Time's Fool (7 page)

An unexpectedly militant light came into her eyes. “He will drink it,” she declared, and hurried away.

Rossiter glanced at the closed bedroom door, then sat down and stretched out his long legs. Gad, but he was tired! He gripped his left shoulder and flexed it carefully, wondering if the confounded wound would ever stop aching. Of all the beastly luck, to be involved in this nonsensical farce instead of tending to his own—

A crash resounded, followed by Falcon's irate howl. “Has everybody died? I require assistance! This year!
Katrina
!”

From the next room came a pounding on the wall, and an irritated guest roared something about being allowed to get some sleep. His answer was a crash indicative of glass shattering against the wall, followed by shouted insults expressing Falcon's decided lack of interest in his neighbour's wishes.

Rossiter stuck his head around the bedroom door. “You'll have the Watch here if you do not cease your caterwauling. What assistance do you require?”

“Some brandy—and your blood,” snarled Falcon, sinking back against the pillows.

Despite his hostile manner, he was very pale and looked exhausted. Rossiter knew all too well what a visit from an apothecary could be like, especially if a bone was chipped, and he checked the scornful remark he'd been about to utter. Walking into the room, he said instead, “Try to behave with a
soupçon
of sense, else you'll likely never kill anyone again.”

“Do not refine on that!”

“Dash it all, man! You certainly know 'twas an accident!”

“Easy to say, when
you're
standing there, and
I'm
lying here.” Falcon's jaw set. After a brief pause through which he appeared to be holding his breath, he said in a less sure voice, “I fancy you think this poetic justice.”

Rossiter leaned against the bedpost and watched him thoughtfully. “An you refer to our brawl at Eton, you must attach a deal more importance to it than I did.”

“Importance—hell! I thought it damned ridiculous. I did not plead for your so gallant intervention.”

“Charming as ever, I see,” drawled Rossiter. “You must not fail to write to me if ever you should plan on saying anything pleasant. I'd not miss it for the world.”

A faint glint of amusement came into Falcon's eyes, but the single word he uttered was not conciliating.

“I entered your little fray,” explained Rossiter, “only because the odds were four to one. I'd have done the same for any fellow.”

“And won yourself precisely the same reward. A black eye and broken nose as I remember—no?”

“Your memory is reliable, at least. Most gentlemen would surely have offered a word or two of thanks. Still, I soon realized that the withholding of such courtesies was not remarkable in your case.”

“Then I taught you something,” sneered Falcon.

“Just so.” Rossiter straightened up. “Good day to you, sir.”

“No—don't just walk off, dammitall! If you must abandon me, at least have the decency to fetch me some brandy before you go. There's a decanter in that revolting parlour.”

“Yes, and your sister would have my ears did I give you some. She has gone to brew you a tisane.” He chuckled at the response, and when Falcon ran out of expletives, he said, “The lady has my sympathy. Is there anything you would like me to do for
her
before I leave?”

“No, fiend seize you! Wait! Be sure she has enough blankets. She'll likely insist on me remaining in this accursed bed.”

“Yes. She seems a most unselfish creature.”

“Does she indeed! Keep your eyes from her, I warn you!”

“Oh, Lord! Must you be such a fool? No man could keep his eyes from her. She's one of the most beautiful women I ever saw.”

His eyes blazing, Falcon struggled to one elbow. He was panting, two spots of colour high on his cheekbones. “An you dare pester her whilst I'm laid here by—by the heels…!”

“Be at ease, you silly clod. I admired the lady merely. A fine villain you take me for!”

“Be assured of it!”

“If you weren't in that bed, by God—” Rossiter broke off. “No! For God's sake—get back—” He sprang to catch the injured man as he managed to clamber out of bed, only to sag dizzily. Guiding him back onto the pillows, Rossiter wrenched his shoulder and said with considerable irritation, “If ever I saw such a fire-eater! I've barely set foot in England, and have no slightest designs upon your sister.”

“You had best not have! My … prejudices are few, but 'fore heaven I draw the line at … at having Katrina plagued by a man whose name is a by-word for … treachery and dishonour!”

