Time's Fool by Patricia Veryan

a curtsy. “Very well, get to your bed, child, and we shall be charitable and accept your version of the affair. In which case, I should offer up thanks for your—er, knights in shining armour.” He chuckled to himself. “Falcon and Rossiter! A half-breed, and a rascally and disgraced opportunist! The devil anoint me if ever a lady won herself two more dubious champions!”
    Naomi paused and observed coldly, “You were the one chose him for my husband, Papa.”
    â€œTrue enough. But that was long ago, and now you are the one refuses all others. You’ve rejected some damned fine offers. ’Tis past time you allied yourself with a worthy gentleman.”
    â€œIs there such a creature, sir?” Her lip curled. “’Pon rep, but I begin to doubt it.”
    He chuckled. “Not such a green girl, are you, my pet? Then settle for a rich one, worthy or not. You’re two and twenty, and I am being hinted that you’re on the shelf—though damn ’em, that’s nine parts jealousy on the part of the women, at least. Still, it does not suit me to have a spinster daughter, so make up your mind, or I’ll make it up for you! There’s a fine gentleman fairly slavering to lay his riches at your feet, and—Well, I shall say no more tonight. You look hagged. Get to your bed, and pleasant dreams.”
    Pleasant dreams! If she had any dreams tonight he had ensured that they would be nightmares …
    Lord Simon strolled to the door with her, then said casually, “Oh, by the bye, send down the package before you retire.”
    Naomi tried to gather her badly scattered wits. “Package…?”
    â€œThe package you collected from the jeweller in Canterbury.” His smile a little tight, he added, “Your head is really full of windmills tonight.”
    â€œOh, my goodness! What with all the excitement, I had quite forgot.”
    The earl’s fingers tightened about the door handle. “You did get it?”
    â€œYes, sir. ’Tis—in my reticule, I think.”
    He said very softly, “One trusts it is! We’ll have your woman down here with it. Now.” He crossed to the bell pull.
    Five minutes later, his howl of rage set knees to knocking all over the great house.
    *   *   *
    The postilions had become minor celebrities and the patrons of the Red Pheasant Inn had been quite willing to gratify their thirst in exchange for ever more lurid descriptions of the highwaymen. By the time Rossiter found them in the stables they were so inebriated that they were quite unable to ride. He was unable to find a light carriage, so hired a hack to carry him home, and packing only his basic necessities in the saddlebags, desired the proprietor to hold the rest of his belongings at the inn until he sent a servant for them the following day.
    It was a long and unpleasant journey. Like Roger Coachman, he knew the road well, and now that the rain had stopped, a quarter moon occasionally crept from behind shredding clouds to light his way. The air was still damp, however, and a strong wind had come up, chilling him to the bone and whipping occasional sprays of water from the drenched trees. He scarcely noticed his discomfort. Mile after mile, August Falcon’s harsh words haunted him: “Your sire was proved a thief and embezzler…” It was a mistake, of course. Or a deliberate lie.
    His thoughts drifted back to Eton. Falcon had been a year ahead of him and although his birth brought him mockery and derision, his fists had won him a measure of respect. Gideon, hiding his own loneliness behind an air of cool self-possession, had rather admired the older boy and would have liked to make a friend of him. His one attempt along those lines had been made when Falcon was attacked and outnumbered, and his intervention had won him only blazing resentment, and a snarled, “In future, keep your pure English nose out of my