Time's Fool (18 page)

Mr. Gordon Chandler, quietly attractive in a dark red velvet coat, the cuffs and pocket flaps rich with silver thread, brought my lady a plate of delicacies and implored that she allow him to escort her to the Glendenning Ball, since Falcon was indisposed. Mr. Alfred Harrier, a plump and fashionably pale youth of great fortune and a slight lisp, held a cup of iced punch ready should the beauty desire it, and pronounced Chandler a pirate, villainously attempting to steal the lady away from him.

“Alas, I am unmasked!” Chandler's rare smile lit his rather grave features. “Only see how you unnerve me, Lady Naomi! I am so distracted by your beauty as to commit social solecisms, and I dare not guess how my sire will react does he hear of it! Simple kindness demands that you restore my shattered nerves by accompanying me to Tio's hop.”

“Hop!” Naomi chided him with the familiarity of lifelong friendship. “Fie, Gordie! I think Bowers-Malden would not smile to hear his ball referred to in such a way.”

“You do right to refuse Chandler,” exclaimed Mr. Harrier. “He was so dull as to not exert himself to discover which gown you meant to wear today! I, on the other hand, made discreet enquiries, and thus was able to match my colours to your own, fair goddess! Such devotion surely must be rewarded!”

He was indeed clad in shades of blue, and although jeering cries arose from the gentlemen, Naomi agreed that he must be rewarded, and carefully detaching a tiny white rose from her corsage, passed it to him.

Mr. Harrier received the dainty flower ecstatically, kissed it, and placed it amid the curls of the very high French wig, which did little to conceal his lack of stature.

At once, Naomi was beset by anxious enquiries as to whether this meant she was promised to attend the ball with Harrier.

“No, really, gentlemen,” she protested, laughing. “I am promised to Mr. Falcon, who vows he means to come.”

Lord Sommers, large, ruddy-complected, and unfailingly good-natured, grumbled, “Blister the fellow! I'd heard he would be laid down upon his bed for a month at least.”

“Did you, begad?” A very tall young man whose quizzing glass was a vital necessity, peered at Naomi through it, and asked, “Is't that bad, ma'am? The highwayman—what?”

“Indirectly, Duke,” answered Naomi. “Falcon was mistaken for one when Captain Rossiter and his friend came to our aid.”

Sommers pursed his lips. “Rossiter has enough to answer for without he must frighten one of London's fairest flowers and shoot down—”

“No, no, my lord!” interrupted Naomi. “In all fairness I must own that Rossiter was not the culprit.”

“Only see how generous is the dear soul,” lisped Mr. Harrier. “To defend him in spite of—” He received a strong nudge in the ribs, and floundering, turned a bright pink.

Naomi took refuge behind her fan, eyelashes demurely lowered.

Known for his stubborn nature, and loyal to an old friend, Chandler argued, “I fancy Rossiter needs no defence. He'd have no hand in such a fiasco.”

“Then 'tis one of few things that cannot be laid at the Rossiters' door,” growled Sommers.

“Gideon Rossiter denies 'em,” argued Mr. Harrier. “Faith, but he denies 'em all over Town. Long and loud. Making a regular cake of himself with his questions and investigations. M'father says gentlemen are bolting their doors 'gainst him!”

“Good gracious,” said Naomi. “He has been in England barely a week. What is it he questions?”

The duke waved his quizzing glass. “Everything, dear lady. Seems to be trying to prove his ignoble papa was innocent of all wrongdoing.”

The scornful laughter that greeted this remark was interrupted by a new voice.

“And all England united in a gigantic plot 'gainst Sir Mark, eh?”

The younger gentlemen laughed, and fell back respectfully.

Surprised, Naomi turned to face the newcomer. The great panniers of her skirts were as cumbersome as they were fashionable, but she handled them expertly, and dropped a graceful curtsy. “Papa! I had thought you meant to remain in Kent.”

Resplendent in purple and gold, the earl smiled and bent to kiss her forehead. “I don't tell you all my secrets, child. Do you enjoy a pleasant stay with your friends?”

He looked amiable enough, but Naomi watched him warily. “Thank you, yes. And you, sir?”

“I was obliged to come into Town, and guessed I might find you here. Come—I'll have a word with you.”

