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Authors: Hayley A. Solomon

BOOK: A Rag-mannered Rogue
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Well, that was all very well, of course, but if you were stuck in a rackety gig with a bonnet to hide your pretty but haughty eyebrows, and it was impossible to make any kind of curtsy, never mind turn one's back, there were rather few options left available.
Tessie had tried the weather but had not progressed very far, for there is only so much one can say about a crisp autumn day that is cold but not biting. Besides, she would rather choke than converse with a man whose stated intention was to divest her of her maidenhood at the nearest posting house.
She sneaked a peek at the scurrilous rogue she had trusted her venture to. Yes, he still had that odious smirk upon his sallow countenance—the type of smirk she longed to put an end to by ditching the team and grabbing the reins herself. But the road had too many bends and twists—far too risky. Besides, though the horses were as lame as donkeys, Tessie could not wish to see them hurt, and they might be if she decided on such a course.
So she abandoned
all
attempts to be ladylike and contemplated biting Mr. Dobbins's whip hand. This was currently curling about her waist in a manner that was as sly as it was distasteful. If she leaned forward, she could just manage it. It did not signify in the
least
that the feather on her bonnet would be sadly rumpled. However, on reflection, the taste of his horrible tan riding glove in her mouth was something she could not relish, so she settled, first, on giving him a sporting warning.
“Unhand me, if you please!”
For answer, a faint, supercilious snort. “Kindly remove your fingers. They are poking me.”
“Stroking, you mean.”
“Poking. And I meant it about my pistol.”
“Nonsense. A woman never means such things. And even when one does, one can rely on a poor aim equaled only by an equivalently poor temper to ensure no lasting harm is done.”
It took all Tessie's self-control not to prove him hazardously, disastrously, and irreparably wrong. But if there was one thing her grandfather had taught her, it was to take her skill seriously. She was in the habit of joking that nothing could be more fatal than to kill someone. But the truth weighed heavily with her, for Tessie, sad to say, was a hothead.
A hothead with a strangely remarkable eye, a superbly trained balance, and an enviable swiftness that always caused a chuckle to rise in the throat of the old Viscount of Hampstead. It was a combination of which poor Oliver Dobbins was wholly unaware, for Miss Fincham had always disapproved heartily of such goings-on and would never permit a word of such matters to pass beyond the gates of Hampstead Oaks.
Now the urge to reach into the reticule that bounced demurely upon her dusty pink skirts was almost overwhelming. Tessie bit her lip and concentrated on the pretty trim hat her half-mourning clothes now permitted. She would
not,
she told herself, shoot unless she truly needed to. The temptation, quite frankly, was strong. But she demurely played with the elegant ribbons of her reticule and satisfied herself with a mere remark.
“You are admirably sanguine, Mr. Dobbins. I congratulate you on your smugness. I'm sure I hope it is not ill founded.”
“And
I
congratulate you on a sharp tongue. A woman's only weapon, but you appear to keep it well honed.”
“Ah, you give me such ample opportunity!”
Again the sweet smile and a tug at the reticule ribbons. These gay, curling wisps no longer appeared quite as jaunty, but Miss Hampstead was concentrating so fiercely on
not
shooting Mr. Dobbins that she did not appear to notice overmuch.
The gentleman, disappointed by her inattention, frowned and fell into a thoughtful silence, broken only by the passing of the common stage, the chime of some distant church bells, and the rumble of their carriage wheels.
Presently, the dust road turned to cobble. Mr. Dobbins, who had lost interest, for the moment, in continuing a conversation in which he appeared to be the loser, seemed intent on killing his stumbling beasts. Miss Hampstead sighed, nobly refraining from offering advice, though her instincts told her that the left chestnut was pulling and probably needed to be reshod. Also, though they had been traveling for several hours, the horses had not been watered, which to her was as cruel as it was foolish.
The ride continued, consequently, in silence, though Miss Hampstead was necessitated from time to time to remove creeping fingers from her person. She thought London had never seemed so far.
