The Mandarin of Mayfair (23 page)

The lady took up her wineglass and frowned at the contents. "There was other cargoes. Edgar had his finger in many pies. I asked him a time or two how he supposed the crews made off with so much, and he said, "They can if they take the whole ship!" She looked up at him shrewdly. "I'd only speak of this with someone I trust, you understand. Still, you likely think me just a silly old woman!"

Falcon leaned closer. "Never that, ma'am. In fact, I've a friend who's a ship's master and would agree with every word you've said. More's the pity, he cannot prove it. If there is anything you could tell me—any smallest detail that you can recall, 'twould be more appreciated than you can know."

She hesitated. "This friend of yours. In trouble, is he?"

"In the greatest trouble, ma'am. And his head at risk."

Still hesitating, she asked, "A young man?"

"Yes. And newly married."

"Oh my! How dreadful for his poor wife." She clicked her tongue sympathetically, and began to rummage about in her large reticule. "My eldest gets into a proper taking if I gabble about business, and not without cause, I must own, for I don't mind telling you, Mr. Falcon, they said 'twas an accident, but I believe my Edgar would be alive today had he been less outspoken. Here's my card. Your friend may call upon me this coming Thursday at two o' the clock. There's a company meeting on Thursday afternoons, and I've the house to myself. If your friend is well known, you'd best have him send in his name as Mr.—hum… Tide!" She twinkled at him merrily. "He's likely to remember that, eh?"

Falcon took the card, kissed the lady's hand, and told her he was deep in her debt. Mrs. Quimby blushed like a girl, declared that he was a rascal, and that if he was truly grateful he'd not mind fetching her a piece of "that very intriguing currant cake."

Soon after he performed this task her brother appeared to reclaim her, and Mrs. Quimby and Mr. Falcon parted, each pleased with the other.

Congratulating himself on having learned something of real value, Falcon wandered to the card rooms and sat at a faro table between Hector Kadenworthy and Mr. Duncan Tiele. Play was shrewd and the stakes high and excitement began to rise. Someone moved too swiftly, overturning Falcon's wineglass and he sprang up just in time to avoid being deluged.

Tiele said admiringly, "Jupiter but that was fast! I think I'd never wish to cross swords with you, Falcon!"

"Nobody
wishes
to." Kadenworthy waved to a waiter to refill Falcon's glass. "Sometimes there's no decent way to avoid it!"

"One has a choice, you see," said Lord Sommers, coming up behind Kadenworthy's chair. "Decent—or living!"

Falcon bowed grandly, and thus did not see the hand that hovered briefly over his glass. There was general laughter, and the game went on. Emerging from it the richer by two hundred guineas, Falcon allowed himself to be caught up in the bargain-hunting spirit. He purchased a charming ruby pendant for Katrina, and half an hour later was paying for a blue silken shawl with a fine knotted fringe when he sensed that he was being watched. He glanced up swiftly and from across the table met a pair of brilliant dark eyes. Before he could speak, their owner walked rapidly away. He thought "Be damned! Skye! And in civilian dress!"

That Joel Skye and Mariner Fotheringay should both be here might be the merest coincidence. On the other hand, it might mean that at long last the Horse Guards had begun to listen to the warnings of Rossiter's Preservers!

"You devil! August! Do not dare!" Despite this warning, Lady Pamela Dunscroft made no move to extricate herself from an embrace that, in this particular time and place, would have raised the eyebrows of the most broad-minded of London's social set. Tall, voluptuously curved, and very sure of her beauty, she lay on the sofa of this secluded little parlour, her head thrown back, her dark eyes rapturously half closed.

Assigning her warning the importance it warranted, Falcon went about his business, his hands and lips drawing soft little moans from her until she flung her arms about his neck and pulled him down to her own hungry mouth.

"My heavens," she panted between kisses, "how I've missed you! We should never… have— Oh, Lud! We should never have… parted."

Considerably shaken, he drew back. "I think we had best— part now, lovely one. Your brother don't admire me. If he should chance to find us—like this…"

"Rudi's in Bath with his bosom bow, old Underhill," she said, taking up his hand impatiently. "Here, love, you know I—" She gave a little shriek and for a while there was relative quiet, if not inactivity, in the parlour.