“No, really, Collington,” protested the short-sighted duke. “Your lovely daughter has not yet chosen her escort for the Glendenning Ball. Come now, my lady. You know Falcon is too ill to attend. Spare our torment.”

“Really, I cannot,” Naomi answered with a smile. “But—an I find Mr. Falcon unimproved when I return this evening, I will choose my escort—tomorrow.”

Another concerted groan. Chandler called, “When, Lady Naomi? Where?”

The earl was leading her away. Over her shoulder she called, “At the Dowling Soiree. I shall throw my flowers, and the gentleman who catches them may escort me to the ball.”

This pleased them with its suggestion of sport, and a babble of comment arose.

Amused, the earl guided her through the crowded room. “You are quite the Toast, child. I dare swear you may take your pick among 'em.”

“Oh, they are silly boys,” she said lightly. They turned into the wide corridor, and she added, “I am surprised to find you here, sir.”

“Truth to tell,
I
was surprised when you left Collington so—ah, precipitately.” He smiled down at her and opened the door to an ante room. “Did I frighten you away with my bad humours?”

Naomi made her way to a loveseat and sat amid billows of taffeta, wondering why he was really here, and dreading lest he demand that she return to Collington Manor and meet the “fine gentleman” who was “slavering” to lay his riches at her feet. “I do not frighten easily, Papa,” she declared bravely. “But I'll own you seemed somewhat overset.”

He wandered to the hearth and inspected the Grecian urn placed before the empty grate. “If I was, m'dear, 'twas not by reason of a lost chess piece.” He turned to face her, his eyes grave. “That was vexing, I'll own, but 'tis not every day one's child is attacked by rascally rank riders. I have writ to Captain Rossiter expressing my gratitude for his intervention—however clumsily achieved. I—er, trust this was appropriate…?”

“I do not follow you, sir. How could it be inappropriate? Because of the injury to August Falcon?”

“Not at all. However, your footman believed you to have been upset when you left Promontory Point on Tuesday. If young Rossiter dared annoy you…”

Her colour rising, Naomi said, “He did not annoy me, sir. He infuriated me!”

“Did he now,” murmured the earl. “You will favour me by having nothing more to do with him. As to his friend, besides shooting down Falcon, for which I really cannot fault him, would you say he was of some assistance to you?”

“Besides shooting down Falcon, for which I shall not forgive him,” she said, her angry eyes challenging his mocking ones, “I suppose he helped—yes.”

“Escorted you home, I understand. Which was likely quite out of his path. Any soldier returning to England desires to reach home as soon as maybe.”

She shrugged. “I did not ask such a sacrifice of him.”

“Even so, I collect I must send him a note also. You said his name was—Moore?”

“Morris, Papa. Lieutenant James Morris.”

“Alas, memory fails me. Morris … I believe there is a prominent Cornwall family of that name. I wonder…?”

“I seem to recall Rossiter mentioned something about the lieutenant going on to Sevenoaks.”

“Is that so? Then I shall have no difficulty in learning his direction. Now tell me of young Falcon. He will recover?”

Naomi looked at him steadily. “His death would grieve you, sir?”

“Not in the least. Save that I'd prefer not to be involved in the way of it.”

“Then you may be at ease. August took a ball in his arm. A flesh wound merely. He would be recovered by now, save that he stubbornly persisted in returning to London before he was able to withstand the journey, and the following day must ride with me, whereby he took a fever.”

“Typical. And since the fair Katrina is devoted to her firebrand brother, you mean to stay by her through this—ordeal, eh?”

“For the time being, sir.”

Collington smiled. “You do not ask if I approve. You know what my answer would be. They are indeed fortunate that a lady of your position recognizes them in public.”

“Pon rep, sir! Did you not remark the number of highly born gentlemen who appear to have no difficulty recognizing Miss Falcon?”

“Ah, yes. But with entirely different motives, I suspect. And much as I enjoy sparring with you, I must take my leave. Farewell, child. Pray embrace no further disasters.”

Naomi's taut nerves relaxed. Thank heaven! He meant to go without taxing her about marriage. Walking with him to the door, she said, “Truly, I am sorry about your loss, Papa. 'Twas vastly careless in me.”

