Chapter Sixteen

 

So drives Self-love, through just and through unjust,

To one Man’s power, ambition, lucre, lust:

The same Self-love, in all, becomes the cause

Of what restrains him, Government and Laws.

For, what one likes if others like as well,

What serves one will, when many wills rebel?

How shall he keep, what, sleeping or awake,

A weaker may surprise, a stronger take?

His safety must his liberty restrain:

All join to guard what each desires to gain.

Forced into virtue thus by Self-Defence,

Even Kings learned justice and benevolence.

III. vi.

 

Astonished by his possible meaning, Hester stopped and stared up into his eyes, but in spite of the laughter in his gaze, he seemed most convinced of Dudley’s activity. Her doubt that anyone could be so lacking in—in plain fastidiousness, if nothing else—must have shown on her face, for he appeared to be extremely amused by what he saw. She turned forwards then, with her chin in the air, refusing to let him see how shocked she was.

It was not long, however, before disgust of her cousin overcame her, and she said, “What a perfectly awful specimen Dudley is! I wish my aunt had never summoned him to London. He almost deserves to be hanged.”

Her remark quickly sobered St. Mars. He brought the subject back to Colonel Potter’s revelations, and in a careful voice, told her that both the Colonel and Lord Lovett were Jacobites and that their plan had been to turn Harrowby in James’s favour.

“James needs money,” he went on. “It’s not that he needs Harrowby for himself, but for the funds he might supply. I suppose they thought that, if my father was a Jacobite, then his nephew might be more easily persuaded to the cause.”

“That explains why—” Hester caught herself and stopped. She had been about to say that it explained why Lord Lovett’s pursuit of Isabella had always seemed a bit insincere, but she was always reluctant to mention her cousin’s name to St. Mars, particularly with regard to another gentleman. Lord Lovett must have reckoned that the way to Isabella’s favour was through seduction. Hester would have been mortified by her cousin’s weakness, if she had not already been forced to face it. And, if so many ladies they knew were not just as corruptible.

What was the difference between Lord Lovett, who was using Isabella to get Harrowby’s money, and the people who bribed the King’s mistresses to win appointments from the King? In both cases, sex was exchanged for money, and money was won through sex. Assuming that Dudley had paid for the services he’d received, she saw little difference between the harlotry he indulged in and the Court’s, except that Dudley’s was more honest.

She became aware that St. Mars was waiting for her to finish.

 “I have been wondering why Lord Lovett is so attentive,” she said. “He has never struck me as the sort of gentleman who would choose either your cousin or mine for his constant companions, which they have been for weeks, without a more compelling reason than pleasure in their company.”

“Could he have killed Sir Humphrey out of fear that he might give away his allegiance to James? From what the Colonel and Lady Oglethorpe have told me, Sir Humphrey was always indiscreet. You said so yourself.”

Hester found that she did not want to think of Lord Lovett as a murder suspect. Of all the men involved, he was the only one that she had any respect for, even if he had been using Isabella for his political purposes. Even she were his lover, Hester knew that Isabella’s heart was not very likely to be involved.

“I don’t believe he would have killed him for that reason. After Sir Humphrey was killed, Lord Lovett practically admitted to me that he, Sir Humphrey, and Colonel Potter were all Jacobites.”

St. Mars looked startled. “He told you that he was a Jacobite?” The furrow in his brow demanded to know why a gentleman like Lord Lovett should have confided anything so dangerous.

She felt a little glow of satisfaction when she replied, “Not in those very words. But he told me they had all met Mr. Blackwell at Lady Oglethorpe’s house, and that Mr. Blackwell often traveled to France. And I can assure you that he knew exactly what I made of that piece of information.”

To say that St. Mars was annoyed would have been an exaggeration, but he was definitely uneasy. “I still don’t see any reason for Lovett to have been so open.”

“I asked him if he knew Mr. Blackwell, and he seemed to believe that I would hear the truth soon enough, even if he did not tell me himself. And I believe that he thought he could trust me.”

