The Mandarin of Mayfair (6 page)

Falcon could guess their thoughts. They didn't understand. How could they? It was very true that there were times when his father would try the patience of a saint. Neville Falcon's marriage had been a disaster into which he'd been pushed by avaricious parents, but never—
never
by the slightest hint had he shown a trace of resentment or the disappointment that would have been natural enough in a proud man saddled with a son whose appearance must be a constant embarrassment to him. To the contrary, August's earliest memory of his father was of being held up as a very small boy and gazed upon with pride. He was as sure as he was sure of anything in this world that his parent still looked at him with pride and with an unshakeable devotion. And if he now and then yearned to strangle the old gentleman, he knew that however profligate his spending, however foolish his behaviour with the ladies, however infuriating the predicaments in which he constantly embroiled himself, the bond between them never had, and never would waver.

Amused, Rossiter said, "That rascal! Which one this time?"

"Heaven knows, and I did not stay to find out. I'd a lot sooner he kept in the country with one of his birds of paradise than be cavorting about Town without a thought for all the mayhem on the streets." He heard Apollo barking somewhere, and glanced to the door expectantly. "I've warned our steward to be on the lookout for intruders and to keep a guard on the house day and night, just in case the Squire again decides to level his guns at Ashleigh. Hello, Chandler. You're late."

Gordon Chandler joined the group. Two and thirty, clean cut, with the bronzed face of the man who spends most of his time outdoors, he was strong-willed and inclined to be stern, but Rossiter had found him loyal and reliable and valued his shrewd common sense. The power of the League of Jewelled Men had been demonstrated to him painfully when the League had launched a murderous and almost successful assault on Lac Brillant, the Chandlers' great estate near Dover. Now a dedicated member of Rossiter's Preservers, he took the chair Falcon pulled up for him, smiled his thanks for a glass of wine, and listened gravely to a brief account of the attack on Morris and Rossiter. "I suppose we may be thankful it was no worse," he said. "Did I hear you say the Squire might
again
level his guns at your sire, August? You're sure then? It wasn't simply an accident?"

"I'm damned sure. My father is a disastrous rider, I admit, but the saddle girth was cut. The League was responsible, all right. As they were responsible for the accident to the coach of Morris' sister, and the destruction of Gideon's Emerald Farm."

"Luckily, m' sister was only bruised, and the children weren't hurt," said Morris. "But I'd give something to get my hands on the bounders!"

Cranford nodded. "Yes, by Jove! What about your farmhouse, Ross? Shall you rebuild?"

"Perhaps. After we've dealt with the League." The cut in Rossiter's arm was troublesome, and he eased his position in the chair, thinking sadly of the beautiful sprawling old house in the Weald that was his legacy from his grandmother. He and his bride had intended to spend much of the year there. Now, it was a charred and pathetic ruin.

Watching him, Morris said sympathetically, "Those filthy bastards have much to answer for."

"Aye," agreed Chandler. "There's not a one of us but has suffered at their hands!"

"And we're only a few of their victims," said Cranford.

"Very true. So we must see to it that they're brought to book!" Rossiter straightened his shoulders. "Let's get to work." He took a paper from his pocket and unfolded it, revealing a rough sketch of England having several circles and X's scattered about. The X's, he explained, indicated properties the League now owned, while the circles represented estates they'd tried, unsuccessfully, to steal. He passed the map to Gordon Chandler. "God alone knows how many more they have that we don't know about."

Chandler glanced at Cranford. "Perry, you were pitchforked into this mess in a rather scrambling way, I believe. If you've questions as we go along, pray shout, and we'll explain."

"The devil!" exclaimed Falcon indignantly. "We did explain! Clearly. Only a blockhead would not have understood. Acquit us, Perry!"

Cranford said with a grin, "If I have it correctly, when first you encountered those scoundrels, you thought they were out to discredit and ruin gentlemen of wealth, power, and influence, and to undermine public trust in government. But you later discovered there was more to the plot and that the League was also after the country estates owned by those same gentlemen."

Chandler nodded. "Their purpose being to use the estates as training or storage facilities."

"Yes, I got that much through my head. I don't quite know how long it took you to realize that the properties were close to strategic military or naval sites."