He looked at her with upraised brows. “Loss?”

“Your chess piece.”

“Ah, yes. I think that is best forgot. Is provoking to think that some uncouth rank rider, or a yokel with no appreciation of its antiquity, likely found it. But there. What use to cry over spilt milk? Adieu. Do not stay too long from Kent. We miss you.”

He patted her cheek, smiled with rare warmth, and was gone.

*   *   *

There was a haze in the air on this Tuesday morning, and the sunlight was diffused so that her beams fell softly upon London's countless chimney pots, towers, and domes. Gideon stood at the window of the book room, contemplating the scene thoughtfully. A warm little hand crept into his own. He turned, smiling down at Gwendolyn's bright face.

“Are you thinking how different is the prospect?” she asked. “From that of Rossiter Court, I mean? The hill gives us a fine view, Gideon.”

He bent to press a kiss on her forehead. “Which is one thing to be said for it, eh little one? No, I was thinking of my father's—er—”

“Obsession?” Newby closed the door behind him and sauntered across the room. “I wonder you waste your time with such balderdash.” He embraced his sister and said smilingly, “Do not encourage him, my poppet.”

Gideon pulled out a chair for her, and Gwendolyn sat down and said with a sigh, “I wish I
might
offer some encouragement. 'Twould be passing wonderful to find we were not really responsible for so much grief and tragedy.”

“
We
are not, love.” Newby disposed himself languidly against the edge of the reference table. “Our inept old gentleman is. And my heroic brother would do well to employ his mind to the avoidance of prosecution rather than try to sniff out a non-existent band of dastardly conspirators. No—use your wits do, Gideon! Why in the devil would anyone go to so much trouble and expense? 'Tis not as if there were vast fortunes to be made from this catastrophe.”

“I would call one hundred thousand pounds a vast fortune,” interposed Gwendolyn indignantly.

“Yes, dear,” said Gideon. “But that was stolen by one rascal. Most expertly. Where was the need for all the rest of it? I think that's what Newby means.”

“Your brilliance, dear twin, is dazzling,” sneered Newby.

“And your filial loyalty non-existent. My father is not a blockhead—”

“Just an exceeding maladroit Chairman of the Board? Oh, never give me your pious looks or pretend a devotion you do not feel. Six years ago you could scarce wait to buy yourself a pair of colours so as to get away from him.”

“From his policies, rather.”

“Time proved you right in that, at least.”

“Even so, I never held him to be a fool, and there is a deal too much of coincidence in all this for us to laugh at his suspicions.”

Newby said contemptuously, “As I do? Is that what you say? Then pray tell, dear twin, what you with your
superior
understanding have discovered whilst you puttered about asking questions. You must have succeeded in stirring up somebody. Papa tells me his solicitor is already imploring him to keep you from his door!”

“I called on him, certainly, and learned how much a man may say while saying nothing. I also called on many others. Hiat, for instance—”

“Ah, yes. Our worthy ex-bank manager. Who is ill, or so one is told, and can see nobody.”

“He must have improved, for he saw me. He's a nervous wreck, poor fellow, but said he'd advised against making such large loans when there were rumours the trading company investment was shaky.”

“Upon which our revered sire undoubtedly behaved as though Hiat had spat in a cathedral, since the largest loans were made to his school mates—fine gentlemen of title
et sans reproche.
Unhappily, my father judges men by lineage and schooling instead of by their knowledge and ability. Did you ask the worthy Hiat what the vanishing stockholders had to say?”

“Both Lord Norberly and Sir Louis Derrydene concurred in the loans. I also asked him if he had any suspicion that the failure of the bank and the investment company, the embezzlement, the trading company swindle, and the fire at the shipyards were in some way connected.”

Newby laughed softly. “But how fascinating. We await Hiat's answer with bated breath, do we not, my Gwen?”

“Do not be horrid, Newby,” she said, gently tapping his hand. “Gideon has been trying so hard.”

“I believe he thought I was raving mad,” said Gideon slowly.

“Sensible man. And are you now convinced, twin?”

Frowning, Gideon hesitated. “I'll own that at first I thought Papa's nerves were overset and he was at the brink of a breakdown. But now…” He wandered to the window again, and muttered, “Jupiter, but there's
something,
I think.”