Ask Me No Questions (12 page)

"Assuredly, sir. If you wish the fresco to remain here."

His jaw dropped slightly. "Do you say it could be moved into the main house? How, Miss Allington? By witchcraft?"

With a smile she admitted she lacked such powers, and seizing this opportunity to impress him, went on, "Still, there are several possibilities. The
a massello
method, for instance, is simply to cut out the entire section of wall and move it to the desired location. There is also a process called stripping, which is rather more chancy. Alternatively, just a thin layer of the wall could be removed, rather than cutting out the entire piece, but again, 'tis chancy, with more risk of disintegration."

"Stap me, but you are prodigious knowledgeable," he exclaimed. "Were I to choose one of the methods you spoke of, could you do the work?"

Her heart sank, and she wished belatedly she had not been so generous with her information. "If you decided to remove the entire section of the wall, I could guide and oversee the stonemasons you would have to employ, and afterwards I could proceed with the restoration. The other techniques I spoke of are too difficult for most restorers, and the masters who developed them guarded their secrets. You would really have to import an expert, sir."

"I admire your honesty," he said with a smile. "I shall tell my son he was quite mist— Er, that is to say, I am more certain than ever that my confidence in you is well justified." He patted her hand. "Now never look so apprehensive. 'Twould be impressive in the house, I grant you, but my fresco shall stay here, where it was intended. And you must commence your work as soon as your tools have been brought to you. Meanwhile, I beg you will come and take a dish of tea with me. You can tell me how you like the cottage."

As she was handed down the steps, Ruth's triumph was shadowed by resentment. Sir Brian's hurriedly cut-off remark made it clear that Mr. Chandler had spoken unkindly of her. What did the nasty creature suspect? That she had inveigled her way into Lac Brillant with some nefarious scheme in mind? Well, it no longer mattered what evil thoughts lurked in the mind of Mr. Gordon Chandler. Sir Brian had forgiven her for the ravaging of his beloved lawn and had given her permission to start work. By the time Mr. Chandler returned, the restoration would be well under way, and even so suspicious a man might have to admit that Mrs.—whoops! That
Miss
Allington knew what she was about!

"I can but hope your sire will not hold me to have set a bad example, Jamie." Gideon Rossiter carried a glass of cognac to the chair occupied by Lieutenant Morris and handed it to his friend. A tall young man, and still too thin, although he was almost recovered from the wounds that had kept him in hospital for a year after the Battle of Lauffeld, Rossiter had been given no choice in the matter of selling out of the army. That Morris now meant to do so, came as a surprise. Returning to his own chair in the sunny withdrawing room of the narrow little London house he shared with his bride, he added, "Or is it that the doctors have certified you unfit?"

The words were teasingly uttered, but Rossiter's grey eyes were keen, aware of which Morris laughed and said, "Never judge me by yourself, my tulip. The great ones at the Horse Guards fairly begged me not to sell out. Truth is…" He hesitated. "I'll own you've set me an example in one way. I'd give a deal to be snug in a cozy little place like this, with—with Katrina Falcon."

Rossiter swirled the brandy in his glass and was silent. He'd begun to hope that Naomi was mistaken and that Morris was over his
tendre
for August Falcon's bewitchingly lovely sister. His bride, it seemed, was right as usual.

Morris shot a sideways glance at him. "I collect you think it a forlorn hope. Well, it ain't. Miss Katrina has become quite fond of me." Rossiter met his eyes gravely and, flushing, he added, "I dare to hope."

"Then I wish you all the luck in the world, old fellow."

"And think I'll need it." Morris sighed. "If only I hadn't put that ball through her miserable brother."

"August rode straight at us with a pistol in his hand. How were we to know he wasn't one of the highwaymen who'd stopped Naomi's coach?"

"Absolutely! Any reasonable man would accept that. Trouble is, Falcon's about as reasonable as Mount Vesuvius. I'll not fight him, Ross. However many times he arranges the damned meeting."

Rossiter said thoughtfully. "You could delope, you know."

"You're mad!" declared Morris, shocked and indignant. "Fire in the air while facing that maniac? What it is, you're eager to attend my last rites!"

