Time's Fool (23 page)

“Behave,” said Gwendolyn sternly.

Apollo did not intend to bite her badly. But she must be made to leave his house. With all his teeth in full view, he started for her.

Falcon, who had watched with covert amusement, sprang, but missed, and Apollo lunged at the slender girl.

Gwendolyn had kept her cane as inconspicuous as possible, but now she raised it and said one magical word. “Fetch!”

Apollo's ears went up and his hair went down. Tail wagging, he panted with eager expectation.

“Hey!” cried Falcon.

Gwendolyn was already tossing the cane. Apollo plunged after it, sending his advancing master reeling. A table crashed into the chair Falcon clutched at, and he sat on the floor hard and without elegance amid the wreckage of the Chinese vase that had gone down with the table.

The cane retrieved, Apollo rushed back to offer it again, his tongue lolling happily.

Gwendolyn looked at the momentarily speechless Falcon, and smiled. “He
does
love a game, doesn't he?” she said.

CHAPTER TEN

Gideon stood very erect in the centre of the withdrawing room and waited out the storm. Sir Mark had cut him off each time he attempted to speak, and now stamped up and down, raging, and flinging his arms about. Elegant in shades of gold, Newby leaned against a credenza, a faint smile on his lips as he toyed with a lady's jewelled high-heeled slipper. Gideon tried to concentrate on the intriguing slipper, which looked vaguely familiar, but his father's strident tones could not be shut out.

“… a sad disappointment to a man when his son and heir is so insolent as to disregard his wishes! I warned you, and you cared not, but have in your sublime arrogance shamed me by agreeing to escort that baggage to the Glendenning Ball! Well—”

“Your pardon, sir. I escort the Lady Naomi Lutonville who, whatever else, is not a baggage!”

Gideon's eyes were grey ice, and in his voice a note never before heard by Sir Mark, who stared, briefly taken aback.

“Hoity-toity,” murmured Newby.

“And I tell
you,
sir,” thundered Sir Mark, his face purpling, “that Naomi Lutonville
is
a baggage! With the instincts of a baggage, and a traitorous ingrate for a father! And I'll not have you seen with her! You hear me?”

It was probable that all the residents of Snow Hill could hear him this morning. It took every ounce of Gideon's willpower to suppress his rising temper, but Sir Mark's eyes had a hunted look, and the high colour of his drawn features attested to the state of his nerves. Therefore, he tightened his lips and evaded. “Pray tell me what it is you wish me to do, sir.”

Newby gave an amused snort. “You know blasted well what my father wishes you to do. Go elsewhere tonight. And go alone.”

Gideon eyed him coldly. “Very gentlemanly, 'pon my word.”

“You should have returned her damned flowers at once,” snarled Sir Mark.

“I attempted to do so.”

Newby said with a flourish of the shoe, “But the great lady, out of her passion for you—and in despite your shabby treatment of her—implored you to be her escort!” He gave his mocking laugh. “And so buzzes the bee!”

“Had my lady taken back her flowers,” replied Gideon, “all London would have said she was justified in rejecting a Rossiter. She knew that, and was sufficiently gracious to spare me humiliation, and hold to her given word.”

Sir Mark scowled. “You give the chit more credit than do I. Even so, 'twill not serve. You will send around a note before lunch, claiming that you are ill.”

“My regrets, sir. I cannot.”

“Hell and damnation! Do you dare defy me in mine own—”

“I have been warned not to escort her, sir.”

The steely words cut through Sir Mark's rage, and he echoed, staring, “
Warned,
you say?”

“By whom?” asked Newby, with a bored look. “The Mandarin? I heard he is ill, so you've no immediate cause to fear being challenged by him, brother.”

“Especially since we are already engaged to meet.”

“You—
what
?” roared Sir Mark. “More notoriety? Why a'God's name did he call you out?”

“I chanced to half-strangle him because of certain remarks he made.”

For once shaken from his affectation, Newby gasped, “
You
attacked—Falcon? You must have been properly wits to let! Or foxed!”

Gideon shrugged. “I'll own to having been a little provoked.”

A gleam had crept into Sir Mark's eyes. “When you first came home, you said you'd not known of my troubles until you disembarked. Who told you? Falcon?”

