Something wet and cold was carried on a powerful gust to splash on his cheek, and he grinned up into the impenetrable blackness and started to hum to himself. Better and better. No keepers would brave the gloom of the forest in wind and rain, and in a half hour or less he'd be home and safe from the threat of capture, prison, and the hangman's rope, or maybe the doubtful mercy of transportation. "No conies tonight, Mattie me love," he muttered exultantly. "
Pheasant
, old lady!"
The wind slept again, the immediate smothering silence having such an uncanny quality that, despite his confidence, Bill paused, then moved to the side of the rutted lane. Just in case.
His heart gave a lurch when he saw a faint glow off to his right. There wasn't no cottage over that way. Shouldn't oughta be no light, neither. He stood very still, staring, then crept closer. If it was a trap, if they was laying for him, better to know, 'fore he blundered into something.
The wind roared in renewed blusterings, and the light came and went with the tossing of branches and shrubs. He was close enough now to hear the stamp and snorting of nervous horses. The source of the glow became visible. "Cor," whispered Bill.
He had come upon a clearing wherein a fine carriage stood. The four spirited horses were fretful because of the storm, and a coachman at the heads of the leaders was trying to calm them. If there was a footman behind, or on the box, he was out of sight. And if there wasn't no footman…
'Aha! A woman's in this, I shouldn't wonder,' thought Bill, who harboured a streak of romance under his phlegmatic exterior. 'Some young Buck's come to meet his light o' love on the sly, and she's—'
Hooves were coming up behind him. With a gasp of fright he leapt for the screen of a holly bush and crouched low, praying he'd not been silhouetted against the glow of the waiting carriage's lamps.
A moment later wheels rumbled within a yard of him and went on past to pull up closer to Bill than to the other carriage. The coachman swung down from the box to open the door, and a gentleman descended: a tall man, his cape drawn tightly about him and his tricorne pulled low.
"Put out the lamps, fool," he growled, and stamped over to climb inside the first carriage.
From within, another voice, sharp and harsh, commanded, "Coachman, wait by my friend's carriage. And do not come back until he leaves me."
The door slammed shut. The lamps on both vehicles were extinguished.
Bill heard heavy footsteps drawing near, and a man grunted, "Perishing night."
"Makes yer wonder," said the other coachman, keeping his voice low, "what could be so blistering important as to bring them two fine gents into this 'ere godforsaken wood."
"Don't make
me
wonder, mate. I don't
see
nuthink, I don't '
ear
nuthink, and I don't never
wonder
'bout nuthink. Them as wonders, mate, them's dead 'fore they've time ter spit. So me, mate, I don't."
'Cor!' thought Bill Wiggins again, and with the next gust of wind prudent poacher and plump pheasants melted into the night.
Unlike the sagacious coachman, however, Bill did wonder. He had evidently stumbled upon a secret meeting. They'd been gents, no doubt of that, and from what the coachman had said, mighty dangerous gents. 'Up to no good,' thought Bill. Lucky for him he hadn't been a few minutes earlier, else he might've been caught when the first coach arrived, and likely he wouldn't be here now, with his two fine pheasants. It was a rum business. He decided not to tell Mattie about it. A good soul was Mattie, but she was a woman, and he'd never met a woman yet who could hold her tongue. He hastened his steps. She'd had a long wait, and Mattie fair hated waiting.
In the clearing he had just left, one of the gentleman in the darkened coach was of a similar frame of mind. "You must know, Emerald," said he in a cold and authoritative voice, "that I do not care to be kept waiting."
The big man seated opposite responded curtly, "Nor do I care for clandestine rendezvous."
"Do you not? You would have preferred perchance that we chat over a card table? At Brookses? Or the Cocoa Tree? Don't be foolish, Rudi!"
"No names, damme!"
"I'faith, but one might suppose your nerve to be failing. And so early in the game. Calm yourself, dear boy. Who can overhear in this desolation?"
"Never make the mistake of doubting my nerve, Squire." There was a note of menace to the deep voice. "Nor of becoming complacent. The slightest relaxation of vigilance could become habit. It needs but one slip, and we all would wear a hempen cravat."
