“Yes, but the delectable Miss Katrina might be about. Damme, but I forgot about this deuced mountain!”
With an attempt at nonchalance, Gideon said, “Close your eyes, my Tulip. Let the nags worry about it.”
Five minutes later, he stifled a sigh of relief as his frightened mare trod on level ground once more.
“Be damned if I can fathom why you fellas choose such ghastly residences,” grumbled Morris. “Falcon must live at the very farthest-flung reaches of civilization, and you choose to perch on some blasted eagle’s nest!”
“Then let us dispense with your call at Falcon House. No, really, Jamie, one does not attach the heart of a lady by challenging her brother.”
Morris pursed his lips. “Under normal circumstances, I agree. In Falcon’s case, however, I’d think Miss Katrina would be dashed glad to have the clod chastised.”
“Best think again. Miss Falcon dotes on him.”
“You must be mistaken, dear boy. An angel like that could not possibly be blockheaded. Which reminds me, what of the poor block who was attacked whilst returning my belongings? Have you seen him?”
“Yes. Byrd was properly mauled, but he is going along well now. He said the louts who attacked him were masked and vicious in the extreme. And that they seemed to be looking for something.”
“Egad! One might think we had stole some highly secret plans and smuggled ’em home.” Morris paused, frowning. “You know, Gideon, we all had you marked for a downy bird. Might you be—” His eyes began to glow, and he exclaimed, beaming, “You are! You work for Intelligence, by Jove!”
With difficulty, Rossiter subdued a shout of laughter. He glanced up and down bustling High Holborn, and leaning closer to his friend, hissed, “Weeds and winkles!”
Morris’ jaw dropped. “W-weeds and—winkles…?”
“Quiet, you dolt! There are ears everywhere! That is the password.”
Flushed with excitement, Morris exclaimed softly, “Stap me! Iknewthere was something smoky afoot! All this business about conspiracies and chessmen and rank riders, and thieves who go in terror of ‘the Squire!’ All of a piece, is’t, dear boy? Well, I’ve rumbled you, so you’ve no choice but to own up. What’s to do?”
“Insurrection,” whispered Rossiter.
“Good God! But—we just had one! Those curst Jacobites, what?”
“They only wanted to seize the throne. This lot plan a bloody rebellion. And death to all cows,” added Rossiter, inspired.
Morris blinked at him, stunned. “All—er, what?”
“Cows. Fiendishly clever, no? Only think on it, Jamie. Without cows there would be no milk, no cheese, no beef. England without roast beef?” He shuddered. “We would be lost! At the mercy of any aggressor who—”
Despite himself a twitch had appeared beside his lips, and with a cry of mortification Morris tore the tricorne from his head and began to belabour his companion furiously. “Of all the—cheating—lying—devious…!”
Ducking frantically, and racked with laughter, Rossiter pleaded, “Par pitie! Par pitie!I could not resist it! No, really, Jamie, spare me! Everyone stares.”
Indeed, many amused faces were turned their way, and a lady wearing a great deal of paint and far too many jewels leaned from her sedan chair, shaking her fan at them in laughing reproof.
Morris flushed scarlet. “Well, I trust you enjoyed your fun,” he said huffily. “I am very sure that as usual, gullible Morris provides a perfect foil for his clever friends. And you, sir, would be the better for a companion as quick witted as yourself. Good day to you!”
He drove home his spurs and was away. Rossiter was after him like a flash. A glance over his shoulder and Morris’ ready grin dawned. He bent lower in the saddle and it was a race, the two young men galloping at reckless speed through the heavy traffic, leaving behind a trail of cursing coachmen, profane riders, and hooting boys.
At the corner of Gray’s Inn Road Rossiter caught up, leaned from the saddle and seized Morris’ rein. “Wait up, Jamie!” he panted. “I’ve but now realized what you said.”
“What did I say? And I want no more of weeds and winkles, damn your eyes!”
“Thieves who go in terror of ‘the Squire.’ ’Tis exactly what Tummet said! That the louts who attacked him were desperate to find something for—‘the Squire.’”
Morris looked dubious. “Don’t see anything remarkable in that, dear boy. Lots of servants refer to their employer as the Squire.”
“Perhaps. But surely, some would tend to say, ‘the master,’ or ‘the governor’ or something of the sort? Does it not seem odd that in both these instances the same phrase was used, the same sense of desperation conveyed?”
“You say that the robberies were not coincidences, eh?”
