Norton, Andre - Novel 08 (24 page)

 
          
 
"You are of the Lyons of Starr, sir? I
note the crest on your
ring "

 
          
 
That unlucky ring which he had only kept by
him because his mother had treasured it and because it was his single
inheritance from his father! He resolved there and then to rid himself of it as
soon as he could.

 
          
 
"Not of the main
family, no, sir.
I come from a cadet branch in the north."

 
          
 
Burnette nodded. "Yes. You have little of
the Starr look, save the eyes. Well, this has been a most pleasant evening. If
you remain long in the city perhaps we may repeat it."

 
          
 
Fitz bowed politely; repeat such an evening
they would not—if he had anything to say in the matter!

 
          
 
Yet boast not, haughty Britons, of power and
dignity,

 
          
 
By land thy conquering armies,

 
          
 
Thy matchless strength at sea;

 
          
 
Since taught by numerous instances

 
          
 
Americans can fight,

 
          
 
With valor can equip their stand,

 
          
 
Your armies put to flight.

 
          
 
—cruise of the Fair American

 
          
 
The next morning Fitz invaded the room of the
sleepy Robinson and demanded the address of the nearest pawnshop. Robinson
frowned.

 
          
 
“So you're one of us already, Lyon?" he
asked with a yawn. "Well, you need not venture far. Due to a whim of our
royal master the Sign of the Lighted Candle can serve you in this matter, and
Isaac is probably as honest a bargainer as any."

 
          
 
"But a coffee
shop?"

 
          
 
Robinson yawned again and lounged over to the
mirror to regard with open disfavor his unshaven chin. "It is simple
enough. The Prince of Wales chanced to be engaged in a wager on a main and his
purse was flat. Knowing him too well—as all his followers got to know him in
time—his companions wanted to see the color of his round pieces before the
transaction. So he bobs into the nearest coffee house—in this instance the
Lighted Candle—throws his watch at Isaac and demands a round sum in pawn.
Within a few days thereafter Barnes gets a license as a pawnbroker. True, it's
devilish handy for us poor exiles."

 
          
 
So, easily enough, Fitz was able to part with
his telltale ring and in return had a few coins to rattle in his almost empty
pockets. Mr. Norwood continued out of town. Fitz wrote a civil thanks to Sir
Hew for his entertainment on the paper which Isaac supplied.

           
 
It must have been all of an hour later that
the little man in the badly cut bottle-green coat came in. Fitz had finished
his note, read part of the journal and was just about to join a game of brag
when he noticed the newcomer for the first time. There was nothing remarkable
about the fellow, except that he did not bear the identifying stamp which most
of the regular patrons had. He lacked the faint air of discontent, the reckless
bravo, or the bitter resignation of the Tories-in-exile. Instead he had a
sleek, well-fed, plumpish body and a complacent regard for the world. And he
was watching Fitz, not openly, but as if his principal interest in the room was
really the Marylander. A moment or two after he was sure of that, Fitz stirred.
There was nothing he could prove, no out and out staring for which he could
demand an explanation. But he was sure that the man in the green coat had come
to the Lighted Candle for no other reason than to see him, Fitzhugh Lyon.

 
          
 
There were the Bow Street Runners who would be
interested in an escaped prisoner of war, and the lack of posters bearing his
name on the walls of that shop was no guarantee that such did not exist
elsewhere. For all he knew his capture would be as profitable as Crofts'. And
yet, if he allowed himself to be driven away from the Lighted Candle by mere
suspicion, he would lose all hope of contact with
Norwood
. To try to reach the coast and the
smugglers' route to
France
by himself would be sheer folly, especially
without funds.

 
          
 
He glanced up just in time to see the back of
that green coat as it passed through the door. With a sigh of relief he got up.
Now would be the time to leave. If Green Coat had been after him and had gone
to summon help, he must get away before they returned. Fitz slipped out of the
smoky room and hurried to his lodgings.

 
          
 
The maid was turning out his room and none too
pleased to be interrupted, so he went down the hall to Robinson's quarters and heard
a sullen grunt in answer to his knock. Within, the Tory was huddled over a
table engaged in literary exercise, his muse refreshed from time to time by
swigs from a bottle which also served as a paper weight. He looked up to greet
Fitz with a near snarl:

 
          
 
"Well, how neatly did Isaac bilk
you?"

 
          
 
"Not too much, I hope." Fitz rubbed
his ringless finger. He had worn the band so long that his hand felt curiously
light without it.

 
          
 
"You're green.
Springtime
green,
Lyon
.
But beggars
can't be choosers, not in this world. Now, get off with you and leave me to my
scribbling. I'm no lily of the field—I do a little toiling." He dug his
pen savagely into the paper. "Oh, aye, take a book with you—if that's what
you're after."

 
          
 
Fitz took the nearest volume and withdrew to
his own room, now luckily deserted.

 
          
 
The elegant, stately lines of Alexander Pope
made him sleepy. Slamming down the book, he went to lounge on the window sill
and stare down at the street. And straightway he stiffened. Had he, or had he not,
caught a glimpse of a bottle-green coat whisking into the doorway of a shop
across the street. But, as he tried to see into the gloom of that open portal,
a large coach, bearing the gilt of arms on its door, came smartly down the way
and stopped directly in front of the house.