"No, really Jamie, it might be better to get it over with. Falcon don't mean to put a period to you, and with the duel behind you, 'twould clear the air and he might look upon you with less—"

"Loathing? Not likely. And despite your generous advice, I ain't eager to let him put a hole in me! If I chose swords, I'd blasted well have to—"

A discreet knock at the door, and Rossiter's new man minced in to offer a silver salver. Rossiter glanced at the card on it. "Show him up, if you please," he said, and after the door closed muttered, "I now have a pompous idiot for my valet!"

"Who has come? Must I take myself off?"

"Gordon Chandler. As if he needed to send in his card. Jupiter, but sometimes I feel like telling Falcon I want Tummet back!"

Morris said with a grin, "I never thought to see the day you'd welcome that uncouth lout."

"That uncouth lout saved Naomi's life, and mine belike."

"Very true." Sobering, Morris nodded. "Then have him back."

'The silly clunch has some notion that now I'm a benedick his rough ways won't do for me. At least, that's what he says. But my sister has the notion that Tummet thinks Falcon needs him."

Morris all but gawked his astonishment. "My apologies to Miss Gwendolyn, but that maniac don't need anyone in this entire world save for Katrina and his father. And he guards the pair of 'em like some savage ogre who—"

"Aha! Caught you talking about me, I see!"

Both men stood to welcome Gordon Chandler. When the greetings were done and he was installed in a comfortable chair with an appropriately filled glass in his hand, he glanced around approvingly. "Nice lodgings, Ross. I didn't know you and Naomi had settled in Bond Street. Thought for sure you'd have moved in with the earl. Especially since that great house of his sits empty while Collington jaunters about—Spain, is it?"

Rossiter and Morris exchanged a swift glance.

Morris said, "This ain't Ross's place, Gordie. Belongs to Owen Furlong. He's letting them stay here."

"Till Emerald Farm is ready for us," said Rossiter. "But how is it that you're back in Town? I thought you intended to rusticate in Kent for a while?"

"I did." Chandler frowned. "I am obliged to hire a new steward. I was at last able to persuade my father to send Durwood packing."

"You've my sympathy," said Rossiter. "Couldn't the registry office send applicants down to you?"

"They could, of course. But—" Chandler's lips tightened. "Oh, I had to be in Town at all events, and I wanted to have a word with you."

Rossiter asked shrewdly, "Nothing wrong, I hope?"

"Several things. But the one that brings me here is a peculiar affair, and I hoped you might be able to enlighten me."

"We are experts in peculiar affairs," said Morris. "Never hesitate, dear boy! Who is she?"

Chandler laughed. "Nothing of that nature, 'pon my word. Have either of you the acquaintance of Trevor Shipley?"

"Heard of the family," said Morris. "Forget what."

"I met him here and there, before I bought my commission," said Rossiter. "Nice fellow. Why?"

Chandler set his glass down. "Trevor and I are friends of long standing, but from one cause or another we've not met this year and more. Last week I chanced to be near their country seat, so I decided to pay a call. It's a fine old place. Larchwoods."

"That strikes a chord," said Morris thoughtfully. "I seem to recall my father mentioning something… Some trouble—no?"

"Would that I knew. I got no farther than the lane. A group of insolent louts crowded me into the ditch, upset my mare, and rode past, howling." Chandler's chin jutted. Frowning at the memory, he went on, "When I reached the lodge, the gates were closed and the same louts were ranged across the drivepath, leering at me like so many filthy Mohocks."

Rossiter asked, "Is that what they were?"

"If so, they're in residence! I was denied admission, told the Shipleys no longer own the estate, and as good as run off!"

"Be damned!" said Morris.

Chandler jerked out of his chair and stamped over to the windows. "You know I am not usually quick to take umbrage."

"Placid as a parson," agreed Rossiter, a smile coming into his eyes. "Until you are provoked. Went back, did you?"

"Yes. I was afraid old Trevor might—" Chandler paused and said awkwardly, "Well, we were school chums, you know. At all events, I rode clear to the north end of the estate and climbed a tree so as to come over the fence. There never used to be one, but there is now. Damned great thing above six feet high, with broken glass on the top."

"Is that what happened to your hand?" asked Morris.

Chandler scowled down at the greenish bruise and said shortly, "No. But—"

He was interrupted by a sudden cacophany of deep-throated barking mingled with shrill shouts, a man's deep laughter, and a slamming door.

