The Mandarin of Mayfair (8 page)

This evening Katrina declined her aunt's invitation, on the grounds that she felt as if she might be sickening for a cold, and meant to go early to bed. Mrs. Dudley said indulgently that it was an excellent notion although Katrina never took colds; indeed the entire family was remarkably cold free. She then embarked on a detailed listing of the symptoms of ailments suffered by her wide circle of acquaintances but which had never afflicted herself or her late husband. August listened to this recital with increasing irritation until she paused for breath, whereupon he asked rather brusquely how Miss Gwendolyn meant to pass the evening.

"There are several parties you might enjoy to attend," he said, "and I will gladly escort you, if you wish it. Or—the theater, perhaps?"

His sister looked at him in dismay, but Gwendolyn thanked him politely and said she had promised to read to Katrina.

"Not precisely scintillating entertainment to offer a guest," he drawled, frowning slightly.

"Ah, but dearest Gwendolyn is not just a guest," said Katrina with a fond smile at her friend. "She seems almost part of the family."

"Yes, indeed," trilled Mrs. Falcon. " 'Faith, but I've become so accustomed to seeing her about the house, I vow I don't know how we should go on without her!"

August slanted a grim look at Gwendolyn but was undone by the laughter in her eyes, and made a smiling gesture of capitulation. Serenely unaware of this by-play his aunt launched into another monologue deploring the fact that they entertained so seldom, and saying she could scarce wait till the repairs to the ballroom were completed so that they could give some lovely parties as they had been used to do. Her guests arrived shortly after dinner, and as soon as manners allowed,

Katrina and Gwendolyn said their goodnights and went upstairs.

Falcon had his own plans for the evening, but over Tummet's protestations, he chose not to summon his carriage and sent a lackey out to call up a chair.

"I wonder you don't have fur nightdresses made fer them nags o'yourn," grumbled Tummet, settling a black cloak lined with scarlet satin onto Falcon's shoulders. "They won't fall down in a swoond if they breathe a bitta fog, mate."

"
You'll
fall in a swoon if you persist in calling me 'mate'! And I see no reason to keep my horses standing about in the damp. A chair will do just as well."

"Yus, it won't! You'd be safer in yer own coach, and you knows it! And if you will persist in going out in this muck, you should oughta wear a proper sword. Not that there overgrowed darning needle!"

"If your man's information is reliable," said Falcon, surveying his tall figure critically in the cheval glass, "I'll find Lord Hibbard Green polluting The Madrigal. Do you seriously expect me to walk into a gentleman's club sporting a Colichemarde? I wonder you don't advise that I carry my great-grandfather's Andrea Ferrara!"

"Ar, well that were a sword, that were! I'd a sight sooner see you wiv something to defend yerself, Guv. You know the League's arter you. And a perishing flea-troop like this is just what suits 'em!"

"I wonder what I have done," said Falcon bitterly, "that Providence so punishes me. What with the disgusting maxims constantly hurled at my head by Lieutenant Morris, and the rhyming cant I endure from the rascally hedgebird who masquerades as my valet, my life is dismal indeed!"

Dismal? Tummet shot a critical glance at his employer. Falcon did not look in the least dismal. In fact, he thought resentfully, he'd done very nice with his valetting tonight. The Guv looked a bitta orl right. You couldn't ask fer a better fit than that black velvet coat with silver frogging down the front openings and on the great cuffs of the sleeves. Mechlin lace fell gracefully over his long slender hands, and the throat was enriched by a fiery ruby. The red silk waistcoat was quilted with silver thread. And unlike some valets, he hadn't had to add padded "muscles" to the white satin unmentionables and silver hose; the guv's long legs had an ample supply of the real thing. It had been a joy to shake powder into Falcon's thick black hair, and to arrange it so the ladies woulda bin dropping like flies. He mighta knowed the guv would curl his lip up, and make some unkind remarks about wearing breeches not skirts, so that E. Tummet had been made ('gainst his valetting judgment) to undo the black riband and tie the hair back severe, what had ruined it and made the guv look even more haughty (which he'd said straight out, and been ignored). They'd also disagreed about the silver patch. Mr. E. Tummet, perfessional valet, had give it as his opinion that the patch should be set below the lips. Needed a bit of softening, did that mouth (as he'd also said). But—no, again! The guv had give him one of them looks what turned folk to chopped giblets, and set the patch in place hisself. High on the right cheekbone he'd stuck it, drawing attention to them foreign eyes, deliberate like.