“With neither tact nor diplomacy.”

“
Vraiment.
He lacks either attribute. Then, he was the one warned you not to escort Lady Naomi?”

Gideon hesitated, then drew a crumpled paper from his pocket. “This was delivered by a street urchin this morning, sir.”

Sir Mark took it, and read aloud, “These to Captain Gideon Rossiter: London has not forgot how to deal with men of dishonour. If you wish to live to dwell with your father in Newgate, you will not force Lady Lutonville to endure the shame of your escort. You will instead return what you stole. Be warned. Keep away from the Glendenning Ball.”

There was a moment of silence. Then Newby clicked his tongue. “Stealing? A harsh word, twin. Do tell us what you have purloined.”

“I've not the remotest notion. I can only think that either something I bought in the Low Countries was of greater value than I believed, or that someone mistakes me for another.”

Sir Mark said heavily, “Pah! 'Tis so much fustian, designed to cloud the real issue. But in the face of such threats a gentleman has no choice. Tell Wilson at what time you wish the carriage to be brought round, Gideon.”

“Thank you, sir. But since you now keep just the one coach I'll not deprive you of it. My man will hire a carriage.”

Sir Mark nodded, and walked out. At the door, he turned back, a weariness in his eyes. “Have a care, boy. Likely some enemy seeks to avenge himself on me by striking at you.”

Touched, Gideon said with a grin, “Never worry, sir. I survived the war. I fancy I'll live through the peace.”

Newby straightened as Sir Mark walked into the hall and out of earshot. “Clever of you,” he murmured, “to
chance
to stand in exactly the right place to catch the fair lady's bouquet. Or was it contrived, perhaps? A way for you and she to—ah, frolic in some secluded ante room and outwit my poor dense dolt of a sire?”

He recoiled abruptly, his sneer fading into consternation as Gideon turned his dark head. The eyes were narrowed, the mouth a thin line and there was a set to the jaw that Newby had for a time forgotten.

“I strive to hold my temper with you,” said Gideon very softly, “because despite your spite and sniping, my father is fond of you. And because you are kind to Gwen.” His hand shot out and clamped about Newby's wrist. “But I warn you, spread any more of your slander about me, or about Lady Lutonville, and I shall indulge my natural instincts and give you the thrashing you warrant.”

“You do not know 'twas me.” Newby's eyes were frightened. “Curse you, you are tearing my laces!” He swung up the slipper menacingly. “Stay back!”

Gideon laughed. “A fine weapon for a man! But not quite your size, is it?”

“Oh, very witty. But you'd give a deal to know where I got it, wouldn't you?”

“Would I?” Gideon relaxed his grip, and knowing his brother, shrugged, and said uninterestedly, “We have little in common, twin. I have no taste for gossip.”

Newby was massaging his wrist tenderly, but a crafty expression replaced the resentment in his face and he said, “I was in the vicinity of the Dowling house last evening, and I wandered around to the back so I might look into the ballroom. I thought 'twould be such fun to see our gallant fighting man draw some of the treatment I've had to endure these past months.”

“You must have enjoyed yourself,” said Gideon with disgust.

“Prodigiously. And even more so when this interesting article”—he waved the slipper—“came sailing through the air and barely missed me.”

Gideon's brows went up. “Do you say a lady hurled her slipper at you? Who was this resourceful female?”

His thoughts on the event, Newby did not heed his brother's sarcasm. “Unhappily 'twas too dark for me to see. I waited for someone to reclaim it, for certainly it has a value. But since it very likely fell from a bedchamber…” He grinned suggestively. “The lady must have been—otherwise engaged…”

“A hot-blooded wench, evidently. I've the fancy you mean to benefit from your little adventure. How? Even were you to advertise that you have found her lost property, she would scarce dare claim it. And if you sell that pretty thing for the gems in the heel I doubt 'twould bring very much at the pawnbroker. I've heard they only use second-rate jewels in—”

“Give me credit for more ingenuity,” said Newby smugly. “The lady who lost this left her reputation behind. Only think how grateful she must be an 'tis discreetly returned. All I've to do is discover which fair creature owns such a shoe, and I may win far more than any pawnbroker would pay me.”

