The Mandarin of Mayfair (36 page)

"No, ma'am. Sir Owen refused to bring charges 'gainst you. London still knows you only as Maria Benevento."

Miss Barthelemy's ruddy lower lip dropped, and her eyes opened very wide. She clasped her hands prayerfully, and whispered, "He did this? Ah, can it be so? My gallant
mon homme, comme il faut
!"

"Quite so," agreed Gwendolyn. "Sir Owen is a fine—"

Maria caught at her arm tempestuously. "You do not understand!
Il y va de sa vie
!"

"
All
our lives are at stake! We are even now trying to find August Falcon. If you know where they meet, I implore you—"

Horrified, Maria exclaimed, "They have him? Ah,
mon Dieu
, but they hate him! If I knew where he was I would tell you, I swear this! I have been watching Falcon House and I hear there is a terrible tragedy. And then, at last, this morning I have seen you, and we follow,
mon Petite
and me. Are you going to search for Monsieur Falcon?"

"Yes. At Buckler Castle, for—"

"No, no!" Maria shook her head. "It is not there where they meet. This I
do
know. And now I beg of you—how may I find Owen? He must be warned not to go to the party!"

Gwendolyn stared in mystification. "Party? What party? I do not understand."

"Then you must warn your brother. All of them. The party, it is not—" Her eyes had moved past Gwendolyn. A look of fear came into them and she gave a little gasp and stopped speaking.

Gwendolyn followed her gaze. Ostlers were running to change the team of an arriving coach, and a lady who had been calling to her coachman was in the act of drawing back inside the carriage. There was nothing else to be seen that might have alarmed Maria, but when Gwendolyn turned the girl was hurrying off. Following quickly, she called, "Wait! Pray do not go away, Miss Barthelemy."

"I must. I dare not— She must not see me." Maria walked on, her little dog prancing ahead happily.

Gwendolyn ran to put a detaining hand on her arm. It was shaken off. The French girl said low and urgently, "
There
is one who can help you! But be very careful. Go. Talk to her!" And she was gone, almost running in her anxiety to get away.

Gwendolyn stared after her. "
There
is one who can help you… ?" Bewildered, she hurried across the yard.

The ostlers were leading off the team of the luxurious coach. As she approached, the window was lowered and a familiar voice called her name. Astonished, she said, "Mrs. Haverley!" and thought, "Now why on earth should I 'be very careful' of this gentle little soul?"

A footman swung open the door, and a neat maid alighted, curtsied to Gwendolyn, and went into the posting-house. Hector Kadenworthy's aunt said, "Get in, please do, my dear. I cannot take my face out in public at this moment. Oh, how glad I am to see someone I know! Do pray sit here beside me. I declare I am quite… distracted!"

To prove this declaration, she drew a damp handkerchief from her muff and dabbed at her tears. She clearly had been weeping for some time, for her eyes were red and swollen and she was trembling, her hands never still. Even at such a moment however, her breeding did not desert her and she enquired politely if Miss Rossiter was well, and if she travelled alone.

"My servant accompanies me, ma'am." By all the rules of correct behaviour Gwendolyn should now do her utmost to calm the lady and turn her thoughts from what had upset her. But Maria's warning compelled her to ignore correct behaviour, and she said, "Never mind that. Whatever has so distressed you?" She glanced up the road. "Does his lordship ride escort?"

"No." Mrs. Haverley bit her lip, and made an obvious effort to control her emotions. "How is your father? I trust—"

Gwendolyn took her hand. "My dear friend, what is wrong?"

Mrs. Haverley's face crumpled and she burst into tears. "Oh, Miss Rossiter, I—I am so fearful! I have n-never seen H-Hector like this." She emerged from her handkerchief and said jerkily, "Always, the dear boy had a—a rather quick temper and—a tendency to a sharp tongue. Though
never
with me! Never!"

"No, of course not, for he loves you dearly. But whatever has happened to throw you into such distress? Is Lord Kadenworthy ill?"

"No—and yet I think he must be. In his mind, at least. But I must not talk of—of private troubles. You will think me very silly. Now—"

"I think you need someone to talk to," said Gwendolyn, overcoming her scruples ruthlessly. " 'Tis such a coincidence that we should chance to meet here. But perhaps 'tis not. Perhaps I was meant to be here so as to—to comfort you, ma'am. And you surely know I am not one to gossip."