There was a glint in those eyes now, noting which, Tummet grunted and said, "Sorry ma—er, yer Guv-ship. 'Flea-troop' meaning—"

Falcon raised a silencing hand. " 'Pea soup' or not, I'm off, and—
Now
what're you doing? I
have
a pistol in my pocket! Will you stop fussing? Gad, but you're turning into an old woman! What's that?"

"Letter fer you. Sir," said Tummet, offended. "Lad brang it 'round."

Falcon broke the seal and stepped closer to the candelabra. The writing was the product of an educated hand, the message brief:

Words of advice to the unwise Mandarin of Mayfair
:

Never sleep, guard your back, and,

like a craven fool—hide.

Few will weep, alas, alack, but

you'll not see this Yule-tide.

                  S.

Watching him, Tummet asked, "Bad news, Guv?"

"Just nonsense." Falcon shrugged, folded the letter and thrust it into his coat pocket. And with an impatient swirl of his cloak and a brisk, "No need to wait up!" he was out of the room and walking along the corridor with his quick, firm tread, leaving his faithful retainer to voice some bitter predictions on the life expectancy of Mr. August N. K. Falcon.

"The N. K.," Tummet advised the bedpost, "stands fer No Kommon-sense! And if common ain't spelled with a 'K,' mate, it should oughta be!"

Despite his airy dismissal of the note, Falcon was alert as he entered the sedan chair and was borne along the chilly streets. The warning was from the Squire, of course. He uttered a terse command that his bearers not sing tonight, as was their practice. His keen eyes searched the shrouded darkness constantly, and twice his hand flashed to the deep pocket of his coat when passers-by loomed uncomfortably close.

They reached the top of the quiet lane off Bond Street without incident, and he paid off his bearers and wandered along on foot, his stride lazily unhurried, but his every nerve tensed for immediate action. It would be interesting to know whether he was the only recipient of the League's threat—and that it was a very real threat, he had no doubt. "If so, I am honoured," he thought with a sardonic smile, and, for the moment, relegated the matter to the back of his mind.

If Tummet's spy had not erred, Lord Hibbard Green was at this moment in The Madrigal. A gross and bestial creature was his lordship, last encountered in Cornwall three months since. Green had been up to his fat neck in some very murderous business for the League. He'd come damnably close to destroying Johnny Armitage, and for a while it had seemed they all would—

"Buy a pretty posy fer yer lidy, sir. Only a groat, yer lor'ship. I'll make it thrappence, since ye got such a kind smile, sir."

The pleading whine came from a diminutive flower-girl, who hobbled along beside him, clutching an open box in which a shallow pan of water sustained small bunches of blooms tied with gay ribbons.

Falcon, who was not smiling, said, "What the deuce are you about, woman? You should be up in the theater district. You'll get poor pickings here!"

"But, if y'please, yer worship, there's so many flower-sellers over that way. An' I thought some o' you gents might wanta tyke a little present fer yer lidy-loves. Only thruppence. Please, sir."

"Good Lord," muttered Falcon, taking out his purse. "Here—here's your groat. Now get along with—"

He checked. The hand that held out the posy was pitifully small; the fingers protruding from the ends of the dirty mittens, blue, and shaking with cold. She seemed very young, and she limped. He was reminded of the Smallest Rossiter, and felt a pang of sympathy. The Smallest Rossiter was by now cuddled under a warm eiderdown in a soft feather-bed, whereas this poor creature… He looked at her curiously. Her face was half hidden in the folds of a forest green shawl pulled close about her head. He said, "Let's have a look at you," and reached out to tilt up her chin.

By the hazed light of the flambeaux outside The Madrigal, he viewed a very dirty little face, disfigured by sadly crossed eyes and many spots. Greasy wisps of dark hair hung down over her brow, and her hopeful grin revealed three missing teeth.

"Oh, Gad!" he thought. He took the flowers hurriedly, and walked on. But in spite of her unlovely countenance the poor creature had managed a smile. He turned back.

She was watching, and hobbled to him eagerly. "You want another'n, melor'?"

He asked in a voice that would have astounded his acquaintances, "How old are you, child?"

