A Rag-mannered Rogue Read Free Page A

thanks to a dozen able coves.”
    â€œA dozen able coves and one spy.”
    â€œWot? Lor! I see wot yer mean!”
    â€œYes, well, it takes yer a bit longer, Fagan, but if the penny ‘as dropped, at last, I’ll not be complainin’. And neever will Master Philip.”
    At this, the burly one shivered, his eye narrowing.
    â€œOo do yer suspect?”
    â€œNot certain—got a list of possibles, but need proof.”
    â€œOo are the possibles?”
    â€œDanvers from Sideham, Marley from Trent, and Murray ‘Iggins from . . . blimey, can’t think where ’e’s from. Midlands somewhere. The others seem all right and tight, but yer never can be shore.”
    The man who answered to the name Fagan sniffed. “I’ll nosy around.”
    â€œBe sure that yer do. We don’t want no more mistakes. The master is not pleased, which is somethin’ that you, Fagan, should be worryin’ about.” Then the bony one cracked his knuckles beneath tan riding gloves of indeterminate leather. Fagan, most uncharacteristically, shuddered. Then, collecting himself, he glared balefully at the bony one, whom he personally thought a bit soft, and nodded. His beaver bobbed several times for emphasis.
    â€œWe’ll find ’im, guv.”
    â€œGood. The matter should be simple, really. They ‘ave all been furnished wiv little passwords. The spy will have had ’is from Whitehall. Unfortunately for ‘im, that will be a sight different from yours or mine. Master Philip thinks it quite a jolly sort of thing. Almost smiled, ’e did. We used Lijah Josham, who we know is a ferret, God rot him, to rootle the password back to Whitehall. ‘E’ll get comeuppance tonight, ’e will.”
    â€œAnd when ’e does . . .”
    â€œAye, guv?”
    But the bony one did not need to say more. He merely made a swift movement with his finger across his rather fine neckerchief. Fagan understood perfectly.
    Â 
    â€œWait!”
    The low-perched gig rumbled off with a great click of wheels and a smattering of mud that caught at Miss Tessie’s bonnet and half her paisley shawl. Muttering in a most unladylike manner, she wiped off the smears with her pale gloves. The results were unfortunate.
    The lady looked crosser and squinted into the mists. There was no sign of the antiquated gig—it could not be elevated by any stretch of the imagination to the rank of a chaise—with its rusting spokes and creaking springs, but she could hear its distant rumbling.
    For a mad instant, Miss Hampstead actually regretted her fast reflexes that’d caused poor Mr. Dobbins to howl in pain and once again lose control of his steeds. Undoubtedly, if she had more tolerance and a better check of her temper, she would still be wending her way to London.
    She sniffed. She felt rather forlorn out in the cold, and although Mr. Dobbins was naturally an odious snake, he was at least company. It was mean of him to set her down without all her luggage, however much she may have stomped on his boots and ground her delicate feet into his shins.
    â€œHah!” She scolded herself firmly for weakness. Mr. Dobbins was not company, he was a lecherous old scarecrow with bony fingers and the worst pair of lame chestnuts she ever had the misfortune to encounter. If the conveyance traveled another three miles this day, she would be amazed.
    Prosaic, Miss Hampstead decided it was now quite pointless—not to mention beneath her dignity—to pursue the matter further. Howling or chasing after the gig would merely be excessively birdwitted. She therefore refrained from calling out again, dusted herself off, and twirled around daintily in her stout half boots of sensible jade leather. A few shy drops of rain caused her to stop in her tracks and consult the sky pensively.
    It looked likely to rain. She could possibly still purchase a seat on the mail, but by this time she would almost