"That'll be Falcon," said Rossiter, with a wry look at Morris.

Arming himself with a heavy vase, Morris said, "He's brought that blasted hound!"

"Well, well, well," drawled August Falcon, opening the door and checking on the threshold to survey them languidly. "A distinguished gathering, indeed. Is this why your blockish servant wanted me to send up a card? I'll go away if I'm
de trop"

Rossiter went over to shake his hand. "Have you murdered the poor fellow?"

"Probably has," said Morris, still clutching the vase.

"No need. Apollo barked at him and he decamped. At speed. If you've decided to fight me at long last, Morris, I care not for your choice of weapons."

Morris put down the vase. "And I care not for your confounded brute."

Falcon acknowledged Chandler's polite greeting with a careless nod and wandered to a chair. "Tremble not, Sir Galahad. Apollo is taking Miss Rossiter for a walk."

"My sister came with you?" asked Rossiter, handing Falcon a glass of cognac.

"We met on your steps and having done his duty by your man, Apollo commandeered her. Which she quite deserves, since she chose to ruin his character by teaching him how to play. Marriage agrees with you, Ross. Almost, you begin to resemble a living being."

Rossiter grinned and bowed low.

Resorting to his quizzing glass, Falcon aimed it at Chandler. "Who convinced you to powder your curly locks? Do I detect the fine hand of a lady? Truly, you must be enchanted, but capitulation before wedlock is fatal, I warn you."

His face a little red, Chandler returned to his chair. "Much you know of it. For all your
affaires de coeur
I've yet to hear of your becoming so much as mildly interested in a lady."

"An I am only mildly interested,
mon ami
, I do not enter into an
affaire
. And 'tis
because
of my—er, excursions into the realm of
l'amour
that I avoid marriage like the plague." Falcon sipped his cognac and added airily, "Which it is, and I would expound on the subject save that you're likely too besotted to heed the voice of wisdom."

"The only exposition I require from you, Falcon," snapped Chandler, "is on quite another subject."

"But—how intriguing," said Falcon with a chuckle. "Our pedantic peer presumptive hath a touch of choler. What ails you, my Buck? Love? Or liver?"

"Since my father is a baronet, I am never likely to become a peer. As I'd think even you would know!"

"
Even
me…" Falcon watched the lazy swing of his quizzing glass and said with his cynical half-smile, "Even—the Mandarin. Is that what you mean?" His beauteous grandmother had been the product of a marriage between a Russian princess and a Chinese mandarin and, knowing how deeply he was despised by London's
haut ton
because of his mixed blood, Falcon knew also that this was the name that was applied to him behind his back.

Rossiter's amusement faded. "Oh, have done, man! Gordie meant nothing of the kind."

Chandler said stiffly, "He knows that perfectly well. He seeks to pinch at me as he does poor Morris. But you'll not turn me aside, Falcon. I'll have an accounting, or—"

"That's the ticket," said Morris enthusiastically. "Give him one of your famous set-downs."

"Do not interrupt the adults," said Falcon, brightening as he always did when arranging a fight. "I do believe Chandler means to call me out. I will oblige you with all the goodwill in the world, my poor fool. Swords, or pistols?"

"Best have both, Chandler," advised Morris.

Rossiter laughed.

Falcon said agreeably, "By all means. Sword in one fist, pistol in't'other, and a dagger 'twixt your teeth, an you desire. Is all one to me. Though I must attend to Morris first, to which end—"

"Well, 'tis not all one to me," interposed Rossiter. "What a fellow you are, August, to come roaring in and spoil our civilised discussion with your ferocities. Chandler was telling us of an odd affair at Trevor Shipley's country seat." He gave a brief recounting of the episode, at the end of which Falcon murmured, "Pray do not leave me in suspense. Surely the intrepid Chandler was not daunted by a mere fence? Having scaled it, I hope he taught them a lesson?"

Chandler fixed him with a level stare.

"Pay him no heed, Gordie," advised Morris. "His tongue is so sour he takes very little coffee with his sugar."

"Peace, children," said Rossiter, with a touch of asperity. "Will you tell us what did happen, Gordon?"

Chandler did not at once answer. Then, reverting to his usual cool manner, he said, "I think I am neither a bravo nor a fool. I will not run from reasonable odds, but seventy to one—no."