Time's Fool (37 page)

“One thing,” he warned, kissing the end of her dainty little nose. “Do not run off with Bracksby before I've the chance to formally offer for you again. He's a jolly good man and I'd hate like the deuce to have to put a period to him.”

Trying to match his insouciance, Naomi said pertly that she was far more inclined to run off with Reggie Smythe. The price she had to pay for that piece of flippancy left her deliciously breathless, and she was able to leave Gideon with hope in her heart, and a smile on her lips.

*   *   *

The skies had darkened, and thunder was rolling down the sky by the time Gideon returned to Snow Hill. Lieutenant Morris had already arrived and was closeted in the book room with Sir Mark and Newby. They looked up from inspecting the ruby figure, and Morris said aggrievedly, “You send me off with instructions to make haste. Having risen at the crack of dawn and fought my way through numerous desperate encounters for your sake, I arrive to find you are gallivanting about somewhere!”

With a grin, Gideon wrung his outstretched hand. “An I know you, Jamie, your dawn cracked at ten o'clock, and your desperate encounters involved no more than fighting your way from the breakfast table! Still, you deserve a medal for bringing me this article!” He took up the ruby figure and looked at it curiously. “If only you could speak, little man…”

Sir Mark said, “I'd sooner hear from you, boy. What have you been about?”

“Quite a deal, sir. Has anyone come—er, looking for me?”

Newby drawled, “A messenger brought a letter for you.”

“I have it here.” Sir Mark handed Gideon a sealed paper. “And a Bow Street Runner came to enquire about the accident with the coach on Wednesday night. Very ponderous and painstaking. All wind and no worth.”

Gideon broke the seal, and read aloud:

Dear Captain Rossiter:

I understand that you are in possession of one of the pieces of the Jewelled Men collection. I also am a most ardent admirer of these works of art, and 'tis my hope to eventually own the entire set. In view of the antiquity of the figures, I will not insult your intelligence by offering a lesser sum than One Thousand Pounds for the piece you hold.

“God bless my soul!” gasped Sir Mark.

Newby whistled softly. “How can so small and unattractive an object be so valuable?”

Gideon exchanged a glance with Morris, and read on:

We have not met, but I stay at the Inn of The Blue Heron in Kensington Village, and should you be in the least interested in my proposition, you will be most eagerly welcomed by—

Your fellow collector,

Thomas Kendall-Parker

“One thousand pounds,” muttered Lieutenant Morris. “Jove, 'tis a vast sum!”

“He'll have to double it, at least,” said Gideon, and setting aside the letter, took the blue figure from his coat pocket and laid it on the table.

“Stap me!” Newby leapt to his feet and snatched it up. “You've more sense than I credited you with, twin. These two together will command a princely sum! If this Kendall-Parker fellow offers a thousand, you may be sure they're worth two or three times that much!”

Sir Mark said, “To judge from the graze on your forehead, I think you did not come by that easily, my boy.”

“Not exactly, sir.” Gideon related the day's events as succinctly as possible, his story often interrupted by exclamations of excitement or anger. When he finished, Sir Mark was on his feet, his face flushed and eyes sparking wrath. “That treacherous hound! Not content with the betrayal of his trust, Derrydene has the bare-faced gall to threaten my son!”

“And I fancy is well on his way to France by this time,” muttered Newby.

“I doubt that,” said Gideon. “I've Tummet keeping watch on his house, and Glendenning has promised to send word at once should Derrydene attempt to run.” He added, “Do you see now, Papa, how these strange little figures are in some way bound up with the conspiracy 'gainst you?”

Sir Mark said triumphantly, “Then you own 'tis indeed a conspiracy?”

“I think we must all see that now, sir,” said Morris. “The thing is, we've to convince the Courts.”

“Those blockheads at Bow Street should have acted at once on what Gideon told them,” said Sir Mark angrily. “But my word carries some weight yet, I think. I shall go to the Horse Guards. I've an introduction to General Underhill, and with luck I'll persuade him to—” He paused as an ear-splitting clap of thunder shook the windows.

The door opened, and Wilson announced, “A messenger from Lord Horatio Glendenning.”