Two
Just past the Postlethwaite toll, on a little fork in the road that leads, in one instance, to a small ivy-clad cottage, and in another, just a few miles beyond, to the regular mail coach route, a furtive glance was cast at the countryside. To untrained eyes, the scrawny man with the thin, majestic features and the pinched chin appeared quite benign, for he was sporting a tweed greatcoat with two respectable capes and did not brandish any particular weapon.
This, of course, in stark contrast to the gentleman—and one uses the term loosely—beside him, who was burlier, dirtier, and pleased to be holding both a blunderbuss and a nasty type of pickax that somehow appeared menacing.
One would be wrong, of course, for the bonier man was by far the more dangerous, he being the handpicked emissary of a certain Mr. Philip Grange, whispered of in most circles, wanted by Bow Street, and feared about London with a great trembling of nerves.
Satisfied that there were no stray ears to hear the clandestine nature of his discourse, the bony beckoned the burly, waving aside the pickax with irritation. Purely, one supposed, from force of habit, he leaned close to his companion and muttered some grim words darkly. “ 'Is royal 'ighness rides tonight. After the meeting, Fagan, I want yer to follow 'is cavalcade down to Kings and Knight-bury. See wot yer can spy out.”
Then, balking, it must be supposed, at the rank breath that beset him, he stepped back and waited for his companion to nod reverentially, as was his due. He was disappointed, for the burly one was more acquainted with gutter fights than with reverence, and merely wiped his nose against his blunderbuss arm.
“Like as not, I'll spy some wenching.”
“Clothead! Of course yer will! ‘Alf our information comes by 'is maids and mistresses! No, I mean see if ‘e meets wiv anyone. Rumor 'as it there is a spy among us.”
“Among us?”
“Aye, among us God-fearin' Luddites. We can't take chances. The whole matter is a hanging offense, Lor' 'elp us.”
“Killin' the king? Cause for national praise, belike.”
“Hold your tongue, and ‘e's not king yet.”
“No, nor like to be, thanks to a dozen able coves.”
“A dozen able coves and one spy.”
“Wot? Lor! I see wot yer mean!”
“Yes, well, it takes yer a bit longer, Fagan, but if the penny ‘as dropped, at last, I'll not be complainin'. And neever will Master Philip.”
At this, the burly one shivered, his eye narrowing.
“Oo do yer suspect?”
“Not certain—got a list of possibles, but need proof.”
“Oo are the possibles?”
“Danvers from Sideham, Marley from Trent, and Murray ‘Iggins from . . . blimey, can't think where 'e's from. Midlands somewhere. The others seem all right and tight, but yer never can be shore.”
The man who answered to the name Fagan sniffed. “I'll nosy around.”
“Be sure that yer do. We don't want no more mistakes. The master is not pleased, which is somethin' that you, Fagan, should be worryin' about.” Then the bony one cracked his knuckles beneath tan riding gloves of indeterminate leather. Fagan, most uncharacteristically, shuddered. Then, collecting himself, he glared balefully at the bony one, whom he personally thought a bit soft, and nodded. His beaver bobbed several times for emphasis.
“We'll find 'im, guv.”
“Good. The matter should be simple, really. They ‘ave all been furnished wiv little passwords. The spy will have had 'is from Whitehall. Unfortunately for ‘im, that will be a sight different from yours or mine. Master Philip thinks it quite a jolly sort of thing. Almost smiled, 'e did. We used Lijah Josham, who we know is a ferret, God rot him, to rootle the password back to Whitehall. ‘E'll get comeuppance tonight, 'e will.”
“And when 'e does . . .”
“Aye, guv?”
But the bony one did not need to say more. He merely made a swift movement with his finger across his rather fine neckerchief. Fagan understood perfectly.
 
“Wait!”
The low-perched gig rumbled off with a great click of wheels and a smattering of mud that caught at Miss Tessie's bonnet and half her paisley shawl. Muttering in a most unladylike manner, she wiped off the smears with her pale gloves. The results were unfortunate.
