He tried a grin and said confidingly, "Er—not exzack, Mrs. Vanechurch. Jest a littel—er, difference of 'pinion, as y'might say."
"I had wondered why you did not appear in the Hall for breakfast," she said, blocking his attempt to escape. "It came to my ears that there was a riot in the Rose and Crown last evening. But I feel sure you would not have been involved, since you know Mr. August disapproves of that common ale house."
"It ain't common," he protested indignantly. "A very respectable tavern, and—"
"So you
were
involved!" She sniffed. "Another vulgar brawl. Whatever poor Mr. August will say when he sees you, I dread to think."
"Well he did see me. And he didn't flay-a-bird, neither!"
In point of fact August Falcon had looked at him steadily when he'd carried in his breakfast tray. One flaring black brow had lifted, managing to convey considerably more than a word, but he had made no comment.
The housekeeper shuddered. "One might think, Mr. Tummet, that you would try to remember that you are now on the staff of a member of the Quality, and try not to let your master down by brawling and using cant terms." She spoiled this fine scold by adding, " 'Flay-a-bird'—that means 'say a word,' right?"
"S'right, ducks." He saw her look of outrage and went on desperately, "I do me best, Mrs. V. But y'can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, as they say. Not in a few months, anyways. And when that high-nosed cove what works for Lord Sommers starts—"
"Mr. Belew? Hmm." Her lips pursed. "I know his wife. If he's cut from the same cloth, he likely had nothing good to say of Mr. August."
"Right, mate. But he had plenty bad to say. I didn't mind's'much about the guv's doo-ells, 'cause I don't like 'em neither. Gents wanta fight they'd oughta do it wiv their fists, not stick swords in each other's gizzards, it—"
"If ever I heard of such a thing," she exclaimed, scandalized. "A gentleman defends his name as demanded by the Code of Honour! Fists, indeed! If that was all Mr. Belew had to say—"
"Well, it wasn't, marm. But I took it like a lamb till he comes the ugly abaht the Guv and Miss Katrina being half-breeds. And that I couldn't let go by."
"Most certainly not!" She drew herself up to her full height, her eyes flashing wrath. "Be so kind as to advise me what steps you took. I trust you levelled the bounder!"
When Tummet was able to restore his sagging jaw to its normal position, he advised her in some detail. She beamed upon him, offered him a currant bun, and they parted with mutual expressions of admiration.
London's hopes that there would be a break in the gloomy weather had been doomed to disappointment, and today the skies were leaden once more. There was no rain, but a bitter wind sent the temperature plummeting and Mr. Tummet took his chilblains in search of warmth. There was a splendid fire burning in the book room, and having settled himself into a comfortable chair and stretched his large feet to the blaze, he sighed contentedly. Just a few minutes of peace and quiet wouldn't hurt no one. This was the life! During the course of a chequered career he had followed the callings of pickpocket, ostler, free-trader, pugilist, lackey, bailiff, and valet. He had originally been elevated to the latter and most unlikely position by Captain Gideon Rossiter upon that young soldier's return from the War of the Austrian Succession. To have been "loaned" to the dashing August Falcon while Captain Rossiter sailed off on his honeymoon had not at first been a welcome development, for Tummet was fond of his Cap'n. He'd known that those who served Mr. Falcon were well paid, but the gent was not an easy man to work for. His temperament was mercurial, he was demanding and impatient, and possessed of a wickedly sardonic tongue. Yet although Captain Rossiter had now returned to England, Tummet had developed a paternal interest in and affection for August Falcon, and he stayed on at the mansion on Great Ormond Street.
He was discussing his employer now. "Trouble with the guv'nor," he explained, eating his currant bun and watching sparks fly up the chimney, "is Ancestors. Now
you
don't know who yer ancestors was, and I don't
care
who mine was. But me temp'ry guv, being a swell, he
do
care. Leastways, the rest of the nobs,
they
care. They're all afraid of him, but they do what they can to rub his nose in it."
Receiving only a grunt in reply, he was silent for a few minutes, picking currants from the bun and consuming them daintily. Then he enquired, "D'you know how many times he's been out, 'Pollo? That means fought a doo-ell, mate. Well, I dunno neither. But it's a lot. And wot worries me, is that he's too reckless. A man—even a grand fighting man, which he is—a man's gotta stop and think as luck can turn on yer. It don't go on forever, mate. Cor, don't I know it! But the guv don't know it. He can't hardly wait to fight poor Lieutenant Morris. And now there's all these nasty doings with that there League o' Jewelled Men!"
