Four
“Do you require a handkerchief?”
“No.”
“Good. It is just that you sniffed.”
“You know perfectly well I sniffed because you are provoking.”
“Provoking because I did not kiss you?”
“No!”
She was met with a quizzical glance that was annoyingly fascinating. She scowled.
“Telling farradiddles, again, Miss Charity?”
“I vow and declare you are the most odious, supercilious, overbearing, rag-mannered—”
“Yes, it is sad, is it not? Such a great catalogue of sins. . . .”
“You interrupt!”
“Indeed, for my time is not unlimited and you appear quite resourceful in your choice of synonyms.”
Blue eyes—glittering blue—held her dark ones, rather too mockingly for strict comfort. Tessie struggled to find a suitable answer but felt awkward in the face of such worldly perfection.
Lord Cathgar had no business to be so . . . incomparable. Contrarily, she found the fact of his perfection provoking. Especially since he regarded her as a babe from the schoolroom, which somehow was more provoking still.
She knew she was behaving like a ninnyhammer, but with her legs quaking and her heart beating far faster than was normal in a young lady of her tender years, there seemed little she could do to change matters. If his lordship chose to think of her in leading strings, she should welcome such a misguided aberration. Her sensible side was really still most sensible.
The irritating smile appeared to widen, as if he read every one of her stray and nonsensical thoughts. It was particularly galling in the light of his own obvious polish, address, and perfection. He was a paragon, marred only by the existence of a single scar that shadowed his right temple.
A dangerous scar, that. One that offered temptations to a lady seized with a sudden desire to run her fingers along it. But Tessie was not that lady, oh, no, she wasn’t! She was the demure young thing who swallowed hard, placed her hands well out of harm’s way, and choked on her own civility.
“Farewell. Thank you, my lord, for dinner. If we should meet again in another setting, I should be pleased. I think.”
“A gratifying change from the usual gushing sentiments. I must congratulate you on novelty. You think, indeed!” But the eyes were laughing again, and damnably infectious, so Miss Hampstead forgot her chagrin and took leave to laugh too.
“If you should ever run across me . . . ?”
“Yes?”
“You won’t . . .”
“I won’t?”
“You know! I daresay it is not quite respectable to be traveling unattended to London—”
“Dining with hardened rakes . . .”
“You were never invited, if I recall.”
“I was, but we shall not squabble, my little mistress of the understatement! Suffice it to say, you are right. None of your activities appear quite respectable.”
“I, however, am.”
“Quite respectable?”
“Indeed.” Though Tessie blushed, for if thoughts could damn her, she was no better than a common strumpet. It was unpardonable that Nicholas should cause such wayward thoughts in her pretty little head! Surely it was not she who should be blamed in the face of such provocation?
For it was apparent that he required no padding in his doeskin breeches, stretched taut across the muscles of his thighs. Nor did he require any assistance with shoulder padding, or even with corsets across his stomach such as his royal highness had most sadly become reliant upon. No, he must surely take full blame for the disturbing nature of her thoughts and the pink that tinged her cheeks just looking at him.
Yes, he looked at her now in that dry way of his that was maddening.
Once again his voice was odiously indifferent, though his eyes, such a startling shade of blue, were hooded.
“Then you must accept my compliments. And chagrin.”
“That I am respectable?”
Nicholas inclined his head.
“Oh! You are insufferable!”
“Undoubtedly.”
“And . . . and . . . !”
“Hush, hush, my dear. Much as I would dearly love to exchange witticisms of this nature, my time, sadly, is limited.”
“Then by all means leave, sir!” Tessie, contrarily, felt disappointment. She would rather die than have him know, though, so her tone was careless. Lord Cathgar eyed her keenly, then half smiled.
“I shall have to, regretfully. Though I hope to resume this fascinating conversation on my defects in the not too distant future. It is really rather salutary, I find.”
“My lord . . .”
But Lord Cathgar’s appetite seemed to have returned. He was meticulously spreading some butter on a thick wedge of crusty, still-warm bread.
“Spare me, if you please, the dull explanations! I find them all sadly tedious.”
“But this tale . . . if it comes to the ears of the ton . . .”
Tessie watched Nicholas bite into his bread. He chewed for what seemed an age before swallowing. She could have screamed when he took a second, somewhat heartier bite. Then his eyes lit with resignation, and something more. Tessie could not tell.
