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"Wow!" Leaning from the carriage window, Swiftnick's blue eyes were round with wonder as he stared at the mansion they were approaching up a gravel drive that had seen better days.  "Glenrae lives here?" The young highwayman pulled back from the window at a brisk tug on his coat hem from his companion and dropped back into his seat.

"He's been known to visit," Dick Turpin responded sourly.

"But it's huge! Bigger than Rookham!"

"It's about the same size as Rookham," Turpin corrected. "Don't you go getting any ideas about Glenrae being rich. He has an independence and he's comfortably off, but he's a second son and certainly not rich. This place belonged to his Great Uncle."

Swiftnick sniffed disparagingly. "Have you been here before?"

A small smile curved Dick's lips. "No, Dick Turpin is considered beneath Glenrae's touch. He wouldn't have sent the carriage for Dick Turpin." 

Swiftnick grinned back. "But he did for his good friend Fortesque Smythe?"

Dick's smile widened and he lifted the quizzing glass he carried to one brown eye. "Why, the dear boy and I have known each other simply forever, don't you know? Gibraltar and all that," he said in an excellent impeccably upper class accent, then sobered. "And don't you forget the role you're playing, Swiftnick."

Swiftnick's excitement faded. "But I don't want to be your servant again," he complained. "It's all fetch and carry, do this, do that…."

"That's what a servant does."

"Hah! It's no different from what I always do; make the tea, Swiftnick, clean my boots, Swiftnick…"

"So there isn't much difference between being an apprentice and a servant," Dick agreed in amusement.

"Servants get paid, apprentices get paid…."

"Look at it this way, at least you get to be a valet this time."

"Bet I don't get so much as sixpence for it though…." Swiftnick grumbled as he glared at his mentor and turned back to the window to glower at the brooding red brick face of the mansion as they came to a halt before its solid wooden doors. Impressive though the ivy covered building was, Swiftnick found himself suppressing a shiver, sensing an oppressive air about the place.  

"Look lively, Swiftnick," Turpin urged, prompting him with a prod of his toe to open the door for his master. Swiftnick sat up with a pout and reached for the handle as it was whipped briskly open and a footman in red and gold reached in to pull down the steps.

"Allow me, sir," he announced politely, bowing elegantly as he offered Swiftnick a hand. Swiftnick shot a quick look of alarm at Turpin, then at Dick's almost imperceptible nod took the footman's hand and allowed himself to be helped to the ground. Turpin descended gracefully after him, lifting his glass to inspect the house's imposing façade.

"Richard!" Glenrae's friendly Scottish burr made Dick turn his attention to the doors as Glenrae strode into view, elegantly attired in a rich burgundy full skirted coat beneath which a glimpse of a brocaded cream silk waistcoat over a crisp ruffled shirt could be seen. Glossy black boots and superbly cut breeches completed his outfit.

"Glenrae, my dear fellow, delighted!" Dick strode forward to clasp his outstretched hand. Glenrae pulled him forward slightly to slap him on the back.

"Charmed to see ye again. Delighted ye could bring yer ward."

"What ward?" Dick blurted, startled, then caught on and gave his old friend a sour look as he was neatly presented with a fait accompli. Glenrae grinned back and turned to shake a somewhat surprised Swiftnick's hand.

"And young Nicholas too, delighted to meet ye, dear boy," Glenrae continued cheerfully.

"Er, how do you do, sir?" Swiftnick said shyly.

"Oh, excellent well," Glenrae boomed, slapping him on the back hard enough to make the youth stagger. "Come now, no need to stand around and catch a draught! Come in, come in. Ye'll be wanting a bite of lunch and a drink no doubt."  He bent an eye on the footman who was clearly baffled at not being able to find any luggage on the carriage. The liveried driver shrugged, having been equally bewildered when he collected Dick and Swiftnick from the inn where they had broken their ride. "Stop gawking, man. Fortesque Smythe travels light, eh Richard?" Glenrae said briskly.

"Indeed…." Dick agreed, eyeing Swiftnick suspiciously. Swiftnick shrugged and looked innocent; being a ward sounded like more fun than being a valet to him.

"I brought yer trunks up with mine as ye asked," Glenrae continued for the ears of the servants, shooing Dick and Swiftnick towards the doors and ordering the footman off to the kitchens to request lunch for the guests.

A few moments later, Glenrae closed the doors of the study and heaved a sigh of relief. "I thought ye were never going to get here," he exclaimed as he headed for the decanter on the sideboard.

"It's a long ride," Dick pointed out as he settled into a comfortable chair. "We stabled the horses and took the stagecoach the rest of the way. This had better be good, Glenrae…"

"Och, ye'll be glad to get away from yon lay for a while," the Scotsman scolded amiably, shooting a quick glance askance at him as he handed Dick a snifter of brandy. Swiftnick was prowling the edges of the room, examining the heavy old-fashioned furniture of dark solid wood and the mullioned windows, then eyeing up the various portraits of sour faced men on the walls. "Didn't any of them smile?" he wondered, frowning back at the scowling grey haired man in the portrait over the fireplace. 

"Not considered the thing to do in a portrait," Glenrae answered. "Ye're supposed to look dour and noble."

"Well, they’ve got the dour bit right," Swiftnick commented, observing that he hadn’t been given any brandy and giving Glenrae a pointed look.

"Ye shall have a glass of Ratafia," Glenrae soothed.

"No, he won't, it's pure bloody gin…" Turpin put in.

"And fruit juices," Swiftnick protested.

"Och, I'll order tea for ye both," Glenrae snorted, attempting to extract the glass from Dick's hand without success. Turpin glared at him, cradling the glass closer.

"After that bloody stagecoach, I deserve a drink," he growled.

"And I don't? I was with you…" Swiftnick reminded him.

"Why do you think I need the brandy?" Dick growled back. "Oh, give him half a brandy, Glenrae, he won't like it anyway."

Chuckling, Glenrae poured a half glass for Swiftnick and gave it to the youth. Swiftnick sipped it gingerly, pronounced it a decent vintage - which made both older men smile - and then perched on the chaise lounge. "So, why are we here?"

"Dick did nay tell ye?"

"Does he ever?"

Turpin glowered at both of them. "Your message wasn't exactly effusive with its information," he pointed out sarcastically.

Glenrae sighed and sat down beside Swiftnick, elegantly flipping his coat out of the way as he did so. "Och, well, it's complicated. Ye remember my ward?"

"Is there some reason why I should?" Dick asked dryly.

"Och, aye, the fair Isobel. I know I've told ye about her…I've no been her guardian long now…"

Turpin frowned. "You mean, skinny, bad tempered, spotty, freckle faced Isobel?"

Glenrae's blue eyes sparkled with rueful humour. "Aye, I did say that, and she was when I inherited her, but she's nay any of that now. Fair as a bluebell she is, a bonny captivating creature…"

"And an heiress," Dick recalled.

"Aye, worth a tidy fortune," Glenrae agreed. "That'd be a part of the problem."

Turpin frowned suspiciously. "How so?"

"She'll nay come into her fortune until she marries and the widgeon's taken a fancy to do so."

"And you don't like her choice?"

"Man's a blackguard and a fortune hunter…." Glenrae complained.

"How can you tell?" Swiftnick put in. "Maybe she's in love with him…"

"Och, I fancy she fancies she is. But I nay fancy he is…I know him too well, laddie."

"So where's the problem?" Turpin wondered. "You’re her guardian, refuse the scoundrel."

"Then the lassie would run off with him. Think herself slighted and misunderstood, she would. I need to show the lassie she's wrong about him."

Turpin considered this and cast a thoughtful eye on Swiftnick. "Is she as young as I think?"

"Aye…" Glenrae admitted, casting a sheepish look of his own at an innocently oblivious Swiftnick.

"And he's older than her?"

"Aye, a fair bit. Marguerite's done her best with the lassie. She was going to bring her up to London and bring her out in style, but…she met him first."

"You cunning Scottish haggis," Dick growled. "He's bait!"

"Och, ye won't blame me when ye meet Neville Rookwood. Out riding with the rest of them he is."

"Rest of them?" Dick repeated faintly, glancing at Swiftnick as the youth set aside his brandy a little too casually and got up to examine another portrait as he lost interest in the conversation. .

"Aye, Marguerite and Isobel, Rookwood, Cynthia and Freddy Fletcher." Glenrae explained, overriding Dick's increasing outrage with a swift bellow as someone knocked. A maid came in with a polite little bob to announce a cold collation had been laid out in the dining room for them. Swiftnick headed straight for her and she gave him a bright smile of interest before remembering her place and ducking her head demurely as she backed out of his way. The young highwayman glanced back at the others. "Well? What are you waiting for? I'm starving." He asked before he darted out into the hall after the maid.

"What else is new?" Dick sighed, levering himself out of his chair to follow his apprentice. "Ward! Hah!"

"It'll do," Glenrae said firmly, laying a hand on his arm. "Dick?"

"Aye, what is it you haven't told me?" Dick asked, looking up at him warily.

"Marguerite's thinking that Great Uncle Tobias was murdered," Glenrae said soberly. "He left Isobel to my care with barely a word to me, ye ken. Then suddenly he's drowned in a river he's known all his life. Marguerite's the one who gave me his book."

"Book? And who is Marguerite anyway? What's she got to do with it?"

"Marguerite was to be Tobias' wife. The book is a diary. He was disturbed about happenings here at the Hall, Dick, uncanny things. He thought the place was haunted." 

"Don't tell Swiftnick that!" Dick said hastily.

"Och, I'll nay scare the laddie. Ye know me better than that. But things have happened to Isobel that have made me think she's nay safe here."

"Such as?"

"Foolish things; she goes out riding and the bridge she crosses is broken. A big black dog somehow gets into the garden when she's out walking and goes for the lassie. So far she's been unhurt and that scoundrel Rookwood's been on hand to save her and make himself look good."

Dick frowned uneasily.  "If she's come to no harm, that might be what it is; a way to make himself look the hero to an impressionable young girl." 

"Aye, I thought so. But there's a big black dog in Tobias' diary too and both Isobel and Marguerite have said they've been scared a time or two in the house before I arrived. Isobel feels someone's watching her."

"Tobias left everything to her?"

"Most of it," Glenrae said gloomily as they crossed the dark blue tiles of the hall floor. Suits of ancestral armour glared at them menacingly from around the walls. "Tobias settled a fair portion on Marguerite and gave her this house in return for looking after Isobel."

"And if anything happens to Isobel?"

"If she's married, it'll go to her man."

"And if not?"

Glenrae gave him a dour look. "Me," he said glumly. Turpin came to a halt and stared at him. "Aye, I know.  He always thought I needed more responsibility and as a second son, more money. He hinted more than once that he wanted me to marry the lassie!"

Turpin took a deep breath and spoke carefully. "So, Isobel is an heiress and you’re her heir until she marries," he said slowly. "Where does Marguerite come into this?"

Glenrae blinked slowly. "Ye canna think she's involved," he protested. "She's an heiress in her own right. She nay needs Isobel's money."

Turpin shook his head. "You’re a heather sucking idiot," he muttered. "You think Rookwood's after her money? They money you have control over? The money he can't get at until you consent to her marrying him?"

"Aye," Glenrae agreed warily.

"What happens if something happens to you before she marries? Who gets control of it then?"

"Och, aye, well, Marguerite would."

"And after her?"

"Aye, well…."

Dick flung up his hands, his full lace sleeves dropping back from his ringed fingers. "So if something were to happen to you, Marguerite would then meet with a ghastly accident and he could freely marry poor besotted Isobel."

"But, Isobel's the one who nearly had the accidents…."

"A mere diversion," Dick sniffed, linking his arm through Glenrae's. "No one would be surprised then if something happened to you."

Glenrae frowned doubtfully. "Och, ye think I'm the one in danger?"

"Aye," Dick said affectionately. "You and Marguerite are in more danger than Isobel, depending on how set against the marriage Marguerite is of course."

 "She can nay say nay to it, but she's of my opinion; the lassie's too young and goose witted to marry yet a while. And nay to the likes of Rookwood," Glenrae sighed heavily. "Och, I should have known ye'd complicate things."

"Me?" Dick protested.

"Aye, nothing's ever simple when ye get involved…."

"Well, I like that," Turpin exploded, then froze as the doors of the hall swung open and what seemed like a cascade of laughing, talking people flowed into the hall.  Two young ladies led the way; one a stunning brunette in a riding habit of velvet blue and her blonde companion whom was dressed in dark green. They were giggling together and oblivious to Turpin and Glenrae. A tall, handsome dark haired man of Dick's own age with a brooding look on his face followed them. He was impeccably dressed in immaculate riding boots and breeches with a superbly cut coat that undoubtedly enhanced the squareness of his shoulders. A snowy white cravat was secured at his throat with a precisely positioned pin that glinted like a diamond.

Behind him was a young blond man who looked to be a little older than the two girls were; he was well dressed in riding clothes but without the impeccable gloss of a town buck. On his arm was a slender brunette woman, somewhat older than he was, dressed in a black riding habit with a hat perched atop her artfully arranged ringlets.

The two girls came to a halt, finally noticing Dick and Glenrae. The brunette girl blushed shyly and demurely lowered her blue eyes while her companion inspected Dick with obvious curiosity

"Glenrae? Aren't you going to introduce us to your friend?" the dark man asked stepping forward and raising a gold edged quizzing glass to inspect Turpin. Knowing himself to be elegantly attired in a deep russet red coat over black, Turpin quite felt at home in the company of such elegance. Rookwood, if that's who he was, wasn't going to put him at a disadvantage so easily.

"Certainly," Glenrae responded briskly. "Sir Neville Rookwood, I’d like to introduce you to Sir Richard Fortesque Smythe; a very dear friend of mine." The Scotsman continued, introducing the young brunette as Isobel and the pretty blonde as Cynthia Fletcher and her brother, Frederick. Dick shook hands with the gentleman, bowed politely to the girls and lightly kissed the hand of Lady Marguerite; noting with amusement the barely concealed disdain in Rookwood's dark eyes as he watched.

"I don't believe we’ve met before," Rookwood commented when the introductions were finished and the ladies had gone off to change and relax after their ride.

"Unlikely, I agree," Dick said mildly.

"You don't get up to London much then, sir? I am often there."

Turpin lifted his own quizzing glass and studied him though it. "Quite," he observed. "Obviously we do not move in the same circles, Rookwood." He turned back to Glenrae, noting a hastily wiped off grin on Freddy's face at the set down he had given Rookwood. "Must find my ward, sir. The lad will finish that luncheon you mentioned all on his own."

"Oh, yes, of course." Hiding his own grin, Glenrae led them across the hall and into the dining room where the cold collation had been laid out on the sideboard. Swiftnick had seated himself at the long table where the maid had served him with tea, but he had obviously restrained himself from attacking the food. Dick strode over to him briskly and put a hand on his shoulder, giving him an approving wink for his display of manners. "Allow me to introduce my ward, Nicholas," he began as Swiftnick bounced to his feet. 

Rookwood grandly ignored his offer to shake hands, wandering over to inspect the food instead. Freddy however shook hands happily and greeted Swiftnick with a grin. "Glad to have a bit of company," he assured him. "Was starting to feel a trifle out numbered." 

"How so?" Rookwood asked in a dawdling tone. "Three ladies, three gentlemen. All in order."

Freddy blushed in chagrin. "Oh, quite, quite…" he mumbled.

Swiftnick glanced sharply at Rookwood, frowned and leaned closer to Fletcher to whisper. "But he's old…."

Freddy flashed a quick look at him and grinned, seeing the mischievous understanding in Swiftnick's blue eyes. "Only came because of Cynthia. Her brother don't you know," he explained.

Dick gave his accomplice a suspicious look, wondering what he was up to and more than a little put out by Rookwood's offhand rudeness. Looking a little worried, Glenrae suggested they all sit down and help themselves to the cold meats, assuring them that the ladies would partake of refreshments in their rooms and not join them before dinner.

After an hour of stilted conversation, Dick was only too glad to make his escape with the excuse of needing a short rest after the long coach ride. He took Swiftnick off with him, leaving a somewhat despondent Glenrae to entertain a bored Rookwood and a crushed Freddy Fletcher. "So, Swiftnick? What did you make of them?" Dick asked as he gratefully unfastened his cravat and sank down on the bed. Glenrae had given Turpin and Swiftnick adjoining rooms in the East Wing and the elegant if old-fashioned furniture and decorations overawed Swiftnick.

"Freddy's a good 'un," Swiftnick answered innocently. "But Rookwood's too much of a snob." He paused thoughtfully for a moment before denouncing Rookwood further, "And he shouldn't wear a cravat like that when he hasn't got a neck. With that coat - which was padded I'm sure - it made it look as if he hadn't got a neck at all."

Dick burst into a startled, but approving laugh. "Oh cutting, Swiftnick. No, he shouldn't. I’ll make a gentleman of you yet, lad," he chuckled to Swiftnick's pleasure.  "Rookwood thinks he's quite the tulip."

"You mean he's mad?" Swiftnick exclaimed in alarm.

"Mad? Where did you get that idea?" Dick asked, astonished.

"You said he thinks he's a flower."

Turpin closed his eyes for a moment.  "No, lad, not a flower; a tulip, a pink of the ton."  Seeing that he wasn't getting anywhere, Dick sighed in mild exasperation, "A dandy, Swiftnick."

