“Ben the Gypsy?” he asked.
“The same. Do you know him? He is on our side and does many an errand for me.”
“But, madam, what of yourself? What will your uncle say when he finds his horse gone?”
“Stolen by the gypsies—I have the story pat. There will be a pretty hue and cry, but Ben will know of its coming and take precautions. I am grieved to tell fibs, but needs must in the day of war.”
“But I leave you alone to face the consequences.”
“Oh, do not concern yourself for me. My dear uncle is indulgent and, though a Whig, is no bigot. He will not grieve for your absence at breakfast tomorrow. But I fear the loss of Moonbeam will put him terribly out, and I should be obliged if you could find some way of restoring his horse when his purpose is served. As for myself, I propose leaving this hospitable house no later than tomorrow and journeying north into Derbyshire. I will take Mr. Johnson with me as company and protector, and I have also my servants from Weston.”
She spoke with the air of a commander-in-chief, an air so mature and mistressly that it betrayed her utter youth.
“I am most deeply beholden to you, my lady,” said Alastair. “You know something of me, and I will beg in return some news of my benefactress. You are my lady Norreys?”
The matronly airs fled and she was a shy child again.
“I am m-my lady,” she stammered, “this week back. How did you know, sir? The faithful Puffin? My dear Sir John has gone north to join his Prince, by whose side you will doubtless meet him. Tell him I too have done my humble mite of service to the Cause, and that I am well, and happy in all things but his absence. … See, I have written him a little letter which will serve equally to present you to him and to assure him of my love. He is one of you—one of the trusted inner circle, I mean.” She lowered her voice. “He bears the name of ‘Achilles.’ ”
The hazel eyes had ceased to sparkle and become modest and dim.
“Tell me one thing, my lady, before I go. My mission to the South was profoundly secret, and not four men in the Prince’s army knew of it. Yet I find myself and my doings set forth in a justice’s warrant as if I had cried them in the streets. There is a traitor abroad and if he goes undetected he spells ruin to our Cause. Can you help me to unearth him?”
She wrinkled her brows and narrowed her startled eyes.
“I cannot guess. Save you and Sir John I have seen no professor of our faith. Stay, who was the mummer last night in the Justice Room?”
“Some common jackal of Hanover. No, the danger is not there. But, madam, you have a quick brain and a bold heart. If you can lay your finger on this fount of treason, you will do a noble work for our Prince. Have you the means to send a message to the North?”
She nodded. “Assuredly—by way of Sir John. … But you must start forthwith, sir. I will take your mails into Derbyshire in my charge, for you must ride fast and light. Now, follow me, and tread softly when I lift my hand.”
Down the long stone stairs the lantern fluttered, and at a corner the man who followed caught a glimpse of bare rosy ankles above the furred slippers. In the manor galleries, where oaken flooring creaked, a hand was now and then raised to advise caution. Once there came the slamming of a door, and the lantern-bearer froze into stillness behind an armoire, while Alastair, crouched beside her, felt the beating of her heart. But without mishap they reached the Great Hall, where the last red embers crackled fitfully and a cricket ticked on the hearthstone. Through a massive door they entered another corridor and the girl whistled long and soft. The answer was a crack of light from a side door, and Giles appeared, cloaked like a conspirator and carrying a pewter candlestick. Gone was the decorum of the butler who had set the stage in the Justice Room, and it was a nervous furtive old serving-man who received the girl’s instructions.
“Oh, my lady, I’m doing this for your mother’s sake, her as I used to make posies for when I was no more’n buttery lad. But my knees do knock together cruel, for what Squire would say if he knew makes my blood freeze to think on.”
“Now, don’t be a fool, Giles. I can manage your master, and you have nothing to do but lead this gentleman to the Yew Avenue, and then back to your bed with a clear conscience.”
She laid a hand on the young man’s arm—the gesture with which a boy encourages a friend.
“Adieu, sir, and I pray God that He lead you swift and straight to your journey’s end. I will be in Derbyshire—at Brightwell under the Peak, waiting to bid you welcome when you come south to the liberation of England.” He took her hand, kissed it, and, with a memory of wistful eyes and little curls that strayed from her cap’s lace and satin, he followed the butler through the kitchen postern into the gloom of the night.
A short and stealthy journey among shrubberies brought them to a deeper