A soft laugh. "Very true, my dear. I accept the reproof. Still, we have made excellent progress, you must allow. We hold all but three of our—er, prizes. The training program goes well, and our cargoes have been most gratifying." Waiting for a comment, he received none and frowned slightly into the darkness. "Well? You signalled for a meeting. I'll have your report, an you please." A pause, and he said sharply, "For God's sake speak up, man! There are only owls to spy on us."
"I could wish that were so. I fear, however, that I am spied upon by more than owls."
"The devil! Do you say you have allowed yourself to be identified as a member of our League?"
The response was immediate and angry. "That would be counted a major error, eh, Squire? And we are permitted but one. Think well before you condemn me. I'll not suffer the punishment you mete out to others, and so I warn you."
The Squire's voice now was very gentle. "But warnings are such pointless indulgences, do you not think, my Emerald? Tell me instead who spies upon you. Gideon Rossiter and his little band of misguided patriots?"
"You must surely have expected it when you ordered me to buy his father's estate."
"I don't see that. Poor dear Sir Mark Rossiter was rained and disgraced. What more praiseworthy gesture than for his staunch friend and neighbour to buy Promontory Point and—er, hold it till the old fool is able to buy it back?"
"We may have succeeded in toppling the Rossiters, but a man don't become the head of a great financial empire by being a fool. And his son is far from one. Sir Mark's cries of 'conspiracy' were ignored until Gideon came home from the war. I make no doubt that he and his friends have taken note of the—er, untimely death of Lord Merriam; the disgrace and imprisonment of Admiral Albertson, and—"
"Even so, the useful properties of those unfortunates were not gathered in by
you
, Emerald."
"They were gathered in by us. And furthermore, young Rossiter cries friends with Lord Horatio Glendenning."
The Squire grunted, and said angrily, "Who eluded our net, the traitorous hound!"
"It was a close-run thing. Almost we had my lord's worthless head on the block, and his whole family with him."
"Almost… Such a sad word. Especially does one consider how very gratifying it
could
have been. Instead, 'twas a deplorable failure, for which a useful member of our League paid the price. But how should that sorry fiasco have turned Rossiter's eyes to you?"
There was the suggestion of a shrug. The man called Emerald said thoughtfully, "If he has detected a pattern to our successes 'twould explain why I am followed. And you may believe that I am. The unspeakable Falcon one day, Morris another. Yesterday I fancy 'twas Owen Furlong."
"Furlong! Enrolled him, have they? Hmm. He'd have a score to settle at that, if he suspects we were behind the Albertson business. Furlong and Miss Albertson were betrothed, did you know it?"
"I thought she drowned?"
"So she did, poor lady. Her brother sent her to Italy to recuperate from the shock of her papa's disgraceful descent into Newgate. What a pity that her ship went down with no survivors."
Genuinely shocked, Emerald exclaimed, "My God! I hope we had nought to do with that!"
"Do you? But how admirably gallant. Now, to revert to more immediate problems, whatever Rossiter may suspect, I think he cannot prove you linked to us only because you purchased his sire's estate."
"Which the old man now wishes to buy back."
"Egad! Has he regrouped so soon? My compliments to him. You must hedge, Emerald."
"That will properly rouse their suspicions. I promised Sir Mark I did but buy it to hold in trust for him."
"Hmm. Very well, then agree to sell it, but institute delays. Within three months we will be ready. You can hold Rossiter off till then, by one means or another. 'Tis as well we purchased the other estates through intermediaries." The Squire was briefly silent, then murmured, "Even so, Gideon Rossiter and his friends are tiresome creatures. We really must deal with them."
"Aha!" Emerald's tone brightened. "Who shall it be this time? Falcon, I hope?"
Amused, the Squire drawled, "You really do not care for the deadly August, do you?"
"In company with most of the men in London, I detest the scurvy damned half-breed."
"Such vehemence! Truly, it grieves me to disappoint you, but our next acquisition must be near Dover."
"Lac Brillant? Ah! Then you know!"
"Know what?"
"Why, this was my prime reason for signalling a meeting. Young Chandler—Gordon, I mean—was prowling about Larchwoods."
"
What
?" The Squire snarled furiously, "It
cannot
be! 'Tis a relatively small estate and we acquired it with no great drama to draw attention. "No, it
must
be coincidence, only. What transpired?"
