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Authors: Hayley A. Solomon

BOOK: A Rag-mannered Rogue
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“No, Grandfather would not have a bar of it, you see. My temper is too vile.”
“I shall endeavor to remember that. May I sit up, Miss . . .”
“Evans. Miss Charity Evans.” The lie slipped easily off her tongue. Tessie thought it was only fair to be consistent.
Unlike her teasing gentlemen, he seemed to notice nothing amiss in the extraordinary name but merely nodded as he shifted his weight a little.
“Ah, Miss Evans, then. May I sit up? This tree stump is beginning to pall on me, and I have the most diverting notion that I might just cast up my accounts.”
Rather than recoil in horror, Miss Tessie looked stricken. “Oh! If you do, it will be all my fault. It is the cod liver oil. Nasty stuff, alas, but that password was urgent.”
At mention of the password, the man's eyes focused and he stopped fidgeting with the bark of the tree. Apparently, his dinner was safe, for he did not cast up his accounts as threatened.
“Miss Evans, answer me truly, if you please.”
His voice held a pleasant lilt that seemed surprising in a man of his origin. Tessie made no comment, though she eyed the man speculatively. His low tones held both urgency and authority, which was really most diverting considering the circumstances.
“Why should I?”
He continued. “You will agree that while I am bound and you are in possession of that excellent pistol, there is no immediate threat to your person.”
Tessie's mouth curved. “Yes. . . .” But her fingers closed quite naturally around the trigger.
He shrugged as best he could under the circumstances.
“I suppose I shall have to accustom myself to that thing, but I do implore you to point it at my arm rather than at my heart. You might sneeze.”
There was a moment's silence as Miss Hampstead eyed the prisoner warily, for though it is true he was tied to the tree, he nevertheless had recovered remarkably quickly from his crushing blow.
Worse, in her opinion his voice sounded rather too animated for comfort, and she had the distinct impression he did not take her seriously enough. She put her finger to her lips.
“Hush! I would not relish, you know, being overheard.”
The prisoner lowered his tone to a whisper.
“Not for anyone do I hush, but I value my life, and you seem a remarkably bloodthirsty female.”
He then ignored Miss Tessie's baleful glare and continued.
“Now let me hasten to my point, for I fear there is no time to be lost. I am presently helpless, so you are under no
immediate
threat, though I can't answer for the same at any time in the future.”
Raised brows from Tessie.
The man continued. “In fact, I can vouchsafe that I very possibly might strangle you, but not now. So do be a dear and satisfy my curiosity. Are you a Luddite?”
Miss Tessie, a small twinkle lighting her eye at this rather fierce soliloquy, bent her mind to the question.
“A
what?”
“A Luddite.”
“I don't
think
I am, though I am not familiar with the term. Is that a form of bluestocking? If so, it is quite possible, for I am rather well versed in the classics and the globes, Grandfather having—”
“Miss Evans, I am afraid I must bore you a little with my prattle. If you are
not
a Luddite—and decidedly, you are not, and no, the term does not bear any resemblance to the bluestocking society you have just alluded to—I fear you may—
we
may—all be in grave danger.”
“You already are, I believe.”
“I mean
real
trouble. Not the sort of prank where one is merely coshed over the head and bound to a tree.”
“I am not partial to tricks, Mr.—”
“Lord, actually. Though the title is strictly a courtesy, I assure you. And this is no trick. . . .”
Tessie's eyebrows rose. “A second son?”
“Third, actually. To the Duke of Atwater. But that doesn't signify . . .”
“No, I see that it doesn't.” In the shadows, Joseph returned and paced restlessly.
“He has the password?”
“Aye, but I mislike it. Something is wrong.”
Tessie cocked her pistol again and looked directly at her victim. “Talk, my lord, but be quick about it. If you hoodwink me, you shall pay dearly for it, his grace or no.”
“I am not Murray Higgins, as you have probably divined.”
There was an audible gasp from Joseph, who had heard little of the earlier whisperings.
“Not
Murray—”
“Was he
meant
to be this Higgins?”
“Aye, in truth. A Luddite through and through.”