Which was more than St. Mars was prepared to do, she thought. Hester knew that he had some involvement with the Jacobites, at least, or he would not have asked the questions he had asked. And he would not have found it so easy to visit Lady Oglethorpe. She knew she had no right to question his activities, but if another gentleman chose to confide her, as he once had himself, then he had no business to be surprised.

“What else did he say about Blackwell?”

“Nothing. That was all.”

His brow was still drawn, when he told her that Blackwell’s real name was Menzies and that he was a spy who carried cash from English Jacobites to James’s army in France.

With a chill, Hester whispered intently, “If Sir Humphrey revealed Menzies’s identity or if he knew what Menzies’s mission was, he could have got him hanged and quartered. That seems a much stronger motive to me.”

St. Mars could not argue with her. He told her about Tom’s story of the gentleman named Menzies, who had stopped at the Fox and Goose, and of his subsequent discovery that this Menzies and Blackwell were the same.

“I have the name of a printer who might know where he is. And Tom can recognize him. Tomorrow, we’ll begin our search.”

A warning for him to be careful sprang to Hester’s lips, but she refrained from giving it again. As much as she did not like it, St. Mars would decide what risks to take.

She remembered one last thing that she could tell him before they parted. “Sir Humphrey’s sister, Mrs. Jamison, who was acting as go-between for Dudley, told me one thing, which might be pertinent. She said that her brother seemed troubled the last few days of his life. I asked her if she questioned him about it, but she said that she did not.

“She wasn’t sure, but she thought that his worry might have resolved itself by the evening of the opera. Either that, or he was simply so enthused with the pleasure of treating his friends that he put it out of his mind.”

St. Mars gave a grimace. “Whatever Sir Humphrey had on his mind is another thing that we are never likely to know.”

He promised to send her news as soon as he found Menzies, and between the two of them, they concocted a plan for delivering messages. St. Mars would send Katy to Hawkhurst House with strawberries to sell to the ladies for their complexions. In a matter such as that, Hester was certain to be the person sent down to see her.

* * * *

That morning Gideon had asked Tom to discover the location of a printing shop owned by a man named Blackwell. If he found it, he was to return and, together, that evening they would watch Blackwell’s shop with the hope of sighting Menzies.

Tom did discover it, almost in the shadow of Stationers’ Hall, but on his way back to the house, he stopped by the King’s Head and picked up a letter which had been forwarded for Mr. Brown from the inn at Smithfield.

Gideon was waiting to receive his news upstairs in his new sitting room. The auction had supplied it with a pair of chairs, a writing table, and a French divan, covered in a rich crimson brocade. Katy had directed the carriers to place it under the window that faced the Thames, and Gideon was sitting there, looking out over the water at the opposite bank, when he heard Tom arrive.

He opened the letter as soon as Tom brought it up.

The message was from Lady Oglethorpe. In obvious haste she informed him that Parliament had voted to impeach his Grace the Duke of Ormonde of high treason. Mathew Prior and Thomas Harley had been examined. Lord Oxford had gone to talk to them, but, afterwards, Prior had become so reserved in his answers that Walpole had moved to have him confined in close custody.

With Ormonde in trouble now, Lady Oglethorpe wrote, surely there was no more time to lose. She begged him to find Ormonde and persuade him to act.

Gideon was torn between his promise to James and his duty to Mrs. Kean. He was concerned that Menzies might already have left the country, in which case the murder of Sir Humphrey Cove might never be solved. On the other hand, if Ormonde was ever going to act, now was the time and James would need to know.

The fact that Tom could recognize Menzies, and Gideon could not, gave him, at least, a temporary solution to his dilemma.

“Bad news, my lord?”

Lost in thought, Gideon had forgotten that Tom was waiting, but he was glad to find him near at hand.

“It appears that I cannot go with you this evening. An important matter has been brought to my attention, and I must see to it tonight.”