“No, Miss Charity, if it will appease your sudden qualms, I am not a tattletale. Your secret, such that it is, is safe with me.”
Tessie breathed. This might sound ridiculous, or too absurd to mention, but in truth she had been holding her breath, quite unconsciously, for nearly a full minute.
Certainly during the whole of the crust-eating episode. Her whole enterprise, she knew, would be for naught if this passing stranger chose to ruin her reputation. He could so easily do it. A whisper here, a passing remark there . . . Tessie chose not to let her imagination run any more riot than these two calamities. Now she exhaled slowly, and Nicholas grimly noted the small O into which her lips subsided.
I say “grimly,” for Miss Tessie was cutting up his peace, a circumstance he did not find congenial, or in any way explicable, for he was generally quite immune to feminine wiles. Now he glared at Miss Hampstead, and took a few moments to comprehend quite what she was talking about.
“I thought it would be. Safe, I mean. The secret. You know. I am a very good judge of character, though Finchie says . . .” She was prattling. She knew it. She knew it from the odiously smug air of the man who pinched snuff before her very eyes, who cast aside a butter dish, and who swept away a dust particle from an already immaculate sleeve. She felt the heat rise to her cheeks, whether from annoyance or embarrassment, she was too naive to tell. At all events, she very thoroughly lost the thread of her discourse. It seemed perfectly natural, then, to glare at him ominously.
He merely looked quizzical, an expression Tessie found disturbing. Then, in answer to a crooked finger that somehow drew her far too close to his annoying features, she eyed him with a wary smile upon her wide lips. He touched them for a fleeting instant. Again Tessie could hardly breathe, her eyes fluttering up to meet his own.
Lord Nicholas Cathgar’s expression was unreadable, yet still she forgot to exhale. There was a certain tension about his jaw that made it perfectly impossible to look away. The moment seemed to lengthen, until amusement crept into those sultry blue eyes of his. Wicked for a gentleman.
“Exhale, little one.”
Again the finger just touching her lips. Tessie realized she was behaving quite extraordinarily foolishly. The man was laughing at her, and still she could do no more than shiver at his touch, no, his half-touch. . . . Nicholas laughed. Then, very gently, very lightly—excruciatingly lightly—he kissed her at last. When he had, he put her from him firmly.
“Did I say green? I was wrong. Not green. Lime. Shockingly lime. Lock your door, little goose. I have never seen anyone more extraordinarily ripe for the plucking.”
So saying, the gentleman traced his finger around her mouth once more, and tapped his beaver in a mocking salute. Then, while Theresa was still shaking like a blancmange at his careless touch, he had the temerity—he actually had the temerity—to take his leave.
This before she could dream up a biting enough reply, which would have included such snippets as her being a deadly shot and quite up to snuff. Miss Hampstead bridled in indignation. Quite why, she was not certain, for her feelings were all aflutter, but she definitely knew nothing—nothing—could pardon his negligent pocketing of his package of delicacies. He was definitely an unfeeling monster to leave her thus, amid the array of jellies and first removes.
For there was no doubt that left to her sweetmeats, she was suddenly not so very hungry after all.
A gibbous moon half lighted the courtyard below Tessie’s chamber. She was tired but not yet ready for sleep, the excitements of the day still upon her and the strangeness of the chamber a sharp reminder that she had thrown caution to the winds and there would be no turning back.
No returning to the country manor that had been her home, or not, at least, until she had established her credit in town and dismissed the lazy lackabouts who were managing the estate and allowing it to grow to seed. They had told her some twisted story, interspersed with many high titterings and tut-tuttings, that she was not so very rich after all. Not, in fact, an heiress, but merely the pensioner of some town sprig or other, who had no inclination to either visit her or set the land to rights. And this, after Grandfather had worked so hard with his irrigation schemes, and had hired Nash himself to design the gardens and the topiaries and the enormous hothouses with running water. It was not to be credited. Grandfather had told her clearly the disposition of his will, knowing that she had a mind as sharp as his own.
He had not permitted her to witness the signing, when Mr. Devonshire, his solicitor, had been summoned. This, she knew, was solely because she was the primary beneficiary. It would not have been fitting. But he had told her where she might find the keys to his dueling pistols, jewels, debts of honor, and snuffboxes. He had also given her carte blanche to his stables.