"Oh! Why didn't you say so? I wish you wouldn't talk funny, Dick. I get confused."

"I've noticed," Turpin observed dryly. "Go and get washed and changed."

"Why? I'm clean enough, ain't I?"

"You are meeting ladies, Swiftnick. I have no intention of letting you embarrass yourself or me by letting you appear looking like something a coach ran over."

Swiftnick pouted. "I don't!" he yelped, hesitated then gave Dick a piteous look, "Do I?"

Turpin surrendered. "No, lad," he sighed affectionately. Swiftnick was young enough to look tousled rather than worn after a long journey. "But a bit of a spruce won't hurt you if you want to impress the young ladies."

"Oh…" Swiftnick considered this, then with a shrug went to examine the trunk that had been put in his room. Dick allowed himself to sink back on the bed and close his eyes, revelling in the feel of a proper feather mattress and the knowledge that he was safe from the likes of Spiker and Glutton for the moment at least.

                                                            * * *

Behaving in genteel fashion, Turpin descended to the study with a somewhat nervous Swiftnick in tow a short while after the dinner gong had been rung. Dick had chosen to dress in a rich salmon coat over deep cream small clothes and embroidered waistcoat and had persuaded Swiftnick into an apricot velvet and cream outfit that showed off his blond hair and blue eyed colouring to advantage. Freddy was already in the study, dressed in red and glad to see them both.

"Don't expect Cynthia to come down for ages," he confided. "Ladies you know. She's always late at home, when she's with Isobel she's even worse. Got bored in my room and came down on my own. Bored here too."

Swiftnick perched on the couch beside him, uncomfortable in his new clothes. "There are lots of books to read," he pointed out, glancing at the shelves across the rear wall of the study.

"Read?" Freddy looked shocked.

"Yes, why not?" Swiftnick answered innocently.

"Shockingly blue."

Swiftnick frowned. "Is it?" Dick hadn't given him the impression that there was anything shocking about reading. In fact he considered it an important accomplishment for a would be gentlemen and one that he had encouraged in his apprentice.

Freddy eyed his new young friend thoughtfully. "Too educational for my tastes," he explained. "Dash it all, I'm not the smart one. Wouldn't finish one if I started one. Get bored."

"You could read the end if you did," Swiftnick suggested with a wary glance at Turpin, having done this himself. Dick had once given him a novel to read and Swiftnick thought he would be able to get out of reading it, by skipping to the end and reading the relevant bits so he could answer Dick when he questioned him. Turpin had of course caught him out, but at least the second book he gave his apprentice had been more readable and Swiftnick had finished it - albeit slowly. To his relief though, Dick hadn't been worried about his speed, only his education.

"Never thought of that," Freddy mused.

"You think, Freddy? You amaze me," Rookwood commented as he ambled in, eyeing Fletcher and Swiftnick through his quizzing glass. His eyes widened slightly as he inspected Swiftnick and the youth shifted uncomfortably, shooting a hunted glance over at Turpin. Dick's eyes narrowed as he eyed Rookwood and he made a small signal to Swiftnick to stay where he was. "Oh, my, no, no, no, it won't do at all!" Rookwood exclaimed, stepping forward and reaching out to flip a finger against the velvet blue bow Swiftnick wore to tie his blond curls back. "A word of advice, my dear boy, not a blue ribbon. No. Black. Must be black. All the fashion now. Anything it else is positively provincial. You wouldn't want to be thought rustic, would, you boy?"

Seeing the insulted look in Swiftnick's blue eyes, Dick let out a snort of forced laughter. "Sheep!" he exclaimed.

"What did you say, sir?" The startled Rookwood turned to look at him.

"I said, sheep," Dick repeated obligingly, inspecting Rookwood through his own quizzing glass. "I prefer to be a leader of fashion rather than a mere follower." Turpin continued as Rookwood sputtered. "Besides, blue suits Nicholas far better than black. And he's far too young to wear black with grace. It makes a man look positively dull; a fuddy duddy even."

Since Rookwood was wearing a black velvet coat and breeches over a silk shot black waistcoat and an austere white shirt, he gave Turpin a venomous look. 

"He's right ye know, Neville," Glenrae chuckled as he ambled in in time to hear Dick cutting Rookwood down to size. "Has to be blue for a boy."

Rookwood drew himself up. "Permit me to know a thing or two about fashion," he sniffed.

Glenrae gazed at him with a wry expression, taking in his black outfit and comparing it to his own deep blues and creams. "Quite," he commented, summing up his entire opinion of Rookwood's apparel with that one word. "Spot of whiskey before dinner anyone?"

Swiftnick grimaced. He didn't like whiskey any better than he did brandy. Turpin and Rookwood both agreed to sample the whiskey, but Freddy declined. "Don't wish to upset you, old chap, but can't stand the stuff. Give me a decent brandy any day."

Rookwood gave him a disdainful look. "Can't take your liquor, hmmh?" he mocked.

Fletcher bristled. "Know myself better than to drink too much, sir," he shot back, adding under his breath. "Not in polite company anyway."

"An excellent decision," Glenrae said mildly. "In my opinion, people drink far too much." 

Turpin nearly choked on the mouthful of whiskey he had taken. He had watched Glenrae drink himself under the table so often that he had lost count of the times he had had to drag him home afterwards. Rookwood gave him a funny look. "And you, boy?" he demanded of Swiftnick, peering at him through his quizzing glass. "What is your excuse?"

"My orders," Dick said flatly before Swiftnick could open his mouth. "He's too young."

Rookwood gave him an amused look. "You surprise me, sir. I would have thought it you planned to introduce him to polite society…."

"When the times come for that, I'll expect him to be sober enough to appreciate it," Dick retorted.

"Ah, and when will that be?" Rookwood sneered. 

"When I decide to do so," Dick replied, meeting his eyes steadily. Rookwood was starting to get right up the highwayman's nose.

"Ah, money troubles? Can be an expensive place London."

Turpin smiled condescendingly at him. "I am sure you would know that better than I," he said smoothly. "I can't say I've ever had to give it a thought."

Rookwood coloured quite distinctly and turned away, his neck turning red against his high white collar. Surprised, Dick raised an eyebrow and glanced over at Glenrae. The Scotsman nodded wordlessly. "I do believe I hear the ladies," he said aloud however, ambling over to open the door and greet Marguerite as she descended the last step into the hall with the two young ladies in tow.

"Marguerite! Ye look ravishing as always," Glenrae greeted her warmly, taking her hand and bestowing a kiss on her slender fingers. Marguerite tapped his shoulder with her fan, her blue eyes full of amusement as she smiled at him. She had chosen a demure grey silk gown, with the high necked bodice edged in black.

"Oh, Robert, I do believe you are flirting with me," she teased.

"But of course, lovely lady, how could I not?" Glenrae responded,

Marguerite giggled and blushed, then recovered her poise and settled her hand on his arm. "Shall we go in to dinner?" she asked. "Benjamin will become quite morose if we allow the food to grow cold."

"And we must nay upset Benjamin," Glenrae agreed, leading her across the hall. Rookwood promptly pounced with unseemly haste on Isobel's arm as she looked up at him. But Rookwood was not to have her all to himself.

"If you will permit me, my lady?" Dick asked at his suave best, offering her his arm at the same moment. Isobel flushed, looking towards Marguerite to see what she should do. She was saved by Cynthia, who had captured Swiftnick's arm and taken Freddy on her other. Smiling valiantly, Isobel took the arms of her two attendants and followed her friend.

"Isn't this cosy?" Cynthia laughed as she tripped happily into the dining room. "Look, Marguerite, I have two beau's!"

"Didn't think I counted," Freddy grumbled since Swiftnick was busy watching his feet to make sure he didn't step on Cynthia's pink silk hem.

"Of course, you do, Freddy darling!" Cynthia exclaimed. "Why when I come out, you shall chaperone me to all the balls and I will make absolutely certain to find you a ravishing beauty for your very own!"

"Can manage that on my own," Freddy retorted, but he grinned at his sister with obvious affection as he held her chair for her so she could sit down. Cynthia seated herself gracefully, fluffing her crisp skirts around her and patting a golden ringlet into place.

"We appear to have one too many at the table," Rookwood observed sourly as he settled Isobel in her seat and studied the seating plan.

"Oh, don't be stuffy," Cynthia exclaimed, earning herself a glare from Isobel. "We are all friends here. Nicholas and Freddy will sit with me," she announced, grabbing Swiftnick's arm and pulling him down beside her. Grinning, Freddy sat down on her other side, well used to being bossed about by his diminutive blonde sister. "Marguerite and Glenrae will have the head of the table. And you, Isobel, will sit between your admirers. There, isn't that nice?" 

"It is hardly etiquette," Rookwood ventured.

"Oh do sit down, Neville. The beef will be getting cold," Marguerite said primly as she nodded her thanks politely to Glenrae for holding her chair. "Or do you expect me to ask Benjamin to join us and thoroughly upset my butler? He is already quite shocked by our lack of formality." She paused, gazing at Turpin as he sat down between her and Isobel. "Are you shocked, Sir Fortesque Smythe?"

"Only that you should find yourself constrained to call me anything other than Richard," Dick assured her with a charming smile.

Marguerite blushed becomingly, darting a quick look towards Glenrae. "Richard it shall be then," she responded, signalling to the portly figure of Benjamin the butler. "I am sorry for the delay, Benjamin, do bring in the first course…."

                                                            * * *

"You were terribly forward, Cynthia! Poor Nicholas didn't know where to look when you absolutely told him to sit next to you!" Isobel exclaimed several hours later. The two girls were in Isobel's boudoir after dinner. Isobel was vigorously engaged in brushing out her dark hair at her dressing table while Cynthia lazed in her silken underwear on the bed.

"I think Nicholas is quite delicious," Cynthia purred with a delighted wiggle on the bed. "I would very much like to kiss him."

"Cynthia!" Isobel exclaimed, twisting round to stare at him. "You can’t say things like that!"

"And why not? Before Rookwood came along we always said what we thought to each other."

"I am a young lady! As are you!"

"You’re starting to sound as stuffy as Rookwood," Cynthia responded tartly. "Why, I do believe he thinks me quite wanton!"

Isobel turned primly back to her hair brushing. "I am quite sure he does not," she said firmly. "You are my best friend after all. Neville would not dream of being so rude."

Cynthia sat up, toying with her ringlets thoughtfully as she considered her friend's stiff back.  "You set a lot of store by what Neville says," she mused. "These days it's always Neville this and Neville that."

"We are to be betrothed," Isobel pointed out.

"Yes, but, it seems that you are a trophy to be won to him, not a bride to be seduced," she paused, smiling impishly as Isobel gaped at her. "I think I would like to be seduced by Nicholas…"

"Cynthia!"

"What?" Cynthia smiled at her friend. "A girl can dream."

"Yes, but no…." Isobel spluttered, confused….

"You mean you don't dream of Rookwood's arms around you? Of his kisses?"

"No…." Isobel blushed furiously. "It isn't done!"

"Of course it is, you goose! What point is there of being a bride without passion?"

"Neville will have a title."

"And your money."

"Cynthia, I've told you before…."

"Yes, yes, I know, you think you love him. But I would rather have a handsome young buck in my bed than a man old enough to be my sire. Especially if he's planning to sire anything on me!"

Isobel waved her brush at her friend in furious embarrassment. "You shouldn’t talk like that!" she exclaimed.

Cynthia shrugged. "Oh, I'm not planning to do anything!" she protested, continuing in a breathy little voice, “But I would lay odds that Rookwood's shoulders are padded and I am quite sure that Nicholas' are not.  And as for his breeches! They were magnificent…!"

This time Isobel threw the hairbrush at her and Cynthia dodged, laughing as Isobel followed up the missile and landed on the bed beside her. Both girls ended up giggling in the heap of tangled bedding on the floor after a short tussle. 

"You spend far too much time with Freddy," Isobel scolded. "Lay odds indeed!"

"Do you not agree?" Cynthia asked. "Is Nicholas not a pretty lad?"

"He is," Isobel agreed.

"And a tumble with him would be better than one with Sir Rookwood?"

"I love Neville, he's to be my betrothed," Isobel insisted stoutly.

Cynthia leaned over to whisper in her ear. "And what of Sir Richard Fortesque Smythe? If it's an older man and a title you seek, marry him! He has a title and the charms to please a woman."

Isobel hid her burning cheeks in her hands. "You are wanton, Cynthia!"  She exclaimed.

"Merely honest," Cynthia replied briskly.  "If you love Rookwood all well and good, but if you do not? Tread warily, my dear Isobel. Marry in haste and repent at leisure they say."

Isobel frowned at her. "I am not in haste," she argued.

"But Rookwood is," Cynthia pointed out. "And should you be unhappy with the bargain, it will not be he who repents. Men always get the best of such things. While you moulder in the country, Rookwood will bask in London society."

"You are wrong…."

"Then why is he against your coming out with me?"

"A coming out is merely an announcement that a girl is available on the marriage market," Isobel retorted promptly. "I am not on the marriage market."

"Tosh! He's afraid you'll catch something better."

"I don't want anything better. I want Neville."

"That's because you haven't see the latest crop of colts," Cynthia giggled, her eyes sparkling with excitement.  "And coming out is more than that. It's balls and parties, soirees and entertainments! You will miss all of that, Isobel!"

"It is far too expensive."

"That sounds like Rookwood rather than you. The man's a skinflint."

"He's careful with his money."

"What little he has. And he doesn't want to you spending your money before he has a chance to get his hands on it and spend it for you."

"How can you be so cruel!" Isobel yelped. "Neville isn't like that! He isn't!"

"But you worry that he is," Cynthia sniffed as he rose gracefully to her feet and helped her friend up beside her.

"No, I don't," Isobel said firmly, patting her entangled hair with a sigh. "Now I shall have to brush it all over again."

Cynthia sighed, knowing that her arguments against Rookwood had once again failed. She had always thought Isobel had been far too sheltered for her own good and she knew Marguerite agreed with her. With nothing to compare him to, Rookwood had turned Isobel's head the moment they met. She could only hope that the delightful Nicholas and his guardian would make her friend think twice about what she getting into by accepting Rookwood so easily.

                                                            * * *

The following morning, Turpin woke after a restless night and a strange feeling that someone had spent the night whispering in his ear. Swiftnick was still asleep in his four poster bed in the next room, sprawled on his stomach amid the sheets and with his face burrowed into the pillow so that all that could be seen of him was a profusion of curls. Leaving him to the luxury of a lie in a safe place, Dick dressed in butternut breeches and a brown jacket. He was tempted to linger over the assortment of clothes Glenrae had provided, suspecting that much of it had come by way of the High Toby. Still Glenrae had an excellent idea of the size of both of them and Dick had no complaints over either the fitting or the quality of the costumes. After a few minutes cursing, he succeeded in taming his wavy dark hair into place under a fashionable wig and finally descended in search of breakfast. 

He was surprised to find that apart from Marguerite and Glenrae he was the only one up. Marguerite invited him to join them and poured tea for him before returning to sip her own hot chocolate.

"Young people have no stamina," she observed. "No doubt your Nicholas is still in bed?"

"Sound asleep," Dick agreed. "I thought Freddy might be up?"

Glenrae chuckled. "Och nay, that one could sleep through cannon fire," he said in amusement, pushing the toast towards the highwayman. Dick helped himself to toast and butter, hoping there would be something more substantial. The Scotsman grinned at him. "Looking for the porridge are ye?"

"You know very well I don't touch the stuff if I can help it!" Dick sniffed.

"Robert is teasing you," Marguerite said gently. "There is a full breakfast under the covers on the board if you would like to help yourself."

 "With pleasure, my lady," Dick said gratefully and rose to check the selection on the sideboard. He returned to the table with a plate full of bacon, eggs, sausages, fried bread and tomatoes and settled down happily. Sipping his coffee, Glenrae let him take the edge of his hunger before he spoke.

"So, what did ye think of Rookwood?" he asked.

Dick shot a quick look at Marguerite, surprised by his friend's direct question. "He seems very…." he began slowly, not knowing quite how to finish. 

"You may say what you think, Richard," Marguerite said mildly. "Robert considers him to be a blackguard. I think him a cad of the first order."

Turpin relaxed slightly. "I hardly know the man, but he seems very full of himself. Hardly the sort to be interested in a mere chit of girl."

"Love does happen in strange ways," Marguerite mused. "But I agree. Rookwood's interest is genuine, but it is inspired by greed, not love."

Glenrae glanced warily across the table at her. "Rookwood has angled after more than one heiress," he said slowly.

Marguerite smiled. "There is no need to be so discreet," she said lightly. "In the past, Rookwood has shown a predilection for dalliance. So much so, that he is considered a rake and a scoundrel by polite society. He had no intention of marrying anyone.  But he has long had a gambling habit and now has run aground. This time however, the Earl has refused to pay up and so Rookwood must marry to survive."

"Why not tell Isobel all this?" Dick wondered.

"Oh, we both have," Glenrae sighed heavily. "But she won't consider a word of it, believes it all to be gossip."

"She is also young and thinks herself to be in love for the first time," Marguerite added wearily. "She believes that her love will reform Rookwood even if he is a rake."

"Little idiot….er, I mean…." Dick sputtered. To his relief however, Marguerite smiled in amusement.

