The Mandarin of Mayfair (29 page)

In the days that followed it seemed to Falcon that he had been relegated to some private hell in which he could neither undo what he had done, nor endure the consequences. Begging to be allowed to help, he was politely refused. Katrina seldom left the bedside, and if she encountered him in the corridors acknowledged by neither word nor look that he existed. To see the sister he adored so utterly reject him was scarcely to be borne, and to know that he deserved such treatment plunged him into despair. When Gwendolyn passed by him she turned her head away and he did not dare address her.

He was allowed to visit Morris for two minutes once a day, but with each visit the condition of the sick man appeared to have worsened, and there was no longer any attempt to smile or to speak.

Morning and evening he waited fearfully for Knight's calls, but the great doctor had little to say to him. When he pleaded to be allowed to go down to Sevenoaks and break the news to Mr. Fletcher Morris, then bring him back to London, Knight looked through him and said that Lieutenant Morris had given strict instructions that his family was not to be notified while there was the faintest hope of recovery. "If it becomes necessary for them to be sent for," he added, "his
friend
, Captain Rossiter, will go and break the news."

Crushed, Falcon retreated.

The members of Rossiter's Preservers called frequently, but Dr. Knight had decreed that in addition to the other "pests" who bothered his patient, only one each day was to be admitted, and they were not to speak, but could wave, or smile, no more.

During these visits they could not fail to see Falcon waiting in his usual corner near the sick room door, but he was, for the most part, ignored. Gideon Rossiter looked at him tight-lipped, his eyes blazing as though he yearned to do bloody murder. Horatio Glendenning and Gordon Chandler would not look at him at all. Jonathan Armitage frowned but at least nodded as he went by, and Peregrine Cranford looked distressed and told him that the news was "all over Town," his expression warning of the kind of reception that awaited Falcon when he showed his face to the
ton
. To his astonishment, the most compassion he received was from Sir Owen Furlong.

Astounded when Furlong stopped beside his chair in the alcove and asked how Katrina went on, he told him, and thanked him humbly for deigning to talk to him.

In his calm fashion Sir Owen said, "Jamie swears 'twas an accident. That he slipped."

"He did. But—I had plenty of time to swing my sword aside."

"Yet did not."

"No." Falcon drew a hand across his brow distractedly. "That is what I cannot understand. It seemed as if I was standing aside, watching it all, but—but caught in a sea of mud and scarce able to move."

"Perry Cranford said you were not yourself all the evening. He thought you had a fever."

"Yes. So did I. But James Knight said I had no fever. So I cannot use that as an excuse."

Sir Owen looked at him thoughtfully. "How is your arm now?"

"As good as new, almost. Owen, 'tis kind in you to be so generous. Dare I ask if you've seen your—your lady?"

"I've not. But," he reached into his waistcoat pocket and took out a note which he passed to Falcon.

It read: "My brave English gentleman. Forgive me. Forgive me. I shall always love you. Maria."

Falcon stared at those words and returning the note, said, "That must be very dear to you. Perhaps, someday, when this is all over…"

"Yes." Sir Owen sighed. "Perhaps, someday."

On Friday, ignoring Tummet's carefully uttered warnings, Falcon left the house. Jonathan Armitage had been engaged to meet with Mrs. Quimby the previous day, and he'd hoped Johnny might stop in at Falcon House and tell him what happened. Only Rossiter had called, however, and he had marched past without "seeing" him and left as icily remote as ever.

Again ignoring Tummet's advice, he called up his new carriage. It was a racy vehicle which had attracted a good deal of attention when first he drove out in it. Lightly built, with oversize wheels for speed, it was a bright maroon red picked out in cream, the interior all cream, the rugs cream with maroon trim, and his initials painted in graceful gold script on the door panels.

"Jest in case," grumbled Tummet, "some friend o' the Squire wiv a cocked barker in his pocket don't reckernize the coach first time his peepers rest on it!" This remark eliciting no response, he enquired, "Is I going?"

"No."

"Is I allowed to know where yer going?"

"I want to have a word with Mr. Armitage. Wherever he may be."

Tummet said, "Ar," and watched the coach out of sight, heavy-hearted. Turning, he found Gwendolyn standing in the open door, also looking after the coach. He joined her and they walked across the hall together.

