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“You know, Kit, at times I wonder if you can tell anymore where the play-acting ends and the truth begins, for I truly don’t understand you sometimes.”
“Ah, then I am become an enigma to you, Grumble?” St. Clair teased. “Would it help if we were to work out some sort of private signal which would alert you whether you were addressing Kit or London’s darling?”
George looked at his friend of more than twenty years, a man’s man who at least for this moment barely resembled the simpering, lace-edged-handkerchief-waving, overdressed fop who reigned supreme amongst the ton.
Christian’s buckskins were comfortably old and slightly shabby, his black, knee-high boots thoroughly polished but bare of tassels, his open-throated, full-sleeved white muslin shirt a far cry from the starched splendor of his evening clothes.
Even his chin-length blond hair, swept back severely and anchored with a satin ribbon whenever he was in Society, hung freely around his youthful, handsome face from a haphazard center part, giving the man the air of a swashbuckling pirate.
How George loved his friend, and how he worried for him.
“Look, Kit,” George began earnestly, hating the tone of pleading in his voice, “we’ve had a jolly good time these past months, and done a world of good, to my way of thinking, but perhaps we should draw back for a while. I mean, having Symington smack in front of us at Undercliff’s ball? That’s cutting it a slice too fine for my mind.”
“Spittin’ mad, wasn’t he?” Lord Osgood piped up, winking at George, who could only roll his eyes and look away. “Aw, come on, Grumble, don’t be such a sober prig. Consider it. Symington has issued us a challenge. We can’t back off now. It wouldn’t be sportin’.”
“True enough, Ozzie,” St. Clair agreed, pushing his spread fingers through his hair, allowing the heavy blond mane to fall toward his face once more. “Neither sporting nor honorable, in a skewed sort of way. As a matter of fact, I have already decided the Peacock should make Mr. Herbert Symington a return visit tomorrow evening, just to see if he has introduced the new rules to his mills.”
“And what about Undercliff?” Sir Gladwin asked, shifting slightly in his chair. “Symington isn’t in this alone. I still can’t picture it—Undercliff dabbling in trade.”
“Neither can I,” St. Clair agreed. “I’d have given a hefty sum to have been present when dear Gertie recovered sufficiently from her indelicate swoon to begin ripping strips off his lordship’s hide.”
“Yes, it must have been a jolly good ruckus,” Lord Osgood chimed in.
“But, be that as it may, my friends,” Sir Gladwin persisted mournfully, “we’re now left in the uncomfortable position of knowing we are attacking a fellow peer when we attack the Symington mills. The Peacock’s reputation as a rascal to be admired might suffer an irreparable dent if Society were to understand that, besides tweaking the mill owners and our dear nemesis, Sidmouth, he is also dipping a hand into the pockets of one of their own.”
George tried to hide a wince as he saw a steely look come into Christian’s eyes, and he hastened into speech. “Now, Wi
“Never said it couldn’t be fun,” Lord Osgood grumbled into his glass, avoiding everyone’s eyes. “Besides, Kit tried it the other way, being hangdog serious and all in his single speech to the Lords, and look what it got him. Roasted the fella to a turn. Ain’t that right, Kit?”
St. Clair smiled at his friend. “Please, Ozzie, it isn’t polite to remind me of my debacle. That was so long ago, and the incident has luckily faded from most minds. Disappearing back into the countryside was the best thing I could do at the time, and my years in Paris proved a boon. No one remembers the Joh
“And there’s not a man jack of them who wouldn’t fall to the floor, convulsed in hysterics, if anyone was to say you was the Peacock,” Sir Gladwin added. “Still, with everyone in town so hot to discover the Peacock’s identity, I can’t help but worry.”
“Good, Wi
George allowed himself to relax for a moment, happy to act in his role of St. Clair’s loyal “lieutenant” of sorts. He saw himself as the man who managed all the details of heroism or, as he was wont to think, played the part of crossing sweep, clearing Christian’s path of the mundane, and then going a step further, following after him with a sturdy broom, managing the consequences of his friend’s grandiose schemes.
It had been thus since their childhood: Kit dreaming up mad adventures and George making sure they had meat pies tucked up in their pockets before they ventured out for an afternoon of dragon slaying.
“Sufficient to buy twenty dozen pairs of clogs for the children in and around Little Pillington,” he told St. Clair, “and with enough left over to have weekly deliveries of bread to the town square for three months, deliveries I’ve already arranged. I didn’t sell the horses, though. They’re being ridden north by Symington’s coachman and groom, to the Midlands, where they can be of use to some of the few farmers still left on their land. All in all, Kit, a good night’s work, even if we didn’t have sufficient time to salvage much from that grotesque castle before we heard you coming and had to torch the place. It’s a shame Symington couldn’t stay later at his party.”
“I doubt Symington makes a pleasant guest. His host must have intelligently called for evening prayers an hour early, then quite happily waved dear Herbert on his way,” St. Clair commented, reaching into his pocket to draw out a scrap of paper. “Good work, George, as usual. I commend you. However, I received rather disconcerting news a few hours ago from our co
“What is it?” Lord Osgood asked, leaning forward as if to read the note himself.
“A hapless mill worker by the name of Slow Dickie was apprehended last night, lurking about somewhere in the area of Symington’s burnt mansion,” Christian told them, crushing the note into a ball and flinging it into the fire. “No one could say he was stealing, as they found nothing on him save a rather bedraggled peacock feather. So sad. I had imagined Symington saving the thing and perhaps having it preserved beneath a glass dome on his mantel. But that is beside the point. This Slow Dickie fellow is to be publicly whipped for trespass. We can’t have that, gentlemen.”
“Any suggestions?” George asked quickly, looking to the two other men, hoping to see some sign that either of them shared his growing unease. Or was he, George Trumble, the only one among them who saw what was happening?
More than a year before, Christian had brought his three oldest friends into his scheme to tweak both Lord Sidmouth’s and the communal Tory nose while bringing aid and comfort to the downtrodden at the same time. But what had been initiated for all the best intentions had begun to turn dangerous these past six months, not only for themselves, but for those downtrodden masses as well. Poor, hopeless, hopeful men like this Slow Dickie person, for one. Perhaps such insight was beyond Ozzie and Wi
Or was the proud Christian too consumed with avenging old grudges, with getting some of his own back from those who had scorned him, to recognize when enough was enough?
Although, in the begi