Mrs. Haverley tried to smother a sob, and the dam burst. She said, "I have never known him to—to drink to such excess, or to talk so wildly, and with so little—
sense
! Oh, but I am not making sense either, am I?" She drew a hand across her brow, and said in great distress, " 'Tis just that—I do not know what to
do
!"

"There, there." Her nephew had evidently come home over the oar, and what that had to do with herself was past understanding. Yet Maria had seemed so very frightened. Holding the older woman's trembling hand again, Gwendolyn said soothingly, "Men are so troublesome, are they not? Is it that Lord Hector came home last evening in a—perhaps inebriated condition?"

"No! Not then! And I don't know why, but
whenever
he goes there he returns in a black humour, so I was a little anxious and waited up for him."

"Goes—where, ma'am?"

"To an inn called The Quarter Deck. 'Tis somewhere near Guildford, I believe, though I am not sure exactly where, and at all events he doesn't stay there but hires a horse and rides off again. Which of itself seems odd. And I only know that much because the coachman is walking out with my maid, and—" She sighed, shook her head and lapsed into silence.

Gwendolyn said gently, "Ah. An affair of the heart, perhaps?"

"No, no! I know about those, and— Oh, but never mind. The thing is that last night Hector came home in the most dreadful rage. Joe Coachman told my woman that his lordship had been thrown, but it must have been into a puddle, for his clothes were all muddied and he had the most dreadful gash on his head. Perhaps that is why—" Again her voice trailed off and her eyes became remote.

"Why, then I expect you have your answer, ma'am. A blow on the head can—"

"Can cause a man to close up his house? To tell me to go back to London and start packing anything I wanted to take with me? To walk the floor all night long, drinking that dreadful brandy and mumbling and swearing and saying the most hideous things about black holes and rats, and—and murders?"

"Good gracious! That does sound alarming. Could it, do you suppose, be a fever? Did you call his physician?"

"No, for he would have none of it, and kept saying 'twas not his health but his common-sense that had betrayed him. And he seemed not to notice that I was even there, but ranted on and on making half-finished remarks like—oh, that he should have got out long ago. In August, I think he said. And foul smells, and—"

Gwendolyn's ears had perked up. She interrupted, "Your pardon, but might he rather have been speaking of Mr. August Falcon?"

"What? Oh, no, no! And why Neville should have given his son a month for a name, I shall never understand, but he was always a rattle-brain, you know. 'Twas something that had
happened
, in some hideous place. Hector kept saying that, only with the most dreadful language! And he said that he might as well be—be
dead
! And that he had brought it on himself, and we must go away, because they—whoever
they
may be!—had lied in their teeth! And—Oh, Miss Rossiter, I do not
want
to go away, unless it could be back to my loved Cornwall! But he speaks of—of the
Americas
! Away from everything and everyone we know! And—oh dear, oh dear! I am too
old
to start all over again!" Having come to the end of which bewildering recitation, she burst into tears once more.

Gwendolyn's heart was beating very fast. She made an effort to comfort the lady, and murmured, "Never worry so, poor soul. Chances are 'twas the drink talking and by the time your nephew comes to join you— I suppose he intends to meet you in Town?"

Mrs. Haverley's head jerked up. "So he said!" she cried hysterically. "But I wonder— Miss Rossiter, he was so— almost
crazed
! I dread to say it but—but I fear he—he may intend to—to do away with himself! Oh, my poor, poor Pen! Always so good and—"

Gwendolyn's heart seemed to stop. She caught Mrs. Haverley by the arm and demanded, "
What
did you call him?"

