The Mandarin of Mayfair (34 page)

She gave a gasp. "Oh, Tummet! We must
do
something!"

"Yus. I were thinking that p'raps if you was to go to Lord Hayes at East India—"

"I've a better plan! First thing in the morning, we will go and find him!"

He stared at her. "Lord Hayes, Miss Gwen?"

"No, you great silly! Mr. August! Now that Miss Katrina has the lieutenant's sister here to stay with her, I dare leave for a little while." Deep in thought, she pressed her folded hands to her mouth, then said, "Now—this is what I want you to do…"

If it was a dream, it was a very unpleasant one. Falcon had a vague sense of having been hauled about a great deal and of having failed most damnably at a vital task… Something icy cold splashed into his face, and he gasped and opened his eyes. And with a hideous sinking feeling knew that it was not a dream.

He was still in that ghastly, foul-smelling room, half-sitting, half-lying in a chair. Four members of the League of Jewelled Men were gathered on the other side of the table, blurry but identifiable; three seated, one standing, and all watching him, like some hellish jury. Hector, Lord Kadenworthy, sat shivering nearby, wigless, wet, and bedraggled, with Topaz dabbing a bloodied handkerchief at a cut on his head.

The Squire murmured, "Ah, that's better. But you really should make an effort to sit straight, dear August. Like a proper British hero, you know."

Falcon's side felt as if he'd been hit with an ax; and his hurt arm was throbbing again. He managed to haul himself upright, and drawled, "Anything to please you, dear Reggie."

There was a chorus of gasps. Every head jerked to the Squire.

"Never!" exclaimed Lord Green.

"The devil!" whispered Sapphire, clearly aghast.

The Squire leapt up and drove the back of his hand hard across Falcon's mouth. "Damn you!" he snarled furiously. "You always were a marplot!" He wrenched off his mask, revealing the undistinguished features of the man London considered to be a dandified weakling.

Kadenworthy, who had lifted his head, muttered an awed "By God! It really
is
Smythe!"

The room was spinning slowly about Falcon. With an odd sense of detachment he knew that the Squire was saying something, the words echoing and unintelligible. As though ordered, Bracksby stood and removed his head mask. There were a few startled exclamations. Smythe glanced at Falcon. "One shock after another, eh, poor fellow?"

"Oh, no." Falcon could taste blood but his head was clearing, and although his voice was unsteady he made an effort to speak plainly. "We know you all."

"Lying 'breed!" snarled Green.

"And good day to you, dear Hibbard," said Falcon.

At this there was stupefaction. Green lurched to his feet and tore off the hood. His fists clenching, he howled, "Pox on you, Squire! If they know us they're very likely outside at this very minute!"

On a note of hysteria Sapphire shouted, "How 'a God's name did they find this place?"

"Fools!" said Smythe in the icy and inflexible voice that seemed so incongruous coming from him. " 'Tis
of peu d'importance
."

"The devil it is!" argued Green furiously. "I value
my
head!"

"Then use it! Were Lord Hayes, all Rossiter's patriotic idiots, and a full regiment of dragoons surrounding the abbey, they could search forever and not find this room. 'Tis why I chose it!"

"They could find the outer room," Topaz snapped. "And I've no desire to explain my presence here—have you?"

Falcon glanced to the alcove and his heart sank. It was tight shut now.

Kadenworthy put in rather wearily, "They could prove nothing, unless Falcon was with us."

"Precisely," said the Squire. "Which he will not be, of course. Still, I'll own I've no love for this chamber, myself. Though it has served us well." He paused, and smiled at Falcon. "Very well, indeed." He held up his head mask. "We're done with these ugly things. Off with 'em, my friends, or shall we indulge poor Falcon and let him name us?"

"Oh, have done." Topaz reached up to remove the hood. "He already knows I'm a member."

In point of fact, Falcon was astonished as the small "man" with the husky voice became Lady Julia Yerville. They had known she was involved, of course, but he'd not dreamed she was on the ruling committee. Nor, it became evident, had the rest of the group.

Sapphire muttered, "A
woman
? Zounds!"

"Your predecessor, Lord Derrydene, didn't care for it, either," said Smythe. "But Lady Julia has been of great help to us."

"Not to me," said Falcon. "Your cats brought about my downfall, I think, ma'am."