For an instant Rossiter was so astounded he could do no more than stare at Falcon's pale and sweating face. Then, he said very softly, “I think you must explain that, sir.”

“Faith, but your astonishment is well done!” Falcon's lip curled. “Much I need to explain! Why are you come home save to support your sire? Though 'tis little he'll gain from your presence after the unlovely record you've built in the Low Countries, and—”

Rossiter threw up one hand peremptorily. “We do not discuss my record. Why should my father need my support?”

“Oh, stop your gammoning, man! Am I to believe you did not know that three months ago Rossiter Bank failed; Rossiter Investment Company failed; that your sire was proved a thief and embezzler, and has sunk your name in deep dis—”

Rossiter had turned very white, but now his face became livid. His hand whipped out to fasten on Falcon's nightshirt. Hauling him up, he said between his teeth, “Curse you for a liar! My father never did a dishonest thing in his life!”

“Go and ask him!” Falcon beat feebly at Rossiter's arm. “And—and then you may come back and go down on your … knees and—and beg me not to run you through!”

“Let him go! Oh! What are you doing to him?”

The shrieked words cut through the red haze of wrath that had enveloped Rossiter. He released his grip abruptly, derived a savage satisfaction from hearing Falcon swear as he fell back on the pillows, and stalked to the door.

Two women stood on the threshold. One was a thin and stern-faced abigail who carried a laden tray; the other was Katrina Falcon. Her horror-filled eyes accused him. She pulled her skirts closer as he passed. “For shame, to attack a helpless man,” she said in disgust.

“Your brother will never be helpless, madam,” he riposted, “until someone amputates his vicious tongue!”

Running down the stairs, his conscience acknowledged that he had behaved like a cad in handling Falcon roughly. It was a small and barely heard voice. Most of his concern was with his father. He must get home at once and learn exactly what had happened.

He frowned grimly. He had thought his fighting days were done. Now, it appeared, they might be just beginning!

CHAPTER FOUR

Naomi coaxed a tendril of her damp hair into place and inspected herself in the dressing table mirror. Wet and witless, he had called her. The horrid boor! She had, perhaps, been a trifle upset. Who would not be after such a terrifying experience? But he'd shown her not the slightest compassion. Wet and witless, indeed! She had been soaked and dirty, true, but her face was free of mud now, and Maggie had brushed her hair into a richly shining mantle about her shoulders. She was a little pale from shock and weariness, but this served to emphasize the clear green of her eyes. If the tall soldier could see her now … She tossed her head impatiently, and drew the lacy collar of her white satin dressing gown higher. Much she cared what he would think. Only, although it had been almost dark and she'd not really seen him clearly, there was something about the captain that troubled her. Something that hovered at the back of her mind, refusing to be drawn to full recollection.

“I know as you're worrying for poor Mr. Falcon,” said Maggie, hurrying from the door and a whispered conversation with the first footman. “But—”

“Mr. Falcon!” exclaimed Naomi with a guilty start. “Yes, of course I am. I think his wound was not serious, but poor Miss Katrina is likely in need of me. I should be with her now but for that horrid soldier!”

“Wicked, I calls it,” agreed Maggie with gratifying indignation. “To pick you up like a sack of oats and toss you—”

The memory of that unheard-of indignity brought rage smouldering into Naomi's eyes once more. “He was an arrogant brute!”

“What had no right to seize your sweet self in his great strong fists and throw you in the coach like any—”

“If I'd but had my little silver pistol to hand he would not have touched me so, I promise you!”

“Touched you, milady! Mauled you, more like! And heaved you about as if you was any bale of hay, with no least—”

My lady's eyes narrowed dangerously. “Refer to me as a sack or a bale once more, wretched minx,” she warned between her teeth, “and I shall pinch you! Hard!”

Maggie lowered her big brown eyes demurely, and murmured her apologies, but her lips twitched suspiciously. Long before Mr. Simon Lutonville had gone out to Italy, or entertained any hope of acceding to the earldom, little Maggie Osgood, the head gardener's daughter, and Miss Naomi had played with their dolls together. They had been mistress and maid since Naomi had returned to England, but the affection between them remained. The pert village lass knew just how far she could go before she was in danger, and that however heinous her offence she would never collect a hard box on the ear, or have to endure the endless succession of slaps or scratches that many of her friends received from their employers.

