The Mandarin of Mayfair (28 page)

"I have," admitted Morris. "I knew you'd insist on this nonsense sooner or later."

With reckless daring, Falcon allowed his blade to swing wide. "Have at me then."

On the instant, Morris lunged in
tierce
. Agile as a cat, and in the very nick of time, Falcon parried with a straight arm and a slightly lowered point, his move so fast that his sword seemed a whiplash of light as the moon caught it. He returned the thrust at once, but in that same instant the moonlight dimmed, and he was obliged to hold back slightly. He was sobered by the realization that the duel could have ended there and then. He evidently still had a touch of fever, and would have to exercise care in this uncertain light, for he had no wish to really hurt the lovesick clod.

It was destined to be his last moment of confidence. The moon must have drifted behind a cloud, and he had to narrow his eyes to see Morris' darting point. Irritated, he fought with more force but, impossibly, twice, Morris almost had him.

He neither saw nor heard the opening of the side gate and running footsteps, for the fog seemed to have got into his head and he was horribly conscious that he was not fighting well.

Coming up beside Cranford, who stood watching helplessly, Rossiter exclaimed, "Lord above, what brought this about? They both gave me their word to postpone!"

"Some silly clunch made a remark at White's that properly set Falcon off," said Cranford. "Damme, that was close!"

Horatio Glendenning, who had been with Gideon when Newby found him, said anxiously, "I've never seen August fight so recklessly. He must be mad!"

"If he found Jamie here with Katrina, he very likely is," said Rossiter grimly, then gave a gasp as Morris shouted with excitement, his blade singing down Falcon's in a near disarm.

Dismayed Cranford said, "Falcon's playing with him— luring him on, and the poor fellow is too confident by far!"

"Oh, Lord!" groaned Glendenning. "The women are watching from upstairs! This has got to be stopped, Gideon!"

Rossiter started forward, then retreated before a wild flurry of whirling glinting blades. "I wish you will tell me how," he growled. "The pace is too fast! If I interfere I'm liable to get one of the idiots killed!"

Both duellists were short of breath now. Falcon, bewildered, felt that he was trapped in an ever thickening mist and knee deep in mud. Morris was exultant, knowing he had never in his life fought as well. He saw his opportunity as Falcon disengaged.

In that hideous fraction of a second, Rossiter thought, "Dear God! He's going to try a counter-disengage! No, Jamie! No!"

As though the entire world had been slowed to a crawling pace, Falcon watched Morris form a parade. "He's too close to my sword," he thought. His face alight with excitement, Morris plunged forward only to stumble on the wet grass. It should have been so easy. All Falcon had to do was swing his sword aside and get clear. But instead, he watched stupidly as Morris failed to recover, fell heavily onto the point of his sword, and sank to his knees. And still, time was as if held in check. Falcon gazed down at that upturned, incredulous face; at the freckles that suddenly stood out in stark contrast to the deathly pallor of the skin; at the accusing, horrified green eyes and the crimson fingers clutching the blade of the sword that had plunged deep. And, as in a dream, heard the choked disbelieving, "Au-gust… ?"

There came shouts of rage and Rossiter ran to wrench the sword free, shove Falcon aside and kneel to ease Morris down.

Glendenning was saying, "No, m'dears! Keep back! Stay back, I beg—"

Falcon stared dully at Morris' shirt, so white a second ago, now all blood.

A terrible strangled screaming, and Katrina rushed to fall to her knees beside the man she loved. "Jamie! Oh, merciful God! No! No!"

Cranford shouted, "You there! Fetch Dr. Knight, and for Lord's sake,
hurry
!"

A footman went off at the run. Clad in a voluminous purple dressing gown, Mrs. Vanechurch passed him, bandages fluttering in her capable hands.

Rossiter, on his knees and striving desperately, glanced up and grated, "Well, madman? Are you satisfied now?
Are
you?"

"I—I never meant…" mumbled Falcon.

"Like
hell
!" said Cranford, bending over the stricken man. "You
said
you'd put an end to him if you found him here!"

Near hysteria with shock and grief, Katrina stared at her hands wet with Morris' blood. Her head lifted and she gazed at her brother piteously as if unable to comprehend the tragedy. Then, "
Murderer
!" she screamed. "You've
killed
him!" Springing up, she beat at August's chest with those terribly stained fists, crying shrilly, "I'll never forgive you!
Never! Never! Never
!"