"I like your friend, Robert. As you said, he is indeed a forthright man."

Glenrae grinned at her. "You’d be surprised," he responded dryly.

Marguerite nibbled a corner on her toast, watching Dick thoughtfully. "Allow me to explain a little, Tobias' daughter was my dearest friend. Annabelle and I grew up together. Tobias adored her. His daughter was all he had left of his first wife and he could refuse her nothing. So when the silly goose fell in love with a Captain of the guards, he was horrified. George was to go aboard to fight and Tobias managed to persuade them that they should wait to be married until he returned. At least that's what he thought. Annabelle was a flighty little thing and she was very much in love. They eloped and were married." Marguerite paused, fiddling with her dainty chocolate cup.

"Annabelle returned here when George went abroad. He didn't return, he was killed," Glenrae finished, seeing that she was upset.  "Leaving Annabelle with Isobel to remember him by. Isobel takes after her."

"That's unfair," Marguerite protested.  "On the whole she's a sensible creature."

"Except when it comes to men," Glenrae said dryly.

"I warned Tobias what would happen if he didn't take her to London," Marguerite retorted, turning her blue eyes on Turpin. "After we lost Annabelle, I naturally continued to take an interest in Isobel. When Tobias asked me to be his wife I was terribly flattered and I said yes almost at once." She paused, glancing at Glenrae. "Tobias was a very handsome and charming man…"

"Rookwood was angling after Marguerite himself," the Scotsman said sourly.

"Really," Dick murmured, chewing thoughtfully on a chunk of sausage.  "What did Tobias think of Rookwood?"

"Wouldn't have him near the place," Glenrae said promptly.

"They argued only a few days before Tobias was drowned," Marguerite added. "I believe Rookwood told him he intended to marry Isobel and Tobias lost his temper with him."

"Tobias probably threatened to knock him down and refused his permission," Glenrae added admiringly. 

"I wish you would not be so blasé about it," Marguerite scolded. "You know I abhor violence."

Turpin looked thoughtfully from one to the other of them. "So Tobias had not only snatched one prize from under his nose, he'd refused him the chance of another."

Glenrae leaned back his seat. "I'll tell ye another thing, Rookwood owed Tobias money. Rookwood borrowed money from him against land he had bordering on Tobias'. He hadn't paid up and Tobias was going to take the land instead. It would have got him in even more trouble with the Earl and he was already in deep. The land's his in name only. The Earl will kill him when he finds out he borrowed against it."

"Tobias wasn't unfair. He gave Rookwood plenty of time to repay the money," Marguerite put in.

"But the land originally belonged to Tobias' ancestors. Money borrowed against it wasn't paid back and the Rookwoods claimed it. That was another cause of bad feeling between Tobias and Rookwood."

"It sounds as if Rookwood thought he had good reason to kill him," Dick said slowly.

Glenrae nodded. "Ye ken why I dinna want Isobel to marry the swine."

"Aye," Dick agreed. He didn't want to say it in front of Marguerite but he suspected that if Rookwood had killed Tobias to get Isobel and her fortune, then the girl wouldn't survive long after the ceremony if he grew bored with her.

                                                            * * *

After a long and leisurely breakfast at which Swiftnick and the girls eventually put in an appearance, Dick persuaded Glenrae to show him around the estate and they went for a stroll around the gardens and surrounding woods.

"Tobias let the grounds go," Glenrae observed as he swished at a threatening clump of nettles with his sword. "Said it made for better hunting on the rare occasions when he went hunting that it. He was more of a fisherman, wasn't much of a one for riding."

"It sounds as if you were fond of him," Dick said quietly. 

"Oh, aye," Glenrae agreed, flashing a sudden grin at his friend. "We were cut from the same cloth; both black sheep. Made his own money and married who he wanted."

"I'm surprised he didn't leave you anything. You said he thought you needed money and responsibility."

Glenrae didn't answer for a moment, then he smiled ruefully. "Aye, well, he did," he admitted. "He left me a tidy sum to be claimed when I marry."

Turpin considered this. "Did he know you were on the Toby?"

Glenrae's grin widened. "Och, do how ye ken he got his start?"  he chuckled. "Aye, he knew. I've holed up here a time or two."

"I see," Dick mused. "So I presume he hoped you’d marry either Isobel…."

"Far too young a lassie for me; nay experienced enough…"

 "Or Marguerite…." Under Dick's interested gaze, Glenrae went scarlet.

"Aye, well, nay be getting any ideas, she's quite a lassie but I have nay intention of marrying anyone."

"Doesn't that depend on what she decides? I've seen the way she looks at you. You’re comfortable together…."

"Listen? Ye hear that? That’s the waterwheel at the mill…."

"Don't change the subject."

"I should show it to ye. Tobias fell in not far from it. I still dinna ken how. He knew every inch of this river."

Dick surrendered the subject for the moment and followed the Scotsman as he strode briskly on ahead, ruthlessly trampling through the brambles and ferns of the undergrowth. Soon they emerged onto the picturesque bank of a deep fast flowing river that bubbled and foamed over rocks as it raced down towards the mill house looming up out of the forest shadows.

"Running a bit fast isn't it?" Dick exclaimed as he eyed the deep, dark water warily.

"Aye, we’ve had a lot of rain. Watch yer step…" Glenrae agreed, picking his way along a path running along the steep bank. Trees hung over the water, twisted roots erupting from the moist dark earth of the banks where stones burst forth like huge grey mushrooms.

Slipping and slithering in the mud, Dick grabbed at a tree, using the branches for a rail as he followed the Scotsman. "I can see how a man could slip into the river. This is dangerous!"

"Och, aye, but it was dry as a bone when Tobias fell in. And it was further down, by the mill itself." Glenrae paused, waiting for Dick to catch up so he could point across the river towards the grimly hunched shape of the old mill house. On one weathered wall, the waterwheel still turned, its blades chewing the water that foamed beneath it. Glenrae had to lift his voice to be heard over the noise. "Mill hasn't been used since Tudor times they say, but Tobias liked to keep it running. Always was one for tradition. Slept up here sometimes, used it at a lodge…"

"Where'd he fall in?"

"There, see the walkway by the wheel?" Glenrae pointed through the spray. "From there we think. Went straight in and got caught in the wheel. It's deep under there, but if you get caught in that maelstrom, well…"

Dick shuddered, folding his arms as he stared at the implacably turning wheel.  "Did anyone see it?"

"No. They found him next morning."

"Morning?"

Glenrae nodded soberly. "He'd been to the village pub, came back this way and decided to do a bit of fishing. Liked a bit of night fishing did Tobias. They think he was drunk. The servants found his horse the next morning and Benjamin came down to the mill to see if he wanted breakfast. He didn't." 

"How'd Benjamin take it?"

Glenrae shrugged. "He's a good man, been with Tobias a long time. An ex soldier."

"Did he notice anything suspicious?"

"He thought Tobias looked as if he'd been in a fight, but it was hard to be sure."

"What do you think?"

"Me?"

"Do you think he was drunk enough to fall in?"

"Tobias was a Scotsman, Dickie boy, he could never be that drunk. I think someone pushed him in. And so does Marguerite."

"Does Isobel know?"

"Nay," Glenrae said quietly. "We've kept it from her. 'Twas hard enough as it was on her. "

"So Tobias wasn't expecting trouble?"

"Nay, he was a popular man."

"With everyone except with Rookwood."

"Aye, except for him. But ye ken I read his diary, he mentioned uncanny things at the Grange and complained about Rookwood in language that'd make yer blush, but he nay said he was afraid of him."

"I'd like to read this diary," Dick said thoughtfully.

"I'll show it to ye when we get back. Now, come on, I’ll take ye across to the mill and show ye the bridge young Isobel nearly fell though. 'Tis the only way across up here."

"I hope it's been fixed then!" 

"Och, would I take ye if it wasn't?"

Muttering under his breath, Turpin followed his friend as he moved off along the path, frowning across at the waterwheel as they passed it and wondering if he really wanted to go over there and look around. 

"Sorry, Dick? Did ye say something?" Glenrae wondered, glancing back over his shoulder at him.

"Only thinking out loud about how I let you talk me into this," Turpin retorted.  "And mulling over what you've told me. You said Tobias thought there was something uncanny going on at the house. Uncanny how?"

"Strange noises in the walls. Things being moved around in the night."

"Rats?"

"Turning portraits round?"

"Big rats?"

"Och, ye English and yer weird sense of humour," Glenrae chuckled. "Ye ken I told ye Tobias thought the place was haunted."

"A recent development though?"

"Aye," Glenrae hesitated. "And nay…"

"That's helpful." Dick snorted sarcastically, scrabbling at a bush to catch his balance. The path had moved away from the edge of the river now and he felt safe enough apart from the way the glutinous mud sucked at his best boots.

"Tobias thought his wife was still there, watching over him and Isobel. It never bothered him."

"Did that change when he asked Marguerite to marry him?"

"No, he thought his wife approved. I thought ye nay believed in ghosts?"

"I don't, but if Tobias did, he could have thought he was being haunted the night he drowned; saw something, panicked…"

"Tobias was nay one to panic. Ghosts nay frightened him."

"But Marguerite and Isobel have been frightened."

"Aye, but only while they were alone in the house. Never when Tobias was there and not since I arrived. Marguerite says the house always made noises and it never bothered either her or Isobel. She says she was frightened because it doesn't feel like the same presence and she knows it isn't Tobias."

"Strange," Dick mused, wiping off the disgusting fungus that he had stuck his hand in on a tree trunk. At least he hoped it was a fungus and not a squirrel by product. "Oh, I do love a nature ramble," he groused sourly. "And nature bloody well likes to ramble all over me."

"Hush Dick, ye'll nay be able to hear the badgers singing if ye make so much noise."

Turpin scowled at the grinning Scotsman. "Badgers do not sing," he growled.

"Ye know that when yer sober."

"Oh shut up."

Glenrae chuckled, offering him a handkerchief to wipe his hand on. Dick took it, very deliberately cleaned off his fingers and offered the cloth back to him. The Scotsman gave it a dubious look and then laughed, "Oh, nay let it be said a Scotsman was stingy, keep it with my compliments!"

   Turpin gave him a sour look then chuckled ruefully. "I don’t mind the countryside, but does there have to be so bloody much of it at times?" he grumbled as they walked on. "I am not dressed for capering about the woods."

Eyeing Dick's natty brown coat and now sadly mud splashed butternut breeches, Glenrae had to agree with that. "Aye, ye're not at that. Why did ye nay wear something more fitting?"

"Because I wasn't expecting to be dragged over hill and dale by a mad Scotsman when I got up this morning!" Dick retorted, then paused with a wary frown as his senses prickled at the sound on the edge of his hearing. "Did you hear something growl?"

"A badger perhaps?" Glenrae murmured innocently.

"Oh very funny. No, I definitely heard…." Dick broke off, feeling a cold fist clench inside him as he saw the black shadow sloping through the trees off to his right. It was difficult to make out what it was, but it was obviously pacing them as they walked. "Glenrae?"

"Aye, I see it," Glenrae said quietly, reaching into the deep pocket of his long coat. "Looks like our spectral black beastie has come to call…"

"Our spectral black beastie?" Dick echoed sarcastically.

"Are ye armed?" Glenrae asked however as he drew a long barrelled pistol from the depths of his coat.

"Bloody hell, what are you doing walking around with a bloody great cannon in your pocket like that?" Dick exclaimed in awe at the size of the weapon as he shook his own derringer out of his sleeve holster.

Glenrae raised an eyebrow.  "Och, laddie, now there's a personal thing to say to a friend. Have I commented on the size of yer weapon?"

"You are bloody incorrigible! You know bloody well I meant your gun!" Dick exclaimed.

"Aye, and so did I." Glenrae grinned back wickedly.

Turpin let out his own exasperated growl. "You can't shoot a spectral thingywhatsit anyway," he grumbled.

"But maybe we can frighten it," Glenrae responded. Even as they bickered, they kept walking, keeping a wary eye on the shadowy creature that followed them as they sought a place where they could turn and make a stand should it decide to attack. Whatever the creature was, it kept to the shadows amid the thick undergrowth, shadowing them and moving gradually closer. Every now and then, it flickered through a patch of sunshine, revealing a long legged, furry shape with a massively heavy head and jaws and a pelt as black as night.

When it suddenly flung back its head and let out an eerie howl that echoed weirdly around the trees, bouncing back and forward as if it would never end, both men came to an unnerved halt. There was something in the cry that connected to some primal instinct and urged them to flee and hide. Instead, they both stood their ground, quelling their instincts in the knowledge that there was something a lot more dangerous in the woods than a howling beast of the night and that was them.

The creature charged without warning, exploding out of the undergrowth and bounding across the dark loam in a series of long legged strides that revealed it to be a huge, black furred hound. It was on them in an instant, slamming into Glenrae and knocking the big Scotsman off his feet. Turpin bolted forward, knowing his derringer would be of little use against such a monstrous dog unless he got in close.  Glenrae punched the dog in the eye, the blow startling the creature enough to jerk back and spot the smaller Turpin. 

A moment later it was up and leaping, slamming into Dick's chest and crushing him into the mud. Dick lost the derringer with the impact and groped for it with one hand. With ravenous hunger the dog snapped at his throat, its long fangs seeking flesh and blood and Turpin forgot the gun as he frantically fought to hold it off, rolling desperately in an effort to pin the snapping, writhing, biting creature as it worried at him. Cloth tore and mud flew as it scrabbled at him. Dick had it down, his knee driving into its ribs but with a jerk of its massive body it writhed out from under him, its jaws closing within an inch of his head as Dick flung himself backwards. The dog followed, ripping his sleeve as it caught his arm and pinned him, groping once more for his throat….

The blast of a pistol shot practically next to his ear deafened Turpin and startled the dog into springing off him. Instantly, it turned back with a slavering snarl of bared teeth as it growled and prepared to jump again.

"Ah, get off 'em, you bastard!" An unfamiliar male voice snarled and the crack of a whip stung the air as it lashed across in front of the dog's face, driving it back with a yelp. The animal cringed, snarling at the whip at snapped the air around it. The man who wielded it stalked closer, snarling curses as the dog cringed to the ground, its ears lying back flat along its ugly head as the man leaned over it, fastening a length of thick rope to the chain around its neck.  "Bloody animal, I’d shoot you if you were mine. Bothering folk the way you would a bloody sheep, you stupid bastard," he snarled. Satisfied the animal was under control, he looked over at Glenrae as the Scotsman stared at him. "My apologies, sirs," he said, sounding very unapologetic. "The animal got loose from his kennel and I've been tracking him all morning."

Glenrae took a slow breath and remembered to lower his pistol. "Ye're Rookwood’s gamekeeper, aren't ye?" he said slowly.  "Is that animal yers?"

"No, sir, it's Mr Rookwood's favourite hound; hardly anyone except him can control it. Like a puppy it is around him." His eyes narrowed. "He'll like as not do nothing if ye tell him yon beast got out. It was probably looking for him anyway."

"No doubt," Glenrae had recovered his poise after being badly shaken by his own close call, let alone Turpin's. "Well, take it away, mon. I dinna want to see it on Grange lands again."

 "Wait," Turpin dragged himself to his feet, knowing that he was a hardly prepossessing sight from the way he felt, let alone the way the gamekeeper looked at him. "Has this creature got out before?"

"Aye, sir," the gamekeeper admitted reluctantly. "Follows its master anywhere and attacks anything that moves."

"On command?" Dick asked sourly.

The gamekeeper gave him a strange look. "I couldn't be saying what the master might have taught it, sir," he said with exaggerated politeness. "If you'll be excusing me, now sirs, it's best if I get it back to its kennel where it belongs." 

Turpin made a gesture of consent and the gamekeeper moved off into the woods, dragging the reluctant dog after him. "Your spectral beastie, isn't so spectral after all."

"Part wolfhound, I suspect," Glenrae commented thoughtfully.

"And part something a lot more vicious. " Turpin agreed with a shudder. "Why the bloody hell didn't you shoot it!? It nearly had me!"

"Do ye nay ken I might have missed and shot ye!"

"You never miss," Turpin growled.

"Och, even I can have an off day. Are you all right, Dick my lad?"

Dick smiled shakily. "Aye, unbitten. What about you?"

Glenrae waved it off, retrieving Dick's gun from the mud. "Thanks to ye, I'm unharmed. Why did ye nay shoot it?"

"I was going to when I got close enough. But you punched it off before I could. This gun's no good for anything that size."

"Och, ye should have brought a proper gun."

"I would have done if I’d known what the bloody wildlife was like around here."  Dick snapped, snatching back his derringer as the Scotsman held it out to him. "If you’d held onto to it, I wouldn't have got filthy for nothing."

"My apologies for not letting it rip my throat out to distract it," Glenrae snorted, his eyes snapping with dark humour.

"I should think so too, dashed unsporting of you!" Turpin exclaimed in his most snobbish accents and laughed shakily. Glenrae chuckled too and put his arm around his friend's shoulders.

"We'd better get back and changed before the mud sets," he decided. "Och, I dinna want to ken what they’ll think we’ve been doing."

Turpin gave him a level look as he squelched along beside the Scotsman on towards their destination at the bridge. "One of these days, Robbie, I'm going to let you say something like that in front of Swiftnick and watch you flounder when he gives you when of those sweet and innocent looks of his and asks you to explain what you mean…."

