A Rag-mannered Rogue

by Hayley A. Solomon

  “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. Wel
l, 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 . . .”