"Oh, a great time," drawled Falcon ironically. "But our feeble minds at long last contrived to put two and two together. The League was killing two birds with one stone: destroying famous men, and at the same time acquiring sites from which attacks will be launched on vital installations."

"Not if we can prevent it!" Rossiter stood and went to prop his shoulders against the mantel from where he could watch them all. "As you know, we've been successful in stopping three of their attempted estate snatchings. Notably, Glendenning Abbey, near Windsor; Lac Brillant, near Dover; and the Blue Rose Mine at Castle Triad, on the northern coast of Cornwall."

Cranford said hotly, "I think it damnable that the authorities refuse to believe there is anything to connect those events, or that they have anything to do with the League!"

"Why should they?" drawled Falcon, "when they do not believe in the existence of our wretched Squire and his cronies?"

"Well, it occurred to me," Rossiter went on, "that if the League really did mean to use those estates as bases from which they'll launch their attacks, they're not likely to change their plans only because we beat them at their ugly game."

"Burn it!" exclaimed Morris. "D'you think they'll make another try for 'em? We'd best warn old Tio. He nigh lost his head when the League went after Glendenning Abbey!"

Chandler said, "I'd think it more likely for the Squire to set about acquiring other large properties in the same general area."

"I agree!" Falcon's eyes glittered with excitement. "And if we could prove that to be a fact, the dunderheads in Whitehall might at last sit up and take notice, eh?"

Rossiter said, "We can but hope. Now, if you will, give us your report, Perry."

"Ross sent me to Dover," said Cranford, "to sniff about and see what I could learn."

Chandler interposed frowningly, "Why not send me, Gideon? I know the Dover area better than Perry."

"Yes, and would be recognized at once," said Rossiter.

"Perry was able to wander about and make his enquiries without attracting attention."

"A notable achievement for a man with a peg-leg," murmured Falcon.

"Had you any interest in your fellow man," snapped Cranford, who had a temper, "you might have noticed there are very many ex-soldiers and sailors who lost limbs during the war."

Falcon stood and offered a deep and flourishing bow. "I stand corrected. And apologize for my error. 'Twas not a notable achievement."

They all laughed, and Gordon Chandler threw a handful of nutshells at him. "Addleplot! Have done!"

"But with the best will in the world." Falcon sat down. "Are the results of Perry's wanderings a secret, or are we at some time in the future to learn them?"

Rousing himself, Morris said, " 'He that hath patience, hath fat thrushes for a farthing.' "

The amused gleam vanished from Falcon's eyes. "Why in the name of creation would I want
thrushes
, be they skeletal or obese, you silly block?"

"You may not want 'em, but I'll wager you've got some," argued Morris reasonably. "Down at Ashleigh, at all events, and I'd not wonder—"

Falcon clutched at his thick hair and swore in exasperation.

The other men exchanged grins, and Cranford said, "Well, I found something that sounds extreme suspicious. A fine estate a short distance inland from Folkstone changed hands a couple of months back. The owner was a man in his prime who had not the least intention of selling his lands and was in fact annoyed by several offers, all of which he refused."

"Whereupon," murmured Gordon Chandler, poring over Rossiter's map, "I'll wager he suffered a fatal accident of some kind."

Cranford nodded. "Right you are. His widow was so grieved by her loss that she retired from the world and has entered a nunnery, poor lady. The heir appears to be a wild young Buck. He fell into bad company, took to drink and gaming, and within a month lost the property."

His kind heart touched, Morris shook his head, then held it painfully. "Jove, what a tragedy. So now the League has it?"

"I was unable to get near enough to find out, I'm afraid." Cranford said wryly, "The house itself is remote, and guarded by grim-looking fellows. Each time I tried to gain admission, I was denied. Politely, at first, when I claimed to be a friend of the former owner. Less politely, when I persisted."

Falcon said, " 'Twould certainly seem to confirm your theory, Gideon."

"Yes, but we'll need more than one instance."

Chandler asked, "Is that what Tio's about, Ross?"

"More or less. I sent him down to Bosham on a rather different search, but—"

"But, behold! I am safely come back again!" Viscount Horatio Glendenning had flung open the door and paused on the threshold, a smile on his lips, but a touch of defiance in his green eyes. "And only see who I've brought along."