The lady looked crosser and squinted into the mists. There was no sign of the antiquated gig—it could not be elevated by any stretch of the imagination to the rank of a chaise—with its rusting spokes and creaking springs, but she could hear its distant rumbling.
For a mad instant, Miss Hampstead actually regretted her fast reflexes that'd caused poor Mr. Dobbins to howl in pain and once again lose control of his steeds. Undoubtedly, if she had more tolerance and a better check of her temper, she would still be wending her way to London.
She sniffed. She felt rather forlorn out in the cold, and although Mr. Dobbins was naturally an odious snake, he was at least company. It was mean of him to set her down without all her luggage, however much she may have stomped on his boots and ground her delicate feet into his shins.
“Hah!” She scolded herself firmly for weakness. Mr. Dobbins was
not
company, he was a lecherous old scarecrow with bony fingers and the worst pair of lame chestnuts she ever had the misfortune to encounter. If the conveyance traveled another three miles this day, she would be amazed.
Prosaic, Miss Hampstead decided it was now quite pointless—not to mention beneath her dignity—to pursue the matter further. Howling or chasing after the gig would merely be excessively birdwitted. She therefore refrained from calling out again, dusted herself off, and twirled around daintily in her stout half boots of sensible jade leather. A few shy drops of rain caused her to stop in her tracks and consult the sky pensively.
It looked likely to rain. She could possibly still purchase a seat on the mail, but by this time she would almost certainly have missed the stagecoach to London. Even taking the faster mail, it would be nightfall by the time she reached Grosvenor Street, and there was no saying what suitable accommodations could be arranged. One thing was certain—she would
not
stay with Lady Haverlea, who treated her mama so shabbily, no matter
what
the connection!
No, it was surely better to spend the night in front of a warm fire and continue on in the morning. By all accounts, the hostelry that rose before her in a cheerful mass of gray stone and rosewood shutters was excellent.
But how vexatious to have on only a half-mourning traveling gown and muddied shawl! Not to
mention
no chaperone or proper baggage . . . Miss Tessie bit her lip. In London it would not have mattered. The city was sufficiently big to permit anonymity. She would pass for a merchant's daughter or a governess, or even a superior upper servant. Here there were bound to be questions. Country folk were all the same. Quickly, Tessie assembled some sort of story, then turned toward the neat cobbled path leading up past the stables. Just her luck to have hailed Mr. Dobbins, when if she'd only had a little patience, she could have wheedled Jack, the carrier's boy, to take her up in his chaise.
She shook off her childish pout and replaced it with the wider, more sensuous smile of a beautiful woman halfway through her eighteenth year. It was wasted on the cobbler's boy who eyed her saucily as she passed, but it lifted her gloom a little. No point pining and repining. She was not a wet goose! Indeed, no! Miss Theresa Evans Hampstead was made of sterner stuff, as anyone with half a wit would attest to. And if she was
not
to be conveyed to London that day, she might just as well step out of the drizzle.
Rain was dripping from her bonnet, but she scornfully ignored the rather sobering notion that she doubtless looked a fright. Pure vanity—she had no time for such nonsense. She clutched at her valise and marched forward.
The posting house, now that she had passed the stables and taken a closer look at bright awnings and cheerful plant boxes, seemed warm and inviting. She could just make out a fire through the windows, and even though it was morning, tapers burned merrily to offset the heavy, gloomy drapes and the dullness of the day.
Of a sudden, Miss Theresa Evans Hampstead—otherwise known to all her intimates as Tessie—was hungry. The forty-two gold sovereigns weighed heavily in her reticule. She felt rich. And, though annoyed at Mr. Dobbins's lack of chivalry, she was nevertheless pleased to see the last of him. Poor company he was, forever prosing on about this or about that. And boastful! He had bored on in his dry way a full six miles about his hunting prowess and several more about riding unicorn.