It was some time before Falcon could escape her clinging arms, but at length he stood and shrugged into his waistcoat. "Do you know what your difficulty is, Pam?" he murmured, smiling down at her.

"Not enough of you," she pouted, making no move to restore her gown.

Lying there, half clad, she was almost unbearably seductive, and it was all he could do to resist her. "You are too aware of how desirable you are," he said.

"And you are a marplot," she responded lazily, reaching out to him. "Why must you go? So very soon?"

"Because, you wanton witch, you've a house full of County only a door away, and if—"

"That didn't stop you just now."

"A marplot I may be, but I'm not made of stone, Pam."

She sat up, her eyes glowing. "By heaven, but you're not! August, my best beloved. Don't go! I want you…"

He watched her with the mocking half-smile that drove her to distraction. "For your husband, Pam?"

She tensed, her chin lifting slightly.

He chuckled. "Of course not. But that's what 'twould mean were we discovered, my dear. Is it really worth the risk?"

"I sometimes think 'twould be well worth it."

"But only sometimes. Come now. Your party has been a thousand times more delightful than I deserve, but—"

"Oh, very well."

She stood and began to order her gown. But her movements were enticing, she was all female witchery and her eyes teased him, so that in desperation he was obliged to turn away.

Coming up behind him, she slid her arms around his neck and nibbled at his ear. "I could make you love me again," she whispered.

He swung around and on the instant she was pressing against him, her lips apart, inviting.

He said huskily, " 'Twould be all too easy, I fear. Egad, but that scent you wear is enough to make any man's—" The words froze on his tongue. His head jerked up.

It had been very faint, but
now
he knew what had been so incongruous about the little flower-girl!

"Oh…
Jupiter!
" he snarled.

Lady Pamela drew back. He was flushed, his eyes glaring wrath. She thought he looked even more magnificent than usual, but she asked uneasily, "What is it? What did I say?"

He lifted clenched fists and shook them at the ceiling. "Of all the stupid, blind,
idiots
!" He threw on his sword-belt, snatched up his coat and shrugged into it, then stamped to the door, saying through his teeth, "I'll murder the wretched chit!"

"August!"
shrilled my lady, quite unaccustomed to such cavalier treatment.

Falcon turned back and looked at her as if he'd forgotten she was there. "Oh." He marched to take up her hand and kiss it hard. "Thank you, m'dear!"

Another second and he was gone. Lady Pamela gazed after him. She knew men, and, raging, she snatched up the nearest article, which chanced to be a beautiful Sevres vase, and hurled it to shatter against the door.
"Beast!"
she screeched. "Faithless! Fickle! Horrid
half-breed
!"

Passing the object of her wrath on the stairs, the Most Honourable Bertram Crisp, Marquis of Pencader, said brightly, "Oh, there you are, dear old pippin. Come and—" Falcon rushed past without a word, the black scowl on his face cutting off that friendly greeting. Looking after him, Crisp murmured, "Whomever you seek, the poor fellow has my most profound sympathy!"

Falcon neither saw nor heard him. The lackey who strolled with lofty condescension in response to his gesture, started, went off at the run, returned with his cloak and tricorne, and then raced to the stables.

Seething, Falcon walked to the top of the steps, his gaze raking the scene. It was past eight o'clock and full dark but the drive-path blazed with the light of a hundred flambeaux. The air was cold and spiced with the pungency of sweetmeats, hot pies, and toffeed apples, and the all-pervading aromas from the barbecue pits. The crowd was larger and noisier than ever. His initial scan failing to locate the face and figure he sought, he marched down the steps and entered the throng. The flickering light illumined the faces he passed, like so many portraits, briefly and brightly painted on a dark canvas. There were more young people now; farm folk who might well have walked most of the day so as to get here in time for the country dancing that would start at nine o'clock in the marquee. Falcon searched among an endless stream of cheerful humanity: rosy-cheeked lassies, their innocent eyes bright with happiness; stalwart youths guarding their sweethearts jealously; buxom farm wives aglow with health; men with the bronzed and leathery skin that spoke of a lifetime spent in the fields; children allowed to stay up long past their bedtime, racing about squealing excitedly and unintelligibly, eluding the plunges of older brothers and sisters who attempted to capture and restrain them; venerable elders fussed over by protective sons or daughters, their eyes as bright as those of their grandchildren. All wearing their Sunday best for this so long-looked-forward-to entertainment. Many of them had wrapped warm woollen shawls about their shoulders, but none walked with a limp, or wore a shawl of that particular shade of forest green. Perhaps she had already left. Falcon swung about and strode back the way he had come, shouldering his way through the crowd with an impatience that won him not a few resentful glances.

