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The Mandarin of Mayfair

St. Martin's Press

The atmosphere in the Rose and Crown had changed from congenial to anticipatory, noting which the proprietor, a small, bright-eyed individual eyed his argumentative customers warily and reached for the belaying pin under the bar. He had risen, by rather dubious stratagems, from a lowly position in a solicitor's office to proprietor of this modest but well patronised tavern near Gray's Inn. He liked being a proprietor and had no intention of seeing his tavern reduced to rubble.

"Now then, gents," he cautioned. "Now then!"

His high-nosed, thin features flushed from a generous consumption of ale, Mr. Belew waved a hand aloft. "I said it before, and I'll say it again," he declared. "As one what has been a gentleman's gentleman these twelve year and more. You was lucky, Mr. Tummet, when Captain Gideon Rossiter took you on. You don't have the air for it, sir! Not that I means no offense. You should've thanked your stars and stayed with the gentleman. To leave his service and take on one what is" — he smirked — "the joke of London-Town, was ill advised, Mr. Tummet. Exceeding ill advised."

There were several nods and grins and a few muttered "Aye's" to endorse his sentiments.

Enoch Tummet's jaw became more prominent. A squarely built man who reckoned his age at "about forty," he had powerful shoulders and big scarred hands. His features had been charitably described as "rough hewn" and included a square head on a short muscular neck, a "cauliflower ear," a nose that had clearly been broken several times, and small brown eyes that just now glittered a warning. He was clad in the neat dark habit of a superior servant. The material was of excellent quality, the tailoring left nothing to be desired, yet it could not be denied that the garments seemed somehow incongruous and at odds with the personality of their owner.

"Number one, Mr. Bellows," he growled, "It's true that I don't put on no airs. Not like some as I could name. Number two, I didn't leave Cap'n Rossiter's service. Not exzack. 'E got married and took 'is bride orf on a ship, and I don't 'old with ships, so I give Mr. August Falcon a 'and when 'is reg'lar valet was called away, which is what Cap'n Rossiter wanted. And if it suits Enoch Tummet to stay on with Mr. August Falcon, that is none o' your affair. Number three, Mr. Bellows, me present guv'nor, Mr. A. Falcon by name, besides being the best-looking and best-dressed young gent in the City, 'appens to be one of the richest, and cries friends wiv viscounts and earls and honourables and nobs of all kinds. There ain't a gent in all the southland can match 'im wiv swords or pops. And if 'e is the joke of London, I don't 'ear no one laughing. But" — he set down his tankard and thrust his crooked nose under Mr. Belew's supercilious nostrils — "but if I did chance to 'ear some cove making a joke about such a swell as me guv'nor —"

"Swell!" Mr. Belew glanced around the interested gathering and sniggered. "August Falcon's wealth buys him a place in the haut ton, in spite of the fact that his great grandmother was —"

"Was a Russian princess," snarled Tummet, moving closer to that elevated and so smug nose.

"Who went and married a Chinaman," sniggered Mr. Belew. "Which makes your — er, guv'nor no more'n a —"

"Careful, Bellows," growled Tummet, his shoulders hunching up.

"Now, now, gents," cautioned the proprietor, bringing the belaying pin into plain sight.

"I'm jest telling 'im," said Tummet reasonably, while putting a little more distance between himself and the belaying pin, "so 'e'll understand. Mr. Falcon's great grandpa wasn't no ordinary Chinaman, Bellows. AMandarin 'e were, and wiv a mighty fortune. Me guv's got royal blood in 'is veins, and 'e's a proud man, and rightly so!" He turned to a slim young footman standing nearby, "And wot be you grinning at, my cove? You got some disparry-gin remarks to offer?"

"Oh, I ain't, Mr. Tummet," declared the footman hurriedly. "Your gentleman's got something to be proud of, like you said. I know that some folk make fun and call him the Mandarin —" He leapt back as Tummet leaned forward, and gabbled, "But I ain't one, sir! No, not me! Everything you said is — er, quite right. And — and his sister, Miss Katrina Falcon — well, no one couldn't deny as she is exceptional beautiful, and the Toast of London!"

"And if he's so royal," said Mr. Belew, who had resorted to his tankard with the result that his nose was a deeper hue than ever, "why does he spend so much time fighting duels?"

"Winning doo-ells," corrected Tummet. "Mr. August Falcon is partic'ler 'bout the gents wot tries to fix their interest wiv Miss Katrina, and the gents don't like it when they is sent abaht their business."

"Particular is it?" Mr. Belew brayed a laugh. "Beautiful she may be. I won't argue that. But your gent runs off every man what offers. And considering she's just as much of a half-breed as he is —"

"And that's done you, swivel-nose!" Tummet hurled the contents of his tankard into Mr. Belew's face, followed with an uppercut that sent the superior gentleman's gentleman heels over head to join the proprietor on the other side of the bar, and ducked the belaying pin that flailed at him. The belaying pin found a home on the ear of a large dragoon who'd been attending to the discussion with interest. The dragoon staggered back, knocking over a table and the several full tankards that had rested on it. The owners of the tankards took exception.

Having managed without too much difficulty to make his way outside, Mr. Tummet walked sedately up the street congratulating himself on a job well done, and nodding beneficently to the watchmen who raced to the scene of the riot.

He was less complacent the following morning when he slipped into the kitchen of palatial Falcon House on Great Ormond Street. He had gone to some pains to avoid the housekeeper, a majestic middle-aged lady who might easily pass for a dowager duchess, but she emerged from the pantry to confront him and surveyed his split lip with disapproval.

"Brawling again," she observed, folding her arms across her splendid bosom. "Did you chance to meet some unfortunate acquaintance who questioned your position in this household?"

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 'e 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 audible 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 'e 'ad 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 'e comes the ugly abaht the Guv and Miss Katrina being 'alf-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 pick-pocket, 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, 'e do care. Leastways, the rest of the nobs, they care. They're all afraid of 'im, but they do what they can to rub 'is 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 'ow many times 'e'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 'e's too reckless. A man — even a grand fighting man, which 'e 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. 'E can't 'ardly 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 'e 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 'e do but pick up that there nasty bag o' feathers! I tellya straight, if I'm not there to watch 'im 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 fineboned, 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 axe 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 'ave a littel gab till the gents is done wiv their meeting. I were just — er, making sure everything's ready for 'em in 'ere."

"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 'abits 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 'ere 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, 'e 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."

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Excerpted from The Mandarin of Mayfair by Patricia Veryan. Copyright © 1995 Patricia Veryan. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
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