The Convenient Marriage

by Джорджетт Хейер

  Sir Roland shook his head. “It ain’t a hat, Pel. You couldn’t call it a hat.”

  Mr Hawkins gave a guffaw. “It’s a rare shap, that one. Better nor yours.”

  He handed the Viscount a muffler, and showed him how to tie it to conceal every vestige of his lace cravat. The Viscount’s shining top-boots made him purse his lips. “You could see your face in them stampers,” he said. “Hows’ever, it can’t be helped.” He watched Sir Roland struggle into a large triple-caped overcoat, and handed him a hat more battered than the Viscount’s. He eyed Sir Roland’s elegant gauntlets disparagingly. “Properly speaking, you don’t want no famstrings,” he said. “But I dunno. Maybe you’d best keep them white dabblers o’ yours covered. Now, you gen’lemen, stow these here masks away till I gives the word to put ’em on. Not till we gets to the Heath that won’t be.”

  Captain Heron pulled his muffler tight and jammed his beaver well over his eyes. “Well, at all events, Pelham, I defy my own wife to recognize me in these clothes,” he remarked. “I could only wish that the coat were not so tight round the chest. Are we ready?”

  Mr Hawkins was pulling a wooden case from under the bed. This he opened, and displayed three horse pistols. “I got two myself, but I couldn’t come by no more,” he said.

  The Viscount lifted one of these weapons, and grimaced. “Clumsy. You can have it, Pom. I brought my own.”

  “Not them little pops all over wedge?” asked Mr Hawkins, frowning.

  “Lord, no! Horse pistols like your own. You’d best leave the shooting to me, Pom. No knowing what will happen if you let that barker off.”

  “That gun,” said Mr Hawkins, offended, “belonged to Gentleman Joe, him as went to the Nubbing Cheat a twelve-month back. Ah, and a rare buzz he was!”

  “Fellow who robbed the French Mail about a year ago?” inquired the Viscount. “Hanged him, didn’t they?”

  “That’s what I said,” replied Mr Hawkins.

  “Well, I don’t care for his taste in pistols,” said the Viscount, handing the weapon over to Sir Roland. “Let’s be going.”

  They trooped down the wooden stairs again, and out into the yard, where a couple of seedy-looking men were walking the horses up and down. These Mr Hawkins sent about their business. The Viscount tossed them a couple of silver pieces, and went to see that his pistols were still safe in the saddle holsters. Mr Hawkins told him he need not be anxious. “Couple o’ my own lads, they are,” he said, hoisting himself on to the back of a big brown gelding.

  The Viscount swung lightly into the saddle, glancing over the brown horse’s points. “Where did you steal that nag?” he asked.

  Mr Hawkins grinned, and laid a finger to the side of his nose.

  Sir Roland, whose horse, apparently having as poor an opinion of the hostelry as his master, was sidling and fidgeting in a fret to be off, ranged alongside the Viscount and said: “Pel, we can’t ride down the high road in these clothes! Damme, I won’t do it!”

  “High road?” said Mr Hawkins. “Lord love you, it ain’t high roads for us, my bully! You follow me.”

  The way Mr Hawkins chose was unknown to his companions, and seemed very tortuous. He skirted every village, took a wide detour round Hounslow and led them eventually on to the Heath shortly after one. Ten minutes’ canter brought the main Bath Road into sight.

  “You want to lie up where no one won’t see you,” advised Mr Hawkins. “There’s a bit of a hill I knows of, with some bushes atop. Know the look of our man’s rabler?”

  “Do I know the look of his what?” said the Viscount.

  “His rabler—his coach is what I mean!”

  “Well, I do wish you’d say what you mean,” said the Viscount severely. “He’s driving a chaise-and-four, that’s all I know.”

  “Don’t you know his horses?” asked Captain Heron.

  “I know the pair he drives in his curricle, but that don’t help us. We’ll stop the first chaise we see, and if it ain’t him, we’ll stop the next.”

  “That’s it,” agreed Sir Roland, dubiously eyeing his mask. “Daresay we’ll need some practice. Look here, Pel, I don’t at all like this mask. There’s too much of it.”

  “For my part,” said Captain Heron with an irrepressible laugh, “I’m thanking God for mine!”

  “Well, if I put it on it’ll hang down all over my face,” objected Sir Roland. “Shan’t be able to breathe.”

