Time's Fool (39 page)

Collington:

Lady Lutonville will be released when Gideon Rossiter returns the two icons he stole. Alone, and at the earliest possible moment, he must bring the icons to the Duck and Mermaid Inn, which lies one mile south of Gravesend, on the Maidstone Road. When he arrives, he will go to the room which has been reserved in his name, and there await instructions.

If you fail to persuade him to this, or if anyone follows, or accompanies him to the inn, you must accept full responsibility for the result.

It has been necessary to confine your daughter in an old house which is in exceeding poor condition. 'Tis remarkable that it has not yet burned down. It could catch fire at any minute.

How sad if such a rare beauty should meet so tragic an end.

I trust it is unnecessary to warn you that any attempt to contact the authorities will be fatal. For the lady.

There will be no further communication.

You have until midnight, Sunday.

Through a moment of total silence Rossiter stood perfectly still, his face a white enigmatic mask.

Collington rasped, “Well, sir? Well? I hope you know what 'tis all about, for by the Lord Harry—I do not! Where are these icons you stole? And what d'you mean to do about it?”

As one in a dream, Rossiter reached out. Falcon handed him the sheet of paper and Rossiter scanned it, noting the crude printing, the lack of any direction or signature. He folded it neatly and deliberately, but they all saw his hand tremble.

“I mean to find her, sir,” he said.

Collington snatched the letter and brandished it wildly. “Damme, sir! I demand to be told—”

Already striding from the room, Rossiter flung over his shoulder, “The moment I learn anything, you will be informed, sir.”

Following him, Morris asked quietly, “Derrydene's, Ross?”

“No,” said Rossiter. “Snow Hill.”

Twenty minutes later Wilson opened the front door in his stately fashion, then sprang aside as seven gentlemen rushed past him.

Running to the stairs, Gideon shouted, “Is Sir Mark at home, Wilson?”

“He is gone, sir. To the—er, Horse Guards, I believe.”

“Has Tummet returned?”

“No, sir.”

Gideon raced on, Morris close behind him.

Falcon threw a disgusted glance around the hall and demanded, “Where is the dining room?”

Wilson gestured. “There, sir. Would you wish to—”

“Bring a luncheon. For all of us.”

“But—sir,” Wilson's chin sagged. “I doubt the chef can cook—”

“I don't mean a hot luncheon, you fool! Anything you can get here within five minutes. And wine.”

“B-But, sir! I must—”

“At—once!” said Falcon in a tone that brooked no argument.

Wilson fled.

Flinging open the door to his bedchamber, Gideon strode to the desk.

Morris said, “Then you mean to hand them over? You ain't going to search for her first?”

Gideon wrenched at the drawer and took out the box in which he'd placed the two jewelled men. “If 'twas Katrina Falcon, what would you do?”

Morris shuddered. “Lord! It don't bear think—”

A choking exclamation cut off his words.

His face ashen, Rossiter was staring down at the large pebble he had unwrapped. “Dear God!” he whispered, and tore open the second small wrapping. Another pebble fell into his hand.

Bewildered, Morris gasped, “But—I
saw
you wrap 'em up! You must have the wrong box, dear boy.”

Not answering, Gideon continued to gaze blindly at the pebbles in his hand. Then, “That mercenary little
hound
!” he whispered between his teeth, and sprinted for the door, his expression so savage that Morris stared after him, aghast.

Comprehension came then, and with it, dismay. “Lord help us,” muttered the lieutenant, and ran into the hall.

Newby's room was a shambles, with clothes strewn about, drawers left open, the presses half empty. Gideon tugged at the bell pull, then rummaged through the piled articles atop the chest of drawers while Morris watched in silence.

A maid ran in. Her eyes reflecting astonishment at the condition of the room, she dropped a curtsy and asked shyly, “Your wish, sir?”

Gideon turned, breathing hard, his eyes narrowed slits of rage. “Mr. Newby. Did he leave with my father?”

“No, sir.” Retreating a step, she stammered, “Mr. er, Newby woke up feeling unwell, and—and Sir Mark drove out alone.”

“I see. But my brother's health improved later, correct?”

“Yes, sir. Mr. Delatouche said Mr. Newby thought the waters at Bath might help him. And so Mr. Newby went there. And he took Mr. Delatouche along of him.”

