Time's Fool by Patricia Veryan Page B

drove his boot at the handle. The wood splintered and a second kick sent the door slamming open.
    The house was black as pitch and utterly silent. He groped his way across the kitchen and along the service corridor. In the Great Hall he tugged on the bell pull to no avail, then shouted again, his “Is anyone at home?” causing the prisms on the chandeliers to chime gently, but winning no other response. Disappointed, and reeling with exhaustion, he dragged himself up the stairs. His own bed would not be made up, of course, but there might be blankets in Sir Mark’s bedchamber. Coming to the door, he opened it and made his way to the great tester bed. His outstretched hand encountered an eiderdown. With a groan of relief he let the saddlebags slide to the floor, and stopping only to shed his cloak and boots and unbuckle his swordbelt, he crawled between the blankets.
    He had scarcely closed his eyes than the sounds awoke him. Violent sounds. Thumps, crashes, voices raised in wrath and anguish. For a few seconds he thought himself back with his regiment, then he remembered and, groaning a curse, pulled the covers over his head. The sounds grew louder and the floor vibrated. A full-throated howl propelled him from the bed. Seething with rage, he took a step, then paused, taken aback to see sunlight streaming through the windows of his father’s vast bedchamber. He must have slept the night away. His swift scan of the room revealed only the furnishings—no trace of clothing or personal effects. They were away, all right. Nothing in that to cause alarm. If they were not in Town at Rossiter Court, Papa could have gone into the shires, or taken Gwen to Bath for the waters. Still, ’twas odd that not one servant had come to wait on him, for the grooms must surely have seen his hack in the stable and realized someone of the family was home. Besides, even when Sir Mark departed for a lengthy journey, most of the staff remained at Promontory Point, and never had this room been so stripped of all personal belongings …
    Another crash recalled him to his purpose. Not waiting to pull on his boots, he wrenched the door open and strode along the corridor.
    From the head of the stairs he had a full view of the altercation. “What the devil ? Have done!” he shouted.
    The larger of the combatants hurtled across the Great Hall, slammed against a medieval oak chair, and slithered to the floor. The survivor ran one hand through his considerably dishevelled hair and looked up.
    â€œAs you … wish, dear boy,” panted Lieutenant James Morris. “Sorry to throw your … your people about, but the silly fella wouldn’t listen to a … word I said.”
    Rossiter ran down the stairs and clasped his hand strongly. “Jamie! Welcome! Did you just arrive?”
    â€œGot here last night, my pippin. Couldn’t raise a soul at the front, but found a back door open. Wouldn’t have intruded y’know, but you have all my gear, and my spare lettuce is in my razor case.”
    â€œGad! I should have thought of that! My apologies, but I couldn’t hire a coach, so left most of our things at the Red Pheasant, meaning to—”
    â€œ What? D’you say I’ve to ride all the way back to that blasted inn again? Well, if that ain’t the shabbiest thing I ever heard! Pox on you, Ross!”
    â€œI’ll send one of my father’s servants down there and have your things delivered, I promise you. Meanwhile, you can use my razor. How the deuce did you find your way here?”
    â€œWith considerable difficulty! Luckily I was given quite understandable directions by a most obliging midwife making a late call. Thought I might not find you here, to say truth. Had I not seen my lady for six years, I’d likely head first in her direction.” The smile faded from Rossiter’s eyes, noting which Morris added warily, “Ah! You did, I see. No—er,