                                                            * * *

Sitting on the stone seat in the garden, Swiftnick was enjoying himself as he watched Marguerite and Freddy playing croquet. The scent of flowers washed over him every now and then as the breeze made the blossoms dance in the flowerbeds. The morning had turned sultry and the heat lay damply on the gardens, making Swiftnick's new shirt stick to his back. Since Cynthia and Isobel were sitting on either side of him explaining the game to him he didn't dare fidget however.

"So, the aim is to hit the ball through all the hoops?" Swiftnick said as Cynthia finished applauding her brother for a tricky shot that won the game.

"Exactly!" Cynthia said breathlessly.

"It is a little more complicated than that," Isobel said lightly.

"But those are the basics," Cynthia insisted. "Are you quite sure you won't play, Nicholas?"

"Maybe next time. I’d like to watch for a little longer." To make sure I don't make a complete idiot of myself.

Cynthia gave him a dazzling smile and slipped to her feet, running to congratulate her brother and commiserate with a smilingly amused Marguerite.

"Don't let me stop you playing," Swiftnick urged Isobel as she sat beside him with her hands folded neatly in the lap of her blue silk gown.

"Neville doesn't like to play croquet," she announced.

"I suggested you might like to play, not him," Swiftnick pointed out.

Isobel turned blue eyes on him that held a tiny hint of frustration. "Neville doesn't consider it a skilful game at all and thinks it quite boring. He prefers cards and hunting. He would be terribly disappointed if I was to play."

Swiftnick frowned. "I won't tell if you won't," he teased however and succeeded in winning a glimmer of a smile from her.

"It doesn't matter," she assured him. "I'm not a good player but I do like to watch."

"Does it matter whether you’re good or not as long as you have fun?" Swiftnick wanted to know. "It seems to me that Rookwood doesn't like to have fun. I like to have fun, don't you?"

Marguerite hesitated in mid step as she approached, having heard Swiftnick's innocent comment and feeling a distinctly un-chaperon like urge. Nicholas was so young and unaware of his own masculine attractions. Fortunately, Isobel seemed to be equally unaware; it was a pity that Cynthia didn't seem to be.

"Neville says fun is childish," Isobel answered.

"What's wrong with being childish?" Swiftnick grinned.

Taking a slightly deeper breath than she meant to, Marguerite suppressed her feminine responses and fluttered her fan furiously instead. "It seems to be getting rather warm," she commented. "Isobel? Perhaps you should sit in the shade now."

Isobel looked up at the brilliant blue sky and sighed. "I suppose I must protect my complexion," she murmured. "Neville doesn't like it when I freckle."

"Neville doesn't like anything very much," Swiftnick snorted. "Including you having any opinion of your own."

Marguerite opened her mouth to protest that Nicholas was being impolite but to her surprise Isobel responded indignantly. "I most certainly do have opinions of my own," she snapped. "I am however a lady and bow to his wishes."

"Wishes aren't commands," Swiftnick pointed out. "Sometimes he should bow to your wishes to have fun."

"I do not wish to play croquet!"

Eyeing the two of them thoughtfully, Marguerite made a discreet retreat and let them argue as they willed.

"Liar," Swiftnick sniffed. "I suppose you don't want to have your coming out in London with Cynthia either?"

"I, I…." Flustered, Isobel scooped up her fan from where it dangled from her wrist and started to fan herself nearly as vigorously as Marguerite. "Who told you that?"

"Cynthia…"

"Why, what a shameless thing to do?!"

"But true," Swiftnick observed. "Why doesn't he want you to have a season? You have the money for it. It's not as if he's expected to pay."

Isobel blushed, reminded of Cynthia's comments and feeling a traitorous surge of resentment towards Rookwood.  "It's unnecessary. The purpose of a season is to arrange a marriage."

Swiftnick considered this carefully. "And to present you to society," he said, remembering what Turpin and Glenrae had taught him in an effort to make a gentleman of some sorts out of the youth. "I would have thought Rookwood would be proud to help present you. You’d be a glorious catch to have on any man's arm. Why wouldn't he want to show you off to his London friends? If both your interests are firm, surely he doesn't think you would be fickle enough to look elsewhere for a marriage."

Isobel stared at him, his bold words cutting past her own rationalisation of her doubts about Rookwood's intentions. She was at a loss for words, unable to answer him.

"Nicholas!" Cynthia came hurrying over in a swirl of pink skirts. "Do come and play! Please! I know Isobel won't. And Freddy has challenged me!" Grabbing Swiftnick's hand, she dragged him to his feet and towed him onto the croquet lawn, giggling as she showed him how to hold the mallet.

Feeling dazed, Isobel roused herself, mentally scolding her friend for being so outrageously flirtatious. But Cynthia was obviously enjoying herself and Nicholas had such a nice smile when he grinned at her teasing.  Freddy clearly didn't think there was any harm in it as he headed over to Isobel.

"Isobel? Do come and play." Freddy approached her with a hopeful smile and an eager look in his blue eyes. "I will be quite devastated if you refuse. Marguerite says she is too hot to play anymore."

Isobel hesitated, but another giggle from Cynthia as Nicholas laughed made her glance at the lawn and set her chin stubbornly. Why should she let Cynthia have things all her own way? One little game of croquet wouldn't hurt. Neville wasn't here to see after all and he wasn't a tyrant. He would understand that she liked to have a little pleasure at least. Being a lady all the time was so boring. "How can I refuse such a generous offer?" she murmured, accepting Freddy's hand and letting him lead her out to the hoops. She liked Freddy and she would have felt terribly bad mannered to disappoint him.

Cynthia gave Freddy a surprised look as Isobel joined them, then smiled in delight and quickly presented her friend with a mallet.  Freddy was grinning in triumph at having persuaded Isobel to join them and quickly urged her to take the first shot before she could change her mind.

Sitting in the shade, Marguerite fanned herself and watched the game begin. Cynthia was a flighty little creature, but she was good for Isobel. And Nicholas' presence seemed to have presented a challenge for both young ladies. Whether Isobel was aware of it or not, she was having to compete for her friend's attention suddenly and seeing Cynthia enjoying herself in Nicholas' company while she sat like a wallflower was obviously rankling.

Intent on chaperoning her companions, Marguerite was unaware of Rookwood's arrival as he hesitated in the sheltering shadows of the arched gate of the garden, watching the croquet game with a darkening scowl of jealousy on his face. Rookwood stood silently, slapping his riding crop against one well muscled leg; his lips thinning to a cruel hard line as he watched Isobel and Nicholas conferring together as Cynthia instructed Freddy on how to make his next shot and caused him to miss the hoop completely. His scowl turned into a snarl as Isobel touched Nicholas' arm and looked at him, her pretty young face open and charming as she smiled up at him. Isobel never looked at him like that.

Abruptly overwhelmed by fury, Rookwood swung on his heel and marched out of the garden, crunching back around the side of the house in a search for calm. He could not allow Isobel or any of the others to see him so out of sorts. But that young whelp was going to pay for this. Oh yes, he was going to pay.

"Hitch up your sporran, Dickie boy," Glenrae announced jovially as they squelched through the shrubbery towards the back of the mansion.

"I don't have a sporran, though it feels like it." Turpin groaned. His breeches were soaked with mud that was creeping unpleasantly into various places where it really didn't belong. The sultry heat wasn't helping and the mud had a distinctly unpleasant aroma to it when it started to dry.

Glenrae, who was suffering somewhat less than Dick, only grinned and led the way down a path to emerge onto the lawn. "We'll pop in the back and slip upstairs," he said cheerfully. "No one will…Och, now there's a thing…." He came to a halt on the edge of the lawn where a croquet game was in progress.

Glowering at the lawn, Dick turned a glare on the Scotsman. "No one uses the croquet garden, you said," he observed. "Sneak in the back, you said. No one will notice, you said."

"I forgot Marguerite had the lawn clipped for croquet," Glenrae said weakly. "We could go through the stables…."

"Too late," Dick snarled, aware that they had been seen. The game had halted and four pairs of bright interested eyes were gawking at them in obvious fascination. Tossing his head back proudly, Turpin clamped one hand on his wig as it slipped and strode forward; determined to carry it off as best he could.

"My goodness," Cynthia exclaimed as the two men squelched across the lawn, leaving muddy footsteps on the green sward. She ignored Swiftnick's valiant efforts to hush her. "Whatever happened? Have you fallen in the river?" Isobel retreated as wave of muddy pong wafted in her direction.

Freddy grinned broadly. "Banks a bit slippery, what?"

Turpin looked down his nose at him, too angry to find a suitably scathing retort. From the corner of his eye, he could see the look on Swiftnick's face; he was so obviously struggling not to laugh that Dick could feel a rueful grin of his own tugging at his mouth. Deciding that silence was his only resort, Turpin stalked past them with his head up and a bubble of mud sliding down the back of his neck.

"Gentlemen, you cannot go in the house that muddy!" Marguerite exclaimed, emerging from the shade with her own smile controlled and half hidden by her fan.

Turpin gave her an icy look. "Would you prefer us to strip to our drawers here, madam?" he demanded sardonically.

Marguerite gave him a startled look and went scarlet. "No, no," she stammered, flustered.

"I thought not," Dick said loftily and stalked past with squelching boots. Glenrae followed him, winking at Marguerite as he strode after him.

"I'd better go help with his boots," Swiftnick muttered and darted after his partner, nearly overwhelmed by curiosity.

Striding through the house, Dick was well aware of being surreptitiously observed by the servants. He made it all the way to the front hall and before he was interrupted however and by the one person he least wished to see.

Rookwood had come in by the front door and was handing his coat to Benjamin when Turpin strode in. For a moment the two men stared at each other, then Rookwood very slowly and deliberately raised his quizzing glass and inspected the mud dripping highwayman from head to foot. His lip curled sardonically as he smiled maliciously. "You seem to be a trifle past your best, sir," he observed.

Turpin looked down his nose at him. "Glenrae and I had a close encounter with that black dog of yours."

Rookwood's expression had set itself in stone. "Damned gamekeeper let it get out again. I sent him after it of course. Fortunately, there is little harm done. I can see you were not dressed at your best."

Dick jerked half a step towards him at the insult and then stopped, reminding himself of the role he was playing. "Quite," he murmured icily. "Finery has its place and the riverside is not it. It can be a dangerous place. A moment's inattention and you could find yourself in a great deal of trouble," he continued with cold calculation, fascinated by the flicker of alarm that crossed Rookwood's face at his words.

"Indeed…" Rookwood was at a loss for words for once. He was saved from having to continue by Glenrae striding into the hall with Swiftnick.

"Ah, Neville," Glenrae greeted him. "I’d be obliged if ye’d keep that damn dog of yers off the Grange lands."

"My apologies, sir," Rookwood bowed stiffly.

"Aye, no doubt. I'd no idea the beastie was yers when it got into the gardens and frightened Isobel."

"Did you not? How remiss of me not to make my apologies before. Isobel was so frightened at the time that one had all one's attention on one's beloved. It quite slipped my mind."

Turpin snorted disparagingly.

"Oh aye, well, the beast's a menace. See it nay escapes again. Now, if ye'll excuse us…?"

"Quite. With your permission I will join the ladies in the garden."

"I'm sure they’ll be delighted," Glenrae agreed politely as Rookwood swept past them, clearly knowing his way. Once he was out of sight, Glenrae relaxed slightly.

"Such superb sarcasm, Glenrae," Dick grinned as Glenrae led the way to the main stairs. "Let that be a lesson to you, Swiftnick, in how to fight with words rather than weapons."

"Och, a trifling engagement. Your point about the river was most telling I thought."

"So was his expression," Dick agreed, frowning at Swiftnick as the youth stepped in front of him, stopping him getting to the stairs. "What is it now? I want a bath…"

"I've told the servants to bring up water for a bath, Dick. Can't have muddy guests." Glenrae said soothingly.

Swiftnick however refused to be ignored. "How did Rookwood know where the ladies were if he came in the front way?" he wanted to know impatiently.

Dick and Glenrae looked at each other in surprise.

"The laddie has a point," Glenrae murmured.

"He must have been watching."

"I didn't see him," Swiftnick protested.  "What's he up to?"

"He obviously didn't want you to see him," Dick said uneasily. "You'd better go back to join them."

"I don't want to. Crochets boring."

Dick sighed heavily. "Croquet, Swiftnick," he corrected. "And don't you pretend you didn't know that."

Swiftnick pouted. "But what about you? Don't you need help with your boots?"

"Glenrae got me muddy, he can deal with them."

"But I want to know what happened. You didn't fall in the river, did you?"

"Rookwood's dog went for us," Dick explained crisply. "And no, it wasn't spectral or anything else.  Simply a big vicious black dog. And no, I'm not hurt…" He added as he caught the quick flash of alarm in his protégé's eyes. "Now go, do as you're told."

Exasperated but obedient, Swiftnick headed back for the gardens.

"Could be tricky that," Glenrae murmured dubiously. "Rookwood may not take to kindly to having him around."

Turpin snorted. "I want a nice quiet bath without a string of constant questions. Rookwood's hardly going to do anything to Swiftnick. He's got nothing to gain by it…"

                                                            * * *

Some time later Dick descended once more to the main hall, washed and brushed back to elegance with cream breeches and a deep rose coat and waistcoat. He had even polished his quizzing glass and was once more feeling able to face Rookwood at his snidest. In the hall he paused to check his wig was on straight, then ambled at a leisurely pace towards the gardens, one hand resting on his sword hilt in an elegant pose that he hoped would put Rookwood's back up.

As he strolled into the drawing room where the French doors opened out onto the grounds, he heard an all too familiar sound; the metallic clatter of sword on sword. He lengthened his stride as Freddy suddenly came rushing through the French doors..

"Sir Richard! Thank goodness! Perhaps you can stop them?"

"Stop them? Stop what?" Dick asked, striding inexorably towards the doors.

Freddy scurried after him. "Rookwood practically forced Nicholas to match swords with him. He boxed the lad in. Nothing he could do except seem like a coward if he refused."

"Bloody idiot!" Dick growled in exasperation as he marched through the doors, prowling rather than mincing now.

Rookwood and Swiftnick were facing each other on the lawn, each with a sword in hand. As Dick watched Rookwood made a swift move, harrying Swiftnick as the youth frantically defended himself and back-pedalled.

"It isn't Nicholas' fault," Freddy insisted anxiously. "I couldn't get Rookwood to listen to me either. A matter of losing face."

"We'll see about bloody face," Turpin growled as he moved forward, abandoning his amble to a predatory prowl as he approached, inspecting the opponents. Rookwood was obviously a good swordsman. He had Swiftnick on the run and his blade was a constant wasp buzzing around him. Swiftnick was being kept too busy defending himself to do much attacking, but Dick felt a stab of pride that the youth was doing as well as he was against an older and more experienced opponent.  The few lessons Dick and Glenrae had given him were standing him in good stead and Turpin had hopes that the lad would become an accomplished swordsman; assuming he lived through today's match…

Rookwood moved with frightening speed, his blade catching Swiftnick's and setting the youth off balance.  Swiftnick parried, riposted and fell back in good order but Rookwood came in again far too fast; dangerously so. If it had been real fight he left himself wide open to an attack, but Swiftnick was simply intent on surviving.  The youth parried again, turning aside what he probably didn't even realise was a lethal thrust and yelped in pain as Rookwood's blade slipped from his and ripped through shirt and skin, drawing a splash of crimson blood. Pain made him drop his guard as Rookwood followed through, bringing his sword around to sweep his arm aside and put the point of his blade to his chest.

Only he never completed the move as an adder's tongue of silver met and parried his blade, forcing him back. Snarling in outrage Rookwood clashed swords and thrust, striving to get past the expertly woven web of steel that pressed him back and away then suddenly finding himself disarmed by an expert twist of the wrist that snatched the sword from his hand. Rookwood froze, finding a sword point at his throat and Turpin's glittering eyes fixed on his own. The man he had thought a mere fop had eyes as dangerous as a big cat's. Rookwood however was by no means a coward and he did not want to look the fool in front of the ladies. "What is the meaning of this, sir?" he hissed. "You should know better than to interrupt a mere sporting match…."

"You drew blood," Dick responded and his voice had dropped to permafrost iciness.

"An accident…"

"Was it indeed," Dick purred, his voice velvety. "Or a calculated risk?"

"I assumed the youth knew how to handle a sword," Rookwood sneered, pushing aside the blade at his throat with a fingertip and then freezing as the point evaded him and returned to nest against his pulse.

"You find a challenge in duelling with an inexperienced stripling?" Turpin asked, his voice becoming icily friendly. "Perhaps you would find more sport in a match with someone more skilled?"

Rookwood swallowed, fighting an attack of nerves. "I think not. It was merely a lesson that your ward allowed to get out of hand."

Turpin never took his glittering eyes off Rookwood's own. He smiled dangerously as his voice dropped even more.  "I think you are the one who allowed it to get out of hand, sir," he said softly. "I believe I am satisfied with Nicholas' ability to evade your point. And let me assure you, he does not need you to teach him anything." Dick lowered his sword and stepped back. 