He could tell that Tom wanted to know more. He was anxious for his master, as usual, but Gideon was not going to share the contents of his letter. The one thing with which he could console himself was that Tom’s errand tonight would be neither dangerous nor illegal.

“I shouldn’t be late,” he said. “And I shall return here before going anywhere else.” He did not add that he might have to go to France. Not yet. “If you see Menzies, follow him, find out where he lodges, and tell me. I’ll decide what to do with him then.”

Tom accepted this command without any argument. He had his own axe to grind with Menzies, but Gideon was confident that Tom would never exceed his orders unless the situation demanded it. Tom went downstairs to eat the dinner that Katy had prepared before leaving again for town. Unlike his master, Tom had no reason to fear being spotted, so he could come and go without waiting for night.

It was hard for Gideon to wait until dark. This late in June, there were so few hours of night that the days seemed to stretch into eternity. Before becoming an outlaw, Gideon had relished these long summer days. But now everything was different. He had to skulk and hide like a thief.

But now, more than ever, he had to avoid being seen with Ormonde. And, if the Duke called for the rising, Gideon would have to decide whether he would throw his lot in with James or accept the losses he had suffered.

With these disturbing thoughts occupying his mind, he forgot all about eating, until Katy came upstairs to look for him. At the sound of her footsteps, he looked up and was surprised to see her, carrying a wooden tray, loaded with plate and China dishes full of food and drink.

She looked so proudly at the pretty dishes, he didn’t have the heart to tell her that he wasn’t hungry. He attempted a smile as she set the tray on his writing table.

“I hope yer hungry, Mr. Brown.”

Her lack of formality, as well as her cheer, converted his smile into one more genuine. He thanked her then noted the name she had used.

“Katy,” he said, “I’m afraid you will have to address me by a different name. If anyone asks, you are to say that you work for Mr. Mavors.”

She betrayed no surprise. “I guessed as much when Mr. Barnes gave the carriers that name. I just didn’t know which one you’d want me to use. But I’ll call you Mr. Mavors from now on.”

“Did Tom tell you why I use one name here, and a different one in Kent?”

“No.” She looked rather sad. “He doesn’t talk to me...unless he has to. To get his work done, I mean.”

“Not after living in the same house with you for three months?”

She shook her head, and he saw a battle between shame and pride fought out in her features. “I don’t think he wants nothing to do with a whore.”

“But you’re not a whore any longer, are you?”

She flushed, with an apparent mixture of joy and relief. “No, sir. Thanks to you, I’m not.”

“Then Tom will come around. I don’t know why he’s such a prude.” Then, seeing that she did not understand his fashionable expression, Gideon chuckled. He looked down at the meat on his plate and realized that he did have an appetite, after all. He picked up a knife and started cutting into a slice of ham.

 “I’m certainly glad I asked Tom to bring you along,” he said. “Where did you come by all this?”

She told him about the arrangements she had made to buy meat from a farmer a few miles down the Kennington Road, until they could raise their own pigs and chickens.

Gideon frowned. He had not realized how much work it would take to set up house, and now that he had, he saw that she looked as if she had not had much sleep. Tom could have helped her with some of her tasks, if Gideon hadn’t sent him looking for Menzies. But only Tom could do that, and he had the horses to tend, too. It had taken them a day to unload the furniture, even with carriers doing the hardest work.

“I want you to get someone to help you,” he said to Katy. “Find a girl or two as soon as you can. And if you need more than that, just tell me. Only be sure that you give my name as Mavors, and if they have any questions about me, you can tell them I’m a gentleman with a strange set of habits, but that I pay good wages and treat my servants well. If they ask you anything else, you can refer them to Tom.”

“Yessir. Thank you, Mr. Mavors.”

Katy left him then. She seemed cheered by the notion of help. Or, perhaps, he reflected, it was by the notion of company. For neither he nor Tom would be any company for her, and he could imagine how lonely she must feel.

He was grateful to her for distracting him from the thoughts that had killed his appetite.