Now, after a tragic carriage accident, he was dead, her half mourning was over, and she had the strength of character, at last, to discover for herself exactly what her circumstances were. She knew of a certainty that Lawson was lying. Grandfather was a rich man—he had not left her and her dependents destitute, as the land agent appeared to imply.
But it troubled her that Mr. Devonshire had not responded to the queries she’d penned. It worried her, too, that there seemed to have been no quarterly stipend paid, and while the farmhands all seemed to be fed, many were staying on out of loyalty to her rather than because of any wage they were earning. Lawson’s books, when she asked to review them, looked perfectly acceptable, but they were based on the premise that the estate had no income. This she knew to be patently untrue. So, it was a matter to investigate. . . .
The water was cold by the time she made her ablutions, but she was used to paddling in freezing streams, so made no objection. She merely toweled herself quickly and stepped into the crisp night garments she had thrown into her valise. These nestled arrestingly among a book of “recipes, charms, and soothing tisanes”; one morning dress of unfashionable cut, one high poke bonnet, one pair of silk stockings, and her tooth powder. Mr. Dobbins had made off with her curling papers, her pins, a morning dress of pale lavender, sundry smaller items like ribbons and handkerchiefs, a selection of half boots, some Grecian sandals, and a splendid evening dress of rose pink.
She sighed for this, for it really was enormously fashionable, and that small side of herself that was still thoroughly feminine delighted in it. Still, nothing was irreplaceable. The balance of her needs, she reckoned, could be procured in London.
She tried not to think what would happen if she did not encounter Mr. Devonshire quickly or expeditiously. Her heart gave that familiar, unpleasant little jolt that she always contrived to ignore.
Worrying, as Grandfather always said, was senseless. If things went well, it was a waste of energy, and if they did not, they wasted the pleasant moments one had before knowing things were not good. Besides, Tessie had no choice.
Mr. Devonshire was not traveling to her, ergo, she had to travel to him. If she’d had the felicity of a male escort or a chaperone, she would undoubtedly have seized the chance.
Indeed, she had not acted for a full quarter, hoping that some more suitable arrangement might arise. But, apart from Mr. Dobbins, who was more lecher than protector, there had been no one traveling to London. Her maid, Elizabeth, had contracted childhood measles and besides being feverish and spotted indicated strongly her propensity to be sick even on a private post chaise, which she had twice traveled in, once to Bath, and once accompanying Miss Tessie to Astley’s.
Miss Hampstead, recalling this incident, deemed it the lesser of two evils to travel alone. Now she sighed as she pulled out her clips and tugged thoroughly at her ringlets, brushing them straight, only to have them bounce back when released from the spikes of her brush.
Outside, she could hear the horses being led to stables, their hooves loud against the cobbles. There were soft voices and several rather loud ones, obviously replete from the posting house’s brandy, dessert Madeiras, and fine after-dinner ports.
A couple of bucks laid bets outside her window, but Tessie was too tired to take note of the odds. Gentlemen were so foolish that way! Grandfather, too, played deep games, wagering this, or wagering that, without the smallest hesitation. How many times had he lost a fabulous emerald pin, or a perfect cabochon sapphire, yet not two nights later dropped a string of pearls in her lap, or a tiara upon her head. How she had giggled at that! She supposed it must be locked away somewhere, if he had not lost it again.
She could hear some bells chime the hour, and a wagon roll in with large milk pails and churns of butter. Cool at night, she supposed, and straight off to the icehouse, for the cellars were reserved, in a house as superior as this, for wine. From the kitchens she almost could smell the cheeses, though she was not perfectly certain.
She peeked out of one window. Though they were adorned with elaborate shutters, they were fixed open, affording her a marvelous view of the square below. Water was streaming onto the cobbles. Maids, off duty, were waiting for their beaus and brothers, lit, for a moment, by the lamplighter. He was standing like a sentry at the posting house’s door. It all seemed so strange and . . . busy. Tessie could just make out the new gas lamps. Like little yellow fireflies, they flickered in the distance. She turned from the window, yawned, and tested the door. Locked securely, of course. She tossed her head. She did not need a stranger’s wisdom to warn her to do that!
Some of the men below sounded extremely bosky. She would pay no attention whatsoever to their ribald songs. And, of course, she would withdraw Grandfather’s pistol from her reticule. She had decided after some thought to take only one of the very well-balanced set. Two would have been far too weighty, besides offering a temptation to any adversary. Now, her dark hair flowing past her shoulders—no, maybe just a little longer than that—she tucked the sleek, well-designed pistol under her pillow and pulled back the sheets.
