A Rag-mannered Rogue

by Hayley A. Solomon

  Nicholas did not bother to reply. He simply strode out with nothing whatsoever in his ungloved hands but Miss Hampstead’s famous reticule.

  Out of the pail came a dram of red-brown liquid—no need to guess its identity—Tessie could smell it on Tallows’s breath—half a pigeon pie, a shovel—curious, could be useful, but really rather small for her needs—and then the piece de resistance, a knife. Miss Hampstead peered at it through the gloom. Yes, that would do. It was precisely what she’d been hoping for, in fact, with all this talk of curls.

  It was growing darker and colder. Tessie hoped some candles would miraculously appear from the pail. They did not, but Tallows lit a taper from the fire. It was gloomy, grudgingly emitting a speck of half-light, but Tessie was grateful. That, too, could be handy. Time, she thought, to free her bonds, though she must sit with the ropes tied loosely upon her until her moment came. She counted on the moment, for it was all the hope she had.

  It would be days before Nick received any ransom note in London. He probably never would, for she did not pin too much faith on Tallows’s literacy or ability to frank the mail. There was no doubt in her mind that Tallows was a novice to the business of kidnapping. Good in some respects, but she must not rest on her laurels. Sometimes the stupidest criminals were the most dangerous.

  She jerked her arms viciously apart, loosening the bonds so fiercely that they fell to the floor. The pail was too far on the other side of the room for her to make a dash for it. Heart beating, for should Tallows notice she would be quite undone, she picked up the cords and bound them about her wrists again.

  How fortunate that her tormentor, occupied outside with the call of nature, and generally rather pleased with himself, did not suspect a thing. He returned and bade Tessie, rather curtly, sit by the fire.

  “For there I can see ya as I cut at them curls. One at a time, like. Souvenirs for his lord worship.”

  Tessie said nothing, but did as she was told, taking care not to let the ropes fall from her wrists as she did so.

  Fuming, she allowed Tallows to put his dry, mud-caked hands on her soft, tangled strands. They smelled of lemon and honeysuckle, but Tallows was too tipsy to really notice, or to appreciate this feminine nuance. He pulled at her hair—gently for such a large and lanky creature—and twisted a curl in his thumb.

  Tessie did not move, her eyes focused almost entirely on the knife he’d removed from the pail. She thought of leaping up, taking him by surprise, pouncing on the knife, and making good her escape, then decided she was an addle-wit. Tallows would be at the knife in the twinkling of an eyelash, and all her hard work loosening her bonds would be for naught. No, she had one chance, really, and how she wished it was a gun and not a knife that she had to deal with! Still, beggars could not be choosers, and if she had to stab Tallows, she would, for undoubtedly he would not hesitate to do the same if he suspected trouble.

  Nick would not just lie down calmly and pay the ransom. Even if he received the note, he would be concocting some cunning plan. If it failed, Tallows would not hesitate to kill her, or worse. He might seem a sorry sort of villain, but they were often the most dangerous. They worked on instinct rather than on calculation. Dangerous, dangerous.

  Tallows let go of the curl. It twisted immediately into a little ringlet that framed her face. He pulled at it again, then watched it snap back into the same soft twist. Tessie did not say a word. Inwardly, she sighed, for she wondered how long her patience, never mind her famous temper, could stand this treatment.

  “Quiet, aren’t ye?”

  “I have not much to say.”

  “That must be a first! You wimmenfolk blabber ten to the turrnpike, I always say! Bless me if them curls are not natural, like.”

  “Well, of course they are natural!”

  Tallows regarded her suspiciously. “None of them curlin’ papers, like?”

  Tessie shook her head firmly, so the tangle of curls covered her face. She swept them back again with another swift shake. Nearly, nearly, she had used her hands. She must be careful. And she must incite him to make a move! The longer she dallied, the darker it got. She did not trust even a full moon to get her home.

  “Please don’t cut these curls! Please! Lord Cathgar would hate it!”

  Tallows’s eyes narrowed, and he stopped, to Tessie’s relief, fingering her mass of silken locks. He stood up instead, galvanized into action. Yes, Tessie had been shrewd enough to realize that he bore Nick a deep grudge. Grudge enough to do something out of sheer spite. Tessie did not think of her curls—they would grow back—she thought of the knife. The long, lovely pearl-handled knife that Tallows caressed slowly.