* * * *

It was just past dark, when he arrived at Ormonde House, dressed once again in his Quaker’s garb. It would not have served to put on a different disguise when the Duke’s servants were in the habit of admitting him in this one.

The porter opened the door for him immediately. He pulled him through the door with a whispered, “Hurry, sir, in here!” and shut it on the back of Gideon’s heels.

Inside, Gideon saw that the whole household had been roused. Footmen were running upstairs and down with boxes, trunks, and valises, as if preparing for a journey. Following one of them upstairs and down the corridor, Gideon saw even more evidence that a trip was imminent. Maids hurried past him with gowns draped across their arms.

His first thought on seeing this was that his Grace had made up his mind to run to France. But, after reflection, he found it hard to believe that anyone would try to escape surrounded by so much fuss.

He found the Duke again inside his drawing room, staring down at a paper on his desk.

He looked up on Gideon’s entrance and said, “Leave us,” to the footman, with a military peremptoriness which the servant seemed to expect.

It was the most decisive that Gideon had ever seen Ormonde be. And now he could understand why men accepted his leadership, if he was often this firm.

Unfortunately, his air of command vanished the moment that his servant closed the door.

“Did anyone see you?” he asked, in a disturbed manner, then barely waited to hear Gideon’s denial, before coming to his feet to pace behind the ebony desk. “I was afraid you might come—”

While he walked, he rambled, wringing his hands. “—told my porter to be on the lookout for you. Had to tell you that you must never visit this house again.”

Not bothering to look up, he went on, “I don’t know what you have heard, but everything has become more urgent. Walpole has taken after me. The Whigs in the Commons seem only too happy to back him, and we don’t have enough members to overcome them. There will be a fight, but I can’t be certain that we will win.”

Ormonde did peer up then, and Gideon saw a flicker of doubt in his eyes. “Walpole has a nasty way of getting what he wants. And he obviously can’t abide me.”

“Where are you going?” Gideon managed to ask.

“To Richmond—to the Lodge. I can work from there. It’s time to count our forces. I have to be able to reach our men in the West— Landsdowne and the others—without our messengers being seen.”

It was time. Gideon’s throat went dry. In spite of his warning himself that this moment was inevitable, he still could not help feeling stunned. It would be up to him to notify James Stuart that the rising he had hoped and prayed for all his life was about to take place.

“I shall ride tomorrow to inform his Majesty of your decision.”

“No, not yet!” The Duke’s vehemence astonished him. “I am not at all certain that we are ready for his Majesty to risk himself.”

In response to Gideon’s look of confusion, he averted his gaze. “First, I must know the number of arms we have and how many men they’ve been able to raise. The plan is for James to land in the West Country, you see, and I must be absolutely certain that he will be safe.”

“Then, what should I do? My instructions were to put myself in your service. I can carry messages for you, if you like.”

Ormonde waved this offer away, in a manner which implied that he had all the messengers he needed and would only be bothered by another. “It would be better for you to stay out of sight. I have your direction and will send word when it’s time to send for his Majesty.

“And, now, I must ask you to leave. The horses will be ready soon, and I cannot afford to tarry.”

Gideon had been dismissed. He left, feeling dumbfounded and uneasy. The reasons Ormonde had given for waiting tonight were the very same that he had given before. Only now he had more than enough reason to hurry. No matter how many members of Parliament would argue to save him, the government was sure to win in the end. And it was always wise to be on the government’s side when charges of treason were made. Even the bravest peers and the Duke’s closest friends would eventually see that.

How much longer would it take Ormonde to determine if James had the men and arms to mount a rebellion? Anything longer than a few more days, and Gideon feared that the Duke would not be at liberty to lead it. And even if he called for a rising tomorrow, it could be months before James could make it safely onto England’s shores.

There was nothing he could do. But he pledged to himself that, if he had not heard from the Duke of Ormonde within a sennight, he would follow him down to Richmond Lodge and extract a decision from him, once and for all.