  They had come by this time to the hillock Mr Hawkins had mentioned. The bushes which grew on its slope afforded excellent protection, and it commanded a long view of the road, from which it was set back at a distance of about fifty yards. Reaching the top of it, they dismounted, and sat down to await their prey.

  “I don’t know if it has occurred to you, Pelham,” said Captain Heron; removing his hat, and throwing it down on the grass beside him, “but if we stop many chaises before we chance on the one we’re after, our first victims are likely to have plenty of time to inform against us in Hounslow.” He looked across the Viscount’s sprawling person to Mr Hawkins. “Ever had that happen to you, my friend?”

  Mr Hawkins, who was chewing a blade of grass, grinned. “Ah, I’ve had it happen. No scout-cull ain’t snabbled me yet.”

  “Burn it, man, how many chaises do you expect to see?” said the Viscount.

  “Well, it’s the main Bath Road,” Captain Heron pointed out.

  Sir Roland removed his mask, which he had been trying on, to say: “Bath season not begun yet.”

  Captain Heron stretched himself full-length on the springy turf, and clasped his hands lightly over his eyes to protect them from the sun. “You’re fond of betting, Pelham,” he said lazily. “I’ll lay you ten to one in guineas that something goes wrong with this precious scheme of yours.”

  “Done!” said the Viscount promptly. “But it was your scheme, not mine.”

  “Something coming!” announced Sir Roland suddenly.

  Captain Heron sat up, and groped for his hat.

  “That’s no post-chaise,” said their guide and mentor, still chewing his blade of grass. He glanced up at the sun, calculating the time. “Likely it’s the Oxford stage.”

  In a few moments the vehicle came into sight round a bend in the road, some way off. It was a great lumbering coach, drawn by six horses, and piled high with baggage. Beside the coachman sat an armed guard, and all over the roof such passengers who could only afford to pay half their fare perched and clung precariously.

  “Don’t touch stage rablers myself,” remarked Mr Hawkins, watching the coach lurch and sway over the bumps in the road. “Nothing to be had but a rum fam or two, or a thin truss.”

  The coach laboured ponderously on, and was presently lost to sight. The noise of the plodding hooves was borne back in the still air for long after it had gone, growing fainter and fainter until at last it died.

  A solitary horseman bearing westwards passed next. Mr. Hawkins sniffed at him, and shook his head. “Small game,” he said scornfully.

  Silence, except for the trill of a lark somewhere overhead, again fell over the Heath. Captain Heron dozed peacefully; the Viscount took snuff. The sound of a coach travelling fast broke the stillness after perhaps twenty minutes had elapsed. The Viscount nudged Captain Heron sharply, and picked up his mask. Mr Hawkins cocked his head on one side, listening “Six horses there,” he pronounced. “Hear ’em?”

  The Viscount had risen, and put his mare’s bridle over her head. He paused. “Six?”

  “Ay, outriders, I dessay. Might be the Mail.” He looked histhree companions over. “Four on us—what do you say, my bullies?”

  “Good God, no!” replied the Viscount. “Can’t rob the Mail!”

  Mr Hawkins sighed. “It’s a rare chance,” he said wistfully. “Ah, what did I tell you? Bristol Mail, that is.”

  The Mail had swept round the bend, accompanied by two outriders. The horses, nearing the end of the stage, were sweating, and one of the leaders showed signs of lameness,

&nbs
p; A wagon, going at a snail’s pace along the white road, was theonly other thing that relieved the monotony during the next quarter of an hour. Mr Hawkins remarked that he knew a cove who got a tidy living prigging the goods off tumblers, but he himself despised so debased a calling.

  Sir Roland yawned. “We’ve seen one stage, one mail, man riding a roan cob, and a wagon. I call it devilish dull, pel. Poor sport! Heron, did you think to bring a pack of cards?”

  “No,” answered Captain Heron sleepily.

  “No, no more did I,” said Sir Roland, and relapsed into silence.

  Presently Mr Hawkins put his hand to his ear. “Ah,” he said deeply, “that sounds more like it! You want to get your masks on, gen’lemen. There’s a chaise coming.”

  “Don’t believe it,” said Sir Roland gloomily, but he put his mask on and got into the saddle.

  The Viscount fixed his own mask, and once more crushed the hat on to his head. “Lord, Pom, if you could see yourself!” he said.

  Sir Roland, who was engaged in blowing the curtain of his mask away from his mouth, paused to say: “I can see you, Pel. That’s enough. More than enough.”