True to Nicholas’s orders, they were well aired and a hot brick warmed gently between the coverlets. On a small night table stood a neat, untrimmed taper in a simple holder, a bottle of cod liver oil—why, she could not fathom—and a tall cup of milk. No, she discovered on tasting, it was not purely milk at all, but, rather, a hot posset. It tasted vaguely of rum and nutmeg. Not the sort of thing she was usually partial to, but then, there was nothing usual in this night at all.
Extraordinary how every creak of the floorboards made her jump, as if she were just a silly widgeon rather than the skilled markswoman she knew herself to be.
That was the trouble really, Grandfather had brought her up to be a boy rather than a girl. But it was pointless going over old ground. She was who she was and soon enough she would know where she stood in the world. And if it was without a feather to fly with, so be it. She would make a plan. But she felt like an heiress, and Grandfather had told her so categorically . . . on these familiar thoughts Miss Theresa Hampstead fell into a sleep that would have surprised her. She didn’t think it was possible with the peculiar mixture of country clatter and town bustle. Besides, the stars were shining too brightly by half.
One floor and a hallway down, Nicholas was discarding his high shirt points and gold cuffs. He was clean-shaven and ordinarily would have sunk into a tub of hot water and attended to the matter of his day’s dark stubble himself. It was not offensive, merely a shadowy patch outlining his stark cheekbones and determined chin. Tonight, however, he waved the razor away and ignored the waiting bubbles.
“The Luddites are meeting at ten after midnight in the crofter’s barn.”
“Oh! So that means, me lor’, I am to spread that muck all over yer face and clothe yer in hose not fit for a priggin’ varmint!”
“In essence, Joseph, yes.”
“Well, me lor’, pardon me language an’ all that, but if ye want a piece o’ me mind . . .”
“. . . which I don’t . . .”
The valet continued on without a blink of an eyelash. “Ye will jus’ stay indoors ‘ere and mind yer own business. Mighty ’armful some of those Luddites can be.”
“Which is why, despite your deplorable cant, I continue to employ you. If I am in the slightest need of any assistance, I rely on your discretion and your fists.”
“Ah, well, it is not for nuffin’ I’ve trained wiv a master.”
“Quite so. Now, if you will be so kind as to pass me the, eh . . . muck?”
“Now that is wot I don’t ’old wiv, me lor! It is not respectable like, and me a valet an all. . . .”
“Easily remedied, Joseph. I can demote you to the scullery. . . .”
“Ha-ha, always quick wiv a jest, me lor, but think of me feelings! Me sensibilities and such! Me, who ’ave dressed yer father before yer in powder and patches . . .”
“Reprehensible . . .”
“Quite, though it was all the rage, I might tell yer. . . .”
“Joseph, do I have to dress myself?”
“Not if yer be sensible like and try the new hunting coat Scott sent on this mornin’.”
“Joseph! I am losing my patience! I am not interested in tailors, but in treason! It is no laughing matter what the Luddites are doing. If we are not careful, we will be in the midst of revolution. Here, Joseph! Not in France, or on the damned Spanish peninsula, but here! In England! Lord save his majesty, the country deserves better from us. And the prince regent . . .”
“Blimey, sir, the prince is losin’ popularity as we speak. There are some as wot say—”
Joseph stopped.
“Do you see? Already malcontents are gossiping. The Midlands are in uproar, and I am not just talking about frame breaking. Revolution is muttered more broadly than merely on the lips of a few disgruntled textile workers. With King George deranged . . .”
“Mad.”
“See? People are not mincing their words. Precious few—saving Queen Charlotte, perhaps—expect him to recover. Already he has had relapses. For the Luddites—and factions like them—this is a God-given chance.”
“They are afraid—”
“Afraid of progress, Joseph.”
“Afraid of freakin’ starvation, me lor’.”
“Maybe. I sympathize with their fears, though most, I am tolerably well informed, are groundless. But there is a dangerous fragment, Joseph, which is willfully destructive. I fear these people with flames and axes. They care nothing at all for progress or for the new mechanization.”
“Lor’ luv them, why should they?”