“I am no Luddite. I am an emissary of Lord Castlereagh. Higgins is incarcerated. It was a small matter to switch places.”
“No small matter. Do you have proof of this?”
“Is it likely? I did not expect to have to prove my true identity. The reverse, in fact. It is ironic, is it not, that I can give you proof absolute that I am Murray Higgins.”
“Provided by Castlereagh?”
“Provided by friends to his majesty's government.”
“We are at an impasse. Joseph, what do you think?”
“ 'E talks too proper fer a Luddite. Oi believe 'im.”
“So do I.
Laudem virtutis necessitati damus.”
The prisoner stared at her as though she had gone quite mad. At length, he asked the obvious question.
“What do you propose?”
“Translate that, if you please. I doubt that Murray Higgins, whoever he is, would be trained in the classics.”
Lord Christopher Lambert blinked. He felt damnably foolish trussed to a tree—and uncomfortable besides. His head ached and the success of his delicate mission was suspended, precariously in the balance. The chit was regarding him with an air of smug expectancy that made him catch his breath. In less dire circumstances he surely would have laughed aloud. To be required to dredge up his Oxford Latin in such conditions truly seemed to be the outside of enough.
Six
“Laudem virtutis necessitati damus. Laudem virtutis necessitati damus.”
The Duke of Atwater's third and most troublesome son coughed. He tried not to think of the bump that must brewing upon his handsome—yes, he had always regarded it as handsome—head. Instead, he concentrated on remembering some smidgen of the classical education his parents had paid so dearly for.
“Laudem virtutis.”
He closed his eyes as if in pain. Then he opened them again rather whimsically.
“My, my, you
are
a bluestocking. Now, let me think. . . Quintilian, unless I am more rusty than I thought. Ah, yes. I take your point.
We give to necessity the praise of virtue.
Your excuse for treating me thus?”
“Indeed.” Tessie smiled perfunctorily, for her thoughts were now racing ahead of mere niceties.
“Untie him, Joseph, for we may well have need of him tonight. My apologies, sir, and tell me, if you please, about ‘silks.' That
was
the password for tonight, was it not?”
Tessie's brain was agile enough to single out the most crucial point in this debacle. If the password was sound, Nicholas's impersonation might not be discovered. He might be as safe as houses,
quite
unneedful of any feminine rescue. On the other hand . . .
“I was given it by Lord Castlereigh himself. The password, of course, refers to the looms. I believe the source was unimpeachable.”
Miss Hampstead sighed a little in relief. Her fingers relaxed infinitesimally around their dangerous resting place. She probed just a little further, however, for she was a tenacious creature, as Finchie was always expostulating.
“But it
could
be a trap?”
“I begin to think so. Something feels not right. The road, sadly, is fraught with these possibilities. . . .”
But Tessie, tearing down the cobbles in her cotton nightshift, heard no more of Sir Christopher's explanations. It was left to Joseph to follow her command and unbind his prisoner, muttering dire curses about “females in flamin' petticoats” and “masters who were as obstinate as striplings in leading strings.” Still, it did not take
all
of Sir Christopher's genius to see that the man was apparently attached to
both
these erring creatures, and that his curses, though colorful, were uncommonly fond.
 
“Set the barn on fire and 'im in it!”
“Nay, stanch the blood and wait for Mr. Philip.”
“Let us go, I say! No one said ought to me of prisoners! They are more trouble than they are worth.”
“Mmm . . . cut ‘is throat, then. We don't want no talkers.”
“ 'E won't if 'e's charred in the fire.”
“What if some bleedin' groom sets the alarm? It will look mighty smoky, 'im tied up an all.”
Nicholas, listening to this discussion with an interest that was not entirely surprising, could not decide which of these fates he was more partial to. On balance, he decided neither, but unless Joseph was clairvoyant and therefore poised outside for a rescue, he could see no immediate manner in which escape could be accomplished.
His wound was not significant—he rather thought the rogues had overestimated it—but this slight advantage paled to naught when set against the odds. That Mr. Philip Grange was expected on the hour did not help.