A liveried lackey was shown in, raindrops gleaming on his cloak and tricorne. After a swift scan of the room, he went straight to Gideon. “His lordship's compliments, sir, and I am to say that your man has been relieved for a few hours, but will go back on guard at ten tonight. His lordship don't think there's much danger of flight, because in accord with your instructions, two Watchmen has also been set outside the house.”

“Good!” exclaimed Gideon. “Then that rascal is laid by the heels for tonight, at least!”

“
You
suggested the Watch keep an eye on Derrydene's house?” said Sir Mark. “I wonder they heeded you.”

“They would not have, if the suggestion had come from me, sir. I asked Tio to request it—in his father's name.”

“Jolly good notion,” said Morris, laughing. “I fancy Sir Louis is biting his teeth with frustration.”

Gideon tipped the lackey and sent him off with a note of thanks to Lord Horatio. Glancing at the window, he said, “It looks to be a bad night, father. Perhaps you should postpone your call at the Horse Guards.”

Sir Mark did not enjoy negotiating the hill in wet weather, and he agreed to this, adding, “We'll all go over there first thing in the morning.”

Gideon said apologetically, “I'm afraid 'twill have to be just you and my brother, sir.”

“Why, damme?” demanded Sir Mark, at once firing up. “I should like both my sons at my side, for once!”

Morris precipitated another uproar. “Gideon has a prior appointment in the morning, sir. With August Falcon.”

*   *   *

The skies were low-hanging and leaden, the air was chill, and in the jolting carriage Morris, not at his best before breakfast, grumbled. “Perry Cranford's a good enough fellow, I give you that. But—Kadenworthy? Gad! Of course, one has to consider that Falcon's not exactly surrounded by admiring cronies, but I hope he don't have Kadenworthy for a second when I fight him. Cannot abide the man.”

Rossiter pulled his cloak tighter and said thoughtfully, “I think I don't know the gentleman. Didn't he go out with de Villars once?”

“Yes, and Treve almost told his tale for him! They're friends now, I hear. Lord knows why. Kadenworthy's tongue is every bit as acid as Falcon's.”

“Your future brother-in-law,” said Gideon slyly.

Morris groaned. “One has to take the bitter with the better.”

Amused, Gideon asked, “Have you made any progress, Jamie?”

“She smiled on me”—a dreamy expression replaced Morris' gloom—“and told me I was brave. And she bandaged my hand. Her touch was light as any feather.”

Rossiter peered at the bandage. “You should change that, y'know.”

“Never!” Morris touched the grey linen very gently. “Her little hand placed it there, and there it shall stay.”

“Gad, but you're properly smitten! Lord knows, I wish you well, but—if the lady ever should accept you, would your father—er, be displeased?”

“What the deuce d'you mean by that? Miss Katrina is the loveliest creature in all England, and if you insinuate that my papa might object because some stupid bigoted fools say she's a half-caste—”

“You think he would not, then?”

“Most definitely not! And—and if he did … Well, I'd win him over, be damned if I'd not.” He sighed and said ruefully, “You and I tread thorny paths to win our ladies, eh?”

Gideon's slow smile dawned. “True. Speaking of paths, Jamie, do you go with me to see this collector fellow when my silly duel is out of the way?”

Morris said staunchly that he certainly meant to “trot along.” Inwardly, he was apprehensive as to the outcome of this meeting. Not quite two weeks ago the military surgeon had told Gideon to enjoy a good long rest and he would soon be as fit as ever. Far from resting, his life had since been one long riot. Oddly enough, he did look better; probably because he was so deep in love with the Lady Naomi. Still, the bruises on his side were more lurid than ever, and although he made light of it, he tended to move rather stiffly. If only Falcon wasn't such a damned fine swordsman … Of course, if the ground was marshy that might even the odds a trifle. He peered out of the window hopefully.

The skies were a little brighter when they reached the site, which was located in the fields some half-mile beyond the end of the park. Viscount Glendenning and Falcon's seconds, Peregrine Cranford and Lord Kadenworthy, were already looking over the ground. Gideon was acquainted with Cranford, a slim and handsome young man with intensely blue eyes, a ready smile, and a quick temper. Shaking hands, Gideon said, “How d'ye do, Perry? I see you've had a spot of trouble. Accident?”

