A Rag-mannered Rogue (5 page)

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Authors: Hayley A. Solomon

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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.

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