The Mandarin of Mayfair (27 page)

He tore his gaze from her grief-stricken face and strode to wrench the door open. With harsh finality he said, "Go back to Rossiter Court, Gwen. To the world you know and where you are respected and more admired than you guess. If you do not, you will give me no choice but to take Katrina to—to India for a year or so!"

"You c-cannot," she gulped, tears beading on her lashes. "You promised m-my brother to help him fight the—the Squire and—"

His nerves in shreds, he snarled, "Be damned to my promise! And be damned to the Squire!"

The door slammed behind him.

"Y'r drunk, August," observed the Marquis of Pencader, peering at Falcon owlishly.

"I am nothing of the kind! What it is, you're a fool, Bertie! Drunk or sober."

"Falcon can't be drunk," argued Lord Kadenworthy, who had been gazing drowsily into the fire in the quiet downstairs lounge of The Madrigal. "Not yet ten o'clock."

Seated next to Sir Owen Furlong, Peregrine Cranford contributed, "Now that's true. Too early. Night's not begun. There's hardly anyone here yet."

Falcon gave him a fulminating look. "Idiot. I won't speak for the rest of you, but I do not count myself a nobody, and I'm here!"

"And spoiling for a quarrel," said Sir Owen coolly. "Do not waste your scowls on me, Falcon. I'll not fight you."

"Your life's too sweet, eh?" sneered Falcon. "What happened? Did your admired would-be murderess rush to your arms once more?"

Sir Owen's jaw set. "If I hadn't promised Ross—"

Kadenworthy interjected hurriedly, "Easy, gentlemen, easy! We're all on edge tonight, because of poor Fowles."

"
Poor
Fowles?" murmured Cranford in Sir Owen's ear. "Poor traitor, more like!"

Kadenworthy stood, took up the bottle of cognac on the table beside Crisp, and went around refilling glasses, pausing beside Sir Owen to murmur, "Perchance 'twill mellow Falcon's mood."

The marquis, who had kept Falcon company since his early arrival at the club, smiled vacuously. "Wazzat 'bout a lady in Owen's arms? Who, you lucky dog? Not the beau'ful Benevento, eh? Heard she was—was back in Town."

"She is," said Sir Owen, his gaze fixed on Falcon's dark face.

Cranford asked, "You've seen her, Owen? Since the other day?"

Sir Owen shook his head. "Unfortunately, no. But 'tis my dearest wish."

Falcon choked over a mouthful of brandy, and laughed rather hilariously. Crisp lurched to his feet and began to pound at his back, and Falcon sprang up and shoved him away. "Let be! And you said
I
was drunk!"

Kadenworthy bent over Cranford's chair and whispered, "Thank the Lord Morris is not here yet! Get him out of here, Perry, else Owen will certainly strangle him."

"Or vice versa. What the deuce ails him?"

"He's in one of his black moods. Heaven knows why, but he's out for blood tonight."

The marquis clutched at a chair-back and blinked at Falcon. "Know that look," he said, waving an accusing finger. "Ain't goin' to meet you 'gain, August. No, no, no! Wastin' y'r time, dear boy!"

Cranford said, "Oh, come on, August. Let's go and find Ross. He may be at White's. The Madrigal's dull as dust tonight."

Falcon stared at him for a frowning moment, then nodded, and they went out together.

Lord Cyril Eckington, who had eavesdropped on their conversation behind his copy of
The Spectator
, left his chair and wandered toward the stairs and the gaming rooms. Drawing level with Furlong, he remarked loudly, "I trust young Cranford's a fair marksman. Your friend the Mandarin's in an unusually foul mood tonight, even for him!"

Furlong said in his cool fashion, "Well acquainted with all his moods, are you, Eckington?"

"I wonder you didn't share a few words with him," drawled Hector Kadenworthy, his scorn apparent.

There were some smothered chuckles. Eckington offered a contemptuous mumble about "impertinent young Bucks" and went huffily on his way.

Proceeding on their own way, Cranford and Falcon had little opportunity for conversation. It was a clear night, the air carrying the chill touch of approaching winter. Despite his peg-leg, Cranford suggested they walk instead of calling up sedan chairs, secretly hoping a brisk stroll would cool Falcon's temper. They skirted a large and angry crowd milling about on Piccadilly, and reached White's to find the members agog with the news of Gilbert Fowles' murder. There were shouted demands for the Horse Guards to "do something" about the increasingly unsafe streets, and several somber references to "revolutionaries."