"Pen." Mrs. Haverley blinked at her wonderingly. " 'Tis a childish nickname. I told you that when he was small he could not pronounce words properly. He could never say Penzance when people asked him where he lived, and they would laugh and say 'twas not 'pen' but Penzance, and the child would become enraged and shout 'Pen! Pen!' So it became a nickname. Why, some of his friends call him that to this day." She smiled nostalgically. "I remember once…"

Gwendolyn scarcely heard the rest of that reminiscence. Her heart was pounding, her mind racing wildly. She had seen Maria Barthelemy driving away from Overlake Lodge with a man called "Pen." He had appeared to be a very large individual, and Kadenworthy was slender, but he was tall and a many-caped cloak tended to exaggerate a man's size. August had said that Mr. Penn was a member of the League. Was it possible that 'twas not a surname, but a nickname? If that were so, then Lord Hector Kadenworthy must be a traitor, which did not seem likely. August and Gideon liked the man, and why would someone of great wealth and possessions seek to destroy the system under which he was so happily endowed? And, yet, down through history rich and influential men had rebelled against the status quo. Certainly, the coincidences were too strong to be dismissed, and she'd always suspected that Lord Kadenworthy could be ruthless. Furthermore, he had been in the great house at the fete and had probably enjoyed a glass of wine with his "friend" August. And August's erratic behaviour had started that very night. How easy 'twould have been for a friend, trusted and above suspicion, to slip a drug into his wineglass, just as Tummet suspected.

"Miss Rossiter?" Mrs. Haverley's tearful eyes were peering at her anxiously. "Are you all right?"

"I—er, I beg your pardon, ma'am. I was trying to think how to help. Is Lord Hector still in Epsom? Perhaps, were I to go down and see him—"

"How kind of you, my dear. But—he won't let you in. The knocker is already off the door."

There were advantages, thought Gwendolyn, to having a former burglar acting as one's coachman!

Falcon was awakened by another stab of pain; in his wrist this time. With a shout of mingled revulsion and terror he jerked his hand away. His voice was hoarse now and didn't seem to scare them off as much as it had at first and once again he was sickened by the horror of feeling them all around him, of knowing that if his movements startled them their sharp teeth or claws would sink into his flesh.

He was still on his knees, and had dozed off while leaning against the wall and trying to compose a prayer. He had not been much in the way of praying, but he prayed now, with all his heart. "Dearest Grandmama Natasha—I know I deserve to be punished, but
please
ask—Him, or—or one of the saints you've met, to help me find a way out! Not just for me, dearest, though I'm… very afraid. But if I don't get out, you know, my father and my sister, and my dearest love, will either perish by the ax, or starve! And the rest of those fine men and their families, also. And they don't deserve such a terrible fate. You know that, Grandmama!" He added a postscript to his prayer, requesting that Natasha would kindly take care of poor Jamie, who would likely not know his way about up there.

It was appalling to
realize
that he should have allowed his eyes to close for an instant. But he was so tired, and it was ever more hard to breathe. Green had warned him with great jollity to remain as still as possible so as to preserve his supply of air, but—the devil with that! Did they expect him to lie down and let the rats gnaw on him while he slowly smothered? He was shamed by the memory of having come perilously close to abandoning hope before he'd found the gift from his beloved. It had made him laugh, rather hysterical laughter unfortunately, when he'd remembered how she had begged him at the Fete not to open it at that particular moment. He'd forgotten the gift and had discovered it when the candle was almost gone and he'd been searching the great pockets of his coat in a frenzy of desperation to find something to burn before all light vanished from this ghastly cell.

He'd been overjoyed to find the small flat box, and more overjoyed when he realized what it contained. Having succeeded in lighting the first stick of incense he'd found that the pungent aroma did much to drown the foul smells of his prison. And tiny as it was, the glow had heartened him and enabled him to cling to his sanity through the long nightmarish hours since the candle died. He'd stumbled about until he found the bowl on the alcove and had begun to scrape and chip away at the crumbling mortar below it, reasoning that the locking mechanism must be somewhere inside. The work had proven hard on his hands, and on his knees, and a jeering little voice whispered that even if he loosened the block it would likely only grant him a glimpse of the outer darkness. But there was the hope that if he could come at the locking device he might win to freedom! Freedom and fresh air, and a chance—please God!—to warn his father and his friends of the pit yawning at their feet, and perhaps to also prevent the murders of the Prince and Princess of Wales!

He ran his fingers along the shallow groove that was the result of his hours of scraping. He didn't seem to have accomplished very much and the prospects for success seemed faint indeed. But the Smallest Rossiter and Grandmama Natasha had given him the miracle of hope, and to that hope he would cling for so long as his strength and his lungs and his mind prevailed.