Time's Fool (44 page)

Like a flash, Gideon was around the corner. His pistol butt crashed hard against Paddy's head, and the man went down without a sound. His companion whipped around, one hand darting for the knife in his belt, but Gideon's left fist was already whizzing into an uppercut that levelled him before he could raise the alarm.

From inside came a protesting voice. “Wotcher fiddlin' at, Jem? There's dust blowin' inter everythink!”

Bending low under the window, Gideon made a mad dash to the front, positioned himself to the east of the door and cupping his hands about his mouth, turned away, and shouted, “Hey! Bill! Come an'…,” he mumbled indistinctly. “We can't…”

A mumble of cursing and heavy footsteps. The door swung wide and a tall man stamped out, still cursing. Gideon was after him in a lithe spring, his pistol flailing. Bill went down, but Gideon heard a movement behind him. Jerking around, he was in time to see someone jump back inside the mill. He hurled himself at the closing door, smashing it open, sending the retreating man sprawling. A pistol barked deafeningly and pain burned across Gideon's head as he launched himself over the fallen kidnapper, to crash into the young giant who had fired. A howl, and they were down in a threshing struggle. A mighty fist whizzed past Gideon's jaw. With all his strength he rammed home a right that connected squarely beside the ear, and the kidnapper became limp. From the doorway a cultured voice demanded angrily, “What in Hades is going on here? I told you—”

Springing to his feet, Gideon whirled to meet this new threat, and then stood very still.

“Be damned…!” whispered the Earl of Collington.

Momentarily deprived of breath, Gideon recovered himself. “Very likely,” he said contemptuously.

Rough hands seized him, and his arms were wrenched back. A deep voice rumbled, “Sorry, melor. We was—”

“You were too busy guzzling gin to keep your wits about you,” snapped the earl. “Let him go, but keep a pistol trained on him.”

“What a consummate achievement,” drawled Gideon, straightening his ruffles. “To hold your own daughter to ransom.”

The earl spread his handkerchief on a deal table, then leaned against it, all graceful elegance. “You are not astonished, I perceive. Was I too lavish with my grief, perchance?”

“A little. But I was far from sure that you were involved.”

“Still, you suspected. Why? My lost—ah, chess piece?”

“Partly. But one of the ruffians who invaded Promontory Point had lost a finger. Naomi's groom, Camber, has a hand mutilated by an accident. He wore gloves each time I saw him, but he fitted my man's description, and later was seen going into the Derrydene house.”

“Yes.” Collington shook his head and said regretfully, “Poor Derrydene will pay for that bungle, I fancy. Still, I don't see how that led you to connect me with this particular business. And be dashed if I can think how you guessed we had Naomi here.”

“Tummet told me, although he had to resort to rhyming slang. At the time I was not sure whom he feared, but now I recall that you held a pistol, and that Camber stood by me, also with a pistol in his hand.”

The earl nodded. “Astute. I'll own I judged your man delirious. He babbled something about … his daughter's medicine, as I recall.”

“He said ‘daughter—pill.' Which rhymes with ‘water mill.' Information he has by now undoubtedly relayed to others.”

One of the ruffians yelped, “Hi! Do that mean as there'll be Bow Street Runners comin'? If it do, I'm slopin'!”

“You will leave when I tell you and not before,” said the earl in a voice of ice.

The big fellow they called Bill came in, holding his head painfully. His small eyes alighted on Gideon and narrowed. He sprang forward, whipping back his fist.

The earl snapped, “No! We'll have none of that. This is a matter between gentlemen.”

Bill hesitated, glaring in frustrated fury. “I ain't no gent, and I gotta right! Knocked me dahn, 'e did!”

“I do not pay you to be knocked down.”

“You don't pay me 'tall. We're paid by the—”

The earl fixed him with a deadly glare and interposed in a low, rasping voice, “Do not
dare
take that tone to me, animal, else you'll not live long enough to be paid by anyone!”

Bill's eyes dropped. He muttered an apology and snatched at the gin bottle. The man Gideon had knocked down when first he entered had climbed to his feet and also decided to fortify himself with the gin. There was a small tussle, the bottle was sent spinning, and fell, the pale liquor splashing onto the dusty boards to the accompaniment of outraged howls.