Nicholas sighed. “Because their salvation lies within it. I shan’t bore you with the details, only ask that you watch my back. Among the well intentioned there is a greater threat: The Luddite cause is being used by practiced interlopers. The type of bloodthirsty anarchists that foster chaos, looting, and wanton death. Mark you too: I would wager my last sovereign that it is not mechanization that is their full agenda, but France. Vive Napoleon! ”
“The coves in the barn tonight?”
“We suspect so. We also fear for the life of his royal highness. He is an obvious target and does not help by maintaining a singularly rigorous social calendar. The scope for assassination is large.”
“Wot’s the plan, then?”
“I don’t know, which is why I am going to such lengths to find out.”
“Wot lengths, me lor’, if yer don’t mind my inquirin’?”
Nicholas allowed himself a brief, rather engaging grin.
“As if you cared if I did! The plan, when you have deigned to exchange my clocked stockings for those vile garters, will be to intercept a certain Mr. Murray Higgins of Blackforth. Tie him up, gag him, and await orders.”
“What shall you be doin’, me lor’?”
“I shall be attending the meeting.”
“As Mr. Murray ’Iggins?”
“Swift, Joseph. I must congratulate you on your comprehension.”
“And I must congratulate you on bein’ touched in yer upper works.”
Nicholas smiled a little wryly. “It is a pity we have stopped beating our servants. We used to do so, you know, for impertinence.”
“I’d rather ‘ave a whippin’ than carry you ’ome dead on a carrier’s cart!”
“Elegantly phrased, Joseph. And in a strange way, I am gladdened by your sentiments. Now fetch me that calico shirt, if you please. And filthy up those boots, will you? I must look like I’ve been riding for hours.”
And so, with a sigh, a few choice mumblings that Nicholas steadfastly ignored, and a vigorous shake of a curly, dark head, the valet set to work. It did not take long, of course, to grub up a pair of immaculate boots, but certain other of the preparations took a good deal more time. Joseph did not grudge it in the least.
Theresa woke with a sharp sense of alertness. Instantly, her hand was at her pillow, but though the shadows were long, it did not take a moment to realize that her door was still firmly locked and that there was no intruder in her small chamber but a little button spider crawling slowly down the wall. She relaxed a trifle but could not shake off the notion that something was not as it should be.
Tense, she straightened her rumpled undergarments, then discarded the rose-trimmed coverlet. It was cold, so she stepped over to the grate and prodded at it with one of the heavy pokers left for this purpose. The flinders ignited to flame almost instantly, lighting the little room with a soft red glow that should have been comforting but was not. Still shivering, Miss Hampstead paced up and down the chamber, her thoughts wondering distractedly—and for no good reason—to Lord Cathgar. He was undoubtedly below stairs or across the hallway, or, at all events, somewhere in this godforsaken posting house. The thought was strangely comforting, like warm milk and honey at bedtime. No, like sweet sherry, or something more wicked perhaps . . . brandy, or dark Madeira. . . . She wondered why she was behaving so foolishly. Her heart was still beating faster than it ought, and though she was not given to foolishness, she could not help thinking of the leering eyes of the men in the taproom and of her rash announcement regarding the forty-two sovereigns safe in her possession.
He was right! She was a fool and a greenhorn! He, the unnamed he—for she was not so lost to decorum as to think of him as Nicholas, even in her head—had been far too prominent in her wayward thoughts all evening. So infuriating, too, when he did not care a button for her. That much he had made obvious. And how annoying, when this was precisely as the sensible side of Miss Tessie wished. But the sensible side was sleeping now, and all Miss Tessie’s demons were storming at his rather piquing indifference. She moved restlessly to the window. It was quiet now, the lamplighters long abed, and the maids, too, belike.
The moon shone on a dappled horse tethered quietly beneath a shuttered window. She squinted through the leaves of an apple tree growing tall beside her window. The fresh scent revived her. Enough to hear muttered tones and see the silhouette of a figure loping toward the Great South Road. Tattered he was, and carrying a small lantern for illumination, though the moon was enough. There was something about his bearing, though, that set her heart racing even faster than its present abnormal rate. When the lamp temporarily lighted on a certain scar across the temple, the room echoed with her gasp. When she looked again, however, a common beaver had been firmly squashed over the offending flesh.
Then, to her outraged senses, there was a distinct scuffling at the heavy oak door to her chamber. She heard rather than saw the old handle being depressed. The wood quaked as if being forced. Then, her ears alert, she heard the faintest sounds of drunken laughter. Soon, soon she heard also the heavy jangle of keys upon a ring. . . .
