"Pity he didn't devour her."
"What a dreadful man you are! And how come you
not
to know your neighbours?"
His brows lifted. "Is it a requirement that one do so? I've always believed that the best thing between neighbours is a high fence."
"Then you will be gratified, sir, for the clouds have driven everyone away and we now have the gardens all to ourselves, except—" Gwendolyn paused, then, touched by sudden unease added, "Do you know these men?"
Falcon, who had been gingerly removing a wisp of cat hair from his sleeve, glanced up.
Gwendolyn heard his sudden sharp inhalation of breath, then she gave a shocked little cry as she was seized in a crushing grip and thrust behind him. Blue steel gleamed as his sword whipped into one hand and a deadly-looking dagger seemed to leap into the other.
"Run, Gwen!" he shouted, crouched and ready. "Run!"
Two men wearing loo masks, draggly wigs, and dark shabby clothing, were sprinting toward them with savage eagerness. They both held daggers and long cudgels and there could be no doubt that they knew how to use them. A third man, who seemed almost a giant to Gwendolyn, was also masked, but well dressed. He came up at a slower pace and paused beside a large beech tree.
Gwendolyn did not run. She felt paralyzed with terror, and thought distractedly, "They are too many! Even if he can prevail 'gainst those two murderous cutthroats, that terrible giant probably has a pistol and will shoot him down!"
They came at Falcon from both sides. The assassin to his left was tall and muscular, his features coarse and his red cheeks marked with the blue-veined mottling that spoke of a heavy drinker. He gripped his dagger in his left hand, and twirled his cudgel as though impatient to bring it home on Falcon's head. The second man was shorter, finer-boned, with a narrow face and a deeply scarred chin. He held his dagger in the right hand with the point advanced, Italian style. It was a murderous-looking weapon, curving and long-bladed; Arabian, thought Falcon inconsequently. Of the two, this was the more dangerous antagonist, for he ran lightly and gracefully on small feet, and there was a faint, hungry grin on the gash of a mouth. Two to one—fair odds save for that hulking lout by the tree, and the Smallest Rossiter who had not run as he'd told her. To his advantage was the fact that this place was too public for a long battle; they would need to be fast about their murderous business. That much his mind was able to store away before they closed.
In the first few seconds his appraisal was borne out. Red Face plunged at him, the cudgel whizzing for his head in a mighty swipe that would have crushed his skull if it had connected. He danced aside, avoiding the following slash of the dagger. His colichemarde darted; he heard Red Face howl, then had to duck under the flailing cudgel Scarred Chin swung at him. The weapon raked his shoulder and he staggered, then thrust hard with his sword, his dagger blocking the swift and deadly stab of the Arabian dagger. A rent opened in Scarred Chin's sleeve and he shouted a curse and jumped out of range, almost colliding with his cohort who came rushing in with a blood-curdling yowl. Red Face had dropped his cudgel and his left sleeve was stained crimson, but his dagger arced down strongly. Falcon countered it with his own dagger, planted a boot in the big man's stomach and shoved. Red Chin went hurtling back and down.
From the corner of his eye Falcon saw Gwendolyn running awkwardly, the big lout after her. His heart jolted and his joy in the uneven contest died abruptly. He thought "Why doesn't she scream for help?" but then realized her cool common sense would reason that a scream might distract him. Fractional as it had been, his shift of attention was perilous and Scarred Chin's cudgel blurred at him. He restored his guard in the nick of time and protected his head, but the blow struck forcefully on his colichemarde and the sword spun from his hand. His dagger whipped up to meet Scarred Chin's and the blades rang together and locked. A pair of hard brown eyes glared at him savagely. He caught a whiff of stale sweat and garlic. It was too close now for the man to use his club. Falcon's right fist shot up and landed fairly. Scarred Chin grunted and staggered back, his nose spurting crimson.
The big man was struggling with Gwen. Rage blazed through Falcon, and he was running. He'd have wagered his entire fortune on the rogue's identity, and he shouted,
"Green!"
as he came up.
Rafe Green's head jerked around. Gwendolyn sank her teeth into his wrist, and he howled, shoved her aside, and bellowed, "Idiots! Kill the bastard!"
Gwendolyn screamed," 'Ware, August! 'Ware!"
Falcon whirled. A streak of silver came at him and he gasped as pain stabbed through his left upper arm. He fell to one knee.