Rookwood lifted his head and took a step back of his own, meeting Turpin's eyes with a glare of outraged loathing. His pride had been stung both by Turpin's words and the ease with which he had disarmed him. His temper, never far below the surface, boiled poisonously to be freed from his fragile restraints.

Dick mocked him with a salute of his sword and turned away, seeking Swiftnick as a small sound of complaint escaped the youth.

Attracted by the sound, Rookwood looked over to the youth. Cynthia fluttered like a disturbed dove beside him, fanning herself shakily and looked as pale as alabaster. Freddy hovered, dividing his attention uncertainly between his sister who looked as if she was about to faint and an equally shaken Nicholas. A surprisingly competent Isobel however was anxiously tending the blond youth and the look she threw at her betrothed held contempt rather than the awed respect he had come to expect from her. For Rookwood it was the last straw; seeing red he swooped on his sword and snatched it up, only to find Dick's foot clamping it to the ground.

Dark eyes met; Dick's glinting with a dangerous light, Rookwood's burning like red-hot pokers.

"Sir…." Rookwood hissed.

Turpin's lip curled and stepped back, releasing the blade. He was on guard as Rookwood retrieved his sword and went instantly on the attack, driving the highwayman back with the force of his fury. Gracefully, Dick moved away from him, drawing his opponent out onto the open lawn and away from the others. He kept his sword light and his wrist supple, letting Rookwood wear himself down in a useless display of fury.

Spotting what was going on, Swiftnick did his best to escape Isobel's ministering so he could watch, but she was equally determined that he was not going to watch such disgusting behaviour. "You should go and lie down," she told him briskly. "Perhaps with a nice cold cloth…"

"And a stiff drink," Freddy advised absently, intent on the fight.

Isobel glared at him. "Freddy, you are not helping," she said sternly.

"Was I supposed to?" Freddy glanced at her in amusement. "Nicholas is all right. Merely pinked him."

"What about Cynthia?" Isobel demanded in exasperation.

Freddy glanced critically at his sister. "Oh, do pull yourself together, Cynthia!" he ordered. "You're behaving like a complete goose. Watch the mill, why don't you? Damned fine swordplay."

"Language, Freddy!" Isobel exclaimed, tugging at Swiftnick's good arm. "Come and rest…."

"I can't leave my guardian," Swiftnick protested absently, intent on a particularly fine parry and riposte from his mentor that forced Rookwood to retreat. Rookwood was starting to do a lot of that now. His fight with Swiftnick had already taken a lot out of him and he was now facing a skilled, fit man who knew more about surviving a sword fight than Rookwood would ever know.

Isobel stared at him and glanced helplessly at Cynthia who was hanging on Freddy's arm and looking quite faint. Seeing that her friend was going to be of no help at all, she steeled herself to be firmly forward. "Freddy! I demand that you stop them immediately," she ordered.

"Me? Stop them? My dear Isobel, I may hang on your every word but I am not fool enough to step between two armed men in the middle of a brawl for you!" Freddy retorted, blushed faintly and added, "Besides, damned fine fight…"

"Oh, Freddy," Cynthia said faintly. "I am sure Rookwood will kill Sir Richard…"

"There, there. Won't come to that." Freddy glanced down at her, studied Rookwood and Fortesque Smythe for a moment and then turned to Swiftnick. "I say, Nicholas…."

"No. He's my guardian and I know better," Swiftnick said warily. "If I put money down it'll be on him…."

"Loyalty, hmmh?" Freddy teased.

"Common sense," Swiftnick snorted, then caught his breath as Rookwood's blade flashed and darted in under Dick's blade; velvet ripped and a button flew….

A snarl crossed Turpin face as he evaded Rookwood's tired attempt at a follow through and stepped back, flicking a glance down at his waistcoat. 

"Stop playing with him, Richard!" Glenrae's deep voice boomed unexpectedly across the lawn as he strode into view from the direction of the rose gardens. Marguerite followed him, looking worried.

"I'll show you whose bloody playing," Dick snarled and went on the attack for the first time, harrying Rookwood back across the lawn with a series of viciously fast lunges. Rookwood started to look worried, then panicked and he let out a cry of alarm as he tripped over a croquet hoop and went sprawling.  Instinctively he flung up his sword to protect himself and Turpin's blade wove around it, flipping the sword from his numbed fingers as the tip sliced his fingers. A second later Turpin's blade was at his throat, drawing a pinpoint bead of blood. Cold terror took a grip on Rookwood as he looked into Turpin's obsidian gaze.

"Richard, enough…." Glenrae spoke softly. He had come close, tapping one of the abandoned mallets against his hand and quite capable of using it if he had to to stop the highwayman losing control of his temper.

Dick hissed through his teeth and leaned down to Rookwood. "Blood for blood," he hissed then added aloud, "That was my favourite waistcoat, sir! Dashed unsporting of you." Lifting his sword, he moved back, stepping quickly out of reach of any sudden kick on Rookwood's part. Glenrae relaxed but stayed where he was, watching Turpin warily. Dick however smiled bitterly and turned away, strolling over to Swiftnick as the youth came to meet him.

Rookwood lay where he was for a moment, breathing hard, then realising that no one was going to offer him a hand in getting up he rolled lithely back to his feet and brushed off his sweat soaked shirt and breeches. He shot a look of loathing at Swiftnick, blaming the youth for everything and wanting to kill both him and his mentor for the humiliation he had suffered at their hands.

"Allow me to look at yer hand for ye, Neville," Glenrae offered.

"It'll do," Rookwood said stiffly, turning his back on the Scotsman to retrieve his discarded coat.

Dick could feel Rookwood's eyes burning into his back as he reached Swiftnick and gently tapped his knuckles to the youth's chin. "Now, what have I told you about choosing your opponents?" he demanded.  "You’re not a swordsman…. Yet…."

The mutinous look on Swiftnick's face faded at the added comment and he smiled ruefully. "He didn't give me much choice," he said sourly.

"Dashed right," Freddy put in. "Handed young Nicholas a sword and went for him. Never let him say no."

Turpin flicked a glance at Rookwood who was easing his shoulder back into his broad-skirted coat. "I can believe that," he said quietly. "He needs a lesson in manners."

"Now, Richard, that's enough for now," Glenrae scolded as he joined them.  "Let's be having ye, laddie." Swiftnick started to protest but the Scotsman already had firm grip on his arm and was peeling back his blood soaked shirt.

"Oh my…." Cynthia said weakly.

"Oh, for goodness sake, you’re not the one who's hurt!" Freddy exclaimed in exasperation.

"It's barely a scratch," Swiftnick assured her.

"Oh, he's so noble, so brave…." Cynthia babbled.

"Humbug," Dick snorted, suppressing a grin at Swiftnick's smug look.

"Oh do be quiet and come away before you embarrass everyone…." Freddy growled dragging her off out of earshot.

"How is it really?" Isobel asked in concern. "I did my best."

"You obviously stopped the bleeding nicely, my dear," Marguerite soothed her.  "Let Robert tend Nicholas now. Perhaps you should speak with Neville."

Isobel shot a quick look at her and a grimace crossed her pretty features. "Must I?"

"I think it would be polite," Marguerite murmured.

Her lips thinning to a disapproving line, Isobel gathered her skirts and marched towards her beloved as he stood quietly brushing himself off with an expression of brooding dark rage on his face.  All four of her audience wished they could be within earshot to hear what she said and recalling her manners, Marguerite started to shoo them inside so Nicholas' shoulder could be tended.

"Isobel, dearest," Rookwood reached for his betrothed hands as she approached and was more than a little put out when she kept them firmly clasped at her waist.

"How could you, Neville?" she demanded. "Nicholas is obviously inexperienced."

"It was merely a little fencing lesson that got out of hand. Hardly my fault if the boy couldn't control his temper."

"I thought perhaps it was your temper that was out of control," Isobel snapped.

"Now, don't be shrewish," Rookwood scolded.

Isobel flushed but pressed on valiantly. "You are an experienced swordsman, you could have stopped it any time you wished."

"He had only to lower his sword…"

"Did he indeed. You drew blood!"

"I merely pinked him; a lesson to mind his betters."

"I find myself quite put out with you, Neville. It was terribly bad mannered to provoke him so!"

"You don't understand; it was a sporting matter. A gentlemanly pursuit that a pretty little thing like you can't be expected to understand." Rookwood reached for her hand again and Isobel stepped back, lifting her chin in anger.

  "And your attack on Sir Richard? Was that sporting?" she practically spat the words in his face and Rookwood paused, surprised that his meek little betrothed had such fire.

"I admit my temper got the better of me," he said with an effort at sounding contrite. "But it was wrong of him to interrupt the way he did; very bad mannered of him."

"You had wounded Nicholas. I think he had reason," Isobel responded icily.

"It simply isn't done, Isobel. A man has his pride and Fortesque Smythe insulted mine."

"But to fight a duel in front of us! That was, was…."

"Isobel, darling, you mustn't fret so over things that don't concern you. I know you were afraid I would be hurt, but I was not." Rookwood reached for her again, capturing a trembling hand. The urge to take the little witch in hand and teach her some manners was almost as overwhelming as the desire to kiss her. He settled for squeezing her fingers, knowing he dare not frighten her off as well as anger her. "Come now, smile for me and we shall say no more…."

                                                            * * *

"There now, the bleeding's all stopped. Ye'll be fine," Glenrae soothed as he helped Swiftnick into a clean shirt.

"Will it scar?" Swiftnick wondered, peering at the bandage.

"No, no it won't. It's only a deep scratch…." Glenrae assured him.

"Oh…" Swiftnick sounded disappointed.

Lounging against the wall where he had been watching - apparently unconcerned to anyone who didn't know him better - Dick chuckled.  "You've ruined his first duelling scar, Glenrae."

Glenrae sniffed as he started to put away his ointments into his box. "Overrated pastime if ye ask me," he snorted. "Getting yourself killed or wounded is hardly what I’d call a fulfilling hobby."

"Ah, but an invigorating one," Turpin teased.

The Scotsman gave him a chilly look. "Aye, ye can talk. Rookwood nearly skewered ye for the spit. Yer sense of humour will get ye killed!"

Dick flushed slightly, looking down at his torn waistcoat. He made light of it because of the expression he could see on Swiftnick's face. "I wasn't too happy with this waistcoat anyway."

"Despite what ye told Rookwood?"  Glenrae retorted sarcastically. "Ye haven't taken him seriously since ye got here! Well, I hope ye know better now!"

Turpin gave him a chilly look. "Why should I? You haven't. You think that dog got loose by accident? I don't."

 "Dinna change the subject," Glenrae snapped then shot a dark look at Swiftnick as the youth slipped to his feet. "And where do ye think yer going?"

"If you’re going to argue, I'm going to go and get something to eat," Swiftnick answered wryly. "And see if Cynthia's all right now. She looked a bit pale."

"And she called you brave," Dick chuckled. "Go on then." He swatted Swiftnick on the rear end as the youth trotted past him and then closed the door behind him. Turning back to Glenrae, he met the Scotsman's eyes soberly for a moment. "It was my own fault," he said gloomily, touching his waistcoat. "I wanted to make him look like a fool for going after Swiftnick."

"Too bloody cocksure that's your trouble," Glenrae grumbled as he closed his medicine box up carefully.

"Proves Swiftnick's getting to him though," Dick pointed out.

"That was nay what I had in mind."

"Swiftnick held his own though, didn't he?" Turpin said proudly.

Glenrae shot a quick look at him and gave in. "Aye, he's got a good teacher."

"I thought so."

"I meant me."

"You? You don't know one end of a sword from the other!"

"Och, I taught ye everything ye know!"

"I think my fencing master might have something to say about that," Dick growled, his eyes sparkling with good humour.

Glenrae considered this and then nodded. "Ye know a few tricks he'd nay approve of," he said quietly.

Turpin sobered. "Aye, but then he never had to fight for his life for real. I'll teach Swiftnick the rules, Glenrae, but I'll teach him to survive first."

"Then I’d best stand by to break him of the bad habits ye teach him," Glenrae said mildly.

"Glenrae!" Dick yelped indignantly.

"Och, now ye know it's true. And I'm nay saying they’ve not come in handy a time or two, but the laddie needs to know the difference…"

                                                            * * *

"Feeling better?" Freddy asked as Swiftnick wandered into the study with the remains of a large sandwich that the cook had been happy to make for him. She wasn't used to young gentlemen trotting into her kitchen on a quest for a snack, but she knew a hungry youngster when she saw one and had been perfectly willing to oblige him.

"Much," Swiftnick chirped. "How's Cynthia?"

"Isobel and Marguerite took her off to lie down with a cold cloth and some lavender water. She'll be quite the thing in time for dinner. Silly creature does kick up a fuss at the sight of blood."

"I'm sorry I upset her," Swiftnick said apologetically as he perched on a chair and eyed the book Freddy was holding.

"All Rookwood's fault if you ask me," Freddy assured him, holding the book up for him and motioning to a stack of others on a table. "Followed your suggestion, been reading the endings. Might even read a whole one some time. What do you think?"

"I haven't read it," Swiftnick said, puzzled.

"No, no, of the ladies. Isobel and Cynthia?"

"Oh, they’ve been very kind to me," Swiftnick mumbled, hoping he wasn't going to blush.

"You seem to getting on well with Isobel," Freddy muttered, putting his book on top of the rest of the wobbling stack.

 "She's very nice. So's Cynthia. I think you should put those back on the shelf before they fall over, Freddy."

"Hmmh, oh, yes, I suppose…" Grabbing a couple of the books as the pile started to slide, Freddy randomly stuffed them back on the shelf. "You don't think she's a bit…forward….?"

"Who? Isobel? Hardly…"

"No, no, she's not forward. Isobel is a lady in every sense. Why, she….erm, I mean...I meant Cynthia. She can seem a bit flighty…."

Oh," Swiftnick gave him a very thoughtful look, noting that Freddy was looking distinctly flushed round the edges and he didn't think it was embarrassment about Cynthia that was doing it. "I find Cynthia refreshingly charming," he said carefully, feeling quite proud of the remark.

"You do?" Freddy gave him a startled look which made Swiftnick realise he hadn't been thinking of Cynthia at all.

"Yes," Swiftnick nodded firmly.

"Oh…" Freddy found himself at a loss for words and was fortunately saved from having to say anything else by Marguerite popping her head around the corner.

"Oh, Freddy, there you are. Could you pop up to see Cynthia?"

"Is she all right?"

"She's fine, dear. A little bored is all."

"I'll take her a book!" Freddy announced enthusiastically, grabbing one at random from the pile and rushing off. Marguerite smiled after him in amusement and then turned her gaze on Swiftnick.

"Shouldn't you be lying down too, Nicholas?" she wondered.

"Oh no, I'm fine. I was hungry." Swiftnick explained, having finished his sandwich.

"I'll have some sandwiches sent up from the kitchen for you," Marguerite decided, hesitated then continued, "Did you enjoy the croquet?"

"It was fun."

"You seemed to be getting along well with Isobel. You made her smile."

"She's nice," Swiftnick agreed warily. "So's Cynthia."

"Hmmh." Marguerite hesitated again and clearly decided to change the subject. "Will you join us for dinner? Isobel has invited Rookwood."

Swiftnick bit his lip, torn between refusing and avoiding the man and not wanting Rookwood to think he was scared of him. "I would be delighted."

"Excellent. Tonight you shall sit with Isobel. Now, excuse me and I’ll go and get you the sandwiches."

"Thank you." Somewhat puzzled, Swiftnick let her go and turned to examine the books.  When Glenrae wandered in, he was halfway through a pile of daintily cut cucumber sandwiches and pouring over a copy of Romeo and Juliet.

 "Ye feeling better, laddie? Ye look a mite pasty still." The Scotsman observed, helping himself to a sandwich.

Swiftnick mumbled around a bite of sandwich. "Doesn't hurt a bit."

"Aye, well," Glenrae gave him a dubious look. "By the way, how are ye getting along with Isobel?" The strange look Swiftnick gave him made him even more determined to send him off for an hour's nap before dinner.

"We're getting along fine. I like her and Cynthia." Swiftnick said pointedly.

"Och, of course ye do. Why don't ye go and have a wee rest before dinner? Ye'll be wanting to change anyway." Swiftnick gave him another look, took a handful of sandwiches and stalked off. Bewildered, Glenrae gazed after him in amusement. "Strange laddie…"

                                                            * * *

Turpin looked up as the door in the next room crashed open and shut. "Nicholas? Is that you?" he called warily, reaching for the pistol on the side table.

"Yes…" Swiftnick appeared in the connecting doorway, looking distinctly irritable.

Dick relaxed back against his pillow and tucked a finger into Tobias' diary to mark his place. So far it hadn't told him anything of interest apart from the odd comment about weird noises in the house and Tobias' belief that his first wife's spirit still pervaded the walls; watching over them all.  He had indeed mentioned the dog, but it no longer seemed so ghostly reading about it after meeting Rookwood's pet. "What's up?"

"Glenrae told me to take a nap!" Swiftnick snapped, outraged.

Dick shrugged against his lace edged pillow. "Quite right. Every gentleman should take a nap."

"Hah!" Swiftnick growled, stomping across the room and flinging himself into a chair. He offered Dick a last crushed sandwich, which Turpin turned down with an expression of dry amusement.

Studying him, Dick decided that something was obviously bothering his young partner. "What is it now then?" he asked. "Cynthia suitably unimpressed by your wound?"