It was less than a second before Tessie understood what was happening. Someone—some abominable, ill-meaning lout—had gained possession of the keys to her chamber.
But no! It was more than just someone. There were whisperings and sniggering and the scuff of boots on the landing.
Tessie sighed. It was those damnable forty-two gold sovereigns! Not to mention, of course, the spite of the innkeeper’s wife. Doubtless she’d handed over the keys with a rare smirk to her thin, reddened lips. Well, a pox on her!
Tessie had no intention of being relieved of her fortune. She considered screaming, but the walls were thick and she did not think she was at all modestly enough dressed for rescue. Her only option was to put a bullet through the boots of the first man who entered. That, or make a swift escape.
Escape, though feeble, was probably best. By the sound of the laughter, she would be dealing, not with one, but with three drunken rogues. She would gladly shoot holes in all of their boots, but there was the small matter of reloading, not to mention the scandal . . . no! For now, she would be perfectly sensible. Even Grandfather, who was as game as a pebble, would not have hazarded the odds.
The chamber was small and sparsely furnished, so it was a mere matter of three swift steps and a small fumble for the pistol. Cool and heavy in her hand, she breathed a calm sigh of relief. Time. The little beauty would buy her time if she needed it. With regret she abandoned her open valise but reached for her reticule. She threaded the fastening ribbons through her wrists and felt around for her boots. They were reassuringly at hand.
The noises were growing louder outside her door. There was a scraping of metal and a hard thump across the oak. Then several loud hushing sounds and a couple of bars of Spanish. A soldier’s song, and not one fitting for her delicate ears. Unfortunately, she understood every word, the viscount having educated her most unsuitably for a female.
She was less shocked than was strictly seemly, for she was more concerned with her escape than with her sensibilities.
Single-handedly—the right, as always, spared for the pistol—she flung her stout morning boots straight through the window and out, into the night sky. One landed on a whispering branch of the apple tree, the other with a sickening thud on the cobbles below.
Tessie held her breath. She was positive the rogues would be alerted, but they were not. The Spanish warbling grew louder, shielding all thuds from suspicion. As she exhaled a little, the key was finally inserted into position. A split second later, Tessie’s pistol was ready. Trained at the keyhole, she knew that at the veriest click, she would fire.
Nothing. Then a grumble, and the jangle again. It must, she realized, be a very large set of keys. Despite her fear, her eyes began to twinkle. She hoped each key looked identical and that the thieves were as drunk as they sounded. At that rate, she could remain in her chamber all night. The handle turned again. Miss Tessie changed her mind. Though habitually brave, she decided the tree offered a kindlier prospect.
One among them might be sober. Or brute enough to force the door. Wasting no time whatsoever—for Grandfather had never held with feminine delays and hesitations—she unloaded her weapon and cast her legs over the sill. It was second nature to grip the first branch of the apple tree. This with a steady left hand, so she could swivel to face the window. Slowly, she extended her right hand, pistol and all, to grab an upper branch.
Another key, she could hear, was being inserted. The men seemed to be quarreling, for voices were raised and there were footsteps . . . but these grew fainter as she steadied herself for a moment. Then, in the twinkle of an eyelash, she had clamored down the tree, regardless of all bruises or scratches to her person.
Her boot, providentially, was waiting for her. But not the first, which she had neglected to collect from the uppermost branch.
“Botheration!”
She could hear voices upstairs as she shook at the lower branches, hoping that the shaking would be enough to dislodge the offending—but necessary—footwear. It wasn’t, so she was forced to lace up the first, thrusting the pistol into the capacious pocket of her gown. Then it was a matter of standing perfectly still with her back to the apple tree as a shadowy figure thrust a head out of her window. He was pushed aside by a burlier shadow, and there appeared to be some kind of scuffle from within.
Tessie did not wait to hear what the outcome of this was, for she was desperate for her boot. She could go nowhere without it, and was disinclined to even make the attempt. Consequently, while some kind of debate was occurring upstairs, she shinned up the back of the tree as fast as her ladylike undergarments would permit, and buried herself for a moment in the leaves. The boot was still too high to reach, but if she whittled herself a twig, she would be able to dislodge it without too much effort. Accordingly, she selected a suitable branch and worked at quietly breaking off a stick.