* * * *

Tom had taken a boat to Puddle Dock Stairs, where he had to hurry past the Dung Wharf, before winding his way beyond St. Paul’s Church to the narrow streets and cramped courts that surrounded Stationers’ Hall. Having spent the greater portion of his life in the Weald of Kent, he could not fathom why anyone would live trapped in this dark, filthy corner, wedged between Newgate and the Fleet. With all the extraordinary tasks he had been called upon to carry out in the service of his master this past few months, he began to think that searching for a man in the City of the London could be the worst.

Since he had never lived in the City before, it had taken him time to locate Stationers’ Hall. After that, finding a printer by the name of Blackwell had been easy. He would have avoided the Dung Wharf on this trip if he had not worried that he might lose his way from another set of stairs. Having mucked out stables every day since he’d been old enough to swing a pitchfork, he would never have expected to be so repulsed by a pile of dung. But never had he seen so much waste heaped in one spot either.

Intent on finding his way, he failed to notice the unrest in the streets, until he arrived near the bottom of Ludgate Hill where a gathering of shouting tradesmen and artisans caught his attention. A group of carpenters, plaisterers, painters, and masons, working on the new construction, which had been a constant feature of every London street since the Great Fire, had paused to argue outside St. Martin Ludgate Church. To his right, a fist-fight erupted at the bottom of Ave Mary Lane. It was only after Tom had been jostled by a boy running with his arms full of news-sheets that he began to suspect the source of their concern. He stopped the news-hawker, who was heading towards St. Paul’s Churchyard to meet up with merchants from the Exchange, and paid him a half-penny for his news.

The news-sheet was not one he had heard of before, which probably meant that what it contained was illegal. Tom tried to make out what all the hubbub was about, before folding the paper and tucking it into his shirt to take to St. Mars, but what he had seen was enough to convince him that the Jacobites had been roused.

The few merchants who had ventured this side of St. Paul’s seemed cautious as they rode past in their carriages. They must have been pleased to hear that the Whigs had charged the most prominent Tories with treason, but they would be wise not to let their elation show. With an unsettling feeling in his stomach, Tom wondered if it was this news that had taken St. Mars on his mysterious errand, leaving Tom to search for Menzies alone.

He would not get an answer to this question now, so he crossed into a dark, cool maze which began in Cock Alley, zigzagged past the stationers’ fine new livery hall—which had been rebuilt after the Great Fire—and led him out into Amen Corner.

Here, where many of the printers were housed, he found himself hedged in by the hasty comings and goings from their shops. Whispered conferences in doorways and furtive glances, which had not been evident that morning, made him feel uncomfortably conspicuous. His plan, which had been to watch Blackwell’s shop from a sheltered corner, was obviously not going to serve. Too many of the printers were on their guard. The Jacobites among them had no way of knowing whether a stranger in the street would prove to be a government spy, and Tom could tell by the suspicious looks he received that they had spotted him as a stranger.

He hesitated only the few seconds it took to arrive at this conclusion, before ambling off towards Paternaster Row, while he tried to think of a credible reason for lingering. Of all the areas of London, this had to be one of the worst for standing in the street. There were no inns or taverns, and only a few shops in which a man of his station could pretend an interest. Tom walked purposefully past the windows of booksellers’ shops, where no groom would be expected to enter, and the printers’ houses, where presses thumped away.

Finally, under the sign of the Three Black Lyons, he found a shop selling Turkey carpets and stopped to peer through the window. The proprietor spotted him and walked eagerly towards the door. Tom would have retreated in haste, even if the man had not got near enough to see his clothes, scowl, and wave to shoo him away.

There was nothing for it, but to return in the direction he had come.

He had not meant to stop here long in any case. Mr. Blackwell’s establishment was almost in the shadow of Stationers’ Hall, too far away to be seen from here. Tom had hoped for a few moments, though, in which to come up with a different plan, so he prayed that inspiration would come soon.