"I didn't even see her!"

"Oh," Dick considered for a moment, groping for something to say. "How are you getting along with Isobel then?"

"Isobel? Isobel?! Why does everyone keep asking me about Isobel?" Swiftnick yelped, his impatience spilling over as he leaped back to his feet and started to pace. "Don't you start!"

"I only asked," Dick said weakly, startled by his apprentice's response.  "Who else did?"

"Rookwood asked before he started the fight and he made it sound like I was some kind of fortune hunter. Cynthia even simpered at me about her after breakfast. Glenrae asked and so did Marguerite. Even Freddy asked! And he's half in love with her anyway! And now you've started as well! Anyone would think you wanted me to elope with her!"

"Here, steady on!" Turpin sat up in alarm. "You’re not going to are you?"

"No!" Swiftnick yelled and flung himself down on the foot of the bed, burrowing his face into his hands.

Dick hesitated, then awkwardly patted his shoulder. "Soothe down, Swiftnick," he said cautiously. "No one means anything by it."

"Don't they?" Swiftnick growled. "I'm not a complete fool you know."

"No, only a half wit," Dick murmured with a teasing grin.

"What?!" Swiftnick flung up his head to glare at him suspiciously.

"Why would anyone think you’re a fool?" Turpin pressed innocently.

"No one wants Isobel to marry Rookwood except Isobel."

"And Rookwood…" Dick agreed.

"He's the fortune hunter, not me!"

"I know, lad," Turpin sighed. "Glenrae hoped you might be able to make her think twice. And I think you’re succeeding."

Swiftnick hesitated, flushing slightly. "I prefer Cynthia," he mumbled. "Anyone would think you want to foist me off on Isobel!"

Turpin managed not to flinch. "Don't be ridiculous. I was only asking. Cynthia's a sweet girl," he said carefully.

"But above my touch…" Swiftnick growled.

"I wasn't going to say that," Dick protested. "But all three of you are far too young to fall in love. There's no need to go getting involved."

"I'm not! I'm not in love with Cynthia. I said I prefer her. She's not so prim and proper as Isobel. You can have fun with Cynthia. Besides Romeo and Juliet weren't," Swiftnick grumbled. "Too young that is…"

"Where in blazes did you find out about them?!" Dick groaned. The last thing he needed was Swiftnick wafting around fancying himself tragically in love. "And you’d better not be considering having fun with Cynthia!"

"There're some books of Shakespeare in the study," Swiftnick answered. "You don't have to look at me like that, Dick. Romeo and Juliet were a pair of complete drips. I mean, obviously, if they wanted to be together all they had to do was elope with the family jewellery and produce a brat or two. Their family would have had to accept it then. I don't think too much of Shakespeare you know, Dick. He spells funny and he's got no idea about real people." He broke off with a frown as he realised Dick was laughing. "What? What's so funny?"

"You, Swiftnick, you’re a treasure," Dick chuckled, ruffling his apprentice's mop of blond curls in genuine affection. "Now tell me whether I need to kill Rookwood over what he said to you…"

Swiftnick considered this, a wicked glint of mischief entering his blue eyes. "Maybe you should wait until dessert. Marguerite said Isobel has invited him for dinner and you wouldn't want to ruin the meal…"

                                                            * * *

Dinner was a somewhat strained affair. Marguerite had done her best with the seating arrangements, but with Rookwood at the table there was bound to be some tension. She had taken her place at the head of the table and seated Sir Richard at the foot with Nicholas and Freddy on either side of him. To her right and left sat Glenrae and Rookwood while Isobel sat between Nicholas and Glenrae, and Cynthia between Rookwood and Freddy. It wasn't an ideal arrangement but it kept Richard and Nicholas as far away from Rookwood as possible. It also had the advantage of keeping Isobel away from Rookwood so she couldn't devote her attention to him without being rude to her own dinner companions.  And it kept Cynthia away from Nicholas who she had been making doe eyes at since she came down to dinner. Isobel was quite out of countenance with her friend for the way she had talked about the young Fortesque Smythe all afternoon while disparaging Rookwood at every chance.

Rookwood at least was doing his best to be pleasant, chatting amiably with Glenrae and Marguerite and even managing to be kind to Cynthia who Marguerite knew he considered to be a flighty little goose. Nicholas was keeping his head down, as subdued as Isobel was beside him. Sir Richard was polite and good humoured, clearly at ease talking to his ward but also talking comfortably to Freddy about hunting, fishing and shooting. Every now and then though Marguerite caught him looking at Rookwood with a coldly implacable expression on his face that gave her the shivers. Fortesque Smythe was not a man to be crossed she thought and she was suddenly glad that he was Robert's friend.

"You enjoy shooting then?" Freddy was saying as he sipped his wine.

"For the pot, yes," Dick agreed easily. "Can't see the point in it otherwise. Waste of powder and shot."

"Are you a good shot then, sir?" Rookwood asked, leaning forward slightly to look down the table at him.

"Passable," Turpin replied vaguely.

"Come, Richard, you can culp a wafer with the best of them," Glenrae put in deliberately. He didn't want Rookwood getting any ideas about a pistol duel with Turpin. Dick was in a bad enough mood to shoot him.

"Really," Rookwood mused and turned glittering eyes on Swiftnick. "What about you, my boy? Care to wager on your skill?"

Swiftnick shot a defiant look at him down the table and Marguerite realised in surprise that it had been a need to control his temper keeping the youth subdued rather than chagrin or fear. The lad was a reflection of his guardian. "I am not a boy," he said coldly.

"But can you shoot or has your guardian neglected your education in shooting as well as swordsmanship?"

Turpin's hand shot out and clamped down tight on Swiftnick's wrist, holding him in his seat. Cocking his head to one side he gave Rookwood a distinctly wolfish smile before he met Swiftnick's outraged blue eyes. "Don't be shy, Nicholas," he said quietly. "There's no harm in a little wager between friends. Perhaps a little target shooting in the morning, Neville? You can show Nicholas how good you are."

Rookwood's eyes narrowed, but he inclined his head. "Why not?" he said tightly.

"Well, really, this competitiveness is becoming too much," Marguerite said irritably, tossing down her napkin in a gesture of disgust.

"Come now," Rookwood murmured, condescendingly patting her hand. "Let Nicholas show his hand with a pistol. He made a complete hash of things with a sword…"

"I wasn't aware that it was anything more than a lesson," Swiftnick snapped. "I didn't realise that I was meant to be duelling….sir."

Rookwood's head snapped around and he gave Swiftnick a glare that could have lit pistol powder.

"I think you did very well, Nicholas," Isobel put in, giving Rookwood a coolly, quelling look. "I do believe Neville as a little jealous of me playing croquet with you without him."

Swiftnick looked at her hand resting lightly on his wrist and on Dick's still gripping his other arm and sighed, then he smiled with devastating charm at Isobel and turned his hand over to take hers with a squeeze and lift her fingers to his lips for a light kiss. "Ah, now that I can understand," he teased flirtatiously. "You did say that he would be angry with you for not obeying his every command. Croquet is such a silly thing to lose your temper over, isn't it?"

"Quite," Isobel breathed in breathless agreement, totally lost in Swiftnick's sparkling blue eyes and oblivious to Rookwood's furious spitting nails expression. 

The thump of Turpin's hand hitting the table made both young people jump. He had let go of Swiftnick's wrist to cover his eyes and was shaking his head in disbelief.  A wicked little smile playing over his lips, Swiftnick gave Rookwood a cat that got the cream look and turned back to his chocolate cake dessert. Blushing furiously, Isobel did the same. Across the table, Cynthia was fuming and Freddy looking stunned.

"Well," Marguerite managed weakly.

Glenrae took a deep breath, aware that Swiftnick had well and truly flung his gauntlet in Rookwood's face this time. "Shall I have the servants set up a target on the croquet lawn then?" he said dryly. "I assume ye have yer own pistols, gentlemen?"

Turpin cracked his fingers open and peeked at Glenrae through them. Gazing back at him Glenrae wasn't sure whether Dick wanted to scream or laugh. Either way he was fairly sure it hadn't been what he had in mind for Swiftnick to do. He had undoubtedly told the lad to keep his head down around Rookwood and let the older man draw his fire.

Rookwood grated out his assent and Swiftnick murmured something polite. "My ward can borrow mine," Dick forced out, giving Swiftnick a look that promised dire things.  "If Marguerite doesn't object?"

"I don't think I dare, Richard," Marguerite answered, wondering if she was going to have to prevent a duel between Isobel and Cynthia rather than Richard and Rookwood. "Neville, the weather appears to have turned. Perhaps you would care to stay the night?"

"I would be delighted, Lady Marguerite," Rookwood said politely. "I must admit to being somewhat concerned about crossing that river of yours again tonight. It seemed to be rising when I came across the bridge earlier."

"Yes, we are prone to flooding. I'll arrange for you to have your usual room," Marguerite replied calmly. "Why don't you gentlemen go through to the study for brandy?  The girls and I will freshen up and join you for a game of cards later."

A murmur of agreement went round as the ladies withdrew and the men made their way to the study. "Richard?" Glenrae murmured softly. "I take it that was nay yer idea?"

"I wanted to throttle him!" Turpin hissed back, glaring at Swiftnick's back as he walked ahead of them with Freddy. "Bloody little, little…."

"Flirt?" Glenrae grinned.

"Idiot," Dick spat. "He's made things even worse with Rookwood!"

"Ye did nay expect him to sit there and let Rookwood condescend to him, did ye?"

"No", Dick growled. "But I still want to throttle the wretched brat. What am I going to do with him?"

"Och, I’d suggest ye get him a chastity belt. Yon laddie's only loading his ammunition yet. Ye've got a way to go before he decides how to shoot."

Dick lowered his voice, realising that Rookwood had overheard the Scot's remark and was looking smug. Hopefully, the man was assuming they were talking about their target match in the morning. "I'm not so sure. Didn't you see the way Cynthia's been looking at him?  The girl's hot to trot and she probably thinks Nicholas Fortesque Smythe is a fine catch! After this little display she'll probably drag him off into the bushes first chance she gets!"

Glenrae chuckled. "Nay, Cynthia's a good girl with a lot of common sense. She's simply putting in a bid for when she comes out. Having a beau always helps a lassie…" He laid a hand on Dick's arm, meeting his friend's eyes for a consoling moment. "And Nicholas is a good lad. He wouldn't take advantage of her even if she offered. Besides…"

"Besides what?"

"He probably doesn't know how to take advantage of her yet."

"I bloody did at his age. I was seething for it," Dick muttered, far from soothed. "And speaking of which, what were you doing off in the rose garden on your own with Marguerite?"

"Nay anything to do with ye," Glenrae retorted.

"Is that a blush, Robbie? Why, yes, I do believe it is; a blush!"

"Och, I came when I heard the sound of a fight."

"Did you now," Dick observed wryly. "Is that what took you so long to get there?"

Glenrae went scarlet, knowing full well what Turpin meant with his double entendre. "She's a lady, Dick!" he snapped.

"Aye, I know. But you’re not always a gentlemen."

The Scotsman glared at him and then stalked on ahead into the study to pour the brandy for his guests. Turpin minced after him, putting on his airs and graces as he smoothed his silk waistcoat and looked around. The lamps had been lit in the study and the drapes were drawn, outside rain could be heard pounding against the windows as the sultry heat of the day finally broke. 

Rookwood was looming over Swiftnick and Freddy like a dark shadow and Dick felt a prickle of unease as he moved to join them, restraining the urge to hurry. After all, what could Rookwood do to Swiftnick in front of everyone?

"Finest enamel," Rookwood was saying as he showed the younger men his exquisitely decorated snuffbox. "I had it made especially. Hand painted portrait of my darling Isobel on pure gold."

"How appropriate," Turpin commented. "I'm sure Isobel must seem like pure gold to you."

Rookwood gave him a dour look and held the box out to him. "Take a pinch, Sir Richard. It clears the thoughts wonderfully. My own blend, you know."

"Ah, quite. I too prefer my own blend," Dick said with poisonous sweetness, extracting his own snuffbox from his waistcoat pocket.  He was aware of Swiftnick watching in fascination as he expertly flipped open the lid, laid a tiny pinch on his hand and sniffed daintily. Smiling, he offered snuff to Rookwood. "Chinese cloisonné, you know," he purred as he displayed the superbly coloured display of cranes and flowers on the snuffbox.

"It must have cost a fortune," Freddy exclaimed.

"Oh, probably. I never concern myself with such things," Turpin said cheerfully. Swiftnick had a huge grin on his face; knowing perfectly well that Dick had taken the snuffbox off a rich fop on his way to London. He'd had a couple of nice rings and a silver topped cane as well.

Rookwood was considering the sample of snuff he had taken. "A little mild for my tastes," he said easily. "Freddy? Nicholas? Perhaps you’d care to take a pinch?"

Freddy accepted happily and after a quick defiant look at Dick, Swiftnick followed his lead. Turpin raised an eyebrow, waiting to see what happened. 

"Am I missing something?" Glenrae asked as he brought over the brandy glasses on a silver tray.

"Not yet…" Dick mused, watching the tortured expression crossing Swiftnick's face. "But I think, any moment now…." Swiftnick sneezed violently, doubling up as the snuff stung his nose and throat and made his eyes water. Freddy jumped, nearly choking on the mouthful of brandy he had taken. Another equally loud sneeze followed and another as Rookwood retreated rapidly.

"Whatever's wrong?" Glenrae asked in alarm, pressing a hand to Swiftnick's forehead. Swiftnick fended him off.

"N'n'nothing…" he managed and sneezed again, wracked by a chain of others that followed close together.

"Snuff," Dick explained succinctly with a wicked smirk.

"Ye didn't," Glenrae growled in reproof.

"No, but Rookwood did. Come now, my friend, no need to look at me like that. How many times have I warned the lad not to take snuff?"

"Ye are a cruel man. Now fetch him a drop of water," Glenrae told him, guiding a still sneezing Swiftnick over to sit on the chaise lounge. 

"Hmmh, I fear it was a trifle rough cut for your boy," Rookwood observed sardonically.

"Not used to it," Dick agreed as he filled a glass of water from the decanter and took it over to his apprentice.

"You did that on purpose," Swiftnick sniffed, his eyes watering and his nose running as he glared at Turpin. "It was mean."

"It was your own fault. I've warned you often enough. And now you are a most unprepossessing sight," Dick observed as he studied him through his quizzing glass. "No doubt you will impress the ladies now."

Swiftnick blushed as Glenrae handed him a handkerchief, knowing perfectly well that Turpin was paying him back for flirting. "I thought everyone wanted me to make me nice to Isobel," he grumbled, wiping his eyes and nose. "Maybe I should elope with her."

"You most certainly will not!" Dick's hissed as his hand twitched with the urge to threaten him with a clip round the ear, but he restrained himself and he had to smile at the long suffering look that crossed Glenrae's face as Swiftnick grumpily offered the wet handkerchief back to him.  

"Och no, laddie, ye keep it," Glenrae muttered, waving it away hastily. "Drink yer water now."

"I'd rather have brandy," Swiftnick protested.

"Would you now," Dick said dryly. "You didn't drink the last one. You think the taste will have improved?"

"Och, leave the laddie alone," Glenrae scolded, giving Swiftnick a comforting pat on the shoulder as the youth glared at his mentor. Swiftnick promptly yelped in pain and struck his hand away from his sore arm. "Oh, aye, I'm sorry, laddie. Still sore are ye?"

"I am now, yes!" Swiftnick hissed.

"And you call me cruel?" Dick chuckled.

"Och, I forgot." Glenrae retorted.  "Maybe a drop of watered brandy might help…."

                                                            * * *

By the time they joined the ladies for cards, Swiftnick's eyes had stopped watering but the rest of the evening he continued to have explosive sneezing fits that interrupted their card games to everyone's amusement except his own.  Even Rookwood seemed to find it funny despite the way Isobel and Cynthia both did their best to comfort the youth. Isobel seemed to be torn between thinking Rookwood's offer to share his snuff a gentlemanly act of reconciliation and considering it unfairly taking advantage of Nicholas.

It was still fairly early when Freddy announced that he could hardly keep his eyes open and would have to turn in before he fell asleep at the table. Dick was more than a little surprised when Swiftnick yawningly agreed with him.. Shortly after the two young men went off to bed, the girls followed them. With the young people out of the way, Glenrae suggested a more serious card game and they spent a pleasant hour or so doing battle over the cards.  By unspoken consent, Dick had taken Marguerite as his partner and was pleased to find her a competent steady player whose occasional bursts of recklessness usually paid her well. Rookwood however was careless with his cards and took risks with low hands that cost him dearly. By the time, Marguerite called a halt for the sake of tiredness, Rookwood had lost a fair amount of money.

"Never mind. No doubt I shall win it all back next time," Rookwood assured them, still in a surprisingly amiable mood as he bowed his way out of the room and went off to his bed leaving Glenrae and Turpin alone. 

"He nay does though," Glenrae observed as he tidied away the cards. "And he's nay any better at love than he is at cards."

"A good loser though," Dick commented comfortably as he finished his brandy.

"That's odd too. Usually he's a bad tempered sort."

"Hmmh." Dick stretched out his legs, studying the way the fabric of his tight fitting breeches stretched and moulded to his thighs. "Time I was in bed too, Glenrae. Nicholas has long been in dreamland."

