Time's Fool (22 page)

Rossiter hesitated only briefly. Then, he told him about the conspiracy.

*   *   *

After luncheon Gwendolyn took a basket and secaturs into the garden. The sun was bright, but not very warm, and a chilly breeze stirred the weeds and set the tree branches tossing. She limped along the cracked brick pathway to the flowerbeds. Despite the neglect some quite nice roses had managed to grow, and the bright faces of daisies danced to the tune of the breeze. The slight girl put down her basket and hummed softly as she began to gather the best of the blooms.

The early afternoon was quiet, but she could hear a dog barking somewhere; a deep bark. She stopped humming, and sighed. It was the first time there was no dog in her life, and she kept to herself how much she longed for another puppy. She would only have had to hint at it and Newby would have bought her one. But this was not the time. For all she knew, they might wind up in some horrid little garret somewhere. She shivered, then scolded herself. At church on Sunday the vicar had said one should put one's troubles into the hands of the Lord, and she had done that. In fact, the Lord must be getting rather tired of all the troubles this one small family had asked Him to solve. Still, having done so, it showed poor faith to continue to worry.

She inspected the bouquet she had gathered. The daisies made a nice contrast to the brilliance of the roses. She cut some fronds of fern, then carried her basket back to the house.

She was clever at arranging flowers and was quite proud when she carried the vase upstairs and scratched at Gideon's door. There was no response, and she crept inside.

At once she heard male voices. He was out on the balcony with someone. She decided to leave her small gift on his table. He would be pleased when he came in and found them. Dear Gideon was always so grateful for the least little thing that—

“Oh, but that's beastly unfair, Ross! You know very well I have first claim on Falcon! You've no right to meet him before I do!”

Gwendolyn put the vase on the table and stood very still, her breath held in check as the two young men strolled in from the balcony.

Laughing, Gideon said, “
You
shot him by accident, my good dolt. Whereas
I
throttled him quite deliberately.”

“I hope you chose pistols. You're not much good with—” Morris saw Gwendolyn then. “Oh—the deuce!” he exclaimed, turning very red.

Rossiter looked up, froze, then made a fast recover. “What a charming bouquet. For me, cheerful sparrow? I thank you.”

Gwendolyn remained silent and motionless, her eyes accusing him.

“Er—allow me to present my comrade in arms,” he went on hurriedly. “This bruised gentleman is Lieutenant James Morris. Jamie, at last you meet my dear sister, Miss Gwendolyn Rossiter.”

Morris bowed, his embarrassment heightened when his out-flung hand toppled the vase of flowers. Instinctively, Gwendolyn hurried to right it. Gideon had spoken of his sister in such glowing terms that Morris had expected to meet a great beauty. Unprepared for this small crippled girl with the bright but unremarkable face, he hid his surprise gallantly, and murmured an apology.

Gwendolyn was very pale, but she managed to respond politely, then excused herself and left them.

The two men looked at each other.

Rossiter said, “Damn!”

Limping along the hall, Gwendolyn's mind was beginning to function again. The man Gideon was to meet was named Falcon. That must mean August Falcon. She felt cold with fear, but in another instant was raging. How unutterably silly gentlemen were! Here was Gideon, come home from the very jaws of death, and certainly aware of how much he was loved and needed. And instead of being grateful and behaving with some vestige of common sense, what must he do but at once challenge one of the most deadly duellists in all England! What a fool, that she had lovingly collected flowers, when she might better have cracked the vase over his idiotic head!

There was no use appealing to him, of course. Or to Papa, or Newby. They were all afflicted by the same diseases: Masculinity. And that impregnable fortress against which tears, pleading, or common sense could not hope to prevail—the Code of Honour.

*   *   *

“'Elp! Murder!” Mr. Tummet dodged behind a gilded chair in the gracious entry hall of Falcon House, and flailed his tricorne at the snarling muzzle of the big black dog that strove to come at him.

Two footmen ran up. One called, “Here, Apollo! Nice doggie!”

The monster turned, showing an impressive expanse of bared teeth, and the footman jumped back.

His companion said, “I'll fetch Mr. Falcon. Just try not to upset him, mate.”

“Upset 'im?” cried Tummet. “I'd like to—Get away you 'ound of 'ell!”