"Seventeen. I think. If y'please, yer honour."

"Well, seventeen is too young for a female to be out and alone after dark."

She said staunchly, "Don't you never worry 'bout me, sir. Me fyce ain't never gonna be me fortune, as they say. But—I thanks ye kindly, yer lor'ship."

Falcon's jaw set. So she hadn't yet learned that there were some predatory animals dressing like gentlemen, who'd not give a tinker's damn whether she had a face at all. "Here." He dropped a gold crown into her tray. "Now get along home. And next time you sell your flowers, do it where there are plenty of other people about."

He walked away, leaving the girl staring down at that small fortune as if frozen with shock. Then, she called, "Oooh… sir…! Oooh… thankee! An' Gawd bless yer lor'ship!"

Not looking back, Falcon waved his posy in farewell. "Poor little chit," he thought. "I wonder what kind of 'home' she goes to. Or if she sleeps under some wretched barrow."

He trod up the steps of the club, and the little flower-girl slipped from his mind as the porter swung open the front door. It was going to be worth something, he thought, to see old Hibbard Green's expression when he confronted the bastard.

The lounge of The Madrigal was a warm and cheery place on this foggy evening. Falcon paused on the threshold and took a quick inventory of those present. A splendid fire blazed on the hearth, and among the members who had succeeded in securing fireside chairs were Mr. Ramsey Talbot and Richard Tyree. Talbot, of ample girth and a rather tired face, was the scion of a noble house and a former Member of Parliament. He was now making a name for himself as a political writer, and despite a reputation for outspokenness he was highly regarded and generally well liked. His favourite niece had married Tyree, an extremely fat young man of middle-class parentage whose quick brain had enabled him to build a comfortable fortune in the maritime world. Talbot's pale and nearsighted eyes peered at Falcon, and he smiled and raised his glass. Bowing in response, Falcon was quite aware that Talbot was inclined to like him, and that Tyree was not. One plus and one minus, he thought carelessly.

In a corner of the room Gilbert Fowles and his cronies were smirking behind their hands. The dandified Fowles was probably a minor member of the League of Jewelled Men, and both hated and feared him. And there, by a potted palm were Colonel Welles, his square face flushed and belligerent as always, and Lord Eckington. The bumptious colonel was a hopeless snob who despised Falcon for his birth. Eckington, however, had a more substantial reason to dislike him.

Falcon chuckled softly, and sauntered across the large room, nosegay in hand, amused by the buzz of excitement that greeted his arrival. As he had expected, the new patch created consternation and several gentlemen sprang up and surrounded him, demanding to inspect his latest contribution to fashion. He answered their questions with cool courtesy and moved on, aware of the less tolerant stares, and of the stifled titters when Sir Delbert Vardy and Mr. Neilsen deliberately turned their aristocratic backs as he approached.

It still stung. 'Faith, but he wondered sometimes if he was mad to endure it. He'd be much wiser to retire to Ashleigh and live peacefully among his country acres, where he would less often have to face scorn and repudiation. It would be a retreat, of course; a bow to those who would gloat that they had forced him out as they'd forced out his grandfather before him. Be damned if he'd give him that satisfaction! And besides, though he loved Ashleigh, he also loved this great city with its theaters and clubs, its teeming thousands, its endless excitements and challenges, even though he knew he would never win the greatest challenge—respect. He thought defiantly, "I am respected, burn it! They respect my fortune, and they fear my sword!" And not even to himself would he admit that his deepest yearning was not to inspire that kind of respect or fear, but to win the same smile that came into men's eyes when they saw Jamie Morris.

As he progressed toward the stairs Lord Cyril Eckington watched him steadily, his hard brown eyes glittering. A luscious wife had dear Cyril. Falcon met the man's baleful and frustrated glare with the amused lift of one eyebrow. Zounds, but the fool hated him. He'd no one to blame but himself, for had he shown his lovely young spouse a scrap of the attention she deserved, she might not have looked elsewhere for affection. He was said to be a good swordsman. Pity he had not the gumption to declare himself.

Eckington glanced from patch to posy, and temptation was strong. When Falcon was safely past, he said to his friend, "How sweet of the Mandarin to deck himself with flowers for our delectation."

There were some chuckles, but Eckington had underestimated his enemy's sense of hearing.