Time's Fool (49 page)
Authors: Patricia Veryan
Sitting up in bed, his eyes glued to the door of the dressing room, Gideon agreed provocatively, “Exceeding agreeable. With regard to Mignon, especially. I am very fond of children. Speaking of which ⦠are you ever coming in?”
“Oh! How naughty you are,” she said, dimpling as she dabbed Mysterious Moonlight here and there. “I wonder that you dare say such things when you deliberately allowed me to think that all those horrid rumours were true! Why, sirrah?”
“Because you were so willing to believe the worst of me, of course.”
“Your pride was hurt, was it?” she said indignantly, standing and blowing out the dressing room candle. “I think you are far more full of pride than ever I was, Captain Rossiter!”
“I grant you, 'tis a dreadful vice,” he admitted with a grin. “I promise never to indulge it aâ” And he stopped, because Naomi had come in at last.
Her very décolleté nightgown was a drift of salmon pink lace and net that allowed a tantalizing glimpse of the loveliness it veiled. Her glorious hair rippled in a glowing mass about her creamy shoulders, and as she stood there, her eyes were tender but very shy.
“Oh ⦠egad,” he whispered. “And I am telling another lie! 'Fore heaven, I must be the proudest man alive!” He reached out to her. “Come to me, my loveâmy life.”
“Do you truly welcome aâa guttersnipe to your bed?” she asked, walking slowly and demurely across the room.
“I told you once,” he said breathlessly, “that I must be time's greatest fool.”
Naomi looked into his adoring face and ran to him. “The dearest, bravest, most gallant fool who ever⦔
Captain Gideon Rossiter pinched out the candle.
It was very quiet in the darkened room, and although the air was wreathed with tobacco smoke, it held the clammy chill of a place where sunlight never shines. The single candlestick, set on a very old credenza against one wall, threw a dim light on the table and the five men seated there. They were as so many statues: silent, waiting, all clad in dark cloak and hood, and each face, although barely visible, covered by a mask.
At last, one of them muttered irritably, “The Squire is late.”
The man to his right shrugged. “And likely vexed.”
Across the table, a man drawled, “'Tis all made right, and we achieved what was planned.”
The smoke stirred, giving the only sign that the door had opened.
A sixth man entered. Tall, and clad exactly as the others, he moved soundlessly to the table, and at once the rest came to their feet.
“To the contrary, Two,” he argued in a thin, colourless voice. “We achieved only part of what was planned, and suffered a considerable setback.” His head turned, the eyes glittering through the slots in the mask as they rested upon one after another of those present. “I do not care for setbacks, and each of us is allowed but one mistake.”
A silence.
Then, the man he had addressed as Two said, “We are six again, Squire.”
“Happily so. And must proceed.” The Squire raised one gloved hand in which was a small figure glittering with diamonds. “Despite our failure, we have achieved much, and all done with the authorities suspecting nought.”
“As yet,” muttered a tall, bulky figure.
The Squire chuckled. “Just so, Four. By the time they suspect, 'twill be too late. I am told young Rossiter tried to warn one of our splendid generals, and was writ off as a likely candidate for Bedlam.”
A huskily built man asked in a growl of a voice, “Will it serve?”
“For the time,” said the Squire. “But those interfering fools must, and will be punished, which is annoying, as it will disrupt our schedule. Meanwhile, however, to business. Will our new member identify himself by displaying his emblem?”
A man to his left held up the tiny figure of lapis lazuli and sapphires that Rossiter had found in the home of Sir Louis Derrydene.
The Squire raised his diamond-studded miniature. In turn, the others lifted their figures, the emerald, then the ruby, followed by a topaz, and finally, an opal.
“You know, new bearer of the sapphire, to what we are committed?” asked the Squire.
“To a new England,” replied the novice, bowing. “Purged of the yokes of royalty and religion. A republic wherein the common men may share equally and none rise above the level of his neighbour.”
“You know,” intoned the bearer of the emerald figure, “who shall rule?”
The new member bowed again. “The land and all within shall be ruled by a committee of gentlemen qualified not merely by birth but by intelligence, an ability for leadership, and a willingness to act without regard for the conventions and restrictions of the past.”
“And you know,” said the man holding the ruby figure, “who selected you? And who is known to each of us?”
“I was selected by letter,” answered the newcomer with yet another bow. “I do not know who sent it. None of us is known to any other. Save only the Squire.”
The Squire bowed to him, and each in turn, the others bowed.
“Are you prepared,” enquired the man with the emerald figure, “to submit to the initiation?”
“I am prepared.”
The Squire turned and led the way to the rear of the room. The holder of the opal emblem carried over the single candlestick. It could be seen then that the walls were fashioned of stone blocks, shiny with moisture and green with lichen. An archway stood out from the solid rock of the rear wall, enclosing what appeared to have been at some time in the distant past, a small marble trough or water bowl. Set at waist level, it was dry now, but around the edge of the top ran a most elegant carving wherein deeply etched flowers and leaves intertwined.
The Squire stepped back and as the others moved closer to the bowl, he levelled a deadly duelling pistol. “You may proceed,” he said. “In the appointed order. And then we shall begin our meeting.”
They gathered closer about the bowl and one by one stepped back. At the end, the Squire relinquished the pistol to the man who had held the emerald figure. The pistol was trained steadily on the Squire and he stepped forward.
There was a whisper of sound.
A moment later, the room was empty, and the darkness and chill of the centuries once more held sway.
Patricia Veryan
was born in England and moved to the United States following World War II. The author of several critically acclaimed Georgian and Regency series, including the Sanguinet Saga, she now lives in Kirkland, Washington. You can sign up for email updates
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Previous novels by
Patricia Veryan
Logic of the Heart
The Dedicated Villain
Cherished Enemy
Love Alters Not
Give All to Love
The Tyrant
Journey to Enchantment
Practice to Deceive
Sanguinet's Crown
The Wagered Widow
The Noblest Frailty
Married Past Redemption
Feather Castles
Some Brief Folly
Nanette
Mistress of Willowvale
Love's Duet
The Lord and the Gypsy
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Contents
Previous novels by Patricia Veryan
TIME'S FOOL
. Copyright © 1991 by Patricia Veryan. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
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First Edition: September 1991
eISBN 9781250101402
First eBook edition: September 2015