  He ran his finger down the blade and smiled. It was not a wicked smile, precisely, for “wicked” is left for more heroic, romantic villains—but it was mean and calculating. Tessie did not allow herself to shiver or take fright. If she failed, there would be plenty of time for such displays of misery. The knife was being sharpened now in front of the flames from the small hearth. Tallows had not forgotten a grinding stone.

  Cal had nothing further to add to Nick’s sisters’ garbled story. Nick had to restrain himself from shaking the poor lad, for had he accompanied Tessie, she might, at least, be safe. Cal was near tears, trying to explain. Nick did not shake him, as he wished to, but pulled out a pristine handkerchief and muttered that no real harm was done. After all, Tessie was as stubborn as a cart horse. Cal would not have been able to resist her wheedling.

  Now for no real reason other than the reticule, he had a distinctly dire feeling in the pit of his stomach. He prayed he spoke the truth when he said no real harm was done. The fair was full of unsavory characters—tinkers, peddlers—but somehow he did not think these were the problem. He was acting on instinct, but the instinct was strong.

  He saddled Bess—for his own horse needed to be rested—and set off, with Cal, in the direction of the ditch again. The sign was still pointing the wrong way. He slid down from the horse and examined it. There were small pebbles around it, and the mud on the post was fresh. Someone had deliberately turned the sign. A strong breeze, or even a horse cart brushing against the post, could not have caused those markings. Then there was the reticule . . . always, his mind dwelt unpleasantly upon it.

  God, if something had happened to Tessie, he would never forgive himself. He should have followed her directly to Chiswick rather than allowing her to become a slave to his mother’s whims! All those gowns—yes, even in his anxious state he could see how many bolts of material and half-finished garments were scattered about the drawing room—it was scandalous! He should have claimed her weeks before rather than meddling at Hampstead Oaks. He could have done that later, when matters were settled between them.

  Nicholas’s thoughts were bleak. Joseph was right. He was nothing but a cow-handed, rag-mannered, self-righteous rascal! Tessie should have been wed already, without the nosy Miss Hartleyvales of the world staring at her askance.

  Well, if he could but find her, he would stick to his resolve. What was more, he was dashed if he would take no for an answer again! If Tessie proved troublesome—which undoubtedly she would, for that was her sweet, adorable, stubborn little nature—he would simply overpower her with his manliness.

  Oh, yes, he would indeed. Nick’s eyes were grim and mirthful at the same moment. Then they became merely grim as he noticed her bonnet and a tangle of ribbons close to an almost completely overgrown path. How he knew it was her bonnet, one could not say. Perhaps it was the gay feathers, all sticky and murky, or perhaps, simply, because the bonnet was squashed flat. Tessie’s bonnets always, somehow, ended up looking like that! Whatever the reason, Nick decided it was Tessie’s.

  The path, however, was facing away from the fair, so he had to make a decision quickly.

  “Cal, you go on to the fair. Search every stall for Miss Hampstead. Not the dancing bears—she would not be interested in that, I think. If you do not find her within an hour, return to this path and follow my tracks qu
ietly. There might be danger.”

  “Aye, sir!” Cal’s eyes shone. For him, it was an adventure. Nicholas found, when it came to his intended, he tired of adventure. But he nodded approvingly to Cal, hoping against all hope that Miss Hampstead would be found procuring pink sugar mice at the sweetmeat stalls. He would probably throttle her, then, of course, but Cal need know nothing of the matter!

  He hardly stopped to watch Cal step off the overgrown path. He trotted down it silently, Bess sensing his need for caution. It took him a full ten minutes to remember the disused huntsman’s cottage. This after finding a single grass-stained glove not far from the path. She was throwing out a trail, he was certain of it. Nothing more was found, for the second glove had been taken by the wind and was even now lying hidden beneath an elderberry bush. It did not matter. Nicholas, knowing the land as he did, no longer hesitated.

