Point was nearby.”

Although his eyes laughed at her, he said solemnly, “Thank heaven for your excellent memory, my lady. But your hand is like ice. Allow me to draw a chair closer to the fire. There. Your woman will want to go to the kitchens, I fancy.”

Maggie gave a gasp and turned shocked eyes on her ladyship.

Before Naomi could dispute this naughty suggestion, however, Mr. Rossiter went on apologetically, “I fear most of our servants have already gone to the Town house, and my man will appreciate her assistance.”

He turned a winning smile on Maggie, and led her to the door. “'Tis this way, m'dear. All the way to the end there, then turn to the right and you'll find it.”

Maggie darted another scandalised glance at her mistress, but Naomi jerked her head and the girl went out.

Rossiter sauntered back to the hearth. “I think you did not at first recognize me, my lady. I protest, I am desolate. I should know
you
anywhere.”

The glint in the eyes, the provocative half-smile, were all too familiar. A handsome rascal, and very sure of his charm was Newby Rossiter, thought Naomi. Still, he was a gentleman and would doubtless behave himself did she show no inclination to flirt with him.

She said with cool hauteur, “Faith, but you have a most excellent memory, sir. It must be at least seven years since last we met.”

“Ah, but I travel also, Lady Naomi. You were pointed out to me in Rome four years ago, and the year before that I saw you in Vienna. What a tragedy that your sire's duties for so long denied London the very fairest of her flowers.”

He stepped closer, smiling down at her with a glow in his eyes she did not at all care for. Her manner became frigid. “Fie, sir! Such blatant flattery! I vow the Ambassador could benefit from your services. There are doubtless occasions when a silver tongue is an asset.”

Refusing to accept the set-down, he put one hand on the arm of her chair and bent to her, saying lightly, “Ah, but then 'twould be a case of being obliged to flatter the vast spouse of some foreign dignitary, or waste my talents on elderly harridans and dowagers. Whereas, in this case, I have no need to flatter—only to speak purest truth.”

He expected his words to evoke a blush, or shyly downcast eyes. Naomi gave him a cold stare, and asked, “Did you travel in Europe so as to visit Captain Rossiter, sir?”

“No, I did not.” Amused, he said, “So we turn the conversation to my graceless twin, at last.” He noted her slight frown and laughed. “But of course, for
that
is why you are here! That is why you looked so startled when first I came into the room! You hoped to find Gideon come home! Why, you little minx!” He touched her cheek gently. “But such a very lovely minx.”

Naomi came to her feet. “You forget yourself, sir! My maid accompanied me to the cathedral and—”