Falcon shouldered his way through the lounge. He couldn't see Rossiter anywhere, and when he asked Cranford if he could spot him the reply was echoingly unintelligible.

"Speak up, blast you," he snapped. "No need to whisper!"

Cranford caught his arm and pulled him to a halt. "Falcon, are you feeling up to par? You look deuced odd!"

He felt odd. His head was on fire and the room was strangely blurred and colourless and filled with silly individuals whose mission in life seemed to be to annoy him. He shook off Cranford's hand irritably.

From somewhere in the crowd a man laughed and said with unfortunate clarity, "If the Mandarin finds old Morris playing Romeo to Miss Katrina's Juliet, he'll look a sight more than odd!"

Falcon plunged into the throng demanding furiously, "Who said that? Speak your filth to my face, you—you damned craven! Speak up, blast you!"

There was a sudden silence, those near to him drawing away uneasily.

"August!" Cranford tugged at his sleeve and panted, "What a' plague ails you, man? Come—we'd best get home!"

"Aye! Home! And fast! If Jamie Morris is lusting after-after m'sister behind my back, I'll put an end to it—and to him!"

He whirled about and shoved his way through the quieted crowd while men stared after him with varying degrees of contempt or curiosity, and Peregrine Cranford thumped along as fast as his peg-leg would carry him.

The cold outer air was pleasant on Falcon's heated face. He glanced up the street. Fog restricted visibility to about twenty yards.

Shouting for a chair, Cranford hobbled off and was lost from view.

A gleaming light coach pulled into the kennel. A footman swung down and opened the door, and Lord Coombs alighted, drawing his cloak tighter about him.

"Borrow your coach, Coombs," growled Falcon.

It was more a demand than a request, and his lordship protested indignantly, "The deuce! Why should—"

"Emergency!" Falcon pushed him aside and shouted directions to the coachman.

The footman's jaw sagged as he looked from his astonished master to the dangerous Mr. Falcon.

Coombs said grudgingly, "Oh, very well, if 'tis an emergency. But—"

"Spring 'em, dammitall!" howled Falcon, reaching out to slam the door closed. "Spring 'em!"

Peregrine Cranford had just secured an empty chair when he saw the carriage flash past and caught a glimpse of the occupant. "Dear heaven!" he gasped, climbing into the chair. "To Falcon House on Great Ormond Street. As fast as— Hold up!" He leaned from the chair as Newby Rossiter came down the steps of the club, arm in arm with a dandified crony. "Rossiter!" shouted Cranford, gesturing frantically. "Where's your brother?"

Newby sauntered over with maddeningly slow steps and a smile on his handsome face. "Dashed if I know. Why?"

"For the love of God, find him! Tell him to come to Falcon House. Quick!"

Sobering, Newby asked, "Why? What's to do?"

"Tell him 'tis a matter of life and death! Hurry!
Please!"

Newby stared at him, but nodded, and Cranford urged his chairmen on.

Leaning back against the deep cushions of his purloined coach, Falcon closed his eyes, enjoying the rush of icy air from the wide-open windows. Dashed fine coach had his lordship. And a fast team. He felt cooller now, and his head was less muddled. He looked out of the window. No fog here. Must have been very localized. Peculiar, that. The coach was turning onto Great Ormond Street. Already?
Jolly
fast team! They must have sprouted wings. The thought amused him, and he giggled softly and as abruptly scowled. What the devil was he grinning at? His life was in a shambles and, worse, he'd reduced another and most precious life to a shambles. Besides, 'twas foolish to have come rushing home like this. As if Jamie would call on Katrina in such a hole-and-corner fashion. Soul of honour was Jamie… 'gainst his nature to do anything on the sly. Why he'd allowed himself to become so angry was a puzzle. He must, he decided, be more than a little drunk. Logical enough. He'd been drinking most of the afternoon. Usually, though, he knew when he'd had as much as he could handle. And if life had taught him anything it was that liquor didn't drown one's sorrows. If anything, the sorrow became sharper. All liquor did was make a fellow feel like the very—

The coach came to a rocking halt. Somebody let down the steps. Falcon groped for his purse and thrust some coins in the footman's hand, then was striding across the flagway. He paused at the front door and leaned against the wall, drawing in deep breaths to steady himself, but when he reached for the bell it swayed foolishly from side to side. So he must be foxed, even if only slightly. It would not do. He couldn't like either Aunt Dudley or Katrina to see him over the oar. Most of all— the Smallest Rossiter must not— But she'd gone, of course. Couldn't stay here after what he'd said to her. He drew a hand across his eyes, shrinking from another spiteful jab of grief. How empty the house would be without that sunny presence. Like a blasted great mausoleum! He heard a horseman approaching and pulled himself together as he turned to see who was arriving. It was not a caller, however, but a lad walking somebody's horse. He glanced idly at the animal and stood rigidly still, his breath held in check. He'd know that beautiful piece of high-strung tomfoolery anywhere!

