A Rag-mannered Rogue (6 page)

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Authors: Hayley A. Solomon

BOOK: A Rag-mannered Rogue
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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 . . .”
“Aye, me lor'?”
“Watch my back.”
“For very certain, me lor'.”
“If I don't return . . .”
“Aye?”
“Keep an eye on that wench upstairs. She is doubtless up to a pother of mischief, but I find that I like her.”
“Aye, me lor'.”
Here Tessie nearly emitted a quite audible gasp, for the rogue was clearly speaking of her! At least, she
hoped
he was . . . impudent, rag mannered . . . but she could not stop feeling a distinctly unmaidenly glow of happiness. His impudence should be outraging her. She should call the watch on him and his head-coshing confederate. He should be taken up in irons. . . .
No time for irons; he was gone, with a grimmer look on his handsome countenance than Tessie would have liked. In fact, the shivers of apprehension she now felt bore no resemblance to the delicious shivers of a moment previous.
The villain prodded his victim urgently. There was no response save for a mutter.
“Murray 'Iggnis, you have
got
to wake up!” This in a hiss. It was sufficiently audible, however, for Tessie to hear. Her descent of the tree became more reckless. The leaves shook and the villain—or so Tessie regarded him—gasped as the branches parted and Miss Hampstead landed with perfect poise just two feet beside him. Instantly, his strong arms coiled around her like a snake.
But Tessie, still gripping her pistol, begged him sweetly “not to make such a cake of himself.”
The villain, shaken, released his grip a little, warily removing the pistol from her grasp.
“Careful. I think it might be primed. I heard a click as I dropped to the lower branch.”
“Beg pardon, miss, this is no place for young ladies.”
“Then it is fortunate that I have lost all claim to that title. My behavior has surely sunk me beneath all reproach. Now, wake that man up. . . . I don't believe I know your name?”
“Joseph, miss.” This with a grin, for Joseph knew instinctively that this must be his lordship's wench. Uncommonly pretty she was, though not in his lordship's usual style.
“Very good, Joseph. Now do, I pray you, release me altogether, for though I am quite partial to reptiles, I have never yet relished the grip of a boa constrictor.”
Joseph, who knew nothing of foreign shores or the creatures thereon, and who might otherwise have missed Miss Hampstead's irony, chuckled. Living with the earl had increased his knowledge of matters relating to the Peninsula and the colonies, and, of course, the far of Americas. . . .
He instinctively permitted Miss Hampstead her freedom, though he retained the weapon with raised brows and checked it himself. Miss Hampstead murmured her thanks, and knelt in the earth, feeling the victim's pulses with interest.
“It's a shakin' 'e needs. . . .”
“Nonsense. He is awake. No, don't kick at him, foolish man! It will make him feel queasy. If I had sal volatile I could revive him at once. Wait! There is cod liver oil in my chamber. Disgusting stuff. It will do, though he won't thank me for my trouble.”

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