Her smile was brittle. " 'Tis always the little things in life that trip us, eh, Falcon? Were I not fond of cats, you'd not have sneezed and now be—"

"Obliged to fulfil the curse," finished Smythe. "As you said, m'dear—the small things. Such as—a bag of feathers."

"Nonsense," said Falcon, trying not to think of his probable fate.

Sapphire pulled off his mask disclosing a pudgy, florid face, a small mouth and hard little brown eyes. It was not a face Falcon knew well, but memory stirred. "Jupiter!" he thought. "Be dashed if you ain't Geoff Delavale's scheming uncle Joseph Montgomery!"

Sapphire jeered, "Surprised you, didn't I, Mr. Mandarin?"

"Not at all," lied Falcon. "You're one of the cowardly swine who tormented poor Quentin Chandler when he fell into your greedy hands! We knew Smythe had been driven to scour the kennels for recruits!"

The Squire moved very fast to intercept the big man's infuriated lunge at Falcon. "Patience, Montgomery. He has very little time, you know. We'd not want him too battered to appreciate—everything."

Lady Julia sat down in the nearest chair. "And
we've
little time, Reginald. With the door closed the air in here grows ever more foul. The sooner we're out of it, the better."

Bracksby dragged over an extra chair, and they arranged themselves around the table again.

Bracksby asked, "May we hear the whole now, Squire?"

"You may indeed." Smythe proceeded to list their bases and the reports that had been received from the commanders. He spoke at length and with force, referring to the map frequently. Clearly, he had all the facts at his fingertips, and despite his discomfort Falcon listened intently. He very much wanted to hear what Smythe had to say, even if the chance of using his knowledge was slight.

"As I said, gentlemen, our forces already surround the last objective, awaiting only the signal to attack. The first move in the final campaign will take place tomorrow." Smythe grinned and added, "Thanks to your sire's most valued assistance, August."

Falcon's attempt at a laugh was cut off by the immediate stab of pain through his ribs, but he managed a breathless, "Rubbish! My father may not admire the king, but he'd never join a traitorous group like this!"

"Your sire," purred Smythe, "is at this very moment waiting with eager expectancy to play host to—Charles Stuart, the Young Pretender."

Falcon stared at him. Was it possible? Was that why the old gentleman had been so reluctant to come back to Town? He'd always despised the Hanoverian succession, but surely— There was laughter. He realized that he must look as dismayed as he felt. He said scornfully, "I always thought you were short of a sheet, Reggie."

"The Bonnie Prince," said Smythe, "is in England even now, under the escort of several gallant and loyal gentlemen, including his friend Henry Goring, of course, and—
your
friend, Gordon Chandler's Jacobite brother."

Quentin
? 'Twould be just like that reckless madcap to risk returning to England!

Smythe chuckled. "No comment? Then allow me to advise you that there is to be a very secret party at Ashleigh on Thursday evening. Among the guests will be," he paused and listed slowly, "Sir Brian Chandler—the Earl of Bowers-Malden—Sir Mark Rossiter—Mr. Fletcher Morris—Captain Derek Furlong—Mr. Piers Cranford—" He broke off and said apologetically, "Unfortunately, we had to substitute brothers in those last two instances, Sir Owen Furlong's sire being in India, and Peregrine Cranford's parents both deceased. But, all things considered, we did fairly well, I think."

Chilled, Falcon said, "If you expect me to believe that any of those good men would support another Uprising—"

"But not for the world, my poor fellow, would I so mislead you! They were invited to a party that don't exist. Your father will be at his wit's end trying to cope with them while enemies of the Crown stay in his house. The invitations, you see, were sent by
us
, asking that the 'guests' attend a surprise party to honour Gideon Rossiter's brave little band for their efforts 'gainst the wicked League of Jewelled Men!" There was laughter at this. "How could they refuse?" he continued. "The day after tomorrow they'll troop down there. And after they're all arrived, a second troop will call—led by your friend, Colonel Mariner Fotheringay. Oh, 'tis most precisely timed, I do assure you. We've had our fellows packed like sardines into Larchwoods. Directly Fotheringay sets off to the Tower with his famous prisoners, our men make their move, and Ashleigh is ours!"

If what this Bedlamite said was truth, thought Falcon numbly, every one of those fine men would be charged with High Treason! Poor Mr. Fletcher Morris would not attend, of course, for he would by now be grieving his son. But the others would be fairly trapped. He could envision his father facing the horrors of public disgrace and execution. And as for the fate of his beloved and his dear sister… He felt frantic.

