Katrina folded her hands in her lap and said demurely, “Simply that he cannot fight a duel if he is ill.”
“Ah. Lieutenant Morris?”
“And Gideon Rossiter.”
“Oh.” Naomi began to curl the lace at her cuff, then asked in a subdued voice, “Did you know who he was, Katrina? When he brought August back to you at that dirty little inn, I mean?”
“Not at first. He told me his name when he arrived, but I was so shocked and upset, it did not occur to me it was your—” She broke off, watching the downbent head curiously. “I mean—that it was CaptainGideonRossiter. From what you’d told me, love, I had expected quite another type of man.”
“So had I,” said Naomi, stifling a sigh. “He is so changed, which, of course, I should have anticipated after six years. If all that is said of him is truth, you know, hemustbe far different from the gentle boy I knew. He was horrid at the hold-up, andthrewme into the coach most brutally!”
“Monstrous!” gasped Katrina. “And you so terrified, besides being distraught for August’s sake! How could a gentleman be so unfeeling?”
Naomi lifted a rather guilty face. “Well, I may have been—just a trifle—er, tiresome. But, I’d never have judged Gideon Rossiter the type to strike a wounded man.”
“Here comes your tea, milady,” announced Maggie cheerfully, carrying a laden tray through the door a lackey held open for her. She darted a keen look at her mistress. “Are ye feeling well, ma’am?”
“Her ladyship is disturbed,” said Katrina.
“Little wonder.” The abigail set the tray on the table by the windows. “Why, the earl hisself was saying—”
“The earl!” gasped Naomi, one hand pressed to her temple. “Oh, heavens! His chess piece!”
Arranging teacups, Maggie asked anxiously, “Had the captain found it, milady?”
“No,” wailed Naomi. “We quarrelled, and Captain Rossiter was rude, and—and I became so angry… Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Papa will be furious!”
An infuriated Lord Collington was the last thing Naomi needed, thought Katrina. His lordship’s tongue was almost as acid as her brother’s. She said, “You plan to attend the Glendenning Ball next week, Naomi. Why not come to Town with me? Now. Maggie can follow with your portmanteau, we can shop and have a lovely cose. By the time the ball is over, your papa will have come out of the hips, I daresay.”
Naomi considered for only a moment. “’Tis a splendid notion! I shall be a wretched coward and leave him a note. Maggie—do you go and tell Miss Falcon’s coachman to get the team ready. An we hurry, Katrina, I can leave before Papa ever knows I had returned!”
Acquainted with his lordship’s rages, Miss Falcon thought that would be as well.
CHAPTER SIX
London had grown to an astonishing extent during Rossiter’s absence, and the traffic seemed to have doubled. Great wains and waggons, luxurious coaches, carts, sedan chairs, and horsemen vied for space on the busy streets. The flagways were crowded with people from all walks of life and in every imaginable mode of dress; the rags of link boys, the laces and velvets of aristocrats, the magnificence of stern Life Guardsmen in their scarlet, blue and gold, the smocks and gaiters of country folk, housewives with their baskets, immaculate and haughty servants, darting, whooping children, gentlemen of the Halbardiers in their long red coats. It seemed to Rossiter that the noise had increased tenfold. A Portsmouth Machine rumbled past, the coachman bellowing warnings to the outside passengers and bullying surrounding drivers. Vendors hawked their wares at the tops of lungs apparently strengthened by their trade, and chairmen sang lustily as they bore their passengers through the throng.
A great new house was being built on Conduit Street, the sound of hammers adding to the din. Unnerved when he was all but run down by a coach and four, Rossiter dismounted and led his horse along the kennel. His attention was caught by a scrawny fellow who carried what must have been a heavy hod of bricks, but who scampered up the scaffolding as nimbly as if he carried feathers.
“Pies! Getcher pies! Hot pies! ChickenpizenporkenfineolEnglishbeef!” A vendor took the tray of steaming wares from his head and swung it enticingly under Rossiter’s nose.
The pies smelled delicious, but he was close to home now and although he was ravenous he smilingly declined.
“Poor fellow,” came a sneering voice. “I fancy he cannot afford one. Should we take up a collection, do you think?”
Rossiter stiffened and jerked around.
Two elegant gentlemen watched him from the windows of a dark red carriage. Raising a jewelled quizzing glass for a closer look, the younger of the two said indignantly, “His sire took up a collection, Smythe. From half the demned population of the demned south country! Let the beastly fellow starve, I say. Drive on, coachman. Blasted stench hereabouts!”
Taut with anger, Rossiter sprang for the door of the coach, only to leap for his life as a troop of horse, breastplates and helms glittering in the sunlight clattered past.
“’Ere,” said the pieman. “Where you orf to, soldier?”
Rossiter had recognized those two cowards. One had been Reginald Smythe, and the other Sir Gilbert Fowles. Simpering dandies who’d made themselves thoroughly obnoxious at school and had since become pests who spent their time in gormandizing, gaming, and gossip. Both would probably faint if faced with a closed fist, but they were not above throwing insults from carriage windows.
He answered the pieman’s question mechanically. “My home lies just along the street.”
“Ar. Yer name wouldn’t be Rossiter, by any chance?”