  Mr Hawkins mounted the brown gelding. “Now, my bullies all, take it easy. We ride down on ’em, see? You wants to be careful how you looses off them pops. I’m a peaceable cove, and we don’t want no killing.” He nodded at the Viscount. “You’re handy with your pop; you and me’ll do the shooting, and mind it’s over their nobs!”

  The Viscount drew one of his pistols from the holster. “Wonder how the mare will take it?” he said cheerfully.” Steady, Firefly! Steady, lass!”

  A post-chaise drawn by four trotting horses came round the bend. Mr Hawkins snatched at the Viscount’s bridle. “Easy, easy!” he begged. “Give ’em time to come alongside! No sense in letting ’em see us yet. You wait on me.”

  The post-chaise came on. “Nice pair of wheelers,” commented Sir Roland. “Good holders.”

  “Capting, you’ll cover them postilions, see?” ordered Mr Hawkins.

  “If we don’t move soon, there’ll be no postilions to cover!” snapped the Viscount. “Come on, man!”

  The post-chaise was almost abreast of them. Mr Hawkins released the Viscount’s bridle. “At ’em, then!” he said, and drove his heels into his horse.

  “Yoiks! Forrard away!” halloed Sir Roland, and thundered down the slope, waving his pistol.

  “Pom, don’t you let that barker off!” shouted the Viscount, abreast of him, and levelling his own slenderer weapon.

  Rising in his stirrups, he pulled the trigger, and saw one of the postilions duck as the shot whistled over his head. The mare shied violently and tried to bolt. He held her head on her course, and came down like a thunderbolt across the road. “Stand and deliver!—steady, lass!”

  The postilions had dragged their frightened horses to a standstill. Captain Heron pressed up closer, covering them with his pistol. Sir Roland, a connoisseur of horse-flesh, had allowed his attention to be diverted by the two wheelers, and was studying them closely.

  The Viscount and Mr Hawkins had ridden up to the chaise. The window was let down with a bang, and an old gentleman with a red face pushed his head and shoulders out, and extending his arm fired a small pistol at the Viscount. “Dastardly rogues! Cut-throat robbers! Drive on, you cowardly rascals!” he spluttered.

  The shot sang past the Viscount’s ear; the mare reared up in alarm, and was steadied again. “Hi, mind what you’re about, sir!” said his lordship indignantly. “You devilish near got me in the head!”

  Mr Hawkins on the other side of the chaise, thrust his pistol into the old gentleman’s face. “Drop your pops!” he growled. “And step out, d’you see? Come on, out with you!” He let the reins fall on his horse’s neck, and leaned sideways in the saddle, and wrenched open the door of the chaise. “A rare gager, you are! Hand over your truss! Ah, and that pretty lobb o’ yourn!”

  The Viscount said quickly: “Draw off, you fool! Wrong man!”

  “Lordy, he’s good enough for me!” replied Mr Hawkins, wresting a snuff-box from the old gentleman’s grasp. “A nice little lobb, this! Come on now, where’s your truss?”

  “I’ll have the Watch on you!” raved his victim. “Damnable! Broad daylight! Take that, you thief!” With which he dashed his hat at Mr Hawkins’s pistol, and diving back into the coach seized a long ebony cane.

  “Lord, he’ll have an apoplexy,” said the Viscount, and rode round the chaise to Mr Hawkins’s side. “Give me that snuffbox,” he ordered briefly. “Edward! Here, Edward! Take the fool away! We’ve got the wrong man.” He dodged a blow aimed at his head with the ebony cane, tossed the snuff-box into the chaise, and reined back. “Let ’em go, Pom!” he called.

  Sir Roland came round to him. “Wrong man, is it? Tell you what, Pel—as nice a pair of wheelers as I’ve seen. Just what I’ve been looking for. Think he’d sell?”

  The old gentleman, still perched on the step of the chaise, shook his fist at them. “Murderous dogs!” he raved. “You’ll find I’m a match for you, you rogues! Don’t like the look of this little cane of mine, eh? I’ll break the head of the first man to come a step nearer! Robbers and cowards! White-livered scoundrels! Drive on, you damned shivering fools! Ride ’em down!”

  Captain Heron, in charge of the baffled Mr Hawkins, said in a voice that shook with suppressed mirth: “For God’s sake come away! He’ll burst a blood-vessel at this rate.”

