The Mandarin of Mayfair (33 page)

A
drug
? Kade had
drugged
him? His friend… Kade? So that was why he'd felt so—

"A toast!" Topaz rested his hand on Falcon's shoulder and called in that strange, husky voice. "To—the devious—"

Shaken by another explosive sneeze, Falcon could not stop and had to set his glass down and drag out his handkerchief. Perhaps he really had caught a cold. 'Twould not be surprising after lurking about these damned dank ruins for hours on end!

He lowered his handkerchief, and was at once aware that something in the room had changed.

Topaz was standing close beside the Squire, who had risen to his feet, and both were staring at him. The other members were looking at each other uncertainly. The familiar sense of danger made his pulse quicken. He tensed, every muscle ready. The candle—then the door.

Topaz said shrilly, "I demand an unmasking!"

"Our Topaz believes there is a traitor among us," purred the Squire.

They all jumped up in alarm.

"Now!" thought Falcon. With a sweep of his cloak he brought darkness to the room, then sent his chair tumbling and lunged for the door.

The blackness was absolute. Shouts and howls of rage deafened him. Reckless, he collided with the wall, groped along it and found the alcove. It took all his strength to wrench it open an inch or two, but it was done and he was through and breathing cleaner air.

He raced across the outer room. His groping hand touched the table and then the door. Sprinting dangerously and desperately, he thought, "Around the next corner… then wind about till you reach the stairs!" He felt the corner and turned it, then set off in what was, hopefully, the right direction.

Voices were howling fury and confusion. Someone had tumbled over a chair by the sound of it; someone else was roaring for a light; feet came stumbling in pursuit. If he could just get to the outside steps, he might have a chance, but it was so damnably dark.

He ran full tilt into a wall and, falling, flung out an arm instinctively. His fingers touched a stair! Gasping for breath, bruised but elated, he sprang to his feet. With one hand on the wall and the other gripping his pistol, he galloped up the stairs. There had been another turn here—then the wide hall, and the outside door. From the corner of his eye he detected a faint following glow. They were hot after him, and they could see! He muttered breathlessly, "We'll get there, Jamie old lad! We'll get there—yet!" He found the corner and the light behind him was blotted out briefly. The sound wasn't. Lord, how they howled! He must go by instinct now. He moved as swiftly as he dared and suddenly there was a rectangle of less dense blackness off to his left. The door! Praise heaven and Grandmama Natasha! The door! Scarcely daring to believe such luck, he ran straight for it, was through, and taking the outer steps two at a time.

The night air was cold and blessedly clean and threaded by raindrops that touched his brow like a cool caress.

From behind him came a thin nasal scream of, "There he
goes! Shoot
, you fool!
Stop him
!"

It was a voice he knew. A voice that took his breath away. But before his lips had time to form the name, a deeper shadow loomed before him. A mighty club slammed across his ribs driving the air from his lungs and sending him hurtling back down the steps.

Shocks; sudden fierce pain; shouts and a shrill scream; a fading wry amusement because he must have sent them all tumbling like ninepins…

Gwendolyn awoke when Apollo growled and hauled himself to his feet. She had dozed off in the fireside chair in her private parlour. A book lay at her feet and she picked it up and read the title sadly.
Mandarin
—
The Elite Superbly Educated Princes of China
." Tears stung her eyes and she quailed from the all too familiar pang of loss and disillusion.

Someone scratched on the door. A hoarse whisper was half drowned by Apollo's growls, but she heard enough to recognize her evening caller, and ordering the dog to "Lie down!" went to open the door.

The black habit did not become Enoch Tummet, making him look haggard and older. "Might I pop in, Miss? Jest fer a minute like? I know it's late and not proper, but—"

"Don't be silly. This is my parlour, not my bedchamber." She returned to her chair, waved him to the sofa, and watched him expectantly. Well?"

He spread his hands. "Nought, miss. Nigh four days now, and not a word." He searched her face anxiously. "I don't s'pose he's bin in touch wiv you today? No letter nor nothing?"

"No. But—in the circumstances…"

"Yus, Miss. I know."

"You're worrying," she said gently.

He shrugged in a helpless fashion. "Mr. August ain't a easy gent, I know. And there's no denying he's fought a lotta doo-ells. But 'cept fer one time what was forced on him, none of the other parties was left in a bad way. Fact is, they goes 'round boasting 'cause they fought him! I bin wiv the guv a good few months now, and we bin through a thing or three tergether. And I feels like I knows him."