"A last nightcap?" Glenrae offered as he lifted the decanter.

Dick grinned, holding out his glass. "And why not? Seems a shame to waste it."

                                                            * * *

It was dark when Dick awoke, lulled into a deep and dreamless sleep by the brandy and good food. The rain was still beating against the windows, rattling impatiently against the panes.  But he was sure that wasn't what had woken him; maybe it was that little whispery voice again…

"Not now, Mildred," he mumbled, burrowing back into the warmth of his sheets. The rain had turned the air cool…. Or should have done. Dick opened his eyes again, staring into the darkness of his room and suddenly aware that it wasn't as dark as it should be. Shadows flickered on the wall, dancing and capering like little ghosts. One of them suddenly seemed to detach itself from the others and flung itself across the room.

With a jolt of fright, Dick rolled over in shock, seeing the shadow explode against the half opened door between him and Swiftnick, jarring it back an inch before the shadow disappeared into the room beyond.  Dick continued to stare, convincing himself that he was imagining things; still half asleep and dreaming…

Candlelight flickered across the floor, glowing brightly through the narrow gap and throwing odd writhing shadows….

Wondering fuzzily what the dratted boy thought he was doing burning candles in the middle of the night, Dick flung off his covers and padded barefoot to the door. If the lad was having an assignation with that young trollop-to-be Cynthia, he was going to get a leathering for it. Turpin pushed open the door and peeked in.  It wasn't candlelight setting the shadows to dancing but fire.

Bright orange, blazing out of control fire eating its way up the bed hangings with a appalling speed, spreading clouds of smoke as the thick cloth smouldered and burst into flames.

"Swiftnick!" Dick lunged into the room, ducking around the incendiary heat of the flames that seemed to reach for him with hungry fingers. Swiftnick was still asleep, oblivious to the flames nibbling at the coverlet over his legs. Dick spared a moment to yank furiously on the bell rope beside the bed as he grabbed the covers and flung them back, swearing as a flame lashed at his hand. He grabbed his apprentice by one arm, dragging him across the mattress to him even as he yelled for help and bent over the youth to check he was alive.

Swiftnick was limp as a wet cloak but breathing as Turpin heaved him up with a grunt to sling him over his shoulder. He had to drop the youth as a darting flame caught at his arm, quickly burning sleeve of his night shirt and biting into his arm before he could beat it out. By then the flames were reaching for Swiftnick too and Dick had to move fast before they caught at his mop of hair. Panic lent him strength and he flung Swiftnick over his shoulder with ease, retreating from the bed. The whole end of the bed had gone up in flame by now and fire was eating the frilled canopy and licking hungrily at the ceiling above. Fire poured almost like liquid down the drapes over the bed head and a pillow turned black in the heat. 

Choking from the heat and smoke, Dick groped his way to the door, fumbling for the key and finding it missing. Swearing, he felt his way along the wall, feeling his way through the smoke thick air for the door to his own room and very much aware of the heat of the flames crisping the airs on his legs.

Somehow he reached the door and stumbled through into the mercifully cool air of his own room, but the smoke was following him, billowing out through the door. There was shouting in the corridor now as the response to his frantic calls for help were answered.

Keeping a firm grip on Swiftnick who seemed to be getting heavier by the moment, Dick stumbled to his own door and with fingers that felt fat and clumsy managed to turn the key and get the door open. He lurched out into the corridor, his head spinning and his arm and hand singing with pain. He had to prop his shoulder against the wall for support and his vision swam as Glenrae appeared in front of him.

"Fire..." he croaked.

"I can see that," Glenrae retorted, turning to shout orders over his shoulder at the servant who had responded to the bell rope. He felt for Swiftnick's pulse anxiously. "Here, let me take the laddie…"

"You deal with the fire. I've got him," Dick urged, his head clearing in the cleaner air of the corridor. "Whole wing may go up…."

Glenrae swore and turned away, bellowing for help. Breathing heavily Dick lowered Swiftnick to the floor and sank down beside him, feeling for his pulse and settling him as comfortably as he dared before he forced himself back top his feet to help deal with the fire.  

It took over an hour to put the fire out, by then the room as a total wreck and Turpin's room next door was blackened by smoke. Once the servants had been roused to fight the fire Glenrae had turned his attention to Dick and Swiftnick, insisting on getting them away from the fire. Both Rookwood and Marguerite had arrived to help. Marguerite having ordered the girls to stay out of the way in the rooms in the other wing. Leaving Rookwood to deal with the fire, Glenrae sent Marguerite for his medicine box and took Dick and Swiftnick to a guestroom well away from the fire.

 "What's wrong with him?" Dick demanded as he washed off the smoke and grime as best he could and kept a wary eye on Glenrae as he examined Swiftnick.

"I think he's drugged," Glenrae said grimly as he peered into Swiftnick's eyes. "Not much I can do except let him wake up on his own." He straightened up, smoothing the sheet over the unconscious youth and giving Dick a worried look. Turpin had frozen, his fingers tightly wrapped in the washcloth he held. He had grabbed a pair of breeches from his room before they left and had shed his ruined nightshirt in favour of them.

"Then someone wanted to kill him," he said slowly.

"It could have been an accident," Glenrae argued.

"I checked on him before I turned in. He was sound asleep and all the candles were out. If he was drugged, he would have hardly woken up to light them!" Turpin broke off at the sound of a light tap on the door. It opened before either man could say anything and Marguerite walked in. She hesitated at the sight of Dick barechested and in his breeches, her eyes rounding slightly. Then she recovered herself and carried the medicine chest she had brought to Glenrae.

"How is the poor lamb?" she asked in concern, touching Swiftnick's cheek with a gentle hand and petting a stray gold curl.

"He seems well enough," Glenrae assured her. "Why don't you go back to bed? I need to tend to Richard and then I'll turn in myself."

Marguerite shot a quick look at Dick and blushed. Turpin was still lost in a reverie, absently cleaning one arm with the wet cloth. Glenrae gently walked her to the door and closed it behind her firmly.

"Fan'd be in a whirr if she had one," he muttered darkly, scowling at Turpin. "Ye blasted flirt!"

"What?" Dick gave him a blank look, having barely registered Marguerite's presence as anything more than an interruption. "Glenrae, I need to go and check on Swiftnick's room. Will you stay with him while I…?"

"No," Glenrae interrupted firmly.

"No?"  Dick gave him a plaintive look.

"First I tend ye. I can see ye're burnt. Then I need to go check on young Freddy. I canna believe the noise did nay wake him. Then ye can go look…."

                                                            * * *

Amid the mess left by fire and water, Dick stepped carefully, aware that the floorboards could be damaged and made dangerous. He picked his way around the bed, examining the glass by the bed and finding it empty of anything except a little water. Poking gingerly at the ragged charred remains of the drapes with the sword he had retrieved from his room, he watched the flakes of cloth float away and scowled in frustrated anger. How could anyone have got past him to do this?

Dick prowled on, searching for some clue as to what had happened. The window was tightly latched against he rain still pattering persistently against the thick glass. Something rolled as his foot caught it and Turpin crouched, retrieving the object that was half hidden under burned wood and cloth. It was the candlestand that had been on the bedside table when Dick checked on his apprentice when he turned in. The candle had been out then and set well back from the edge so it couldn't fall….

Yet it had to be what had started the fire when the burning candle rolled under the drapes…

But how had it fallen and who had lit it?

Turpin set the candle back in its place and stared at it, willing it to divulge its secrets to him. All that came to mind was the flickering shadow he had seen passing through the door and drawing him from his sleep and he shivered despite the lingering warmth in the room.

Disturbed without quite knowing why, Dick retreated from the smell of smoke and charred wood to go back to Swiftnick. The lad had been starting to stir when he had left him with Glenrae and he felt an urgent need to talk to him.

                                                * * *    

Glenrae had chosen the most comfortable chair in the room and settled in for the rest of the night with a blanket tossed over his legs for warmth. The guest rooms hadn't been used in a while and there was a faint hint of lingering damp despite the fire he had started. Swiftnick was still deeply asleep, but twitching now and then like a puppy chasing rabbits in his sleep. The Scotsman was glad that Dick hadn't returned to hear his bout of soft whimpering, interspersed with coughing.

The door handle rattled quietly as it was turned and discovered to be locked It disturbed Glenrae from his reverie and he slid to his feet, alert and wary. A soft knock followed the rattle.

"Glenrae?"
            "Who is it?"

"Me," came Turpin's soft answer.

A wicked grin crawled across Glenrae's face. "Me who?"

"Dick, you stupid haggis! Let me in!"

"Och and who else would insult his friend." Chuckling, Glenrae unlocked the door to let Turpin slip in, then locked it again behind him.

"Why lock it?" Dick wondered.

"Ye never can tell who might decide to drop in unexpectedly," Glenrae replied. "What did ye find out?"

"Too much. Swiftnick's door was locked and the key was missing. It looked like a candle had fallen over and caught the drapes alight."

"But ye don't believe that." 

"The candle was out, Glenrae. I know it was. You say Swiftnick was drugged and so was Freddy…"

Glenrae settled back into his chair. "No harm's come to Freddy though."

"Freddy isn't competition," Dick pointed out grimly. "If I hadn't woken up, Swiftnick would have been cooked."

"And so might ye. What did wake ye up?"

Dick hesitated, remembering that little whispering voice that came from far away. "I don't know; something…"

"Ye going fey on me again, Dick?" 

"Oh shut up." Turpin stalked over to the bed, gazing down at Swiftnick as the youth whimpered and curled up tighter in his sleep. Awkwardly, Dick put a hand on his head, ruffling his curls and speaking soothingly. "I thought you said he was waking up," he muttered aside to Glenrae.

"Aye, he is, but give him time."

Dick shook his head. "It must have been something he drank. Are you sure he isn't drunk? He had wine at dinner and he's not used to it…"

"Bare half a glass did he drink."

"And the brandy…"

"Watered. And that nay explains Freddy. It's a powerful drug he was given if I guess right."

Dick's eyes narrowed suspiciously as he looked at the Scotsman. "What are you hiding from me?"

"Hiding? Och, never let it be said…."

"Glenrae, I am not in the mood."

The Scotsman sighed. "Opium…."

"What?! Where'd he get that from?"

"He did nay, Dick. I’d nay think either of the laddies would take such a thing on their own."

"If Freddy suggested…"

"Dick, you dinna think that," Glenrae gave him a reproachful look. "Someone wanted Swiftnick deep asleep when they set the fire."

"Aye, aye, I know," Turpin waved an irritable hand. "But opium…."

"It's nay as bad as ye fear. Aye, 'tis powerful, 'tis true. But a little won't harm him. Ye've come to no harm when I've given it to ye…."

"I was in pain from a bloody bullet wound," Dick snarled, paused and gave Glenrae a suspicious look. 

"Dinna look at me that way, ye daft sassanach, or ye'll be chewing a brick. I did nay give it to him. He was nay in enough pain."

"But it was in your bloody medicine box!" Turpin realised.

"Aye, I have a bottle of it and some's gone. I checked after ye'd gone to look at yon room."

"Why didn't you keep the blasted thing locked?!" Dick wailed.

"Because yon lock is broken and I've nay got around to getting it mended. Besides, I nay thought anyone would touch it."

"You’re too bloody trusting by half!" Dick snapped in exasperation, turning back to Swiftnick as he thrashed restlessly, coughing. "Hush, lad, you’re all right…."

Swiftnick lifted his eyelashes, gazing at him blankly from eyes that were dark pools of shadow in the candlelight. "The apricots are on the dog," he informed Dick solemnly then turned over with a wriggle and curled up, tucking one arm under his pillow to cuddle it close as he went back to sleep.

"What the bloody hell does that mean?" Dick exploded in bewilderment.

"That he's dreaming," Glenrae said complacently. "Yer getting hysterical…"

"I am not hysterical!" Dick bellowed, then paused collecting himself as Glenrae gazed at him in amusement. "I've had a hard day," he said plaintively.

"Aye. Is yer arm bothering ye?"

Turpin glanced at his lightly bandaged hand and forearm. "It's a bit sore but I'm not taking bloody opium for it even if it was," he grumbled. "The last thing I need is befuddled wits!"

"I'm sorry," Glenrae sighed.

"For what?"

"Ye right to blame me. I should have locked it."

Turpin stared at him and a little of his fury drained away. He was tired and frustrated and angry; he wanted to beat whoever had done this to Swiftnick to a bloody pulp and he could feel the frustration of being unable to lay hands on the villain in every muscle. "No, Glenrae, it isn't your fault. I'm tired and angry is all. I shouldn't be taking you to task when I should have been watching him."

"Ye shouldn't scourge yerself either," Glenrae said gently.  "Ye'd best get some sleep." Turpin hesitated, casting a longing glance at the bed and then looking round for a chair. "Och, dinna be stupid," Glenrae scolded as the highwayman selected a straight-backed chair by the fire. "Sleep on the bed. Swiftnick will nay mind I don't suppose and if yer fretting about yer virtue, it's a bit late, but I’ll be yer chaperone anyway."

"Screw you and the horse you rode in on," Turpin growled, but he conceded the wisdom of the Scotsman's words and gingerly stretched out beside Swiftnick on top of the bed. "Little pest's hogging all the covers," he complained as he nonetheless left Swiftnick the blankets and settled for pulling the quilt over him. He arranged his sore arm as comfortably as he could and settled down, telling himself to at least relax if not sleep. He had a lot to think about before he could certain he was right about who had set the fire, but the last thought that ran though his head was; What are apricots doing on a dog anyway?

                                                            * * *

"If ye were to hold still I'd nay have so much trouble with the bandages," Glenrae scolded Turpin with mild impatience the following morning. Dick had managed to get his bandages wet while washing and the Scotsman had insisted on changing the dressings for him.

"They haven't had time to get dirty yet," Dick complained then added with a yelp. "Be careful, you daft heather sucking oaf, that's sore!"

"Och, dinna make so much fuss."

There was a ruffle of sheets from the bed and Swiftnick sat up, shoving his hair out his eyes as he blinked at them in sleepy curiosity. "Who's Heather and why is Glenrae sucking her?" he asked though a yawn.

"What did you say?!" Dick yelped.

"I said, whose…"

"I heard what you said!"

"Then why'd you ask?" Swiftnick blinked at them in bewilderment as both men bore down on him. He looked around him in confusion. "Where is she then?"

"Who?" Dick demanded.

"Heather; the girl Glenrae was sucking?" Swiftnick gazed up at Glenrae curiously as the Scotsman took hold of his wrist. Folding his arms, Turpin pursed his lips and gave Glenrae a 'you explain it' look.

"Och, heather is the name of a plant is all," Glenrae explained.

"Oh…." Murmured Swiftnick, tugging his wrist free of the Scotsman's grip.

Glenrae gave Turpin  a smug look. "You see, Dick, all ye have to do is…."

"So why were you sucking a plant?"

"I wasn't. Dick was being insulting."

"Oh…" The Scotsman dared to relax a fraction. "So it doesn't taste nice?" Swiftnick then continued determinedly.

"What?" Glenrae gave him a helpless look, aware that Dick was now the one with the smug expression.

"This plant you were sucking. Why would you want to suck it if it didn't taste nice? I’d have thought you'd rather suck the girl…."

"Shut up, Swiftnick!" Glenrae and Dick both chorused. 

"But I was only saying…."

"Yes, we know what you were only saying," Turpin growled. "And you're not going to be saying it any more because I did mean Glenrae was thick enough to suck a plant. Now be quiet and get up."

Swiftnick pouted at him, but made an obedient move to get up that was halted halfway as he suddenly took in his surroundings. "Who took my room?" he demanded.

"No one. We moved during the night," Dick growled, tossing an armful of clothes that he had retrieved at him. Most of Swiftnick's clothes had been in the trunk with Turpin's in the older man's room otherwise he would have had nothing to wear at all.

"Why? And is someone burning breakfast?"

"I doubt it," Glenrae muttered.

"But they must be. I smell smoke," Swiftnick paused thoughtfully. "I can taste smoke too…."

"Of course you do! Someone set fire to your room, you twit!" Dick barked.

Swiftnick's eyes rounded in alarm. "They did?!" he exclaimed then shook his head. "No, you’re making it up. I would remember."

"You were drugged," Dick replied shortly. "That's why we're in this room. Now get up. I want to have a little breakfast chat with Rookwood concerning snuff." Turpin had been doing some thinking and come up with an answer that made him angrier than ever. "It's the only thing you and Freddy took in common…"

 Swiftnick looked from one to the other; the unease trickling into his blue eyes. The danger of the high toby was one thing, finding someone wanting to harm him for the sake of it was a new and unsettling experience. 

"Och, dinna fash yerself," Glenrae soothed. "Ye've come to no harm."

Turpin shot a quick look at the Scotsman then frowned slightly at Swiftnick. "Oh, don't look like a startled rabbit," he snapped gruffly. "As if I’d let anyone hurt you. Hurry up and get dressed before you make us all miss breakfast."

Glenrae gave his friend an exasperated look for his brusqueness, but Swiftnick responded by brightening up and sliding out of bed to grab his clothes. Obviously Swiftnick understood the older highwayman's reserve for the cover it was by now.

"What are you smirking about?" Turpin growled at him.