  “Wait a bit,” said Sir Roland. He swept off his abominable beaver, a,nd bowed over his horse’s withers. “Haven’t the honour of knowing your name, sir, but you’ve a very pretty pair of wheelers there. Looking for just such a pair.”

  The old gentleman gave a scream of rage. “Insolence! Steal my horses, would you? Postilion! I command you, drive on!”

  “No, no! Assure you nothing of the sort!” protested Sir Roland.

  Captain Heron bore down upon him, and seizing his bridle, dragged him away. “Come away,” he said, “you’ll ruin us all, you young madman!”

  Sir Roland allowed himself to be led off. “A pity,” he said, shaking his head. “Great pity. Never saw such a queer-tempered fellow.”

  The Viscount, who was speaking a few pithy words to Mr Hawkins, turned his head. “How the devil should he know you wanted to buy his horses? Besides, we haven’t time to buy horses. We’d better get back to our ambush. Mare stood the firing pretty well, didn’t you, sweetheart?”

  Captain Heron watched the chaise rolling away up the road. “He’ll lay information in Hounslow, Pelham, you mark my words.”

  “Let him,” said the Viscount. “He won’t get the Watch out against us. Why, we didn’t take a thing!”

  “Not a thing,” muttered Mr Hawkins sulkily. “And him with his strong-box under the seat! Dang me if ever I works with flash culls again!”

  “Don’t keep on saying that,” said the Viscount. “You can take what you like from the right man, but you don’t rob anyone else while you’re with me!”

  They rode on up the slope, and once more dismounted. “Well, if I’m broke for this, I think I’ll take to the—what-do-you call it? Bridle-lay. I’d no notion it was so easy,” said Captain Heron.

  “Yes, but I don’t like the clothes,” said the Viscount. “Devilish hot!”

  Sir Roland sighed. “Beautiful wheelers!” he murmured sadly.

  The afternoon wore on. Another wagon lumbered past, three more horsemen, and one stage.

  “Can’t have missed the fellow, can we?” fretted the Viscount.

  “All we missed was our luncheon,” replied Captain Heron. He pulled his watch out. “It’s on three already, and I dine in South Street at five.”

  “Dining with my mother, are you?” said the Viscount. “Well, the cook’s damned bad, Edward, and so I warn you. Couldn’t stand it myself. One reason why I live in lodgings. What’s that, Hawkins? Heard something?”

  “There’s a chaise coming up the road,” said Mr Hawkins. “And I hope it’s
the right one,” he added bitterly.

  When it came into sight, a smart, shining affair, slung on very high swan’s-neck springs, the Viscount said: “That’s more like it! Now then, Pom, we’ve got him!”

  The manoeuvre that had succeeded so well with the first chaise, succeeded again. The postilions, alarmed to find no less than four ruffians descending on them, drew up in a hurry. Captain Heron once more covered them with his pistol, and the Viscount dashed up to the chaise, shouting in as gruff a voice as he could assume: “Stand and deliver there! Come on, out of that!”

  There were two gentlemen in the chaise. The younger of them started forward, levelling a small pistol. The other laid a hand on his wrist. “Don’t fire, my dear boy,” he said placidly “I would really rather that you did not.”

  The Viscount’s pistol hand dropped. He uttered a smothered exclamation.

  “Wrong again!” growled Mr Hawkins disgustedly.

  The Earl of Rule stepped unhurriedly down on to the road. His placid gaze rested on the Viscount’s mare. “Dear me!” he said. “And—er—what do you want me to deliver, Pelham?”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Not long after four o’clock a furious knocking was heard on the door of the Earl of Rule’s town house. Horatia, who was on her way upstairs to change her gown, stopped and turned pale. When the porter opened the door and she saw Sir Roland Pommeroy on the doorstep without his hat, she gave a shriek, and sped down the stairs again. “Good G-God, what has happened?” she cried.

  Sir Roland, who seemed much out of breath, bowed punctiliously. “Apologize unseemly haste, ma’am! Must beg a word in private!”

  “Yes, yes, of c-course!” said Horatia, and dragged him into the library. “Someone’s k-killed? Oh, n-not Pelham? Not P-Pelham?”

  “No, ma’am, upon my honour! Nothing of that sort. Most unfortunate chance! Pel desired me to apprise you instantly. Rode home post-haste—left my horse nearest stables—ran round to wait on you. Not a moment to lose!”

  “Well, w-what is it?” demanded Horatia. “You found L-Lethbridge?”