His face bloody, Scarred Chin wrenched his dagger free, howling a muffled but exultant, "I winged him!" and swung the weapon high for the death stroke. Straightening, Falcon brought up his own blade and struck home hard. Scarred Chin's howl became a choking gulp. He clutched his middle and retreated from the battle at a weaving stagger.
Red Face was up and attacking again, his cudgel swung high, his face a mask of rage. Falcon ran back a few steps, reversed his hold on the dagger, and threw. Red Face's eyes opened very wide. He doubled up and without a sound, fell flat.
Gwendolyn was screaming.
Terrified for her, Falcon whirled, and looked straight into the muzzle of a large horse pistol. Rafe Green's thick lips were twisted into a triumphant grimace, his finger was already pulling back the trigger. Falcon had no time to so much as duck before the shot rang out. Tensing for the impact, he felt nothing and for a split second thought Green must have missed. Then Green fired. The ball ploughed into the ground at his feet, the sagging pistol fell from his grasp and he clutched his right arm, cursing in anguish and frustration.
Falcon's gaze flew to Gwendolyn.
Her eyes were enormous. One trembling hand was over her mouth, the other held her little pocket pistol. Smoking.
He gave a whoop, and ran to her. "Bravo! You indomitable little scamp! You magnificent rascal!" He caught her up and whirled her around, laughing breathlessly.
Inevitably, the shots had attracted attention. The two old gentlemen were returning at speed. The boy with the horses was leading them into the gardens, his eyes goggling. Someone was blowing a whistle to summon the Watch.
Dazed and sick, Gwendolyn's eyes were blurring. She clung to Falcon and whispered, "Oh… August! Is he—D-did I… ?"
He glanced around. Green was beating an erratic but fast retreat towards a waiting coach. Scarred Chin was staggering after him. Red Face would not be following. "No, Smallest Rossiter. Unfortunately you failed to put a period to the poltroon."
"By Gad, sir! If ever I saw such a fight!"
"Jupiter, ma'am! You've all my admiration!"
"I say, you're hurt, sir! Allow me—"
Gwendolyn's head cleared. She gasped, "August! Oh, is it very bad? My heavens, I thought you were killed! Let me see!"
He obeyed the tugs of her little hands, and sat on a nearby bench, attempting to answer all the questions and comments, his proud gaze fixed on her anxious face. "I'm all right," he said, as one old gentleman helped him out of his coat and slit his shirtsleeve. He peered down at the wound in his arm. It was a deep cut and had bled profusely, and Gwendolyn's eyes grew round with horror, but she appropriated his handkerchief and used it as a makeshift bandage. He said bracingly, "Don't swoon, Smallest One. It's not near as bad as it looks."
A tall dragoon left his carriage and came running. "Jolly good, Mr. Falcon!" he panted admiringly. "Nasty odds, but you were a match for the bounders! More of these da—er, curst rioters, what?"
"And a lady with him!" said one of the elderly gentlemen, indignant.
"Disgraceful!" snorted his companion. "Whatever next?"
Falcon held his breath at what came next as Gwendolyn tightened the handkerchief around his arm then scanned him anxiously.
He found a grin. "You're doing very well, ma'am!"
A softness came into her eyes. She said, "And you were magnificent."
For a frozen instant, he could not tear his gaze away. Then he shrugged and said with proper nonchalance, "But of course."
A watchman appeared, and became very important. Green's carriage had fled, but with Red Face to be taken away, and in consideration of Falcon's injury, he allowed them to leave, saying he would call at Falcon House shortly.
Gwendolyn wanted to hire a chair, but Falcon insisted that he felt perfectly able to ride.
She said quietly, "Perhaps. But I do not."
At once remorseful, he accepted the loan of the dragoon's carriage. They were ushered through the small crowd that had formed,the dragoon mounted Andante and took up the reins of Gwendolyn's mare, saying he would follow them back to Great Ormond Street As the watchman slammed the door shut, an onlooker said clearly, "I've heard that the Mandarin can fight, but—by God, I never thought I'd see it!"
Gwendolyn cringed inwardly, but if Falcon heard, he gave no sign, leaning back against the squabs and smiling at her. He was pale, however, and she said, "You're very brave, but I expect that wound must be exceeding uncomfortable."
Her expectations were justified. In the rush and excitement of the fight he had scarcely felt it, but now he was all too aware he'd been stabbed. He told her that had it not been for her excellent aim he might not be feeling anything at all at this moment. "Who the deuce taught you how to shoot? Gideon?"