Gwendolyn said nothing.

Slanting a quick glance at her pensive face, he rubbed his big hands on his knees and went on pleadingly, "You know, don'tcha, Miss, that a lotta things Mr. August says is said outta pride, or 'cause he's down-hearted, and not wanting no one to see it. Dead set he always bin 'gainst Miss Katrina wedding the poor Lieutenant, I know. But—this here! It's all
wrong
, Miss Gwen! I see him fight together when we was in Cornwall, and they fight like—like a team. If one of them's in a ticklish spot, t'other's right at his side. I tried to tell the other gents. I dunno if they paid no 'tention. Now I can't find none of 'em. And all this time going by! I don't blame you fer not finding it in yer heart to fergive Mr. August, arter wot he done. But—but I were hoping, seeing as Cap'n Rossiter's yer brother, Miss, well, I thought if
you
was to go to the Cap'n—"

Her heart already over-burdened, Gwendolyn responded rather more sharply than she intended, "And tell him—what? That you're afraid because Mr. Falcon picked up a bag of feathers?" Tummet's rugged features reddened, and she said quickly, "Oh, I'm sorry. I'm afraid I'm rather tired."

"Ar. Well it's been hard on all of us. No doubt o' that."

"No. And you're so good to have faith in him in—in spite of— I didn't mean to be unkind."

"Don't you go worrying yer pretty heart over me, mate. I'm jest a rough sorta cove. And it's truth what you said. That there bag o' feathers is in me dreams o' night! But if you'd seen some of what went on while we was in Cornwall! No 'counting fer it, no how! Only—'tis more'n that, Miss Gwen. 'Tis the way Mr. August were took!"

Confused, Gwendolyn blinked. "Took?"

"Ar. So sudden-like, it were. No matter what people say, me guv's loyal to them as he takes a fancy to. And he'd took a fancy to the Lieutenant, I'd swear it, Miss." He scowled darkly. "That there Fete! That's what done it!"

Gwendolyn said in bewilderment, "Why, we had that horrid accident, but—"

"What weren't no accident," he interpolated grimly. "I went back next day and took a look 'round. That there tree trunk was drug 'crost the road. You could see the marks on the grass still. They
knowed
we was arter 'em!"

"Good heavens! But—but even if that is so, I don't see how—" She fought away the bittersweet memory of strong arms about her; tender words, and those very dear kisses… "Do you mean because he fainted like that?" she asked hurriedly.

"Thing is, Miss Gwen, I don't reckon he did no such thing. I gotta say it without pride, but I've knowed some low persons in me lifetime.
Low
persons! Some what had took to the poppy. And hashish—and wuss!"

Gwendolyn said angrily, "Do you
dare
to imply that Mr. Falcon is in the habit of resorting to drugs?"

"No, Miss Gwen! That I do not! But I seen men as is. And I know the signs. And Mr. August had 'em all! Only I were too thick 'twixt me ear holes to see what were right in front o' me orbs, or glims, as y'might say."

Her heart began to beat faster, and she gripped her hands tightly. "Tell me."

Encouraged, he said,"Well, Miss, you'll remember as Mr. August didn't seem to know what day 'twas arter the accident? Nat'ral enough, sez you. No, sez I.
On
-nat'ral! There wasn't hardly a bump on his noggin, but he slept the clock 'round like a man in one o' them commas, or whatever they call 'em! Burning hot, he were, too, but I thought 'twas all on account o' that bad arm. And—quarrelsome? Cor! Fairly panting ter go out and chop someone inter gobbets, he were. Talking fast and sorta wild. And
still
I never put two and two tergether! Not till I thunk back when it were too late, and recollected that his eyes had looked strange, and he didn't wanta eat nothing. Strike me blue and pink stripes if I wasn't blind like a bat! But—it never come inter me head, y'know."

Trying to find her way through the maze, Gwendolyn whispered, "Do you say that someone deliberately drugged Mr. August?"

Tummet nodded vehemently. "So I do b'lieve, Miss Gwen. And them as done it like as not kept at him, sly-like, talking ugly 'bout the poor lieutenant and Miss Katrina. Egging him on. D'you remember how he kept complaining arter the doo-ell 'bout the fog? There weren't no fog that night! 'Cept inside his head, maybe!"

"And he said that he was knee deep in mud," she muttered. "I thought he was making it up! Trying to excuse what he'd done."