As a matter of fact, this factor alone made immediate escape imperative. While the man called Tallows hastened, vengefully, to procure a coil of rope, Nicholas ignored his aching arm and the thirty eyes focused upon his person. His keen ears gave him cause to hope that his trusty valet was, indeed, outside, for he could swear he could hear stealthy steps on the flagstones. Still, it could just as easily be Mr. Grange arriving early, so he flexed his muscles as his arms were taken roughly and bound behind his back. It was a soldier's trick that he trusted would serve. By flexing, the rope, though taut, would loosen as he relaxed.
Tallows nodded significantly and the procession from the room began with low utterances, the gloom growing greater with each lantern dipping on the outside. Soon, it was just Fagan, still grinning, and Tallows, who vowed he would like to throw a satisfactory right.
“Don't be so callow, ‘e's already bleedin' like a freakin' stuck pig. Save 'im for Grange.” This from a thin, reedy man with a tweed coat and two faintly familiar capes. Nicholas struggled to think where he might have seen them before. When the man's knuckles cracked, the arguing subsided into silence. Not a nice man, Nicholas thought with irony.
Some moments passed. They could have been hours, they could have been seconds. Perceptions are strange when one is desperately trying to release one's bonds. The reedy man smirked.
“Indeed, please do.”
The voice from the door was chill indeed. Nicholas, never one to despair, now did so.
A gentleman, marvelously dressed in impeccable buckskins, with a coat so nipped in at the waist one wondered at his ability to breathe, took several mincing steps into the room. To the untrained eye he appeared a dandy, for he sported a fan, and his shirt points were so well starched, they actually tickled his chin. There the resemblance ended, however, for the menace in his demeanor was perfectly unmistakable, even to the untrained eye.
“Good evening, my lord.”
“Mr. Higgins,” Nicholas Cathgar, peer of the realm, corrected Grange. His efforts, sadly, were not rewarded. He perceived this at once, for Grange's lips thinned into an ironic twist and his eyes narrowed into slits of disbelief.
“Ah, come, come, let us not persist with this foolish nonsense. Mr. Higgins—very sadly, I am sure—is rotting in Newgate. Let us not concern ourselves with such paltry matters, but cut at once to the quick.”
There was a troubled interruption from some of the fellows, but Grange's eyes never left Nicholas's.
“Watcha mean, paltry matters?”
But Grange, apparently, did not hear the Luddite interjection. His gray eyes were still focused entirely on Sir Nick.
At last Cathgar spoke. “Which is?”
“Which is, my dear fellow, who your sources are.”
Grange clicked his fingers and instantly, the last lingerers, the puzzled audience, straggled from the room. Even Tallows took up his lantern, casting a final vituperous glance at the impostor. His eye was already swelling into slits.
Mr. Grange turned cold, fishlike eyes upon him, so that he yelped a little, stuttering several small explanations that trailed off into his spittle. The man said nothing, but it was perhaps a matter of seconds before the barn was effectively empty. Mr. Grange—or Monsieur le Duc—looked about for the reedy figure in tweeds, but even he, it seemed, was gone.
“I haven't the faintest idea of what you are referring to.”
“But naturally. You are not yet acquainted with my methods.”
The man stepped forward and gazed directly into Nicholas's calm sea-blue eyes.
Nicholas ignored the prickling sensation up his spine. Instead, he concentrated on loosening his hands. He was weak, for the loss of blood was taking its toll, but not too weak to kick. If the man came any closer, he would. It was a matter, he supposed, of baiting him.
“I don't commonly consort with traitors.”
But the ruse did not work, Mr. Grange finding this sally amusing rather than infuriating.
“Then you shall find it an instructive experience.”
“Why are you doing this? Not for the Luddite cause, surely?”
“Good Lord, no. Stupid fools. But we tarry.”
There was a scuffle outside. Something unlike the heavy booted feet of Tallow and his peers, fading into the night. Nicholas's ears quivered, alert to every nuance. Someone coughed, and he could have sworn it was a female. Then, a moment later, he was certain, for a vision appeared to his tired, bewildered, hallucinating view.