  The only possible place for a villain—down this path at any rate—was the huntsman’s cottage. Five minutes before he arrived, he tethered Bess to a tree. It was better, he thought, to arrive on foot. Tessie’s pistol, though grimy, was still primed.

  Twenty

  Snip! It took just a moment of fumbling before the first ringlet fell to the floor. Tessie winced as Tallows hacked at it. The knife, sharp from its grinding, needed to slice into a hundred silken strands. Tessie’s hair was abundant, gloriously so. Still, despite the tears that stung her eyes, the deed was done. The first twist lay forlornly on the stone floor. Tallows chuckled. That should make his lordship scarper up from London! With a great wad of notes, too, he should reckon.

  “There, I do be afeared Lord What’s-Is-Name will be alarmed! Wait still, missy, for I still ’ave the other to do.”

  Tessie said nothing as Tallows bent to pick up the curl. He laid the knife upon the table as he did so. The single moment Tessie had been waiting for! She leaped from the chair and grabbed the knife. Tallows whisked around suddenly and Tessie kicked him. Yes, it is very sad to report this, for it was in a most unmaidenly site, and Tallows yelled with a mixture of pain and outright fury. The bonds were on the floor again, for Tessie’s hands were free.

  Now was the moment she’d planned for—the perfect moment to lunge the knife into Tallows’s back. He was still bent over, doubled in pain and fury. Tessie hesitated. Then she rushed to the door, frantically fiddling with the handle. She couldn’t do it. She simply could not. It was one thing shooting a person in the foot, quite another stabbing him in the back. The door was not locked—Tallows had just come in from outside—but her panic made the dark timber stick, and she was holding the knife, of course.

  Tallows, behind her, was grabbing at her skirts. She tried her best to keep calm, but panic enveloped her blindly. Tallows grew closer, his scrawny arm pulling at her waist in an impossible grip. Ridiculous, really, for a man so spindly. He grabbed at the knife. Tessie refused to release it, fury and despair making her stubborn. Tallows tugged at her arm; then, in a single moment of triumph, he eased the knife from her hand and pushed her back onto the floor.

  “I’ll cut orf all ya flamin’ curls for that! Silly bleedin’ wench!” He drew closer menacingly, his blade raised almost above his head in triumph. Tessie wondered how she could have been such an addlepated gape seed not to have stabbed when she could have. She watched Tallows carefully for a false move. She still had on her boots. She could do serious damage with those if only she were given the chance! But Tallows would be more careful, on his guard, now.

  She heard a rustling outside. It was almost past dusk, past the moment where she could just run and find the village path. She could still scream though, and if for some happy reason there was a person outside, he or she would surely hear. It was her last and only chance, for Tallows was approaching her fiercely, and she doubted whether he would stop at one curl or even ten. She did not like to think what he might stop at.

  She had not thought, while she was concentrating on escape, that Tallows would harm her. She was his only means to a ransom. But it was not just ransom Tallows required but revenge. She realized that now as he tugged at the first skein of her glorious, bountiful, ridiculously curly, long locks.

  The rustling became more pronounced. Even Tallows released his grip a little and listened. Boot prints against pebbles. Stealthy, but audible if one happened to be praying for such a miracle. Tallows had not been, of course, but he was as alert as Tessie, though the ale made his reflexes less sharp.

  Miss Hampstead opened her mouth and screamed. It was not so much a scream, precisely, as a blood-curdling shriek. Taken by surprise, Tallows started, then dropped the blade. He lunged toward her to stop her mouth—by God, he would gag her this time!—when there was a familiar report of gunshot. Tallows sank almost instantly to the ground, moaning in pain, and a great deal more Tessie could not understand. Just as well, for it was all most unsuitable for a lady’s ears.

  All this happened in the mere fraction of a moment, no more than a few simple heartbeats.

  Above Tallows, Tessie still, for some incomprehensible reason, screamed. Perhaps in shock, she was hardly aware of her redemption.

  “You may stop that caterwauling now, I believe.”

  The voice from the door was both mocking and amused. Tessie stopped, openmouthed, her heart fluttering so wildly, it was impossible to know whether it was from fright or from sheer, unmitigated relief.