“That could as easily have been the lamp,” Gideon pointed out. “A fine set of rogues to entrust with your daughter's life!”

The earl smiled mirthlessly. “As a father, I fear I leave much to be desired. However, although Naomi is a tiresome chit, I do admire her spirit, and I assure you nothing will happen to her. I'd not have resorted to this nonsense save that she was my best hope of inducing you to return the icons.”

“If, for some peculiar reason, your main objective was to destroy my father, I fail to—”

“For some peculiar reason?”
The earl's handsome face twisted into a mask of hatred. “You are your father's heir, Rossiter, and as such have no conception of what 'tis like to be a younger son! That was
my
miserable fate!”

“I really fail to see what your frustration has to do with my—”

“It has to do with your father because
he
caused it!”

Gideon stared at him, baffled. “My
father
caused you to be born a younger son?”

“No, fool! He was my friend, all through our school years.
Such
a good friend! We both were fourteen and my elder brother was escorting us home for the Christmas holidays when our coach was hit by flood waters. Ah, I see you are unaware of the incident. Allow me to enlighten you. My arm was broke and I was barely able to crawl to safety. Vincent was trapped in the coach. And who dived into the flood repeatedly, to save my so dear brother? Who kept his head above water 'til help came? My friend! My damnably courageous, interfering busybody of a friend! Mark
knew
my hopes! He
knew
what Vincent was. It would have been so
easy
for him to stop searching. But—no! Mark Rossiter had to show everyone how brave he was! And so he saved the snivelling cur. And condemned me to a life of purgatory! Living on the niggardly allowance Vincent made me, while
he
gambled away thousands at the tables. Scraping and scrimping to make ends meet for my family. Fighting to keep the estate from going to rack and ruin, while Vincent gave not a button for the old place. When I was sufficiently desperate and appealed to your noble father for help, he was all generosity. So gentle, so patronizing! Damn him! God, how I hated him!”

Appalled, Gideon said softly, “You've an odd sense of values, sir. I can scarce believe that because you held so twisted a grudge you would wipe out the hopes and fortunes of countless innocent—”

“They deserved it, stupid fools.” Collington shrugged. “But there is more to it, of course. Much more.” He smiled a craftily secretive smile. “My particular business happened to fit in nicely. And I must say it went off surprisingly well.”

Gideon thought of his father's haggard, worn face, and had to fight the need to wipe the leer from the earl's lips. He drawled, “But there were more than just your brains behind it, I think. The—Squire's, for instance.”

There was an outburst of alarm from the other men. The earl seemed transfixed, and stood motionless, gawking at Gideon in almost comical consternation. “'Sblood,” he half-whispered. “I think I will find out how you learned that, you curst young puppy! And for a start, I'll take the two jewelled men you stole.” He thrust out his hand. “Now.”

Gideon smiled thinly. “Not now.”

The earl glanced at Bill, and jerked his head.

Bill grinned. “My turn at the gent now, is it—sir?”

“Just search him,” said the earl coldly.

Gideon said, “I did not bring them with me.”

“We'll see that,” jeered Bill. “Hold him, you two.” His search was unnecessarily brutal, but thorough. He grunted, “He ain't got 'em.”

Collington asked gently, “Where are they? You'll do better to tell me now, Rossiter. I dislike violence.”

“Never you fear, sir, I'll be glad to help him remember,” offered Bill.

The north countryman, half-drunk, said thickly, “So will I. And I know how t'make the perisher tell anythin'—damned quick.” He snatched up a ragged newspaper and held it over the lamp so that it burst into flame. “If I was t'drop this,” he jeered, lurching unsteadily towards Gideon, “y' pretty lady'd—”

Gideon sprang for him, but the vindictive Bill backhanded him hard across the mouth, sending him tumbling through a wheeling blur of light and shadow. Dimly, he heard a flurry of frenzied shouting. “Get some water!… Throw this on it!… Not the
gin
you idiot!”