He watched her numbly, making no attempt to restrain her, or to move away from her blows.

Gwendolyn ran to take the distraught girl in her arms and say comfortingly, "Do not grieve so, dearest. Jamie is young and strong. He will likely make a fine recover."

Over Katrina's shoulder, she met Rossiter's eyes. He shook his head grimly, and she had to hold back her own tears.

Katrina sank against her, weeping so hysterically that Gwendolyn dreaded she might suffer a complete collapse. Holding her close, she said, "We must help. Come, we'll go and make ready for the doctor."

Falcon caught at his sister's arm and said brokenly, "Trina—you
must
believe me! He fell! I never meant—"

Katrina's head came up to reveal reddened swollen eyes and her lovely face so twisted with grief it was almost unrecognizable. She slapped August's hand away, and said in a shrill broken voice, "Do not
dare
touch me,
liar
! I
saw
it! 'Twas cold, de-deliberate murder! You've killed that kind and—and valiant gentleman, just as you've longed to do. Are you proud, my dear brother? Are you happy that you've destroyed my every hope for happiness?"

"No! Trina, do not! I didn't—"

"You've k-killed more than the man I love. You've killed every spark of the love I had for you! For as long as I live I will loathe and—and despise y-you…" Her voice was suspended and she sobbed uncontrollably.

His hand fell. He met Gwendolyn's eyes and found there only a cold disgust.

She said contemptuously, "How
could
you?" and led Katrina away.

Falcon House was too modern for any Stuart monarch to have actually honoured it with his presence, but in the autumn of 1651 when young King Charles II was being hunted through England by the merciless troops of Oliver Cromwell, Elsworth Falcon had recognized and, at the risk of his own life, sheltered the exhausted monarch. Charles, not one to accept such loyalty as his due, had rewarded Elsworth with a ring taken from his own hand, and after the restoration had bestowed on him the splendid estate of Ashleigh in Sussex. The family had prospered, and when the London house was built King Charles' ring had been mounted in a glass box displayed beneath a portrait of the "Merry Monarch" that hung in the suite reserved for very important guests.

It was to this luxurious apartment that James Morris had been tenderly carried after the duel. And it was here that Falcon waited, silent and seemingly invisible to all who passed by. He had stationed himself in an alcove of the corridor outside the King Charles suite, and when the door opened could hear Gwendolyn murmuring comfort, or Katrina's soft weeping. The case clock in the lower hall announced the hour, and he was dully surprised to count eleven chimes. He'd thought it was long past midnight. The clock ticked on and he watched the quiet procession of solemn-faced footmen and tearful maids as they carried away bowls or brought up steaming copper ewers or medical supplies.

And with each one that came, he thought, "Thank God! He's not dead yet! Stay alive, Jamie! Don't die!"

Again and again he relived the events of this disastrous night, trying to understand what had happened. He'd been feverish at its start, because of the wound in his arm; he had drunk more wine than was his habit; he had been in a quarrelsome mood because— Well, never mind that. The thing was that he'd allowed his temper to get the best of him. His wretched temper. But there was no excuse. He should never have forced Jamie into a duel when he was in such a condition. If only the moon hadn't gone out, or that drifting fog hadn't—

A hand touched his shoulder, and he shrank instinctively.

Tummet bent over him. "It's nigh two o'clock, sir. You'd oughta—"

"Don't be ridiculous! It just struck eleven! How can—" But even as he spoke, he heard the twin chimes. He hadn't slept! Hadn't closed his eyes, he would swear! Yet three hours had slipped away. He thought, "My dear Lord! Am I quite mad?"

Tummet had said "sir." How grateful he would have been for a "mate" or "Guv." Anything but that "sir"—so formal and proper. And cold. And how different the man looked with the twinkle banished from the beady eyes, the mouth set in that stern and unfamiliar line.

He asked wearily, "How is he? Has Knight come yet?"

Tummet stared at him. "Sir Jim come at once. Stopped and spoke to you. Don't you remember?"