  It was neither, of course, for her heart continued to flutter long after the gentleman had stepped inside, had eyed his surroundings, had had the temerity to kiss her pretty little lips long and well—but neither long nor well enough—and hand her back her precious pistol.

  “This is yours, I believe.”

  “You found it!”

  “I did, and your hapless little bonnet—you should really stop wearing feathers, it is a shocking waste—and your glove. Not the other, I am afraid.”

  Tessie did not care about her glove, for Nicholas was regarding her lips again, rather as though they were an interesting curiosity. Miss Hampstead hoped they were interesting enough, though Tallows still needed some attention. Her eyes must have flickered to the villain, for Nick finally allowed his gaze to wander to that quarter, too.

  “I think he needs some help. He is losing blood. . . .”

  Nicholas picked up a curl. “Did he do this?”

  “Yes, it is nothing. Nick, he is an unscrupulous villain, but he needs attention.”

  “It is not blood he should lose, but a tooth. By God, let him just sit up and I will give him attention!”

  Tessie laughed. Such ferocity! So different from the cool, languid, mocking man she had met. Over nothing more dire than a whisper of a curl too. Almost she could hope . . .

  Tallows sunk into a swoon. Nicholas cursed, then drew some water to revive him. He stripped the man to his shirtsleeves to expose the bloody shoulder.

  “He will live, but Cal should fetch a doctor. Then a magistrate. Can you help me bind him?”

  “I don’t want none of your bleedin’ bindin’s, Lord Whatsit!”

  Tallows, reviving, was too annoyed to hold his tongue. Nicholas raised his brows as he bound the wrists firmly, then drew out an elegant silver bottle of French Madeira.

  “A terrible waste, but I rather feel it is best if he fell into a stupor. At least until the magistrate arrives.”

  Expertly, he forced the drink down Tallows’s stubborn lips. Stubborn, that is, until he had had his first taste. After that it was sheer simplicity. Tallows downed every last drop with nothing but a satisfied belch.

  “A somewhat inept criminal, I find.”

  “Yes. Why do I have the strangest sense of déjà vu?”

  “Perhaps because we seem destined to tie up criminals, you and I.”

  Tessie nodded. Perhaps it was relief, but she felt rather weak at that careless phrase, “you and I.”

  “Inept, but a terrifying criminal nonetheless.” Nicholas regarded Tessie keenly. She nodded.

  “Yes. I thought he might—”


  Nick interrupted. He placed a finger over Miss Hampstead’s mouth.

  “Not terrifying for you, but for me. I thought I might lose you.” Lord Nicholas Cathgar regarded Tessie meaningfully. Her heart did several quick somersaults. It was perfectly impossible not to look as though she was desperate to be kissed. She was, of course, only how utterly shameless to allow him to guess!

  So she fiddled with her pistol—a hideous crime, one Grandfather Hampstead would have sent her to bed with no tea for a week over—and fussed over Tallows.

  “Perhaps we should stay with him.”

  “Indeed we should not! I have better things to do! And by the bye, though I hesitate to mention it, I did reload the pistol as a precaution. . . .”

  Too late! The report was deafening. Fortunately, since Nick ducked, it did no more harm than damage one of the cracked walls.

  “You are a menace!”

  “Good God, I could have killed you!”

  “I think we can effectively say I have now scotched my debt of honor to you, Miss Hampstead. You saved my life, but I have just returned the favor with interest. You dashed nearly killed me.”

  Nicholas’s tone was hard. Tessie’s happiness evaporated with the last rays of the sun. It was suddenly dark and cold.

  “Do you agree?”

  What could she say? Tessie could, in fact, say nothing. She was too choked with tears. So she nodded. At least, she thought, she still had pride.

  “Your reputation is still perfectly intact and you are not ruined, Miss Hampstead. No tattle has ever reached my ears regarding your progress to London. Since then, you have been the honored—and chaperoned—guest of my mother and my sisters. No possible blame can attach itself to you. The fact that you have chosen to spend your time sewing a great pile of impossible-looking ball gowns is no one’s concern but your own.”

  “You are right. I thank you. My respectability is restored.” So why did Tessie feel so miserable? Why was there a big lump in her throat, so large she found it difficult to swallow?