"Chandler claimed to be calling on Trevor Shipley. He was denied admission, of course, but ten minutes later was caught climbing over the north fence."
"Pox on the cur! How much did he see, I wonder? Our vigilant guards let him slip through their fingers, no doubt?"
"I am told he led them quite a chase. But he got clear."
"Bastard! May he rot in hell!"
"By all means. I take it then that your move on Dover was not inspired by his snooping."
"No. I knew, of course, that he was one of Rossiter's revolting friends, but our web was fashioned about Lac Brillant some time ago. I'd no notion that the heir to it had ranged himself 'gainst us."
"Perhaps he has not. Perhaps 'tis as you said, merest coincidence. But tell me of your plan, Squire. Did Sapphire design it? He has no love for the Chandlers."
"He has no love for anyone, save that wanton he married. In truth he's an unpleasant creature, and vindictive in the extreme, but he has his uses. No, this time our plan was devised by Topaz. 'Tis somewhat oblique and much hangs on chance, but if it works it holds a double trap that should serve us well." He said musingly, "Lac Brillant… a prize worth the having, eh?"
"It meets many of our requirements certainly, and is of a rare beauty besides."
"Just so. I've had little to do with the family. How do you judge them?"
"I've only seen Sir Brian a time or two. He's seldom in Town and at all events," bitterness crept into the deep voice, "likely considers me
nouveau riche
and beneath his touch. I believe it's a close-knit group. Quentin inherited his sire's good looks but is a reckless fool and a fugitive, conveniently obliged to languish in France, as you know. The heir's a haughty young buck and holds himself aloof."
"Like Falcon?"
"No. A very different article. There is no malice in Gordon Chandler, I give him that. But his nature is cold and proud, and his temper hasty. I think he loves the estate though. He'll fight to save it."
"If all goes well," purred the Squire, "he'll not have the chance."
St. James's Park, always a peaceful oasis in the heart of the bustling city, was a riot of colour on this pleasant afternoon, for the warmth of the sun had lured much of fashionable London out of doors to see and be seen. The white gowns of shy and jealously chaperoned damsels not yet presented provided a demure contrast to the vibrant scarlets of military coats. Gentlemen in wigs or powder escorted their fair charges gallantly, or joined friends to share such fascinating topics as the latest Toast, horses, sports, or the more ponderous matters of politics and diplomacy. Young ladies with their first Season behind them paraded in great-skirted gowns of pastel silks and satins; and the greys and purples affected by the dowagers mingled with the brighter hues that might safely be worn by young matrons.
Seemingly out of place among this bright and merry throng, a slight lady clad in deep mourning strolled towards the area reserved for the dairy cows. Her black veil was sufficiently sheer to allow a glimpse of delicate features framed by hair of pale gold. She was accompanied by a small boy and a woman whose neat but plain garb marked her for a superior servant, perhaps a companion or the child's governess.
"Poor creature. How sad she looks," murmured a young lady of small stature, whose awkward steps were steadied by the use of a cane. "And no older than me."
Despite her infirmity and the fact that she fell short of being designated a beauty, Miss Gwendolyn Rossiter was escorted by two decidedly dashing gentlemen. One was a military man of about five and twenty, with a fair-skinned cherubic countenance lit by merry green eyes. The other, a few years his senior, was very dark, his neatly tied-back hair jet black, his lean and superbly clad figure marked by the grace of the born athlete, and his countenance so extraordinarily handsome as to win admiring glances from every lady they encountered, and as many frowns from the gentlemen. Despite his good looks, under their flaring brows August Falcon's midnight blue eyes had a faintly Oriental slant that betrayed his mixed blood. He held his head high and proud, but there was no warmth in his eyes, and his lips, although shapely, were down-trending and disdainful. "With but one glance," he drawled, "you have penetrated her veil to discover that the lady is poor, sad, and youthful.
Incroyable
."
Lieutenant James Morris asked, "Have you her acquaintance, ma'am?"
Gwendolyn's brown curls bobbed as she shook her head. "Only I
looked
at her, whereas August did not deign to notice her. Besides, I cannot but feel sorry for any widow. How dreadful it must be to lose the one you cherish."