At the foot of the stairs, she paused and said softly, "Speaking as a friend, not a valet, Tummet—how is he? Do you think he—regrets what he has done?"

He hesitated. "I think as he would do it all over again, Miss Gwen. 'Cause in his eyes, he's pertecting of Miss Katrina. But I don't think he meant the doo-ell to turn out like it done. I think it's tore the heart right outta him."

She nodded, and said sadly, "Yet, even now, he must lie about it."

He frowned a little. "I ain't never heard him do that, Miss Gwen."

"I'd not have believed it, had I not heard it with my own ears. Twice. When he came to see poor Lieutenant Morris after they fought, he tried to excuse himself on the grounds that the moon had disappeared, and that fog had rolled in. You know as well as I that there was a bright full moon all evening, and not a trace of fog. Only yesterday, I overheard him tell Sir Owen Furlong that during the duel his feet were trapped in a sea of mud so that he was unable to move, whereas in fact the grass where they fought was very dense and though it was wet it wasn't at all muddy. Besides, you know how lightning fast he can move when he fences, there was time to spare for him to have retired his blade when he saw Jamie slip. Had he wished—"

"Beg pardin, but hold up a bit, Miss! Let's have that agin, willya? Every single word as you can rec'lect, if you don't mind."

Puzzled, Gwendolyn repeated her remarks. When she finished, Tummet was silent, his craggy face twisted into an horrendous expression of concentration. She asked curiously, "What is it?"

He started. "Eh? Oh—just a bee in the old brainbox. Think it'd be orl right fer me to step out fer a bit, Miss? I'd like to have a word wiv me real guv'nor. Well, me guv what was, as y'might say."

"My brother? Why, yes, of course. I'll speak to Mr. Pearsall. You run along."

She would have been surprised to find that Tummet took her at her word, and did, indeed,
run
along.

"At least," said Hector Kadenworthy, dabbing at the back of Falcon's neck with the wet cloth the host had provided, "it wasn't rotten."

"Thanks be for small mercies." Falcon raised his head and glanced around the sparsely occupied dining room of the

Turk's Head Coffee House. If anyone present had witnessed the collision of the egg with the back of his neck, there were no grins evident. Though that would be hard to verify, since every head was turned away from him. He said grimly, "I'd like to meet the coward who threw it! You run a risk by helping me, Kade."

His lordship shrugged. "I'm not likely to embrace you, I'll own. You're a sight too hot-at-hand, as I've told you before. But I'm not such a fool as to think you deliberately set out to slaughter poor Morris. How does he go on, by the way?"

"The same. Rather—rather hovering… between life and death, I suppose you'd say."

Despite himself, his voice had trembled. Kadenworthy glanced at the haggard face, then said, "Our riotous populace has been busy these past few days. You'll have heard Sommers' coach was overturned in the Strand yesterday?"

"The devil! Ambrose Sommers? Why he's one of the best-liked men in Town."

"Not by some elements, apparently! Night before last, all the ground floor windows of Dowling House were smashed by rock-throwers. Our old London is not the town it was. I wonder you reached here without being set upon."

"More or less. We were surrounded by an unfriendly crowd on Ludgate Hill, but I was recognized." Falcon's smile was fleeting and did not reach his eyes. "My—er, nickname was shouted, and I was given a rousing cheer when some ruffian proclaimed I was on their side, and was helping them to— reduce the aristocratic population."

Kadenworthy was silent for an awkward moment, then said heartily, "So you're on the hunt for some luncheon, are you? You've chosen a good spot. The food here is not too awful."

"Actually, I was hoping to find Armitage. Have you seen him?"

"Not today. Did you try Rossiter's or Furlong's?"

"Both. I'll keep looking."

"Stay and take luncheon first. You look half-starved."

Falcon thanked him, but declined, saying he wasn't hungry. As he left he heard someone remark scornfully, "You've some devilish odd friends, Kade! I'd have thought you liked Jamie Morris too well to hob-nob with the murderous Mandarin."

For the space of a heartbeat Falcon paused on the threshold, then he went out into the windy afternoon. He sent the porter to wave up his carriage, and directed the coachman to Henrietta Street.