It was a vision that ordinarily would have appealed to his sense of the ridiculous. It might, had the circumstances been different, brought a light dancing to his eyes and a curve to play upon his rather masculine lips. Not tonight. His shock, frankly, was dire.
For Miss Tessie, far from being tucked up safely with her forty-two gold sovereigns, was standing at the barn door. Yes, a veritable nemesis with her hair flowing down in a tangle of curls almost to her waist, a modestly frilled nightgown tucked in swathes around inviting curves, and the look of the hellion upon her animated face. Nicholas did not know whether to be alarmed or pleased that she was brandishing a very businesslike pistol. On the whole, he thought, for the fleeting half-second that he had, that he was pleased. Her stance was admirable and her aim apparently immaculate, for by the time Mr. Grange was alerted to the danger, he was crumpled on the floor, alternately moaning and cursing.
To anyone paying close attention, Mr. Grange's dialect slipped just for a fraction. He was French but spoke English like a nobleman. When it suited him, however, he spoke cockney like a Londoner. Nobody—least of all Nicholas Cathgar—noticed. His eyes were transfixed on the vision. She looked, he thought with incredulity, rather smug.
“Is he dead?”
“I suspect not, by those oaths.”
“Good. Grandfather was always very specific about that. I almost
never
shoot to kill. Unless it is an animal, of course.”
“How encouraging.” Nicholas's tone was dry, though the curves had indeed now appeared upon his startlingly masculine lips.
Tessie did not remove her eyes from his face, a fact he noted with fatalistic calm. But she did address her victim. “If you move, I am very much afraid I shall have to shoot you again.” This to Mr. Grange, who was now stifling his oaths and approaching Miss Tessie cautiously from the floor. She reloaded—Nicholas noted her skill with fleeting admiration—then calmly approached him, a serious look upon her piquant features.
“I shot his leg, for I think it very unsporting to shoot from the back. But you will agree it was necessary.”
“Oh, undoubtedly.”
Mr. Grange apparently did not, for he eyed Miss Tessie with a cold stare that made her suddenly aware of the inadequacy of her garments, despite the darkness of the barn and the fire now almost at its embers.
“Are any of them likely to return? I watched them leave from behind the hale bales. They are strewn upon the footpath.”
“What, the men?” Nicholas wouldn't have been surprised.
She considered him gravely. “No, for that would have been a foolish waste of ammunition. I meant the hay bales.”
“Ah.”
Nick, concealing a grin, considered that this was probably the single most diverting conversation of his four and thirty years. He would have prolonged the discussion, but all the while he had been grappling with his bonds, and though his wrists were now raw, he found himself free at last.
“I am not certain. There were a good dozen fellows here tonight, maybe more. Shall we leave, dear delight?”
Tessie ignored the “dear delight,” for it made her heart beat quite unconscionably when she was holding a pistol. Besides, the man was a rogue to speak to her that way without a by-your-leave! So she depressed his presumption by speaking rather severely, though in truth she was horribly worried about his wound.
“No, for you have lost blood.”
“ 'Struth, woman, we are not going to sit here like trussed chickens till dawn!”
“No, for you are no longer trussed, my lord. Possibly, however, like chickens.” In spite of herself, Tessie smiled impishly. Joseph, she knew, could not be far away.
There was a grim silence. “Give me the gun.”
“No, for you are bleeding. Not at all up to a fight.”
“And naturally,
you
would be?”
“But of course, for I have the advantage of the pistol.”
The twinkle now
definitely
lit Nick's deep, sapphire-blue eyes. It was too dark for Tessie to notice.
“Shall we call the authorities?”
“There is a magistrate in Stipend. It is a half hour from here.”
“Then we shall ride there at once.”
“Oh, we
will,
will we?” Nicholas wondered quite where he had lost the plot. It was his custom to be the one making decisions. But then, time-honored custom seemed to have deserted him completely. He therefore meekly prepared himself for a half-hour ride in the moonlight with an unchaperoned lady of quality clad in naught but her nightshift. Strangely, bizarrely, he was tempted. Even the novelty of being ordered about would have been amusing had he not been about to faint. The wound must have been worse than he thought. He paled just as the broad-set, rather burly villain reentered.

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