He skirted the maze and followed the drive-path toward the stables. Grooms were shouting to each other as they poled up a team. His own, one hoped. And then he saw her. She stood with her back to him, talking animatedly to a sturdy individual who was shaking his head in seemingly dismayed disagreement.

Falcon half-whispered, "Tummet! Now damn your slippery eyes!"

In half a dozen long strides he was upon them.

Catching sight of the advancing menace Tummet paled and his jaw sagged.

Falcon's scorching glare encompassed him. "Bring up the team!"

Tummet gulped and fled.

Gwendolyn spun around. Falcon stood close behind her, his expression so murderous that for an instant she was speechless.

He seized her wrist and said with a smile that chilled her blood, "You forgot to cross your eyes."

She was tempted to do so, but this was not the time for either levity or evasion. She said, "Thank heaven you are come! I was just—"

"You will not thank heaven when I've done with you," he interrupted in that hushed and fierce undertone. "If
ever
a chit needed spanking—"

"Oh, stop being so foolish and listen to me! August, I have—"

The team came prancing alongside and a stableboy ran to open the door and let down the steps.

Falcon threw him a coin. "Get in the
coach
," he grated, his piercing glare not shifting from Gwendolyn.

"Yes, I will, but you must—"

"Get—in—the—coach!" He added through his teeth, "Or would you prefer that I put you across my knee here and now?"

The stableboy stood as if rooted to the spot, his jaw hanging open.

Falcon's gaze turned on him. "Enjoying the performance, are you?"

The boy gave a gasp, and fled.

Exasperated, Gwendolyn said, "How can you
be
so stupid? If you will just—"

A molten glare was levelled at her. With a squeal she jumped up on the step and dove into the coach.

He slammed the door so hard that the team snorted and sidled in fright.

Standing with his left hand on his sword hilt, he looked up to the box. "Down!"

Tummet moaned, put up his whip, and obeyed. "Guv—it ain't what you—" He was caught in a grip of iron and pinioned against the wheel.

"You knew!" snarled Falcon, without a trace of "li." "You miserable, scheming, traitorous hedgebird—you
knew
!"

"N-not first orf I didn't. Sir. But—"

His cravat was caught and twisted mercilessly. Choking, he gasped out, "What was a cove… to do, mate? I—"

"You let her go out into the streets at night!" In his fury, Falcon's lips drew back from his teeth. "A sheltered, innocent—child, who couldn't know what she risked! But
you
knew! With half London ravening bloody murder, and brute beasts roaming about in packs, you let an unwed lady of Quality walk out alone like a common—
tart
!By God, if I—"

"But I din't, Mr. Falcon, sir! Crost me heart… I should'a—"

"I'll tell you what you
should
have done, Enoch Tummet! You should have—
at once
—come to me!"

Tummet tried to free himself from that cruel grip and looking into the face of murder, squawked, "Mate… sir… I—can't… breathe!"

"And I'll tell you something else," snarled Falcon, his grip tightening. "If you ever—
ever
let that lady put one
toe
into danger I shall, with the greatest pleasure, break your neck with my bare hands!" He shook his captive savagely. "Do you
understand
me?" he thundered.

His face purpling, Tummet made a sound vaguely resembling "Yussir."

"Ow!" cried Falcon and relaxed his grip as something hard swiped at his shoulder.

Leaning from the open window and flailing her shoe at him, Gwendolyn cried angrily, "Let him go, you savage beast! He didn't even—"

He whirled on her and she jumped back inside. "I'll deal with you in a minute," he growled. "On the box, Tummet! Though it will likely be the last time you work for me!"

Tummet had sunk to his knees and was wheezing helplessly, but at this he hove himself to his feet and struggled back onto the box like a drunken man.

Ignoring the small crowd of gaping onlookers, Falcon wrenched the door open and sprang inside.