Contemptuous, Gideon drawled, “As ever, you are all gallantry.” He walked out of the room, leaving Newby hot with rage but also reminded that one could push his twin only so far, and that despite his injuries those slim hands were still incredibly strong.

Morris was dozing in the window seat when Gideon returned to his small parlour. There was no sign of his valet, and he was obliged to summon Bernard, their solitary footman, who reported that Mr. Tummet was gone out in the carriage with Miss Gwendolyn.

Gideon stared at the bland face, wondering why the deuce Gwen would have commandeered his unconventional valet.

The question was still at the back of his mind when he accompanied Morris down the front steps to where a sweating boy held their horses. He pulled on his gauntlets, glancing without admiration at the antics of Morris' highly strung thoroughbred. “Can you control that nervous nag or shall you have to carry him?”

“I'll have you know,” panted the lieutenant, “that Windsong is a real goer and cost me a pretty penny! Wait 'til you see him run. He all but flies!”

“I do not doubt it. I've yet to see him rest more than two hooves on the ground at the same time. He should have been named Whirligig not Windsong!” Stifling a smile at his friend's indignation, he said, “At least, the rain has blown over. Whereabouts is this flat of yours?”

“Off Clarges Street. But I ain't going there just now, dear boy. Thought I'd drop in on Falcon.”

Frowning, Gideon swung into the saddle. “Not very good form, is it? Surely you can arrange your meeting after he and I have fought.”

“Yes, but the delectable Miss Katrina might be about. Damme, but I forgot about this deuced mountain!”

With an attempt at nonchalance, Gideon said, “Close your eyes, my Tulip. Let the nags worry about it.”

Five minutes later, he stifled a sigh of relief as his frightened mare trod on level ground once more.

“Be damned if I can fathom why you fellas choose such ghastly residences,” grumbled Morris. “Falcon must live at the very farthest-flung reaches of civilization, and you choose to perch on some blasted eagle's nest!”

“Then let us dispense with your call at Falcon House. No, really, Jamie, one does not attach the heart of a lady by challenging her brother.”

Morris pursed his lips. “Under normal circumstances, I agree. In Falcon's case, however, I'd think Miss Katrina would be dashed glad to have the clod chastised.”

“Best think again. Miss Falcon dotes on him.”

“You must be mistaken, dear boy. An angel like that could not possibly be blockheaded. Which reminds me, what of the poor block who was attacked whilst returning my belongings? Have you seen him?”

“Yes. Byrd was properly mauled, but he is going along well now. He said the louts who attacked him were masked and vicious in the extreme. And that they seemed to be looking for something.”

“Egad! One might think we had stole some highly secret plans and smuggled 'em home.” Morris paused, frowning. “You know, Gideon, we all had you marked for a downy bird. Might you be—” His eyes began to glow, and he exclaimed, beaming, “You are! You work for Intelligence, by Jove!”

With difficulty, Rossiter subdued a shout of laughter. He glanced up and down bustling High Holborn, and leaning closer to his friend, hissed, “Weeds and winkles!”

Morris' jaw dropped. “W-weeds and—
winkles…
?”

“Quiet, you dolt! There are ears everywhere! That is the password.”

Flushed with excitement, Morris exclaimed softly, “Stap me! I
knew
there was something smoky afoot! All this business about conspiracies and chessmen and rank riders, and thieves who go in terror of ‘the Squire!' All of a piece, is't, dear boy? Well, I've rumbled you, so you've no choice but to own up. What's to do?”

“Insurrection,” whispered Rossiter.

“Good God! But—we just had one! Those curst Jacobites, what?”

“They only wanted to seize the throne. This lot plan a bloody rebellion. And death to all cows,” added Rossiter, inspired.

Morris blinked at him, stunned. “All—er, what?”

“Cows. Fiendishly clever, no? Only think on it, Jamie. Without cows there would be no milk, no cheese, no beef. England without roast beef?” He shuddered. “We would be lost! At the mercy of any aggressor who—”

Despite himself a twitch had appeared beside his lips, and with a cry of mortification Morris tore the tricorne from his head and began to belabour his companion furiously. “Of all the—cheating—lying—devious…!”