By now her senses and her night vision were rather more acute than they had been. She had already decided that in an hour or so it would be safe to return to her room, for no one would think to burglarize her twice, and she could brazen it out in the morning. The only people not expecting her at breakfast would be the rogues and possibly the innkeeper’s wife. They might gape, they might even have their eyes on stalks, but they could hardly claim to know anything of the matter. She would calmly pay her shot and leave by the first available post.
In the meanwhile, there was still the problem of the boot. And the tree, though strong, was scratchy. Also, it was strange to be out of doors in one’s nightrail, with several strangers ready, doubtless, to cut one’s throat. For an instant, the redoubtable Miss Tessie sniffed. To her horror, a tiny tear lurked at the back of her shining bright eyes. She scrubbed it away scornfully and worked at retrieving her boot. The laces appeared tangled, but some forceful prodding yielded rewards: Before long, the leaves were whispering loudly as the boot made its way down several branches. Right, fortuitously, to where she sat.
Minutes later, she was ready to make her descent. But wait! She wavered a little, for a rogue, not two feet from the apple tree, was industriously coshing a gentleman over the head. His science was excellent, for it was a neat, clean blow that he delivered, such that his victim had no notion of the misfortune that had befallen him. Indeed, he dropped almost instantly to the ground with no more than a winded grunt.
The rascal was working quickly, pulling a large cravat from his pocket and gagging the man expertly. Then, as if it was his everyday custom—which indeed it probably was—he dragged the poor fellow away from the illumination of a gas lamp and regarded him thoughtfully.
Tessie squinted through the leaves. Not a good moment, she thought, to descend. Her pistol felt very comforting in her pocket. So much better than smelling salts, though a fit of hysterics would really have been perfectly suitable at that moment. But she restrained herself.
The victim, though not a gentleman, was undoubtedly a man of substance, for he wore a thick, dark coat and had alighted from a chaise. This was even now tooling off to the ostlers, its coachman quite oblivious to the troubles his master. Tessie could see very little of the stranger’s face, for it was dark and there was a tangle of tree in her way. He did, however, sport a rather large fob watch, for Miss Hampstead could just see the glimmer of silver as its chain spilled from his pockets.
Curiously, the felon hardly seemed interested. Rather than prigging the item—as any self-respecting pickpocket would surely do—he tucked it back neatly.
All this Tessie had noticed in less than an instant, in the half-moonlight and half-light. Strange how detail, which should be less obvious in the night hours, sometimes becomes more so. Either way, she perceived that she should now quite probably scream but did not care to draw attention to herself. So she watched as the rogue cast a glance around the courtyard, nodding in satisfaction at its emptiness. Then, with a wary eye on a neighboring barn, he proceeded to carry his victim—as if he were no more weight than a pound of flour—the small distance it took to reach the foot of the apple tree.
Tessie, still hidden in the branches above, dared not move. Her eyes flashed indignantly, however, as the man systematically tied his victim to the trunk of the tree. He was humming a brazen tune. He seemed to be waiting, though his eyes were trained on the barn rather than on his victim.
It seemed hours, though it was probably minutes, before Tessie nearly did cry out, more from surprise than from fright, for the man in the tattered clothes was back, and this time there was no doubt about the scar.
Tessie’s heart stammered painfully in her chest. What could this mean? Was the arrogant gentleman who’d rescued her a spy? A highwayman? She had no answer, for his eyes traveled to the prisoner only briefly, and his words to the rogue were curt.
“It is on. Another fifteen minutes, I should think. Was there a password?”
“I forgot to ask.”
“Forgot . . . Lord, Joseph! You coshed the man senseless and forgot to ask?”
“I thought ‘e’d be better senseless than strugglin’. As for password, you said nuffin’ of that, me lor’. Best forget the ‘ole matter. It seems to me a damn silly plan, savin’ your lor’ship.”
“Don’t lordship me, Joseph! And if there was another route, I’d gladly take it. Frankly, there isn’t. I just met Fagan on the Great South Road. I don’t like it. Something is wrong.”
The rogue’s manner changed at once. “A trap?”
“Could be. If Higgins awakes, for God’s sake, ungag him. He might have something to say. In the meanwhile, the meeting gathers. Fifteen of the men are already assembled. I just hope these rags serve. Higgins seems more respectable than I’d imagined.”
“Take ’is coat.”
“No time.”
“Then switch ‘ats, me lor’ship. That beaver is . . . is . . .”
“Outrageous?”
“Aye.”