Morris saw Gideon's knuckles gleam white as he clung to the top of the chest of drawers, but his voice was calm when he asked, “And you have not heard from Sir Mark since early this morning?”

“Oh, yes, sir. We have. Come to think of it, it was just afore Mr. Newby left. Sir Mark sent round for a change of clothes. The lackey what come says as Sir Mark and General Underhill found out they's related in a distant way, and Sir Mark is invited to overnight with the general.”

Gideon stared at her blankly.

“Dash it all,” said Morris, “but you're a good little gal. Tell me now, did Mr. Newby not leave any word for his father that he was going away?”

The maid blushed. “I can't say, sir. But I did see a letter on Sir Mark's bed, like it might've—” She broke off with a startled squeal and ran aside as Gideon plunged for the door.

“'Pon my word,” she exclaimed. “The captain seems a mite upset, sir, I do hope as nothing's wrong?”

Morris sighed. “'Fraid Captain Rossiter's been storing milk in a sieve,” he said ruefully, and hastened after his friend.

The maid stared after him, wishing she might see the day that Captain Rossiter spent one second messing about with milk—in anything!

Morris entered Sir Mark's bedchamber, and halted, his apprehension justified. Gideon knelt beside the bed, head bowed onto his arms and a crumpled sheet of paper in one clenched hand.

“My poor fellow,” said Morris gently, bending over him.

Gideon did not move. “He's … taken them…” His voice was muffled and shaking. “He says … he's off to the New World. My God!” His voice broke on what sounded suspiciously like a sob.

Horrified by such an unnerving display of emotion, Morris sat on the bed and patted Rossiter's bowed shoulder awkwardly. “Do you think he's gone to that collector fellow? Kendall-thingummy, wasn't it?”

A silence. Then Rossiter said dully, “I have loved her—all my life … But I went off, like a perfect fool, and—and left her. I threw away six … precious years. I keep remembering her at Emerald Farm … just the day before yesterday. The way she looked at me, with her pretty mouth trying so hard not to—not to weep … and how her voice trembled when she—she said she would not love me again. ‘I will not let you hurt me,' she said. And—” His voice rose to a cry of agony. “God help me, but I've hurt her! I'd better have died than—than hurt her again!” His clenched fists beat at the bed. Racked, he bowed lower.

“What a disgusting display,” drawled a contemptuous voice from the door.

Scowling, Morris jerked around. “Leave him be, Falcon. He's suffered a great shock, is all.”

“Shock, my Aunt Maria! He suffers from lack of spine, more like!”

Rossiter raised his head and put shaking hands over his face. “Yes,” he whispered. “I never knew, you see … what 'twas like to be … so afraid. If—if they harm her…”

“Well, much you are doing to prevent it! I came up to wash and find a clean shirt. An you can command some trace of gumption, I'd also like to see these famous icons.”

Rossiter dragged himself to his feet, and turned around.

Morris stared, shocked. This strong man with the splendid battle record, who had so bravely endured his long and painful hospital sojourn, had in just a few minutes been shattered not by a physical thing, but by the terrible hand of grief. He was shaking visibly, his face was haggard and deathly pale, a dazed look of pain in his eyes made it hard to meet them, and there were deep lines between his brows and beside his mouth.

“They're—gone.” Rossiter held out his brother's note.

“What?”
Falcon snatched it, read, and swore furiously. “That slithering little bastard! Where has he run to?”

Rossiter put an unsteady hand to his temple. “I—cannot seem to—to think.”

Seizing him by the cravat, Falcon snarled, “Wake up, damn you!” Infuriated, he drew back his hand. It was caught in an iron grip, and Morris said angrily, “You'll just make it worse. Did you never love anything, Falcon? Any
lady
?”

“Yes, I did, damn you!” Wrenching free, Falcon said, “If my sister had been made off with by some stinking swine, I'd not be sitting here whimpering, I can tell you! And considering he loves her so blasted much, 'tis a pity he didn't remember it whilst he was cavorting about with his lightskirts in Holland!”

“Is no good to water last year's cabbages.”

Taken offstride, Falcon stared at him. “Why the
devil
are you babbling about cabbages?”

Morris' lip curled in disgust. “One cannot expect a man with all your
nous
to understand a simple simile!” He flung up one hand. “No,” he said with rare dignity, “I'll not come to cuffs with you now. Only try not to be such a fool! Go and get your shirt. Gideon's room is the end door on the right. I'll take him downstairs. After he's put some food and brandy inside him, he'll likely come to himself.”