 
          
 
A powdered footman in maroon livery jumped
down and rapped on the door below. He was admitted, and a few minutes later a
discreet tap brought Fitz to open to the bowing servant in the hall.

 
          
 
"Please, sir, you are Lieutenant Lyon?"

 
          
 
"Yes." Fitz was short and
suspicious.

 
          
 
" 'Tis
Sir Hew
Penslow, sir. 'E 'as 'ad
han
haccident, sir. If you
would be so kind has to come an' speak with 'im. 'E's hin th' coach,
sir "

 
          
 
Without stopping to think Fitz pushed past the
footman and hurried down. A hoarse voice welcomed him as he jumped onto the
step of the coach.

 
          
 
"Come in, my boy. Bad foot—took a tumble
last night. Come in!"

 
          
 
As if that were a signal, Fitz shot forward,
sprawling into the coach. The footman, who had propelled him there, slammed the
door, and before the American could get to his knees the vehicle was off at a
good pace. Fitz clawed his way up in time to see Burnette throw aside the robe
which had muffled him. Sir Hew was nowhere within.

 
          
 
The solicitor put out a hand and drew Fitz up
beside him on the seat.

 
          
 
"Pray forgive Jenkins his zeal, Mr. Lyon.
But it was needful for us to make our meeting as complete a surprise as
possible. You are none the worse for your too abrupt entrance, I trust?"

 
          
 
Fitz, breathing hard through his nose, was
able to bite back the words which were burning his tongue. To lose his temper
now—before he knew the meaning of the affair—would be the action of a fool.

 
          
 
Burnette laughed, almost merrily, and wagged a
finger at him. "I fear that you are in a naughty temper, sir. Perhaps we
had better prolong this drive and air you into a cooler frame of mind before
you meet with my lord. The
Lyon
temper
is notorious, you know, and two confined in the same room might well reduce all
London
to smoking embers."

 
          
 
Fitz swallowed and found his voice, making it
as even as he could.

 
          
 
"You represent the Earl of Starr?"

 
          
 
"Just so.
In
fact his lordship is my patron. And this day's work will be but small return
for all the favors he has seen fit to grant me in years past."

 
          
 
"I am not interested in the Earl of
Starr!" Fitz snapped.

 
          
 
"Oh, but you should be, sir, you should
be. Now he is most interested in you. You are
,
I take
it, the American-born son of Captain the Honorable Hugh Lyon, second son of his
lordship?"

 
          
 
Fitz refused to answer. Whereupon Burnette
drew from his pocket the ring Fitz had thought he had safely pawned and tossed
it in the air, catching it neatly as it fell.

 
          
 
"Having been bred overseas," the man
of law continued, "you probably do not understand the present situation.
My lord's heir, Viscount Farstarr, is a disappointment to his grandfather, a
vast disappointment. He will not make an old man,
nor
even a middle-aged one—he is fast spoiling his constitution and ruining his
health. Therefore my lord must look about him for an heir more worthy to carry
on the earldom."

 
          
 
Fitz snorted. "He needn't look to me for
that!"

 
          
 
Burnette continued to smile. Fitz leaned
forward and tried the fastening of the coach door. His companion laughed.

 
          
 
"You will find that secure enough, Mr.
Lyon. We need have no fears of being bowled out—no matter at what pace we
travel."

 
          
 
"So I perceive." Fitz settled back.
He would have to see this crazy adventure to its conclusion. After all, one
kidnaping had started him on the path which had led to this second one. And of
the two, perhaps the second was the less dangerous. The Earl of Starr might be
looking for an heir, but after the coming interview he would look in another
direction.

 
          
 
Seeing that his charge was now disposed to be
peaceful, Burnette began to talk, mostly about the
Lyon
family and their tangled affairs. Fitz soon
learned that he had appeared on the scene in the midst of a crisis. "The
Viscount has seriously angered his lordship with his follies. And Starr is full
ready to set him aside if he can."

 
          
 
"He seeks a prop for his old age
then?" inquired Fitz disrespectfully. "But how does Farstarr take
this? By all the accounts I have had of him he is not a meek soul."

 
          
 
Burnette waved a hand. "Farstarr shall be
taken care of as his lordship decides. Starr is still the head of the house and
he is not in his dotage, that I assure you, sir. Those who have the ill luck to
cross him find him still a most formidable enemy."

 
          
 
"So?" At this hint of warning Fitz's
chin went up. "A bit of a tyrant, eh? Quite in keeping with the rest of
the court
" The
minute the words had crossed his
tongue he could have bitten it. Anyone wearing the service coat of His Majesty
would not speak so. He had given himself away then, and yet Burnette had not
seemed to catch it. Surely the lawyer was not so insensitive. . . .

 
          
 
The coach rocked on through the fashionable
quarter of west
London
until they came to a square where large houses, surrounded by walls,
squatted each in a circle of vegetation. Into the carriage drive of one of
these houses the coach swung and drew up before its main door. Fitz followed
Burnette into a long hall where a line of powdered footmen stood statuelike
along the wall. A substantial being, well covered with plum velvet and silver
lace, murmured in Burnette's ear, and he turned into a side room, motioning
Fitz to follow him.