Apparently annoyed by this appellation, Apollo charged in, barking so that the prisms rattled in the great central chandelier.

Tummet resorted to his tricorne.

So did Apollo.

“Leggo, 'orrid 'ound,” demanded Tummet, hanging on and heaving. “Look what yer doing to me titfer-tat!”

“What the devil…? Apollo! Back, sir! Back!”

Mr. August Falcon stalked across the hall, and the dog gamboled to meet him, shaking Mr. Tummet's tricorne, and growling with the air of a puppy who was only playing.

Falcon appropriated the hat, and when the dog jumped up after it, he struck the animal lightly on the nose with the palm of his hand. “My apologies,” he said crisply, restoring the tricorne to its owner. “My dog is not allowed in this part of the house.”

Tummet eyed the wreckage sadly. “Pity 'e don't know it. I 'spect you think I should be grateful 'e only et me 'at, and not me leg bone, what 'e tried to digest last time I come 'ere.”

Falcon shrugged. “One might think you would learn by experience and keep away.”

“Brung a lady, I did, mate.”

“I did—
what
?” rasped Falcon.

“'Ow do I know what you did?”

Falcon's black brows met over the bridge of his nose. “Impudent dolt! You may call me—‘sir.' Not—‘mate'!”

“Ar,” said Tummet with his villainous grin. “'E don't like it neither. Me employer. Cap'n Gideon Rossiter. I'm 'is valet. Sir. You going to buy me a new titfer-tat?”

The dark blue eyes widened and irascibility gave way to wonderment. “Valet…? I do not believe—Yes, I do, by Jove. Is typical of Rossiter, be damned if it—What the devil is a titfer-tat?”

“A 'at, mate. A dicer. Cor! You Quality coves don't know yer own language! And what abaht the lady?”

Falcon's eyes had become somewhat glassy. Making a recover, he said, “My butler will pay for your—er, dicer. However, you have wasted your time, and shall have to take the lady home again. Miss Falcon was out late last night, and will not receive callers today.”

“She ain't come to see Miss Falcon. Come to see you, ma—er, sir. Which you'd know if you 'ad servants what was trained proper.”

A footman approached, eyeing Apollo warily. “A lady has called to see you, sir.” He proffered a salver with a calling card on it, then jumped back as the dog looked at him.

Still enthralled by Tummet, Falcon said, “Fool. You know the dog won't hurt you.” He glanced at the card and his brows lifted. “A single lady?”

“Miss Rossiter 'as got something of great import to discuss,” said Tummet. “I knows what it is, but it ain't no use offering me bribes and rewards. I ain't gonna say nothing 'bout it. 'Twixt you and 'er, it is.”

This speech left the footman's jaw dangling and his eyes wide with shock.

His own eyes holding a rare twinkle, Falcon started off, the great dog at his heels. “Where have you put her?” he called over his shoulder.

The footman gulped, “In—in the book room, sir.”

Entering that well-appointed chamber, and sternly relegating Apollo to the desolation of the hall, Falcon expected to find Miss Rossiter perched nervously on the edge of a chair. Although she must be aware that it was most decidedly improper for a lady to call on a bachelor, this particular lady, however, was not perched on a chair, nor did she appear nervous. Small and with a look of fine-boned fragility, she stood before a bookcase, examining a volume which she replaced, turning to face him as he closed the door.

He eyed her disinterestedly. There was nothing to distinguish her, aside from the fact that her frank and unmaidenly stare was disconcerting. Her unpowdered hair was a very light brown, drawn back from a rather thin face to fall in curls behind her head. She had Rossiter's well-shaped sensitive mouth, and high forehead, but her eyes, which he thought fairly good, were blue rather than grey. ‘Dull,' he thought, ‘and with neither looks nor charm.' He drawled, “You wished to see me, ma'am?”

Aware that she had been judged and found wanting, Gwendolyn smiled. “If we are to dispense with introductions, may I sit down?”

He had been dealt a scold. Falcon's mouth tightened. He said with cold hauteur, “My apologies. I am August Falcon.”

“Oh, yes. I was in no doubt, you know. 'Tis just that one is supposed to be polite.”

At this, he gave her a sharp look, but her expression was so innocent that he decided she was naive rather than sarcastic. He bowed her to a large armchair. “Pray be seated, ma'am.”