"If I'm right, Miss Gwen, me guv'nor was telling the honest truth—as it seemed to him. I knowed a sailorman once as got took with the poppy—opium, I mean. But then they give him other kindsa things, and he couldn't never get orf 'em, poor cove. And he told me that when he tried ter walk sometimes, that's what it felt like: as if his arms and legs wus very heavy, and he were wading through treacle! Don't y'see, Miss Gwen? It all fits! That there wicked League writ the guv a pome—a horrid thing it were—warning they meant to—to punish him."

"
Châtiment quatre
!" she whispered. Tummet looked puzzled and she said, "It means the fourth punishment. The League threatened to strike at my brother and his friends again. And—what better way than to twist August's mind? To confuse and maneuver him into fighting, and
losing
a duel to the death with— Oh! How horrid! How could
anyone
be so sly and wicked and
evil
?'

"And clever, Miss Gwen," he said, his face very grim. "They could've got rid of two o' their enemies with one blow, 'cause if Mr. August were killed the lieutenant would've had to get outta England quick-like. 'Sides which, them slow-tops at the Horse Guards would be sure to say just what they
is
saying now! That Cap'n Rossiter's Preservers is nothing but a wild lotta bored young 'ristocrats trying to stir up trouble."

Gwendolyn stood and wandered about, wringing her hands. "If we're right, their plan went awry, and yet they still won! August must be distracted with remorse! There's no telling what he may do!"

"I know jest what he'll do, Miss. Go arter 'em! And blaming of hisself fer the poor lieutenant, it'd be jest like him to charge 'em like there was a troop of heavy dragoons follering, 'stead of being all by hisself!"

Gwendolyn gazed at him, her eyes big and frightened in her pale face.

He said somberly, "A grand fighting man is me guv, Miss Gwen. But St. George, he ain't! And the man don't live what could take on that lot singlehanded and live to tell abaht it!"

She dare not dwell on the ramifications of that remark and tried not to give way to panic. "There's no use going to my brother. He and Lord Horatio and Mr. Armitage went to Bristol because of the information Mrs. Quimby gave them. And goodness knows if we could persuade the others to believe us, even if we could find them! 'Twould mean more time lost, and four days have been wasted already! Have you any idea at all where Mr. August may be?"

He hesitated. "I know he was sure that the League did their meetings out at the country house of that crazy lady what were so mad fer him. Lady Buttershaw, I mean, and her sister wot creeps around dressed in white and smiles so sad all the time." He shivered. "Gives me gooseflesh,
she
do!"

"Lady Julia Yerville? Yes, they're a strange pair." Gwendolyn wrinkled her brow. "Sundial Abbey is the country seat of the earls of Yerville. It's in… Surrey, I think. But I heard my brother say that the estate has been watched for months, and nobody we know to be connected with the League ever goes there."

"Ar." Tummet said dolefully, "Well then, that's that, as they say. Who else we got as we're sure of?"

"Mr. Rudolph Bracksby is almost certainly one of the leaders. But again, his estate has been closely watched, with never the least sign of nocturnal activities. Besides, Overlake Lodge marches with my father's country seat, and if the League has been using it as a meeting-place for several years some of our keepers or tenants, or—
somebody
would surely have noticed any late-night activities by this time."

"Hum. Wot abaht that nasty baron who nigh put a period to Cap'n Johnny Armitage in Cornwall? Now there's a gent I'd think were ripe fer secret meetings and all kindsa sticky business."

"Yes, indeed! And we have proof that Lord Hibbard Green is a member of the League. But I thought you had people keeping watch at his estate?"

"We have, mate—er, Miss. And a horrid place it is, that there Buckler Castle, but me spies couldn't find nothing funny going on. On the other hand…" He looked thoughtful. "It's old, Miss Gwen. Awful old. I wouldn't wonder if it's fair riddled with secret passages and crafty ways of going in and out. We know there's dungeons underneath, 'cause his lor'ship kept poor Sir Anthony Farrar dahn there a year or so ago, and treated him very unkind. Another thing we got to take inter account, is that Mr. August cannot abide neither of them Greens. Not his lor'ship, nor Mr. Rafe!"

They looked at each other. Gwendolyn said intensely, "It sounds the most likely place for him to have gone, doesn't it?"

"It do, Miss Gwen! But—four days is four days. Lord Green and Mr. Rafe Green, they got a score to settle wiv Mr. August. What's got me worried is—they might've settled it!"