Miss Hampstead sniffed, though the corners of her mouth tilted upward rather wickedly. She doubted whether poor Mr. Dobbins possessed three horses frisky enough to put it to the touch. But when he had tried to kiss her at the Postlethwaite toll, it had been the outside of enough. She really did not regret stomping meaningfully on his hessians, even if it
had
resulted in a long and bitter tirade about “fanciful chits who needed taking down a peg or two.” Not to mention, of course, being deposited but two miles later at this unknown outpost miles from anywhere fashionable and probably far removed from Upper Grosvenor Street, her preferred destination.
Mr. Dobbins's ardor, she presumed, had waned to all but nothing.
Tessie shrugged. She'd wanted an adventure, and now she had it. She dusted down her traveling coat, and with a slight tweak of her bonnet, she stepped inside.
 
“Might I organize a room for the night?” Her voice was like soft velvet, belying her youth and obvious shortcomings of dress. Her gown, she knew, was positively provincial, and though her pearls were of the finest quality, they were presently hidden from view by a high-cut collar that itched most uncomfortably. Still, despite these disadvantages, her color was high, her eyes sparkled with their usual animation, and her skin was almost translucent in its unusual pearl-white purity. Her hair was tucked in coils beneath a cottage bonnet of tawny trimmed straw, but even so, thick, dark ringlets escaped their pins and peeked out most invitingly. She smiled encouragingly at the innkeeper, unaware that even in the shadows her lips were a sultry pink, bordering on a subtle shade somewhere between roses and violets.
Despite certain obvious deficiencies, she bore herself well.
The innkeeper, calling orders to the ostlers, did not seem to mind her muddied shawl or the stained gloves. He was just smiling upon her in a benign and avuncular manner, when a shriveled-up woman twice his height and half his girth appeared from the kitchens. She marched over to the oak counter and glared balefully.
“We are full up, mistress. Like as not you'll find something at the Cock and Candle.”
“But that is not respectable!” Miss Hampstead stood her ground firmly. She was young, but she was not a bubblehead. The Cock and Candle was no place for a young lady, however much she sought diversion.
“Quite right, missy. Respectable is as wot respectable does!”
The innkeeper's wife—for so she appeared to be—muttered these incomprehensible words while her husband shifted uncomfortably on his stout feet. The utterance was quite unintelligible to Miss Tessie but not the tone. She colored but tilted her chin rather dangerously, her eyes sparkling with sudden anger.
The innkeeper, hardly reassured by this gesture, wiped his hands upon the capacious apron that enfolded him, and coughed unhappily. The newcomer might not look or
behave
like quality, but she
spoke
like it. Further, she was turning up her nose and arching a very fine pair of dark brows in a manner suggesting that she was neither pleased nor patient.
Now she spoke firmly, with just a trace of hauteur. “I have forty-two gold sovereigns in my possession. Have the goodness to show me to a suitable chamber.”
The innkeeper picked up a jug of ale and looked meaningfully at his stick of a wife. Several of the occupants of the taproom looked through the open door and eyed Miss Hampstead appraisingly. She did not appear to notice, for she was concentrating fiercely on looking regal.
The innkeeper's wife laughed.
“Lawks a mercy, just look at those airs and graces! A duchess she might be! A duchess wot has never hair or hide of a stick of baggage. Nor maids nor outriders neever.”
There was a general murmur of amusement about the room. Tessie felt her face heating, but she refused to be drawn.
“I shall not require a private parlor, but washing water will be excellent and a hot brick in the sheets. . . .”
“Did yer 'ear that, Percy? She
requires
. . .”
Miss Hampstead was not used to her orders being dismissed. Certainly, she was not used to being treated like a tavern wench rather than a lady. She was too resourceful to be desperate, but her situation was uncomfortable. Certainly, it was over her dead body that she would take herself off to the Cock and Candle, no matter how late the hour. She masterfully—and regretfully—resisted the urge to box Mistress Audley's ears.

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