"No. Newby. He worries because of all the street violence. August, that horrid man I shot. Who—"
"Oh—
Jupiter
!" he exclaimed, sitting straighter. "I just realized! Of all things, Gwendolyn! Had you to shoot the carrion in his right arm?"
Taken aback, she stammered, "What? I— Why must you look so displeased? Had I known you preferred that I aim for his foot—" She broke off, her eyes widening with comprehension. "Good heavens! Can I believe it? You're disappointed because now you can't call him out!"
"You are quite wrong, m'dear. He has already called me out."
"Oh! You are impossible! You just admitted that you could be lying dead at this very moment, but instead of thanking God for your deliverance, you grumble because you cannot at once slay this—this…" She frowned. "Who is he?"
"His name is Oliver Green, though he's generally known as Rafe."
"Green…" she murmured thoughtfully. "Lord Hibbard Green is the man who was so horrid to Johnny and Jennifer Armitage whilst you were in Cornwall, no? My brother says he is a member of the League of Jewelled Men. Is it the same gentleman?"
"No. His son. And by no stretch of the imagination could either be named a gentleman. Lord Hibbard is most certainly with the League. Rafe may be a member. I rather doubt it."
"But surely he must be. Why else would they have followed us? Certainly, they meant your death. Unless—" She paused, her brow wrinkling. "Is this Rafe a—er, a married man?"
He turned his head and looked at her mournfully. "You have found me out, alas. Yes, our Rafe is married. To a pure and lovely angel whom I lured away to my mountaintop eyrie in the—er, the Swiss Alps. For some odd reason Rafe took a rather dim view of the affair and—"
"Wretch!" she interpolated, her eyes twinkling. "Mountain-top eyrie indeed! I wish I may see it!"
He leaned closer and sneered villainously. "That might be arranged. Though I fancy Gideon would be a marplot and cut up rough. Should you object if I was obliged to shoot him first?"
His lips were very close to her cheek. She found herself suddenly short of breath, and to hide that weakness was quick to riposte, "Do you think you would have time to fit him into your slaughter schedule?"
With a grin he eased himself back against the squabs. "You never disappoint me, Smallest Rossiter. I shall relieve your suspense. I fibbed. Dear Rafe is not wed, and I have neither made off with his bride, nor filched his mistress."
"Ah. Then he
is
a League member!"
"I suspect he is merely a dishonourable man, my innocent. He challenged me in a fit of drunken rage, but he knows himself no match for me, so likely planned to avoid a duel and throw the blame for my murder on the rioters. His esteemed sire would be delighted did he succeed in putting me out of the—"
The coachman had cut a corner too sharply and the carriage lurched. Falcon's breathless pause in mid-sentence renewed Gwendolyn's anxieties. She said contritely, "How silly I am to allow you to chatter like this. Please rest quietly. We're almost home."
"Good. I mean to play the complete hero, and be ushered in a half-swooning condition to my bed while maids fall into hysterics and Mrs. Vanechurch prays, and Chef starts preparing clear soup and gruel."
"Just as he shall," she agreed.
His arm was throbbing nastily and he felt a little fuzzy-headed, but at this his eyes narrowed. "Now see here, Mistress Gwendolyn, I'll not have you throwing Katrina into a panic, so do not really be adopting tragedy airs!"
"Oh, must I not? I had so looked forward to stealing your thunder by fainting across the threshold."
He laughed. "No, seriously, Gwen—"
"Very seriously, August, as soon as we get home you must take to your bed and we shall call your doctor."
"What rubbish! But I suppose you will enlist Tummet's support, so we'll have old Knight in, if he'll deign to come. He's blasted crusty since he found his way onto the Honours List and became Sir James, though—" He did not finish the sentence, but jerked forward, peering out of the window and so far forgetting himself as to wince and clutch his arm.
Gwendolyn looked at him sharply, then followed his gaze. Her heart gave a scared jump. They were turning onto Great Ormond Street now. A man and a girl, riding very close together, walked their horses around the corner from Conduit Street. Even as she watched, Katrina stretched out her hand. Morris took it and touched it to his lips.
Falcon half-whispered, "Devil take him!" He turned a flushed and furious face to Gwendolyn. "You knew! You knew she had slunk out to be with that thimble-wit! 'Tis why you begged me to rescue you from Lady Mount-Durward. You wanted to get me—"