“Prestonpans,” answered Cranford with a grin. “We'd a small war of our own whilst you was away, you know. My silly foot disputed the right of way with a gun carriage.” He saw Rossiter's instinctive sympathetic wince and said cheerily, “But don't be thinking this peg-leg a hindrance. I can hop about pretty well, as you'll soon discover.”

Gideon clapped him on the back and turned to Kadenworthy. That tall and elegant gentleman gave him a nod and a cool stare and was apparently quite unable to see his outstretched hand. “I trust your man has webbed feet, Morris,” he drawled. “He has a fine bog to fight on.”

Morris stared at him in icy silence.

With so many matters preying on his mind, Rossiter had momentarily forgotten his disgrace, and he flushed a little as he turned to ask Glendenning whether Falcon had arrived.

“He's in his carriage, playing cards with the doctor,” said the viscount, throwing an irked look at Kadenworthy.

The seconds conferred briefly. Since this was a matter in which blows had been struck and apologies were neither offered nor expected, there had been small effort to achieve a reconciliation between the principals. The swords, both hollow and well balanced, were compared for length, and approved. The seconds had agreed to obtain the services of only one surgeon, and that gentleman now left the carriage, bag in one hand and an apple in the other. Minutes later, Rossiter and Falcon, having removed their coats and rolled back their ruffles, stood face-to-face with swords raised in the salute.

Falcon opened the offensive. He had an odd way of fighting, crouching slightly, his left arm held palm up but out to the side rather than extended behind him in the customary fashion. His thrust in
carte
followed the barest of exchanges after the initial salute, as though he had quickly taken the measure of his opponent. Rossiter, no mean swordsman, instantly parried with the heel of his blade, returned the thrust within the sword and returned to his guard. He was astonished to hear Falcon's half-whispered “Good,” and saw the thin lips curve into a smile. No opening was allowed, however, and a second later Falcon's sword darted for his chest in a powerful
tierce
thrust. Again, Rossiter parried successfully, and returned in
tierce.
Falcon shifted into
sexte
and increased the pace of his attack, and the swords rang together like rapidly erratic bell chimes, the duellists moving gracefully despite the fact that the condition of the ground had forbidden they remove their shoes.

From the outset Rossiter had known not only that he faced a magnificent swordsman but that as he'd suspected his bruises and the old wound in his leg were going to hinder him. He had not the slightest doubt but that although Falcon meant to enjoy himself, this would not be a killing matter. On the other hand, they had agreed on “first blood,” and to be disabled at this particular time did not at all suit his plans. His lips tightened determinedly, his eyes narrowed to an intent stare, and he bent every ounce of his concentration on the struggle.

Falcon, very fast, and obviously in his element, not only set a fierce pace, but covered a lot of ground, so that the seconds, each with sword drawn and ready, were obliged to be constantly on the move. Following a flurry of attacks, lightning swift, Falcon thrust in
seconde.
Rossiter parried with a prime parade and returned the thrust in prime, recovering in the nick of time as Falcon essayed a brilliant counter disengage.

“Hey!” yelled Cranford, a note in his voice that caused Glendenning to at once run in to strike up the blades of the duellists.

They all turned to discover the cause of the objection. Besides being very red-faced, Cranford was standing at a decidedly odd angle, gripping his right knee.

Glendenning said, “Oh, I say! Are you stuck, Perry?” and hurried to him.

Cranford was indeed stuck, his peg-leg having sunk deep into the mud.

There was a good deal of hilarity and horseplay involved in the rescue effort, and Morris and Glendenning cheered lustily as Cranford was freed. Falcon's brow was black, however, noting which Morris said innocently, “Cheer up, Falcon. The duel is quite
inchoate,
you know.”

This deliberate provocation caused Rossiter to chuckle, but did little to improve Falcon's fast-deteriorating mood. Ignoring Morris, he demanded, “Why the deuce didn't you wear your false foot, Cranford?”

“Blasted thing's always falling off,” said Cranford apologetically. “Sorry, August. I hadn't counted on that confounded storm last night, else I'd have brought it up to Town with me.”