“Not—I thank heaven—since he was a quarrelsome and pushing brat at Eton. I had nothing to do with him. He cut no great swath in academia as I recollect.”
“Whereas your achievements will live on forever, I collect.”
“An you doubt it, m’dear, ask him.” He smiled at her with lazy mockery. “The next time you are—er,tête-à-tête,as it were… Rossiter detests me, but being a jolly good sportsman, I feel sure he will with true nobility verify the brilliance of my record. How do you go on, Roger?”
Roger Coachman approached the table, touched his hat respectfully to the Falcons, said he was very well thank you, and advised my lady that the horses were rested and it would soon grow dark.
“There is no need for your horses,” said Falcon with a glance at the window and the lowering skies. “You will rack up here for the night. You may share Trina’s room, Naomi.”
Quite out of patience with him, Naomi said dryly, “Your generosity is beyond peer, but I shall do no such thing. I had far rather be comfortable in my own bed than risk fleas and damp sheets in this shabby little hovel!”
Falcon put up his quizzing glass and regarded her through it. “Ruffled your feathers, did I?” he drawled.
“Yes. Precisely as you intended.” She took his arm then, and levelled her enchanting smile at him. “Now, you have had a lovely time teasing me, so you may be done with being such a great grump, dear August. Come back to Collington. Or at least permit Katrina to visit me for a little time. We’ve not had a proper cose in an age, and have so much to talk about.”
Her cajolery did not prevail. He had, he said, not the least doubt that the two ladies “could gossip for a month if given the opportunity,” but he would neither visit Collington, nor allow his sister to go there. He agreed with her ladyship when she argued that it had been his intention to take Katrina to Collington, but said blandly that there was not now the need to do so since they had met here.
“Further,” he went on, “although I make no doubt I am as unamiable as you have declared (with a sad want of manners, I might add), had you the wit of a wardrobe you would overnight here rather than travel through a countryside swarming with rank riders, and plaguely damp. Especially since these clouds will bring an early dusk, and ’twill likely be full dark before you reach home. Always supposing,” he appended as a final touch, “another wheel does not drop off en route.”
Katrina gave a little cry of dismay.
Her inner apprehension deepened by the concurring nod of Roger Coachman, Naomi tossed her curls and said defiantly, “La, sir! But how charming you are not! I vow you make me shake in my slippers. I doubt there is a single highwayman from here to—to Tooting!”
Falcon reached for another scone. “Should you object to a married one? What an odd requirement. Their marital state interests me not at all.”
Naomi’s dimples flickered in appreciation of this sally, but Katrina cried, “August, pray do not jest! Do you really suppose they might be held up? Lud, Naomi, youmuststay here!”
“I shall stay long enough to chat with you, after your disobliging brother has been so good as to take himself off,” said Naomi. “Then I shall wend my lonely and forsaken way back to my despised home.”
Falcon shrugged. “Upon your own head be it, wilful chit.”
Genuinely worried, Katrina said, “I had not so much as thought of highwaymen, but if you persist in travelling on, Naomi, you must leave at once! Is there a guard on your coach? August, belike you should ride escort, dearest?”
“The devil I will!” exclaimed Mr. Falcon.
CHAPTER THREE
If the earl and his sire had quarrelled, thought Rossiter, staring unseeingly at his own face reflected in the window of the carriage, it was unlikely to have been a really grim dispute. Had the two men fought a duel, that would throw an entirely different light on the situation, of course. But such a turn of events was out of the question. When the Earl of Collington had been merely Mr. Simon Lutonville, of large debts, small fortune, and no prospects, Sir Mark Rossiter had never refused to extend a helping hand to his old school friend, however the debts mounted, however remote the chance of repayment. Lutonville had been deeply grateful, and it was because the two men were such bosom bows that the marriage of their children had been arranged. So deep a friendship was not likely to have been irreparably damaged because of some silly difference of opinion, or whatever it was that had set their backs up.
At all events, whatever had caused the wrangling between their parents, Rossiter was very sure that Naomi would not have changed. She had been devoted to him throughout their early years. She would not forget. Shy and sweetly loyal was his beloved. He sighed, smiling at the rain-splashed window the fond smile of lovers. Only… His smile went a little awry. Only he’d been away for so long. Six years. Was it asking too much to expect that any girl would remain constant for such a length of time? Forever, was what they had vowed when they’d plighted their troth that lovely summer morning. “I will wait for you forever, if I must,” she’d whispered, her eyes adoring him.
But… she had been only sixteen years old. And while that exploding shell had not scarred his face, it had changed him. Sometimes, when he looked into the mirror while shaving, he scarce recognized the gaunt features staring back at him: the sunken eyes and hollow cheeks, and the lines pain had carved beside his nostrils. He’d heard Naomi had become so beautiful—so courted. The rage of London. Doubtless, the most eligible bachelors in the kingdom were vying for her hand. What would she think when they met again? She had said once in her loving way that he was the most handsome and dashing young man she ever had seen. Would she be horrified because her dashing young beau had vanished, and in his place was this worn and far from dashing stranger?