Inspiration did not, but good luck did. He had almost reached the corner of Stationers’ Hall Court  again, when two men, dressed in booksellers’ garb, started a loud altercation in front of a shop and blocked the narrow footpath. Tom could easily have avoided them by stepping into the street, but what could have been more natural for an Englishman than to wait in the hope of seeing a fight?

He backed into a spot with a view of Blackwell’s door. The bookshop on this side of it—the one in front of which the two men were shouting—bore a sign with the proprietor’s name, Mr. J. Morphew. On Tom’s first trip into this neighborhood, it had seemed odd that so many of the shops sported signs with words instead of pictures, but eventually he had reckoned that only people who could read would be visiting booksellers’ and printers’ shops.

The men’s argument grew louder. Within seconds, a circle had formed around them, with printers and their apprentices encouraging them each to take the first swing. The argument was certainly heated, but looking on, Tom doubted that the first fist would ever be swung. Aside from a few threatening gestures and puffed out chests, they almost seemed satisfied to wage their battle with words.

He was grateful for the excuse they had given him to dawdle, though. With everyone in the street intent on their fight, Tom could keep a watch on Blackwell’s shop without fear of his interest being noted. Some of their argument did reach his ears. As far as he could tell, they were arguing over pamphlets that had been written about his Grace of Ormonde. One of the booksellers was defending his Grace, and the other was accusing him of treason. Since the Duke had been a friend of the former Lord Hawkhurst and had always brought amiable servants to Rotherham Abbey, Tom almost wished that he could take on the job of shutting the Whig bookseller’s mouth himself.

Too soon for him, the two men grew hoarse and their fight spluttered to an end. The man who had criticized the Duke of Ormonde turned abruptly on his heels, went into his shop, and slammed the door. The other stomped past Tom and entered a house down the street.

The crowd that had gathered to watch them fight stayed on a little while longer to grumble at being denied the pleasure of a bout. Complaints about the men’s lack of courage, and a tendency on the part of some to defend their friends, led to some more pushing and shoving, but a somberness beneath their anger soon had even the spectators returning to their jobs. Before long, Tom was left standing alone in the street.

By this late hour, even the long June day had begun to fade over the roofs of the narrowly spaced houses. The turmoil he had seen would be moving into the taverns with the onset of night. But for the moment, at least, Tom no longer felt conspicuous.

One thing he had noticed was that the door to Blackwell’s shop had remained closed. No one had come out to watch the fight, which could mean either that nobody was there or that Blackwell had something to hide.

The thought that he might be watching an empty house made Tom restless. Irritably he wondered whether he could simply walk up to the shop and peer inside. He was seriously considering this option when another news-hawker came up behind him and asked if he would like to buy a postscript from The Post Man.

Tom was about to refuse, considering three half-pence an outrageous sum, when he recognized the boy’s offer for the chance it was. So he handed over more of St. Mars’s money for the opportunity to lean against a corner post and read his paper as long as the twilight would allow.

This was not very long, and he had begun to draw curious glances again, when the door to Blackwell’s shop finally opened. A boy, who surely must have been an apprentice, emerged and, without pausing, came running straight towards Tom. He swerved past him with hardly a glance, before turning at the corner and vanishing from sight.

Well, at least one of his questions had been answered, Tom thought with more hope. Someone was in the shop. And, if he was not mistaken, that person had sent the boy on an errand.

He began to be concerned that the boy might take greater note of the stranger lurking outside his master’s shop when he passed him a second time. But he need not have worried. The lad came back nearly half an hour later, leading a saddled horse, and it was plain from the trouble he was having that he had never dealt much horses. It was all he could do to get the horse to come, and he had no attention to spare for Tom, who had to dig his fingernails into his palms to stop himself from lending the boy a hand.

Clumsily, the boy eventually managed to tie the horse’s reins to a hitching post in front of Blackwell’s shop. He was about to rap on the door to announce his arrival, when the door swung in, and Mr. Menzies appeared.