Her limp surprised him. He looked away at once, but she had seen the startled glance, and asked easily, “Did you not know I am lame?”

“No.” Again, she had put him offstride. Irritated, he said, “You apparently know more about me than I know about you, Miss Rossiter.”

“Well, you're famous, aren't you. I mean, everyone talks about you. I was quite looking forward to making your acquaintance.”

He thought, ‘Good God! She's candid enough!' and said with an unpleasant sneer, “I trust you are not disappointed, madam.”

Gwendolyn scanned him thoughtfully.

She should have shown him shyly lowered lashes, and a faint blush, and have wallowed in a tangle of apology and confusion. Her obviously judicial scrutiny was the outside of enough! After a good twenty seconds had dragged by, he enquired, “Would you wish that I turn my head?”

Outside, Apollo gave vent to a long and ear-splitting howl. Waiting until it ceased, “Yes, if you please,” said Gwendolyn sunnily. “To the right.”

Dumbfounded, he gawked at her guileless smile. “Now—'pon my soul, madam! You must have some presumably
sensible
reason for calling?”

“Oh, dear. Have I been rude? I suppose I should have said I am not at all disappointed, and that you are just as handsome as I was told.” She blinked as his frown diminished. “Only I am not very good at making insincere remarks,” she added. “Any more than are you.”

He looked at her as from a great height and murmured, “Indeed? Perhaps you will be so good as to explain my offense.”

“There is none. The fact that you refrain from uttering foolish platitudes is not offensive to me.” Seldom at a loss for words, this left him looking so nonplussed that she appended kindly, “Usually, when people notice I am lame, they say they are sorry. You did not.”

Apollo was howling again. Irritated on two counts, Falcon snapped, “Why should I be sorry? I do not know you, and you do not seem thrown into the dismals by your affliction.”

“Very honest. And, however well meant, spurious sympathy is so provoking and usually spoken more to impress one with the good nature of the speaker, than with a genuine interest and concern. As for my feelings—I should like not to be lame, of course. But I always have been so, and am accustomed to it. After all, 'twould be very much worse an I was suffering, as so many poor souls do. Only…”—briefly, her eyes were very sad—“I should like to have had children.” Looking up, smiling, she said, “Ah, I am boring you.”

Straightening the ruffles at his wrist he answered crushingly, “I expect you will eventually tell me why you came.”

Uncrushed, she said, “'Tis simply that I would be very grateful if you would please not fight my brother with pistols. Oh, I apprehend that ladies are not supposed to know about such things as duels. But I do know. And I do not want Gideon to be killed. He has only just come home.”

“Jupiter, madam! This is most improper! And at all events,” Falcon raised his voice so as to be heard over the grieving hound, “Rossiter had choice of weapons. Not me.”

“That should be ‘not I,'” she corrected kindly. “But if Gideon chose pistols, he is very silly, for they are horrid, deadly things, whereas—”

Bored, he stood. “Be at ease, ma'am. Your brother chose swords.” His eyes glinted maliciously. “Which will avail him nothing.”

“Oh dear! Are you very good?”

He bowed. “Now, if that is all—”

“Is not all! I don't want him killed with a sword, either!”

“Would you suggest we fight with feather dusters, Miss Rossiter?”

“I would suggest you do not fight with anything! 'Tis a very silly custom to have prevailed into modern times, and typifies the male predilection for dramatic displays that solve nothing! You never see ladies behaving in such nonsensical fashion.”

She was really incensed. Amused in spite of himself, he argued, “In point of fact, women
have
gone out! Only—”

“Oh, fiddle! You split hairs, Mr. Falcon. And 'tis most difficult for me to talk to you with your dog howling like that. Can you not keep him quiet?”

“Alas, I am a perpetual disappointment. Apollo wishes to come in. And since you are leaving—”

“Then let him in,” she said, opening her eyes at him.

He hesitated. He really shouldn't, but this ill-mannered, opinionated chit deserved a lesson, and it would certainly get rid of her. “As you wish,” he murmured suavely, and went over to open the door.

A black tornado raced into the room, pounced around his master twice causing the floors to shake, then saw Gwendolyn. The hair stood up across his shoulders. Growling menacingly, he crouched.