His fist clenched suddenly, and he thought a vexed, ‘Damn you for a fool, Gideon! Why could you not have done as Papa wished and joined him at the bank? Why must you enrage him by rushing off and buying a commission? All you got for it was six years of fighting and hardship!’ But that wasn’t true either; there had been good times along with the bad. He’d seen loyalty and heroism, and learned to the full what real comradeship meant. So many fine young men he had fought beside; so many shared grumbles, triumphs, and disasters. So much laughter. And all too frequent the times when he had wept for gallant lives cut short. Still, he wouldn’t change those years. If only that confounded blast hadn’t put him into the hospital only a month before the end of his fifth year away, when he had promised faithfully to sell out and come home.
Memory of the hospital brought with it a glimpse of Tranquillity Terrace. ‘Which was utter nonsense,’ he thought. At the time, however, it had been a Godsend. His companions in the crowded hospital had been the best of men and unfailingly cheerful, but there had been dreary periods when he’d been in too much pain to want to talk, and out of misery and desperation he had built his refuge.
Tranquillity Terrace was a garden. There was the shadowy outline of a nearby house; not a great house like Collington Manor or Promontory Point, but a rambling country house after the style of Emerald Farm, with whitewashed and half-timbered walls and a thatched roof shielded by venerable oaks. He had never entered the house. His dreams all took place in the garden. A garden fragrant with blossoms, with benches here and there, and a big weeping willow tree trailing its branches over a stream. It was by the stream that he’d met the girl to whom he was promised. At first, he’d pictured her as last he had seen her—a kind, pretty creature, already showing the promise of womanhood.
In Tranquillity Terrace he had allowed her to grow up, and he had made her small and petite, with a rather breathless soft voice, and a gentle manner. She had begun to go into Society, and he’d costumed her in the latest fashions: great-skirted gowns of softly swirling and delicately hued silks, satins, and velvets, trimmed with laces or embroidery. By the time she was nineteen, she was bewitchingly lovely, her every movement a study in grace, her laugh like the trill of a nightingale. Her fame spread so that other young men began to come and call to her from the wall he’d hurriedly thrown up about the garden. But his lovely Naomi saw only him. Never once did he arrive to find the garden empty. Always, she was there, her arms reaching out yearningly to embrace him; her kisses for him alone. She was the one person who would never change, the unfailing refuge, the ever-faithful heart. He unburdened himself to her, sharing his joys and sorrows, while she listened with ready sympathy, or helped him plan their future; a golden plan that even encompassed the three fine sons and two gentle daughters who would come to share the garden with them.
Smiling faintly, he set memory aside. His lady of Tranquillity Terrace had served him well in those dark days, but there was not the need for dreams now. If Naomi had been at the Manor she would have come to him. Since she had not come it was very likely that she was at the earl’s residence in Town. Lord, but he longed to see her! And with luck he would be able to seek her out tomorrow, or the next day. He must first mend his fences with his father, but hopefully he would be forgiven and would soon discover the quarrel with Lord Collington to have been a trifling matter that could easily be set to rights.
The carriage lurched and he saw that the postilions had turned the team into the yard of a small inn. They would rest the horses here before completing the journey. He opened the door and climbed out, his boots splashing onto the puddled cobblestones. In his preoccupation he hadn’t noticed how the weather had deteriorated. The postilions were soaked, and he tossed them a florin and told them to dry out and buy themselves a meal. To cross the yard was a hazardous business, and he had to dodge muddied vehicles and stamping horses; ostlers who darted about, poling up one team, unharnessing another, all the while heartily damning the stableboys; and impatient grooms and coachmen in hot pursuit of and just as heartily damning the ostlers.
Escaping the cold bedlam of the yard, Rossiter entered the warm bedlam of the parlour. Over the din, mine host bellowed redundantly that the Red Pheasant Inn was full to capacity, and there was not a table to be had in the dining room. Rossiter’s uniform won him a place with a group of military men, and although their table was in a chilly corner far from the fire, he spent a pleasantly uproarious half-hour with them. The roast beef he ordered was tough as leather, but the apple pie that followed was succulent, the coffee hot and strong, and he felt renewed and more optimistic as he left his new friends and made his way from the noisy room.
Near the door, a hand on his arm arrested him. A familiar voice cried an exuberant, “Blister me, but here’s good luck!” Rising from a table littered with used crockery Lieutenant James Morris grinned engagingly. “Do you stay here, old lad? If you’ve snabbled a room, I’ll share it with you.”