His black and extremely large companion yawned noisily, rolled over on his back and stuck his legs in the air.
Tummet watched this process critically and advised Apollo that he lacked proper conduct. "Without Mr. August, who'd put up wiv you? You ain't no better looking than wot I am, and yer pedigree's even worse. So you'd oughta worry 'cause he takes too many chances. When we was in Cornwall…" his voice lowered, and he shook his head. "A proper ugly mess that were. Lucky any of us got out of it breathing. And then wot must he do but pick up that there nasty bag o' feathers! I tellya straight, if I'm not mere to watch him every minute—"
"Bag of—what?'
The feminine voice drew a shocked yelp from Tummet, and he leapt from the chair like a snapped spring. "M-Miss Gwen," he gasped, whipping the de-curranted bun behind his back.
Unseen by him Gwendolyn Rossiter had come in to select a book, and, amused by his one-sided discussion, had not interrupted it. Since she and Katrina had become fast friends she'd been a frequent visitor at Falcon House. She was tiny and fine-boned, with a high forehead and delicate but unremarkable features. If she could not be described a beauty, she had something more lasting, for a smile was never very far from the generous mouth, nor a twinkle absent from the blue eyes. A knee damaged at birth had left her with a limp which surgery had failed to correct, and at four and twenty she was resigned to the life of a spinster, but if this caused her grief she had never been known to complain. Now, book in hand, she watched the big man curiously.
"I—thought as you was wiv Miss Katrina," he stammered.
"I seem to have mislaid her. So I came to find something to read."
"I 'spect as she's waiting up in the morning room," lied Tummet, who knew perfectly well where Katrina Falcon was, but had an ax to grind.
Apollo wagged his tail and hove himself up. He loved Gwendolyn slavishly, but instead of launching into his usual noisy and exuberant search for a ball for her to throw, he gave his attention to something behind the valet.
Tummet surrendered the remains of the bun before his thumb went with it, and said persuasively, "There's a lovely fire up there, Miss. Proper cozy fer you and Miss Katrina to have a littel gab till the gents is done wiv their meeting. I were just—er, making sure everything's ready for 'em in here."
"Yes," said Gwendolyn with a smile. "I heard you. Did you say something about Mr. August having picked up a bag of— feathers?"
"Right." Tummet's agile brain raced "At me rhyming cant I were, Miss Gwen. Mr. August don't like it, but old habits ain't easy to break, y'know." He saw the girl's speculative look and said in desperation, "Bag of feathers—meaning… er, nag from Weathers. Mr. August bought this here chestnut mare, y'see. From a farmer name of Weathers. In—er—"
"Cornwall," supplied Gwendolyn obligingly. "Nasty, was it?"
Bewildered, Tummet stared at her while Apollo scoured the hearth for crumbs.
"You said Mr. August picked up a
nasty
bag of feathers," she reminded.
"Ooh—ar. Yus. Well, it were, mate. I mean Miss. Terrible broke down nag. Proper took in, was the guv'nor."
She wrinkled her brow. "How very unlike him. He is such a fine judge of horseflesh."
Tummet's inventive mind failed at this point, and taking pity on him, Gwendolyn walked to the door.
Breathing a sigh of relief he moved away from hearth and hound, wiping his fingers on a red handkerchief.
Gwendolyn turned back. "What became of it?"
He blinked at her.
"The nag," she said demurely. "Was he able to sell the poor beast? Or was it too—nasty?"
"Couldn't give it away," he answered, rallying. "Had to turn it loose on the moors. I'd be obliged if you didn't say nought to me guv abaht it, Miss Gwen. Awful embarrassed, he were."
Gwendolyn chuckled. "Well done," she said, and left him.
In the upper corridor a tantalizing aroma led her to the morning room. She knew Katrina would not be in there, but she was surprised to find August sitting cross-legged before the fire holding a long-handled pan over the flames. It was an unlikely and unfamiliar occupation for that haughty individual, and he swore and drew back as a cloud of smoke billowed from the chimney to envelop him.
"Chestnuts! Lovely!" Gwendolyn peered over his shoulder, then retreated to occupy a fireside chair and open her book.