The man with the scar grinned. “Very well, Joseph. I’d be loath to offend your sensibilities. Here. Now give me his hat. That do?” He jammed the thing unceremoniously on his head and untethered the piebald horse. It whinnied a little as he mounted. “I shall do a circuit and arrive from the north.”
“You’re a fool, me lor’.”
The gentleman—for all his tatters, Tessie knew he was that—laughed.
“And you are insubordinate!”
“Better that than dead!”
“I’m not sure!” Then the bantering tone died. “Joseph . . .”
“Aye, me lor’?”
“Watch my back.”
“For very certain, me lor’.”
“If I don’t return . . .”
“Aye?”
“Keep an eye on that wench upstairs. She is doubtless up to a pother of mischief, but I find that I like her.”
“Aye, me lor’.”
Here Tessie nearly emitted a quite audible gasp, for the rogue was clearly speaking of her! At least, she hoped he was . . . impudent, rag mannered . . . but she could not stop feeling a distinctly unmaidenly glow of happiness. His impudence should be outraging her. She should call the watch on him and his head-coshing confederate. He should be taken up in irons. . . .
No time for irons; he was gone, with a grimmer look on his handsome countenance than Tessie would have liked. In fact, the shivers of apprehension she now felt bore no resemblance to the delicious shivers of a moment previous.
The villain prodded his victim urgently. There was no response save for a mutter.
“Murray ’Iggnis, you have got to wake up!” This in a hiss. It was sufficiently audible, however, for Tessie to hear. Her descent of the tree became more reckless. The leaves shook and the villain—or so Tessie regarded him—gasped as the branches parted and Miss Hampstead landed with perfect poise just two feet beside him. Instantly, his strong arms coiled around her like a snake.
But Tessie, still gripping her pistol, begged him sweetly “not to make such a cake of himself.”
The villain, shaken, released his grip a little, warily removing the pistol from her grasp.
“Careful. I think it might be primed. I heard a click as I dropped to the lower branch.”
“Beg pardon, miss, this is no place for young ladies.”
“Then it is fortunate that I have lost all claim to that title. My behavior has surely sunk me beneath all reproach. Now, wake that man up. . . . I don’t believe I know your name?”
“Joseph, miss.” This with a grin, for Joseph knew instinctively that this must be his lordship’s wench. Uncommonly pretty she was, though not in his lordship’s usual style.
“Very good, Joseph. Now do, I pray you, release me altogether, for though I am quite partial to reptiles, I have never yet relished the grip of a boa constrictor.”
Joseph, who knew nothing of foreign shores or the creatures thereon, and who might otherwise have missed Miss Hampstead’s irony, chuckled. Living with the earl had increased his knowledge of matters relating to the Peninsula and the colonies, and, of course, the far of Americas. . . .
He instinctively permitted Miss Hampstead her freedom, though he retained the weapon with raised brows and checked it himself. Miss Hampstead murmured her thanks, and knelt in the earth, feeling the victim’s pulses with interest.
“It’s a shakin’ ’e needs. . . .”
“Nonsense. He is awake. No, don’t kick at him, foolish man! It will make him feel queasy. If I had sal volatile I could revive him at once. Wait! There is cod liver oil in my chamber. Disgusting stuff. It will do, though he won’t thank me for my trouble.”
“Miss . . .”
“Oh, don’t miss me! Shin up, will you?”
She gently removed the gun from Joseph’s restless hands.
“The bottle is very close to my counterpane. I would do it myself, only there are some ruffians I should very much like to avoid running into, and they already have succeeded in breaking down the door. If they are still there, of course, don’t go in.”
This last a second thought as she smiled sweetly at the bemused Joseph. He, it might be said, was experiencing a gamut of emotions he later described to the second housekeeper as “quite haranguing,” for besides being ordered about by a little chit of a thing who was as cool as you please with a mightily unsuitable weapon, he was also hard pressed to watch his lord’s back, a matter of the most singular importance. So, what with one thing and another, he was shinning up blimey apple trees and muttering darkly, terrified that the cove would wake hisself up and stab the little mistress in the back, a thing he could not like, for me lor’ had said . . . well, never mind what his lor’ had said . . .
In the meanwhile, poor Joseph was doing precisely as he was bid, bewitched by Miss Tessie’s smile and her matter-of-fact handling of the pistol, which she now pointed quite merrily at the tree-bound Murray Higgins.