Tom’s pulse gave a leap when he saw that arrogant face. All his anger towards the man returned in a rush, so that it was a few moments before he noticed that Menzies carried a pack and wore a riding wig.

He took a glance around, giving Tom no chance to duck, before tossing his pack behind the saddle. Tom didn’t think he’d been spotted. Night was nearly here, and he was standing in the shadow of a wall. He watched Menzies buckle down his belongings and check the girth. Then, he told the boy to move out of his way, and leapt into the saddle.

St. Mars’s had told Tom to follow Menzies to discover where he lodged. But, as Menzies headed east, Tom decided that he was making for London Bridge, which meant that he was probably on his way back to France.

There was not a moment to lose. Dropping the news-sheet in the street, Tom turned into the nearest alley and hurried as fast as he could trot down to the river. He hailed the only boat moored at Puddle Dock Stairs, jumped into it before its owner could untie it, and offered the waterman twice his usual fee if he could row him to Vauxhall Stairs in record time.

* * * *

When, feeling dejected and restless, Gideon returned from Ormonde House, he found Tom waiting for him at the dock.

 “My lord, you’ve got to come quick,” he said. He shifted impatiently while Gideon climbed out of the boat and paid the man his fee.

“You’ve found him?”

“Ay, but he’s left. I saw him ride for London Bridge, and I think he’s heading back to France. You’ll have to be quick if you want to catch him.”

The urgency in Tom’s voice spurred Gideon like a tonic. At last there was something he could do! No more of this infernal waiting.

Taking long, fast strides, he headed up the river bank towards the house, with Tom nearly running to keep up.

He would ride after Menzies, and the longer and faster the ride, the better he would feel.

“Have you got Penny ready?”

“Ay, my lord. And I’ve saddled Beau, too.”

Beau would not be able to keep pace with Gideon’s horse, but Tom would not be too far behind, and Gideon still needed him to identify Menzies.

Reaching the house, and taking the stairs two at a time, Gideon took a second to reflect that, for once, he had not been made to suffer an argument with his groom. Amused, but gratified, by his servant’s planning, he wondered what exactly Menzies had done to earn Tom’s enmity. But that story could wait.

In his bedchamber, he removed his Quakerish coat and bob wig and threw them on the floor. He grabbed a black ribbon from his dressing table and tied his hair into a queue, before reaching for his boots.

Gideon sat to pull them on, just as Tom appeared breathless in the door. “I took the liberty of packing your lordship’s cloak and mask, in case you need them,” he got out. “They’re in the pack on your saddle.”

“And my father’s pistols?”

Tom blanched. “Do you think you’ll be needing them, my lord?”

With his boots put on, Gideon sprang to his feet.

“Strange things are going on,” he said. “It would be better for us to be prepared.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“You carry them, though. I’d rather not be burdened with their weight. And that way, if you come along and discover me in trouble, you’ll be armed.”

“Yes, my lord.”

 Downstairs, Gideon found the horses, saddled and waiting in front of the house. He gave Penny a hasty greeting, before picking up her reins.

The noise they had made must have waked Katy, for she appeared in the door wearing her nightdress and holding a candle in her hand.

“Is there anything wrong?” she asked.

Before Tom could tell her to mind her own business, Gideon said, “There’s nothing at all. You’d best go back to sleep.”

“Yes, Mr. Mavors,” she said, and retreated back into the house.

When Tom bent to give his master a leg up, Gideon heard him give a miserable sigh. He grinned in the dark, as Tom threw him flying onto the horse’s back.

Then he had no time to think about Tom’s affairs, for Penny began to kick and prance. The elation that always accompanied activity filled him now, as he tightened his grip on the reins.

“How long since Menzies left?” he asked Tom, who had turned to mount his own horse.

“Since just about dark. We’ll have to ride like the dickens, my lord.”

Gideon grinned as he leaned forward to pat Penny on the neck. “You hear that, my love? Didn’t I promise you an entertaining ride?”

He turned her in the direction of the Kent Road and with a slight loosening of his reins, they were gone.