A Rag-mannered Rogue Read Free

permitted. She would not, she told herself, shoot unless she truly needed to. The temptation, quite frankly, was strong. But she demurely played with the elegant ribbons of her reticule and satisfied herself with a mere remark.
    â€œYou are admirably sanguine, Mr. Dobbins. I congratulate you on your smugness. I’m sure I hope it is not ill founded.”
    â€œAnd I congratulate you on a sharp tongue. A woman’s only weapon, but you appear to keep it well honed.”
    â€œAh, you give me such ample opportunity!”
    Again the sweet smile and a tug at the reticule ribbons. These gay, curling wisps no longer appeared quite as jaunty, but Miss Hampstead was concentrating so fiercely on not shooting Mr. Dobbins that she did not appear to notice overmuch.
    The gentleman, disappointed by her inattention, frowned and fell into a thoughtful silence, broken only by the passing of the common stage, the chime of some distant church bells, and the rumble of their carriage wheels.
    Presently, the dust road turned to cobble. Mr. Dobbins, who had lost interest, for the moment, in continuing a conversation in which he appeared to be the loser, seemed intent on killing his stumbling beasts. Miss Hampstead sighed, nobly refraining from offering advice, though her instincts told her that the left chestnut was pulling and probably needed to be reshod. Also, though they had been traveling for several hours, the horses had not been watered, which to her was as cruel as it was foolish.
    The ride continued, consequently, in silence, though Miss Hampstead was necessitated from time to time to remove creeping fingers from her person. She thought London had never seemed so far.

Two
    Just past the Postlethwaite toll, on a little fork in the road that leads, in one instance, to a small ivy-clad cottage, and in another, just a few miles beyond, to the regular mail coach route, a furtive glance was cast at the countryside. To untrained eyes, the scrawny man with the thin, majestic features and the pinched chin appeared quite benign, for he was sporting a tweed greatcoat with two respectable capes and did not brandish any particular weapon.
    This, of course, in stark contrast to the gentleman—and one uses the term loosely—beside him, who was burlier, dirtier, and pleased to be holding both a blunderbuss and a nasty type of pickax that somehow appeared menacing.
    One would be wrong, of course, for the bonier man was by far the more dangerous, he being the handpicked emissary of a certain Mr. Philip Grange, whispered of in most circles, wanted by Bow Street, and feared about London with a great trembling of nerves.
    Satisfied that there were no stray ears to hear the clandestine nature of his discourse, the bony beckoned the burly, waving aside the pickax with irritation. Purely, one supposed, from force of habit, he leaned close to his companion and muttered some grim words darkly. “ ’Is royal ’ighness rides tonight. After the meeting, Fagan, I want yer to follow ’is cavalcade down to Kings and Knight-bury. See wot yer can spy out.”
    Then, balking, it must be supposed, at the rank breath that beset him, he stepped back and waited for his companion to nod reverentially, as was his due. He was disappointed, for the burly one was more acquainted with gutter fights than with reverence, and merely wiped his nose against his blunderbuss arm.
    â€œLike as not, I’ll spy some wenching.”
    â€œClothead! Of course yer will! ‘Alf our information comes by ’is maids and mistresses! No, I mean see if ‘e meets wiv anyone. Rumor ’as it there is a spy among us.”
    â€œAmong us?”
    â€œAye, among us God-fearin’ Luddites. We can’t take chances. The whole matter is a hanging offense, Lor’ ’elp us.”
    â€œKillin’ the king? Cause for national praise, belike.”
    â€œHold your tongue, and ‘e’s not king yet.”
    â€œNo, nor like to be,