"Pray join me," he spluttered sarcastically.
" 'Tis as well I have," she said. "They'll never cook through if you hold them so far back. You should have let Chef—"
"I am perfectly capable—" He coughed and waved smoke away, blinking tearfully.
"And I am a heartless wretch! Truly, I never meant to bring you to tears, August. Do pray keep on as you were doing. We shall enjoy our roasted chestnuts just as well tomorrow."
"
Our
roasted chestnuts?" Indignant, he turned to her. She looked quite pretty, he thought, in a gown of cream silk with a design of tiny pale blue nosegays, the waist fitted above a panier skirt. As he had expected, despite the contrite words, her little face was alight with mischief. She was the sister of one of the few men he admired, and her friendship was highly prized by his own sister. Because of this, he had come to accept the fact that Gwendolyn Rossiter appeared to consider Falcon House her home away from home. He was even willing to admit that her nature was kind and affectionate, and that she was unfailingly cheerful. Unfortunately, her affliction freed her from some of the restraints exercised by maidens hopeful of making a good match. She had a lively curiosity, discussed topics which propriety decreed should not be mentioned by gently bred up young ladies, and was outspoken to a fault. As a result, she was ignored by most of London's
haut ton
.
For various reasons, the most telling of which was his wealth, Falcon was not ignored. He made no attempt to conceal his contempt for Polite Society, and his caustic tongue and aloof manner repulsed most men, even those who admired his sporting prowess. He was well aware that he was despised because of his mixed blood, and both knew and loathed the nickname given him. It was a name never spoken to his face, because his reputation was well earned, and few men would dare meet him on the field of honour. He was known to be dangerous in other matters also. Matchmaking mamas shudderingly warned their daughters against him, but privately joined the countless London ladies who found the handsome pariah irresistible, and flirted with him at every opportunity.
And bored him to distraction. His
ch
è
res amies
adored him, endured his sharp tongue and stormy disposition, were delighted by his generosity, waxed ecstatic over his charm in
affaires de coeur
, and unfailingly left his protection with genuine regret. And bored him to distraction. Gwendolyn Rossiter was unmoved by his fiery temperament and indifferent to his hauteur. She entered into sharp debates with him, scolded him for his arrogance, was all too willing to enumerate his faults, and had the unspeakable effrontery to speak of the forbidden: his lineage. Far from adoring him, if she was even mildly fond of him, which he doubted, she concealed it admirably. She had not the least knowledge of his prowess in the field of
l'amour
. And although the only passion she inspired in him was quite frequently that of near apoplectic rage, she did not bore him.
"What a pity," he said, "that I am preparing the chestnuts for your brother and his friends. Had I known you were starving, ma'am, I should have offered you sustenance. May I require Chef to prepare you a snack? A baron of beef, for instance?"
"Oh, lovely," she trilled, clapping her hands.
His lips tightened, and he set the pan aside.
He was, she knew, perfectly capable of calling her bluff. She said, "But let us wait till the others arrive. In the meanwhile, you can surely spare one or two roasted chestnuts,
dear
August… ?"
He grunted and pulled out his watch. The other members of Rossiter's Preservers should have arrived by now. There was probably no cause for alarm. As yet. But with all the street rioting and the ever-present threat to their lives—
Gwendolyn gave a sudden shriek.
Falcon's reaction was instinctive and lightning fast. He sprang up and whipped around, crouched for action, a small pistol in his hand.
Apollo had arrived and was investigating the contents of the pan.
"Don't shoot him!" implored Gwendolyn. "Oh, pray do not!"
"Get away, you hound of infamy!" snarled Falcon, levelling an open-handed swipe at the dog's massive shoulder.
The hound seized his wrist and shook it playfully.
Falcon howled.
"Apollo! Put that down!" commanded Gwendolyn.
Released, Falcon aimed his pistol between the dog's eyes.
"Horrid creature!" said Gwendolyn.
"For once I agree with you! 'Tis past time that I put an end to my ex-dog! You saw the brute savage me!"
"In the first place, I referred to yourself, sir. Not poor Apollo. In the second place, he is not your ex-dog, and—"
"He was a dashed good watchdog till you ruined him!"
"—And in the third place, he thought you were playing, merely.
Must
you forever be panting to slaughter someone?"