Florian, the handsome gypsy youth who served Peregrine Cranford as general factotum, was politely inscrutable, his velvety dark eyes betraying no hint of the admiration that had formerly brightened them when Falcon arrived. Mr. Cranford, he said, was likely to be found at The Madrigal. A pause. "With the other gentlemen."

Falcon met his eyes steadily, and left. The point had been made. They were meeting and he was not invited.

He had never been welcomed with open arms at The Madrigal, but today, apart from the porter and the steward, who looked at him woodenly, everyone he met immediately presented their backs to him. Distant faces became stern as he was recognized, and his progression through the countless backs and the sudden silence in the downstairs lounge was one of the most harrowing experiences of his life. There was a time when he would have flown into a rage and at once challenged the first man to so deliberately cut him. Today, he could only suffer the humiliation without protest and scarcely blame them for such treatment. By calling up a waiter, who dared not ignore him, poor fellow, he discovered that Captain Rossiter and some friends were in one of the upstairs ante rooms. Climbing the stairs, his palms were wet, and he could feel perspiration trickling between his shoulder blades. Three men coming down were chatting gaily until they saw him. Faced with the choice of either going back up again, or being obliged to come close to him as they passed, they stopped dead, their dismayed expressions so ludicrous that he could not resist drawling, "You could always vault the rail, gentlemen."

Instead, single-file they slid past, their noses practically scraping against the wall as they turned their faces away.

Somebody said indignantly, "The gall of the fellow! And poor Morris on his death-bed!"

Falcon's heart contracted painfully, but he walked on keeping his head up somehow.

When he opened the ante room door, Rossiter, Furlong, Gordon Chandler, and Perry Cranford were sitting around a card table, obviously in a high state of excitement. Cranford was saying, "… have to listen to him! If the lady's right, the League has crews working at—"

Rossiter, who faced the door, stiffened and came to his feet. Cranford stopped talking, and heads turned.

They all stood then, staring at Falcon with paling, apprehensive faces.

Rossiter said rather hoarsely, "Is it—has Jamie—"

"No." Falcon closed the door and leaned back against it. "I—hoped you might not mind letting me know what Johnny learned from—"

Chandler said, "Do we have to take this, Ross?"

"As has been said—we need him," said Sir Owen.

Rossiter, of them all closest to Morris, said frigidly, "I believe I once made that remark. But I think England must survive without the aid of Mr. August Falcon. Who knows which of us might be the next to—annoy him?"

Never in his life had he bowed in humility; always his pride had been as a banner he flourished to the world. To plead would be the depth of degradation. But… Falcon drew a quivering breath and his fist clenched so tightly that the fingernails drove into his palm. He said, "Would you accept my word of honour that I had no intention to—"

"To kill the man you'd sworn to destroy?" Chandler said a harsh, "Hah!"

Rossiter said, "If such a declaration came from a less skilled fencer, I might. As it is—I believe I'm not that credulous!"

Falcon could bow no lower. He left, closing the door quietly behind him.

The return down the stairs and through the hostile gathering was nightmarish. It took all his resolution not to panic and run and by the time he was in his carriage he felt limp and had to wipe the sweat from his face. He told the coachman to go straight home, and leaned his head back against the cushions wondering if Jamie yet lived, and if Gideon would demand that Gwendolyn leave Falcon House. It would be better if she did so, he thought wearily, save that at a moment when Katrina was very badly in need of kindness and support, Mrs. Dudley was confined to her bed with a putrid sore throat. The Smallest Rossiter was such a fount of kindliness. Darling little Gwen.

As they turned onto Great Ormond Street a coach was stopping in front of Falcon House. A footman assisted a cloaked lady to alight. The wind blew her hood back, revealing red curls and a look of terror on a plump comely face. A cold hand gripped Falcon's heart. He let down the window and called, "Pull up here, Coachman!"

Katrina ran from the mansion and embraced the new arrival.

So they'd had to call for Jamie's sister. A course he had straitly forbidden unless all hope was gone.

Falcon shrank into the corner. A shaken whisper escaped him. "God forgive me… !"

On the box, George Coachman shivered, and watched the afternoon skies darken.

After a while the front door at Falcon House opened again, and a footman peered out at the stationary vehicle.