He strolled down the steps and as the boy drew level called, "Has Lieutenant Morris been here long?"

" 'Arf an hour, milor'. Give or take. 'Ere 'e is, now, if—"

Morris was coming from the alley beside the house, his head down and his manner despondent.

Falcon gave the boy a shilling and sent him off, then held the reins himself. Waiting.

Windsong recognized her master and whinnied.

Morris looked up, gave a gasp, and recoiled. "What the devil… ?"

"You treacherous hound," said Falcon furiously. "Is this the way you serve me? Creeping about to meet her on the sly when I'm safely out of sight?"

Affronted, Morris answered, "I did not meet her at all, if you want to know! I just like to—to be near her for a little." He flushed and added shyly, "To look up at her windows now and then, you—"

"Like any peeping Tom," sneered Falcon.

Morris' chin came up. He said with unusual hauteur, "I think you know me better than that! And I resent—"

"What you resent is being caught at your slithery tricks! Well, you've been caught fairly, and I warn you—"

"Oh, a pox on your silly warnings! I suppose the truth is that you now find you're caught in the trap of your own making, and you don't like the feeling! Mayhap you'll learn that you're as human as any other fellow."

"I think not," said Falcon silkily. "You see, half-breeds we may be, but at least there are no traitors in my family!" He saw the colour leave Morris' honest face, and added, "Or would you deny that the head of your house is a murderous crony of the Squire and your name dishonoured and—"

"Be damned if I'll take that!" Morris' hand flashed out, the back of it striking Falcon across the mouth so that he reeled back a step.

"Found some gumption at last, have you?" he said, triumphant.

"You may send your seconds to—"

"Seconds—hell! By the time they call on me you'll be yellow as butter again!"

"Damn you, Falcon! I'll fight you any time—anywhere!"

"Then you'll fight me here—and now! Not afraid of the dark, are you?" He led the way around to the back garden and opened the side gate, turning Windsong loose to graze. Swinging off his cloak and tossing it aside, he shrugged out of his coat and waistcoat. "There's a moon, and the flambeaux from the Mount-Durward house throw plenty of light—unless panic is dimming your vision."

Morris gritted his teeth and discarded his own cloak and coat. "You're mad," he grumbled, watching Falcon tear off his shoes. " 'Tis against the law to fight without seconds. Besides, how the devil can I fight you? You've a damn great cut in your arm—"

"And am ten times the swordsman you are with one hand tied behind my back, which should even the odds." Falcon rolled back the lace at his wrists. "Have done with your silly cowardly objections. You've hidden from this fight long enough. Tonight we'll see an end to it, once and for all!" He flexed his sword between his hands, the familiar exhilaration making his blood tingle as he looked about the quiet garden. "You've tripped across this land often enough in your dishonourable pursuit of my sister, but I want no cries of 'foul,' so I'll remind you that there's a low spot in front of the summer house that will likely be soggy. And there's fresh gravel on the walks, so have a care for your feet!"

"A moment," said Morris sternly, as Falcon faced him for the salute. "Let's have this clear, August. I've a fair notion why you're pushing this meeting, and why you're breaking your word to Gideon. I want it understood that if I win, I'll be free to pay my addresses to Katrina."

"If you
win
? For Lord's sake, don't be so stupid!
En garde
!"

Two swords swept into the salute. Two athletic young men, each of whom knew his weapon and the rules, faced each other, one stern and determined, one smilingly confident. And in the chill, moonlit garden the long-postponed duel began.

For a few minutes the blades met in brief and cautious testing, then Morris thrust in
sexte
. Parrying smoothly, and returning the thrust so quickly that Morris barely blocked in time, Falcon chuckled. "The Hungarian school, eh?" he taunted. "I might have known, Jamie. You fight like a soldier." No sooner were the words out of his mouth than he had to deflect a fast following thrust. "Aha!" he said, pleased, as his blade circled warily. "You've been taking lessons!"