“'Tis because I so loves you that I am put about to think of him daring to treat you so rough,” she declared earnestly. “And after his evil friend shooting down that dear handsome Mr. Falcon like he was a common thief! Whatever the earl will have to say, I dassen't think. Best hasten, milady. His lor'ship be waiting for you like a proper thundercloud.”

Naomi stood, stifling a yawn. “I wish my father would let me explain in the morning.”

“Aye, you're proper wore out, poor lamb. Just tell his lor'ship as quick as you can, and don't loiter about down there.”

Naomi's smile was rueful. Maggie followed her into the hall and said, “I be going to put a hot brick 'twixt the sheets, so by the time you come back upstairs your bed will be all toasty warm waiting for you.”

Naomi thanked her and walked along the hall.

Watching that rather slow progress to the stairs, it seemed to Maggie that her lady's glowing head was not held quite as proudly as usual. She thought, ‘I hope she doesn't tell his lor'ship where we was today.' She had seen the earl's scowl, and picturing his reaction to that piece of news, murmured, “Lawks a mussy! The fox would be in with the hens and no mistake!”

She gave a little squeak as the first footman came up silent-footed to bestow a pinch upon her plump derriere.

“That won't be nothing new and strange,” he said with a grin. “Not in this here household it won't. Why're you droopin' like last week's dirty wash, Maggie?”

“No such thing, Mister Audacious,” denied Maggie huffily, then added with a worried frown, “only … sometimes I feel that sorry for her. She's so alone, poor little thing.”

“Go on, woman! What is it? You got windmills aloft, or something? Ain't she surrounded by friends, and all the fine gents admiring and flattering her day and night? Ain't she got a great fortune to keep her company, and everything she could want for?”

“You're a wicked young man, Robert Hinton,” said Maggie without equivocation. “With naughty roving hands. And like most men you don't see what's under your nose 'til you get bit by it! My lady's got everything, all right—'cepting the thing she most wants.
Kindness,
Mr. H. A look with a bit o' love in it now and then.” She scowled. “Precious little affection she got from her mama. And
he
don't know the meaning of the word, with his high-in-the-instep pride, and his glooms and rages!”

“Ar, well you should've heard his peership ranting and raving when you was so late coming home. Cor! And the look on his face just now'll have her shaking in her shoes, I shouldn't wonder!”

Maggie looked troubled, but said staunchly, “She ain't afeared of him, never think it! Not of him nor of nothing! A right plucked 'un she be.”

When Naomi entered the withdrawing room, however, for a brief moment she did feel a surge of fear. Simon Ordway Lutonville, seventh Earl of Collington, was standing by the glowing hearth, one hand on the mantel, the other holding a half-full wineglass. He was not a tall man and enjoyed his table, but he had refused to allow himself to run to fat, and at three and fifty wore his clothes well. He stood very still, his immaculately bewigged head slightly downbent as he gazed into the flames, but anger radiated from every line of him, and when he swung around as the lackey closed the doors, the expression on his handsome face was the one his wife had so dreaded.

Nerving herself, Naomi walked across the luxuriously appointed room, affecting not to notice the heavy scowling brows, the spark in the light green eyes, the tight set of the jaw of this man who had sired her, and whom she so little understood. “Why, Papa,” she said, with faint irony, “how upset you are, and have left your card party early! I had not dreamed you would be anxious for my sake.”

His lips thinned, and the scowl deepened. He said coldly, “So you take me for an unnatural parent. Be comforted. I already ascertained that you were not hurt. When the rogues are caught, they'll pay for daring to lay hands on you. That, I promise! Was your fool of a coachman foxed? How came he to squat there like a curst block while a lady of Quality was assaulted by crude animals?”

Politely stifling a yawn, Naomi sank into a chair. “I am very tired, sir. Might this not wait until morning?”