For a moment Falcon looked more inclined to do bloody murder than to follow this sensible suggestion, but he ground his teeth, muttered darkly about a “day of reckoning,” and took himself off.

Morris put his arm across Gideon's shoulders. “Come along, my poor fellow. Lord, but you're shaking like a leaf.”

His teeth chattering, Gideon said, “I'm so—cold … Jamie.”

“Yes, dear boy, and small wonder. You came home torn to rags, and in no case for what has been levelled at you here. I vow you'd have had a better chance at recovery had you gone back to the Regiment! Come—we'll find something to warm your innards, and you'll feel more the thing in no time. I only wish Tummet was here. He'd know—”

“Tummet!”
Gideon's head jerked up. His eyes brightened, and a faint flush showed on his drawn cheeks. Gripping Morris by the shoulders, he said vehemently, “Of course! Tummet! That rascal's hot after them, I'll wager! If all else fails, he'll be able to tell us where they've taken her!”

It was then five minutes past twelve o'clock, Saturday afternoon.

*   *   *

“Lookit all this 'ere muck! A man might think as 'is 'igh and mightiness would've kept it clean!”

“Aye. A daft mon might think that, Billy lad! Can ye no juist picture the grrreat mon hissel', squatting on his noble haunches tae gather up old sacks and rubbish? And for why should he? He didnae invite the bonnie lassie tae drink a dish o'tea wi' him!”

A laugh went up, and the first voice grumbled, “Orl right, Mac. Orl right. Laugh. But you'd best 'ave a care wi' the candles. One spark and this ruin'll be a perishin' bonfire afore we're ready!”

A constant creaking and thumping from somewhere outside made it difficult to hear what was said downstairs, but that ominous snatch of conversation penetrated the veil of sleep. Naomi opened her eyes very wide and began to remember.

When these ruffians had ridden between her and Gwendolyn she'd thought for an instant that they were either very rude individuals, or some friends playing a trick on her. That momentary bewilderment ended when a strong arm had swept about her shoulders, a hand had clamped over her mouth, and a harsh voice had warned that if she made a fuss her friend would be killed. Unable to see whether Gwendolyn was also held captive, she'd had no choice but to submit, scarcely able to believe that this was happening in broad daylight.

A carriage had waited at the edge of the park. As once before, she'd been tossed unceremoniously inside, but this time two hooded men had seized her in brutal hands, to quiet her struggles and gag and tie her. A foul-smelling hood had been dragged over her head, and, blinded, torn between rage and terror, she had been driven away. The ropes hurt her wrists; bounced about on the seats, listening to the coarse jests of her captors, she was scarcely able to breathe, and her mouth had felt dry as sand by the time they stopped somewhere. The hood was taken off and the gag removed. A big man sat opposite, and there were others on each side of her, all wearing those terrifying hoods. Curtains were drawn across the carriage windows, but she'd heard bird songs and thought they were somewhere in amongst trees.

The man opposite had said, “Don't you scream now, milady. No one wouldn't hear you. 'Sides, we don't mean you no harm, long as you behave.” Her immediate attempt to speak had been foiled by her dry throat. The man on her right thrust a flask at her, saying in a growl of a voice that it was “only lemonade, but we thought you'd like it better'n gin.” She had drunk thirstily and found it sweet and wonderfully cool. But it had been more than lemonade evidently, for she remembered nothing from that moment until she had awoken to find herself being carried up a narrow stair and laid on a cot, her head aching so miserably that she'd been glad to fall asleep again.

Her head was easier now, and she began to look about. She was in a room about nine feet square that smelled of dust and something else she could not quite identify. The walls were of crumbling stone and looked as if they'd never seen paint. Far above was a half-loft, evidently blessed with a window, for the only light came from that area. There was no ladder, however, and without one it might as well have been on the moon for all the hope she had of reaching it. The cot she lay on was positioned against one wall, and the blankets and pillows were clean and sweet smelling. Driven by curiosity, she sat up, and received another surprise. Opposite was a small table on which were a standing mirror, a hairbrush and comb, some copies of
The Spectator,
a Bible, and a book of poetry. Adjacent to the table was a washstand with soap, towels, a bowl and pitcher, and on a nearby chair, a warm dressing gown.