Watching his face, Smythe laughed exultantly. "But my dear Mandarin, how very pale you are become! 'Faith! I almost said—'white.' "

Green and Montgomery shouted with mirth.

Kadenworthy looked scornful.

Falcon made an effort to conceal his emotions. "I have never admired you, Smythe, but when I was a boy I'll own I sometimes wondered just what I did to arouse such animosity in you."

"You know perfectly well what you did!" Suddenly, it was as if they were alone here, reliving that undying animosity, and Smythe leaned nearer, his voice charged with loathing. "You dared to bring your Oriental eyes, your half-breed self to
my
school! And instead of behaving with respectful humility as you should have done, you had the
gall
to pretend to be an English gentleman!"

Falcon grinned. "As, for instance, to captain the cricket team?"

"The crowning insult! That they would award that honour to a
mongrel
who should never have been allowed to be enrolled, and who behaved with such filthy damned arrogance!
Gad
!" Smythe's fist slammed on the tabletop. He was flushed, his eyes glittering with the passion of the fanatic. He spat out, " 'Twas unbearable! A deliberate affront to the entire school! I vowed then that someday I'd make you pay—"

"And so you did." Falcon's lip curled. "With words and unspeakable viciousness. For which, as I recall, I—er,
paid you
!"

"Ah, but now 'tis my turn! The last laugh, eh, Mandarin? If you but knew how I long to stay here. To watch you die by inches and laugh at your agony is my right, you cur!"

Somebody coughed in embarrassment.

Smythe realized that he was leaning across the table toward his hated enemy, and that they were all staring, and he drew back.

Lady Julia frowned uneasily.

Kadenworthy drawled, "But how vitriolic, Reginald. Did you tie cans to kittens' tails when you were a lad?"

"I did not!" Smythe said slyly, "I will admit that I once put a dead rat on the pillow of this impudent upstart." His grin widened. "He woke up, nose to nose with it."

A haze blurred Falcon's vision. He launched himself across the table so fast that his hands were on Smythe's throat before the others could restrain him. "
Filth
!" he snarled, but they had him then; and he was torn away and slammed back in the chair and, briefly, out of awareness.

After a while, he could hear Kadenworthy arguing, "… how the arrest of a clutch of traitorous aristocrats will do the thing."

"Of itself, it will not," answered Smythe. "But 'twill create a sensation, you'll own. And while the public is reading of that great scandal in Friday's newspapers, we strike again. On that very day, Prince Frederick and his Princess are to attend a luncheon party with Pitt, which—"

"Which will enrage the King and Queen," said Lady Julia, amused.

Smythe did not care to be interrupted. "Well, in this case, ma'am," he said rather testily, "their Majesties will not be put out, because their son and his wife will never reach the luncheon. As they leave Leicester House, four of our men, posing as officers of the King's Guard, will ride along the street and the Prince and Princess will be assassinated!"

It was all Falcon could do to lie still. Appalled, he heard the aghast exclamations. Reginald Smythe, he decided, was most definitely as mad as a mangle.

"Both of them?" Lady Julia sounded shocked.

His eyes tight-shut, Falcon could all but see Smythe's narrow shoulders lift in a shrug. " 'Twould be more effective, I do believe. Only think, my friends. 'Tis well known that the King and Queen are at daggers drawn with their son. The King both loathes and fears William Pitt, which is precisely why Prince Frederick befriends the man. When he is murdered, apparently by officers of the King's Guard, the news will sweep England that the Prince was slain at his father's orders! That, coupled with the shameful treachery uncovered at Ashleigh on the previous evening, will cause an enormous public outcry throughout the nation which our people will whip to fever pitch, I promise you."

Kadenworthy argued, "It will take weeks for the news to travel throughout the nation."

"Not so! We have couriers already carrying the word. I tell you that by Saturday the country will be in a state of disorder and anarchy! At exactly three o'clock on Saturday afternoon, a mob will storm St. James's Palace. Simultaneously, our forces attack here"—his long bony finger jabbed at the map— "and here… and here, and—"

"And curds and whey!" Falcon pulled his head up, and said as firmly as he could, "Is that really what your masters have told you, Reggie?"