There was a great deal of confusion, but the voices faded and faded until they were quite gone …

The colonel's guess that this would be a major engagement had evidently been correct. The smoke was thick on the battlefield. Odd that he could hear no musketry or cannon … Someone was damning the men furiously, demanding that they “get up there!” Boots stamped past, making the smoke swirl. His eyes stung, and he coughed feebly. He'd been hit again apparently, but he must get to his feet. The men needed him. It was very hot. Unusual for spring in the Low Countries … He could hear the voices again, becoming clearer now.

“…can't get up
them
stairs, no matter what he says!… Be murder!…
Listen!
Them was shots!… Get out! Get out!… He's gorn ain't he?… Hell with Rossiter! He nigh got the lot of us! Let him burn with her!”

Her…?
Naomi!

Gideon's mind cleared in a flash. The smoke was a pulsing orange. He could hear the crackling of flames. That drunken lout must have dropped his makeshift torch and this rotted old building was ripe for fire. And Naomi was upstairs. Perhaps tied! “My God!” he gasped, and lurched to his feet.

The scene tilted. Coughing, he staggered to the side, putting out a hand to steady himself against the wall. It was hot. He was alone. The men were running away, and Collington, the cowardly swine, had abandoned his helpless daughter to the flames! Rage seared through him. Tearing out his handkerchief, he covered his nose and mouth and groped his way to the stairs. Lord, but it was hot! There were flames on every side, and when he reached the stairs he met a solid wall of fire. A glowing tongue licked at his arm and the lace at his wrist began to smoulder. Retreating, he beat the sparks out. It was hopeless, all right. He could scarcely breathe, and his eyes were streaming. Turning, he plunged blindly for the door.

He was outside, choking, dizzied, the wind buffeting him again. Distant shouts and another gunshot registered on his mind dimly. He gulped in air. Flames and smoke gushed from the lower windows. The place was going up like a bonfire. He
must
get to her.

The wheel! He raced around to the side and stepped down into the sluggish stream. The old wheel loomed above him, up and up, seemingly to the clouds. His foot broke through the first blade, and it was no use. His knees grew weak at the very sight of that soaring wheel. But he must! He
must
! He snatched at a spoke and climbed onto the next blade. It held and he went up, his right hand gripping the rim, his left clinging to one spoke until he could reach the next, since the spokes were sturdier than the rim or the thinner blades of the wheel. He kept his eyes on the small window in the loft, gritting his teeth, refusing to yield to the familiar and debilitating panic that was hammering at him, causing his heart to jolt, his legs to shake under him. His hands were wet with sweat; he could feel it trickling down his forehead and between his shoulder blades, and knew it came not from the heat, but from his lifelong terror of heights. Each movement was a battle against fear so intense that he was nauseated, but he forced his cringing body to climb higher. His love was trapped in that furnace beside him!

He was halfway up when a howling gust sent the wheel slamming against the wall of the mill. The blade splintered beneath his feet and only his hold on the spoke saved him. The impact tore his grip from the rim, and for a hideous few seconds he swung by his left hand alone, the old wound in his shoulder sending agonizing jabs through him. Consciousness reeled, but he sank his teeth into his lip and thought of Naomi's sweet face as he grabbed frantically for the rim. His questing foot found another spoke and he was able to steady himself and seize the rim with his right hand again. Gasping for breath, fighting weakness and fear, his streaming eyes barely able to see, he fought his way doggedly upward through ever thickening clouds of smoke.

*   *   *

Naomi clambered from the chair when she heard the shot, and ran to the door, pressing her ear against the wood. There could be no doubt now. There was a battle royal going on downstairs. She could hear shouts and cursing and crashes as they blundered about.

It was quieter suddenly. A temporary hush giving way to a clamour that held the unmistakable ring of panic. Nightmarishly, she caught a whiff of something burning. She felt faint. They had set fire to this horrid place and she would be burned to death up here!

Beating her fists on the door, she screamed, “Let me out! Help me! Please—don't leave—” But horror choked off her words. Smoke came curling under the door. She could hear a frightful sound—a crackling that grew louder by the second. Someone howled “Murder!” And another voice, fading, “Let him burn with her!”