Sir Owen Furlong was a shadow of the dashing ex-army officer they'd known, with dark shadows under his blue eyes, and a sunken look to the fine features that were marked by the pallor of illness. He leaned heavily on the viscount's strong arm, watching the silenced group apprehensively. "Hold up, Tio," he said. "I shall quite understand if you don't want me, gentlemen. If I hadn't been so—er—"

"Besotted?" supplied Falcon dryly.

Sir Owen's gaunt cheeks flushed, but he admitted, "And gullible. I held in my hand the Agreement between the League and their new French allies, and I let Miss… Barthelemy… take it from me. Thanks to my stupidity we lost our chance not only to prove the existence of the League of Jewelled Men, but—but also to destroy the murderous traitors."

"And the Frenchman. Your lady's famous brother," said Falcon, relentless.

Sir Owen winced, and his voice was not quite steady when he acknowledged, "And Marshal Barthelemy."

Despite his aching head, Morris had been annoyed by this exchange. He had a deep sympathy for the grief Sir Owen had suffered when the lady he loved had shot him down. "Have done, August!" he exclaimed. " 'Milk the cow, but don't pull off the udder!' "

Shouts of laughter broke the tension in the room, and Gideon Rossiter crossed to shake Sir Owen's eagerly extended hand. "Did you really suppose we'd hold you to blame for getting yourself shot trying to take back the Agreement? Lord, but you're a dunce, Owen!"

The other men crowded around, full of reassurances and anxiety that the tall soldier had defied his doctors in going out so soon after being wounded, and in such bitter weather. He was settled into the most comfortable chair, Chandler sketched the attack on Rossiter and Morris, and Falcon came over to offer a glass. "Sherry," he said unsmilingly. "Is that allowed?"

Taking it in an unsteady hand, Sir Owen met those cold blue eyes and said humbly, "I quite agree with you, you know. For your opinion of me."

Falcon shrugged. "I'll not deny I don't admire you." He ignored some irritated murmurs, and carried another glass to the viscount, adding, "Still, I respect courage, and it took plenty of that to bring you here today."

Chandler asked curiously, "Now may we know why you were sent to Bosham, Tio? The League already has Larchwoods, which is close by."

"Aye," answered Lord Glendenning. "But 'tis a comparatively small estate. If the League arms it with a view to attacking Portsmouth, Gideon thinks they must have a much larger base in the area. Which," he added, "they don't, so far as I was able to ascertain."

The map had reached Morris. Peering at it, he muttered, "I can see your reasoning on most of these, Ross. But be dashed if I can understand why the League went to all the trouble to ruin poor Admiral Albertson."

Owen Furlong said quietly, "Peasant Poplars was Albertson's country seat. A large and beautiful estate. The League wanted it, and took it."

Morris said, "And destroyed him, the merciless bastards. But 'tis near Welwyn. Ain't nothing vital or strategic up there."

Falcon looked at his tired face and said gently, "Your brains have fallen asleep, Jamie. Think what runs through Welwyn."

Morris blinked up at him. "Let's see now… Is it the—um, the River Ash?"

"Right," said Gideon. "But more important is the Great North Road. A key artery from London to the north, and would create chaos were it blocked."

Horatio Glendenning took the map. "I see your own country seat is still on here, Gideon. No luck reclaiming it whilst I was away?"

Rossiter's lips tightened. "No, unfortunately." Promontory Point was one of the showplaces of the southland. The League had spun its webs well and Sir Mark Rossiter had been ruined, discredited, and disgraced, his bankruptcy creating a major disaster for hundreds of investors. Gideon and his friends had helped Sir Mark establish his innocence and his financial empire was now well on the way to recovery, but Gideon said bitterly, "Rudi Bracksby, who so
generously
bought the Point to hold it for us till we could afford to buy it back, continues to find legal stumbling blocks to prevent us doing that very thing."

"What would you expect?" drawled Falcon. "Bracksby is one of the Squire's merry men, past doubting. And the League would be stupid to give up a great house and an enormous property located close to the Thames Estuary, and near the Downs, where the fleets gather offshore; to say nought of the naval station at Chatham!"