"If I remembered, would I have asked?" He could have bitten his tongue the moment he spoke. He had no right to use such a tone. Not he, who was such a poor excuse for a human being. He must learn humility. If Jamie died he'd have murdered one of the best men who ever lived. A man he'd come to be as fond of as—as the brother he'd never had. If Jamie died, he'd never forgive himself any more than Trina would forgive him. Or—the Smallest Rossiter. He sighed heavily. She'd be free of him. She already was free of him, for the look she'd directed at him, and those three scornful words, had spoken volumes.

He jerked away as a hand touched his brow. Tummet was gone. Sir James Knight straightened and said brusquely, "He has no fever. What gave you that notion?"

Peregrine Cranford said rather lamely, "He was behaving in an—odd sort of way all evening. I thought perhaps…"

"You are too kind. He don't deserve such consideration." Knight looked at Falcon as he might regard a slug that had crawled onto his surgical knife. "Do you wish that I look at that arm, sir?"

Falcon stood and said quietly, "No. I am perfectly well, I thank you."

Sir James snorted. "Which is more than one could say for your latest victim. You'd best set Tummet to pack your portmanteau, sir. An extended stay in foreign parts is indicated."

Falcon felt sick. As from a great distance he heard himself ask, "What—what d'you mean? Are you saying—"

"I am saying, you murderous idiot," said Sir James harshly, "that you need have no more worries. The very fine young man you have seen fit to destroy in the prime of his life will never marry your sister."

Crushed with grief and remorse, Falcon bowed his head and half-whispered, "He's—gone?"

"I doubt he'll last the night out. Even if he does, he'll never walk again. Congratulations, sir! You have opened my eyes. Like a perfect fool, I never thought you really warranted what men said of you. Till now!"

Some indeterminate time later, Tummet said, "Sir?"

Falcon looked up, vaguely surprised to find that he still stood here, and that Tummet was watching him in an aghast fashion. He said dully, "Yes?"

"The lieutenant's asking for you."

Falcon cringed inwardly. He couldn't go in there and face poor Jamie. And the terrible loathing that would glare at him from Trina's dear eyes. And—Gwen… ! Well, he must, that's all. This, he supposed, was what was meant by one of Jamie's oft used old proverbs, "He who calls the tune must pay the piper." He had called the tune, God forgive him! A dance of death! And the piper must be paid. He straightened his shoulders and walked across the small parlour and into the sick room.

The bedchamber was dim, a single candlestick on one of the chests of drawers providing the only illumination. Two chairs were drawn close to the right side of the bed. Katrina was asleep in one, a blanket spread over her. She was pale, her face ravaged and dark circles under her eyes. Coming up on the other side he did not look directly at Gwendolyn, but he could feel her eyes on him. A nurse had withdrawn to the window seat, and watched, a silent faceless silhouette.

He had to force his feet to carry him closer, and the sight of the wounded man was like a blow to the heart. Jamie looked already dead. He lay on his back, arms at his sides, and his eyes shut. Save for the freckles his face was without colour, even his lips were pallid. "He looks so young," thought Falcon achingly, and bending over that still figure murmured, "Jamie, Jamie! If only I could make you understand! I didn't want her—or you—to go through what—"

Morris stirred slightly. He coughed, a thin painful sound, then looked up, panting distressfully.

Dropping to one knee beside the bed, Falcon said, "Jamie— I am so
very
sorry! Please believe that had it not been for the moon disappearing so suddenly, and that damnable fog rolling in from nowhere— But I never
never
meant to—"

The hand on the coverlet, so strong just a few hours since, moved feebly. Incredibly, the pale lips were twitching into the shadow of a smile, more wounding than the vilest curses. Stricken, Falcon took that helpless hand and held it between both of his own.

'Tried… tell 'em," Morris whispered. "Not—not y'fault I… slipped."

He was gasping for breath. Gwendolyn called softly, and the nurse hurried to wipe a damp cloth across her patient's lips. "That's enough, if you please," she said, with a cold glance at Falcon.

Morris' head moved in agitation. "No! Must listen… Find her… good man, Lord—Lord Haughty-Snort. Are… some about, y'know. Let her have… chance at… happiness…"

His head tossed and he coughed again, then groaned.

The cloth the nurse held was crimson. She said sharply, "Go, sir! Go!"

Falcon stumbled to the door and, blinded by tears, groped for the handle.

Outside, Tummet saw his face. A moment, he watched the erratic stumble along the corridor. Then, "Cor!" he muttered, and guided his "guv'nor" to his own apartments.