"Aye, I remember," Romley said, grinning at her.
The woman blushed and hurriedly shut the window.
The two men crept to the door and waited for the sound of the bolt sliding back. The door opened, letting the wavering light from the one candle held in Sophy's hand spill out. They quickly entered the stone-floored kitchen.
Sophy gasped and began to shake at the sight of the stranger with George Romley. "I—Is that blood," she stammered, pointing to the dark stains streaked across his coat.
Hewitt glanced down at his coat. "Happens it is," he said blandly.
Sophy raised a hand to her lips and bit on a knuckle, whimpering softly.
"Here now, none of that," Romley chided, though he glared at Hewitt. He grabbed up two candle holders from the sideboard. "Be a good girl and light these. I'll take him on into the library while you fetch Sir James."
"Me?!"
"Yes, you," Romley said, giving her a gentle shove.
She went hesitantly before them, glancing over her shoulder several times as she went. She hurried on up the stairs when she heard the library door close behind them. Timidly she went down the thickly carpeted hall at the top of the stairs and paused before Branstoke's bed chamber. She knocked lightly on the door.
There was no response. She bit her knuckle again for a moment then tentatively reached out to knock again.
"Sir James, sir?" she called softly. If any of the other servants caught her, she swore she'd die of mortification. She knocked a third time. "Sir James?"
The door swung swiftly open. She fell back a step, shaking. Branstoke finished knotting the sash to his long dressing gown and ran a hand through his disheveled hair. "Yes, what is it," he asked gently, for the little maid was obviously frightened.
"It—It's George, sir, George Romley. He and another gentleman are here to see you, sir. They say it's right important!"
"Where are they now?"
"In the library, sir," she answered briskly, feeling calmer now that Sir James was here and seemingly not put out by the late-night intrusion.
"Good. You've done well. Let me light a candle from yours, and then I suggest you return to your bed."
"Yes, sir, thank you, sir," she said, bobbing a curtsy.
Branstoke descended the stairs and paused outside the library double doors, wondering what could bring Hewitt at this hour, for he knew the second gentlemen could be no other than that ferret-faced former trooper. His expression grew grave, for his presence boded ill. He pushed open the door. Sprawled at his leisure before the desk sat Hewitt, a glass of his best brandy in hand. Romley knelt on the floor before the fireplace stoking glowing embers to life.
"I see you gentlemen have made yourselves at home," he drawled. His eyes paused infinitesimally on the stains on Hewitt's waistcoat and coat, then went on to the man's cheekily smiling countenance.
"I knew ye'd insist, guv'ner," said Hewitt cheerfully.
"Yes," Branstoke ironically agreed. He crossed to the brandy cabinet and poured himself and Romley glasses as well. He carried them over to the desk along with the bottle and eased himself into his chair, his narrowly open eyes taking in every aspect of Hewitt's appearance. He shoved a glass in Romley's direction then leaned back, waiting.
Hewitt eyed him cagily for a moment, then grinned. Branstoke was too smart to leap into conversation. He was neatly reminding him of his position. Hewitt nodded, pulled on a scarred, half-ripped earlobe, then rubbed his chin.
"I ain't by nature of bein' no thief-taker, nor I ever squeaked beef 'afore, it not bein' a healthy occupation for a man o' my parts yer might say." He pulled a worn pipe with a well-chewed stem out of his pocket. He tapped it out on a small tray on the desk then patted his pockets in search of his tobacco pouch. He pulled it out empty and made a disgusted sound. He looked up at Branstoke, his expression one of cultivated cherubic innocence. "Yer got any fogus, guv'ner, that you might tip me a gage?"
Romley growled in protest, but Branstoke held up his hand to calm his groom. He rose and crossed to an inlaid burl cabinet. Opening it, he removed a painted porcelain canister and brought it over to the desk, offering its aromatic content to his unexpected guest.
Hewitt pinched a wad for his pipe, tamping it down with a stained and dirty finger. He lit a sliver of tinder at a branch of candles and held it to his pipe, sucking in deeply and blowing out contented clouds of smoke.
Branstoke watched the ritual, amused. "Please feel free to replenish your tobacco pouch as well."
Hewitt took him up on his offer with enthusiasm. "Now that's right kindly of yer, guv'ner. Always wor a gentlemanly sort, fer a flash cove."
"Now that we have observed the amenities of drink and tobacco, I assume you have news of some import that it necessitates a personal visit at this hour? Or are you—as I believe they say—cadging the lay?"
Hewitt feigned shock and offense. "I couldn't do that, yer saved me life. Not many flash coves would do the same fer the likes o' me."