"Oh, nothing," Glenrae said cheerfully as he passed him on the way to the door, adding under his breath so only Dick could hear. "Only that yer a soft touch, you daft 'apporth."

"Heather sucking nit," Dick growled back, ignoring Glenrae's broad grin back at him. 

                                                            * * *

"Are you sure that's what I said?" Swiftnick asked plaintively a while later as he and Turpin strolled across the lawns. Rookwood had had breakfast in his room, forestalling Dick's plan for a pointed questioning campaign, but he had put in an appearance in time for the shooting match that he had challenged them to.

"The apricots are on the dog, you said," Dick confirmed cheerfully.

"But what did I mean?"

"I don't know. You were the one dreaming it."

"I don't remember saying that," Swiftnick protested anxiously.

"Maybe you're going mad then. You don't remember what you said, you don't remember someone burning your bed…"

"Och, will ye stop teasing the poor wee bairn," Glenrae demanded as he overheard Dick's wicked remarks and noted Swiftnick's alarmed expression. "Ye had a funny dream is all, laddie. We all have them. Ye know Richard has his singing badgers."

"Will you shut up about the badgers! I was three sheets to the wind."

Glenrae snorted. "Och, more like ten sheets to the wind and counting."

"Where's me gun? I'm going to shoot you…"

Unimpressed, Glenrae patted Turpin's shoulder soothingly. "Easy now, Richard, perhaps ye need a wee drop of something to calm yer nerves."

"There's nothing wrong with my nerves!" Dick screamed, then caught and collected himself as he realised that Marguerite, Freddy and Rookwood were watching him in curiosity. "I am calm, perfectly calm…." He continued through gritted teeth, straightening his cream waistcoat with a firm hand.

"Would you care to borrow my vinaigrette?" Marguerite asked as she swished towards them.

"Or perhaps a drop of opium?" Glenrae suggested with telling calm, keeping an eye on Rookwood as he spoke. "I have some if ye need a sedative."

Like the Scotsman, Turpin was also watching Rookwood and noted the other man's faint twitch and carefully controlled expression as he ambled towards them.

"Concerned about the match?" Rookwood asked, ambling closer. "Perhaps you would care for a delay after your perambulations last night?"

"Why, thank you for your kind consideration, sir, but there is no need. I feel quite the pippin this morning," Dick said firmly.

"And your ward?" Rookwood lifted his quizzing glass to examine Swiftnick. Swiftnick glared back at him sullenly.

"Likewise," said the youth shortly and headed for Freddy.

"Morning, Nicholas," Freddy greeted him brightly. "Missed all the excitement I hear. Slept like a log, don't you know. Right through the whole shebang."

"Odd that," Rookwood commented dryly. "Would have thought he'd have heard something. Want to know what I think happened?"

"Not really," Dick muttered through gritted teeth.

"Do go on," Glenrae said hastily to cover the comment.

"Freddy and young Nicholas sneaked down after we'd all turned in and imbibed a bit too much Blue Ruin. Your ward probably knocked his candle over when he came back up." Rookwood nodded in satisfaction. "Yes, I dare say that's it. You want to warn the lad over the perils of drinking. Ah, Isobel, you look delightful this morning. As do you, Cynthia…." 

As Rookwood whisked away towards the young ladies as they arrived, Dick took a fuming step after him that was forestalled by Glenrae by grabbing his arm. "He was not drunk," Dick snarled. "And Sw…" Dick caught Marguerite's eye. "….Sweet Nick would never be that careless…."

"Sweet Nick? What a charming diminutive," Marguerite murmured. "You are obviously very fond of your ward."

"Mostly," Turpin snorted, shooting a glare at Swiftnick where the youth had his head together with Freddy's blond one. Freddy exploded with a sudden shout of laughter.

"Nay, Nicholas, I know of no one called Heather around here that Glenrae should be sucking or otherwise," he exclaimed, chuckling as Swiftnick hushed him hastily with a furtive look towards the Scotsman.

"Then again…" Dick murmured, fighting down a chuckle of his own at the look on Glenrae's face. His remark went unnoticed by Marguerite however as she turned a frosty look on Glenrae and marched away with a determined swish of her silk skirts towards the footman who was loading the guns.

"Sometimes, that brat of yers, Dick…" Glenrae rumbled, glowering at the youth.

"You mean, dear Sweet Nick as you’re wont to call him?" Turpin responded sarcastically. "You are the one who gave him the name, remember."

"Aye and I must have been in my cups," Glenrae retorted grimly.

"Gentlemen?" Rookwood hailed them as he strutted back towards them. "Are you ready? I fear more rain if we do not begin our little match soon."

"Aye, give me a gun. I'm of a mind for a wee bit of target practise," Glenrae murmured, glaring at Swiftnick.

"Oh no, you don't. If anyone gets to shoot him, it'll be me," Dick warned, switching on a smile as he moved to greet Rookwood. "Would you perhaps care to take a small wager on the outcome, Rookwood?" he asked cheerfully.

Rookwood eyed him coolly. "Perhaps," he murmured. "Is young Nicholas to join us?"

"I don't see why not.  The lad needs a bit of practise," Dick said brightly, ignoring the look Swiftnick gave him. "Freddy, Glenrae, why don't you join us well?"

 "The more the merrier," Freddy agreed happily.

Glenrae managed a sour smile, well aware of Marguerite's eyes boring into his back. How a man was supposed to carry out a discreet flirtation under the blue eyes of a curious lad and Turpin's astute gaze he had no idea. Perhaps a demonstration of his skill with a weapon might put Marguerite in a friendlier mood.

"Everything is ready, gentlemen," Isobel announced as she came over at Marguerite's request.

"Excellent," Rookwood said enthusiastically. "Wish me luck, my dear."

"Of course," Isobel responded, dimpling at him prettily as Rookwood took her hand and lightly kissed her fingertips. Her eyes strayed to Swiftnick however and she blushed, remembering the warmth of his lips on her fingers at dinner.  

A tense scowl crossed Rookwood's face as he saw the glance and he eyed Swiftnick with an air of disdain. "Your hair appears to be showing a most ungentlemanly lack of restraint," he commented viciously.

Swiftnick coloured, unconsciously touching his froth of golden curls that were even more rebellious for not being tied back. "I seem to have lost my ribbon," he muttered uncomfortably. "I left it on my bedside table last night and-" He shrugged helplessly.

Turpin put a hand on his shoulder, mentally kicking himself. He had vaguely wondered why Swiftnick had his hair loose at breakfast, but had assumed it was to tease the young ladies and that he would tie it back for the shooting match.

"Most unfashionable…" Rookwood continued disparagingly.

"Oh no, a la cherubim is the very latest in style in London," Freddy exclaimed.

"And how would you know?" Rookwood shot back.

"Cynthia told me," Freddy responded blithely. "Reads all the fashion plates and what not you know."

"Did I hear you mention my name?" Cynthia purred as she sashayed up.

"Telling Rookwood how you read the fashion plates."

"Oh yes, one must keep up with the fashion for when one comes out," she agreed, adding deliberately for Rookwood's sake.  "Isobel and I always read them."

"Saying Nicholas' hair here would be quite the thing…" Freddy went on.

Cynthia looked at Swiftnick with enormous eyes. "Oh yes, a la cherubim…exquisite…"

"And natural," Isobel murmured without thinking. Blushing, she caught Cynthia's eye as the blonde girl looked at her. Cynthia suddenly giggled and the two of them opened their fans with a unison snap and started fanning themselves furiously.

"Can't manage it myself, hair fights back don't you know," Freddy went on cheerfully. "Wouldn't suit you Rookwood.  Too young a look."

"I would not wish to look so undignified," Rookwood grated, clearly put out.

"Much better to wear a wig," Turpin added with a flicker of maliciousness. "Covers up so many sins….I mean things, of course. Not that'd you've have any sins to cover up, would you sir?"

Rookwood's glare dripped venom. "The lad can't shoot with his hair like that was all I meant," he snapped.

"Why not?" Marguerite asked waspishly, fanning herself briskly. "I think Nicholas looks adorable."

Swiftnick frowned, not sure he wanted to be thought adorable. He was hoping for dashing…

Glenrae eyed her briskly wafting fan. "I didn't think the sun was that hot," he commented caustically.

"How little you know," Marguerite said dryly.

"I shall give him one of my ribbons," Cynthia announced brightly, quickly tugging one of her red hair ribbons loose and presenting it to a startled Swiftnick.

Swiftnick grinned at her and managed a presentable bow. "I shall wear your favour with pleasure, my lady," he told her, making her squeak in delight.

"And I shall tie it for you!" Isobel exclaimed, not to be outdone and capturing the prize before Cynthia could. All Swiftnick could do was stand still and submit to the caress of her soft fingers on the nape of his neck as she gathered up his curls and tied them neatly back from his face.

Turpin ran one hand down his face and slid a sidelong look at Rookwood. The man looked black as night but Dick didn't dare look to see what Glenrae thought. He was sure he'd laugh if he did.

"Why don't we start?" Rookwood snapped. "All this foolish nonsense is ridiculous. Isobel! Come, I will show you where best to sit so you can watch me win this match."

Isobel pouted at his sharp tone, but took his arm and walked with him towards the seats. Rookwood bent his head to her and from the tilt of her own head and the stiffness of her back, it was obvious that an arrogantly pompous Rookwood was venting his displeasure.  "…young popinjay…" Rookwood's voice floated back to them.  "….wiles…....turn your head….fortune hunter….up to no good…"

Dick grabbed Swiftnick's shoulder again, shaking his head at him as Swiftnick bristled in outrage.

Cynthia looked after her friend with a faintly thoughtful frown and then tugged Freddy's arm. "Show me where to sit, Freddy," she commanded.

"Dash it all, you already know and I'm shooting," Freddy complained. "Why would I…" He paused at the sharp look she gave him and drooped. "Oh very, well, come on them," he grumbled and stomped after Rookwood with Cynthia tripping along merrily beside him.

An hour later, Rookwood took careful aim; sighting along the barrel of his pistol at the target. A cloth square had been pinned to a makeshift plank wall that the servants had hammered together. It was now marked with holes and burn marks, each marked with a different symbol of the contestants. Freddy had soon dropped out, cheerfully admitting that he wasn't much of a sharp shooter. Glenrae had followed him out at the last round. No doubt put off by Marguerite's occasional acid comment in the background; ranging from "Are you sure the sun isn't in your eyes to make you miss so?" to "I'm sure it doesn't really matter that you keep missing." And the telling "Are you sure you missed? Perhaps they forgot to put the ball in?". Isobel and Cynthia had gone inside, bored. 

Rookwood's bullet hit the target a fraction inside the centre ring. He was no more than an adequate shot, but had clearly considered himself to be something of an expert from his sour reaction to both Turpin and Swiftnick beating him hands down with every shot. He glared at the serving boy who scurried forward to mark the shot. "Are you sure, boy?" he bellowed.

"Yes, sir. Only one unmarked." The serving boy called back nervously.

"Must be the wind," Rookwood muttered as he handed his pistol back to the footman to reload.

"Funny how the wind only gets up every time you shoot," Swiftnick murmured sarcastically under his breath. Rookwood glared at him.

"Mind your lip, boy," he snapped.

"Why? Am I drooling?"

Rookwood's lips thinned into a thin hard line and he turned away, swearing at the footman reloading his pistol to vent his feelings.

Turpin hid a grin as he stepped up to the line and aimed. Unlike Rookwood who took slow and careful aim every time, Dick aimed quickly and fired with precision; his continuing accuracy another sore point with the rule bound marksmanship of Rookwood. His ball slammed into the centre of the target as usual.

"My turn," chirped Swiftnick, scooting up beside Dick as the boy checked the shot and marked it.

"Aye," Dick agreed amiably. "Mind you allow for the wind now."

Swiftnick gave him a huge grin as he took careful aim and fired; his own ball pierced the target only a fraction from Turpin's, much to Rookwood's disgust.

"So who is this Heather you’re sucking?" Marguerite's clear voice suddenly cut through the silence after the shot.

Swiftnick started to look round in wide-eyed curiosity, but Dick grabbed him by the back of the neck and gave him a quick shove. "Check your target first," he ordered, signalling to the boy to mark the shot.

"There is no Heather," Glenrae responded with a slightly desperate note entering his voice.  "It's a misunderstanding. Nicholas misheard what Richard said."

"I see," Marguerite said icily, paused and then continued, "So who exactly is she then?"

"There is no she!"

"He then?!" Marguerite snapped acidly.

"Marguerite!" Glenrae bellowed, shocked.

"Then tell me who Heather is," Marguerite demanded. "It isn't one of the maids is it?"

"No. There is no Heather I tell ye. I'm not sucking anyone…." 

"I'm sure I don't know why I should care if you are," Marguerite commented, obviously miffed. "But if you think you can take advantage of the maids…."

"I am not!" Glenrae bellowed. "Och, I'm telling ye, Marguerite, the laddie was off his head with the opium. He was talking nonsense about apricots on dogs…"

"I am not a fool, Robert," Marguerite snapped. "Apricots on dogs indeed…."

"Nay, nay, I never thought ye were. Nicholas misunderstood what Richard said as he woke up is all. He said…" Glenrae floundered. "…sucking heather is good for burns."

"You did?" Swiftnick looked up at Dick in fascination. 

"Stuff and nonsense!" Marguerite exclaimed. "My goodness, if you can't tell me the truth at least tell a plausible lie."

"But Marguerite!" Glenrae nearly wailed.

"Eavesdropping is bad for you," Dick said sourly, glancing back to watch Glenrae hastening after Marguerite as he attempted to placate her.

"Why?" Swiftnick wanted to know.

"Because eaves might get dropped on you," Turpin told him, wagging a finger under his nose.  Swiftnick gave him a baffled look as Freddy ambled up with the scores.

"Nicholas appears to be the winner by one point over you, Sir Richard!"  he announced cheerfully.

Dick smiled indulgently at Swiftnick's whoop of triumph. "The wind no doubt," he said wryly to Rookwood.

"No doubt," Rookwood forced out.  "Perhaps a smaller target? This was no real test of a man's skill. If it'd had been a man…."

Swiftnick's triumphant grin wavered and went out as he looked at Turpin. Turpin gazed back expressionlessly.

"What a ghastly thought, Rookwood," Dick commented, his eyes suddenly cold and hard.  

"Come now, sir, you are an ex soldier are you not?"

"As you are not," Dick responded coldly. "Let me tell you, sir, it is no easy thing to kill a man if you are a man."

Rookwood blinked and then laughed. "Come now, you mistake me. I merely meant that this took no real skill. I found myself distracted by having such a large target to aim at.  My pistols are new and I am not quite used to them as yet. Perhaps another round?"

"Cards?" Freddy suggested.

"You want to play cards now?!" Swiftnick exclaimed.

"No, slow top," Freddy chuckled amiably. "To aim at. Pin up three and take a shot each. Called culping a wafer. All the rage in London. Thought you’d know, Rookwood."

"Excellent idea," Turpin agreed promptly, knowing his and Swiftnick's skills were well up to the challenge. Swiftnick might not be an expert with a sword, but Dick had no doubts about his skill with a pistol. If anything, Rookwood looked even sourer.

"Actually I was thinking about a spot of hunting," he announced coldly. "Sure we could bag something around here."

Turpin suppressed a shiver at the idea of being anywhere in the woods with Rookwood and a loaded gun.

"Oh but this would be so much more fun," Swiftnick urged with a burst of enthusiastic excitement, oblivious to Dick's unease.

"Fun is childish," Rookwood snapped.

"He is only a boy," Dick pointed out dryly. "When else can he be childish? I like the idea of the cards, Freddy. See if you can scrounge up a few old ones, would you?"

"My pleasure, Sir Richard." Freddy bounded off towards the house as Rookwood scowled after him.

"Idiotic idea," Rookwood commented bitterly.

"Why so sour?" Dick asked ingenuously. "An interesting challenge, I thought. Terribly fashionable."

Rookwood gave him a cold look. "Too much attention is paid to fashion and not enough to genteel manners," he snapped. "Why, take Cynthia for example, the flighty little thing is totally frivolous! I consider her to be a bad influence on my Isobel."

"And no doubt you told her so?" Turpin said dryly, quelling the hot protests that rose to Swiftnick's lips with a warning look.

"Of course," Rookwood snapped. He beckoned Turpin aside, leading him away from Swiftnick. Swiftnick gave them both an annoyed look but trotted off to meet Freddy as he returned from the house.  "You understand that Isobel and I have an understanding?"

"Yes…." Dick admitted warily, wondering what this was leading up to.

"Glenrae is refusing his permission to allow us to wed. He insists that Isobel is too young."

"She is a trifle," Dick pointed out.

"In age, sir, only in age. In mind it is a different matter.  She knows her own mind well and is in full agreement with me that we must wed."

"Must, sir?" Dick said sharply.

Rookwood smiled grimly. "My feelings escape me," he replied suavely. "I cannot bear to be apart from her for much longer. But I cannot dishonour, my Isobel by eloping with her." 

"And of course there is her inheritance to consider," Dick murmured.

"Indeed. If she elopes, she won't be entitled to it. It'll go to Marguerite. And Marguerite is also against our happiness. I'm sure you understand me, sir."

Oh, yes, Dick thought, I understand all right. You think I'm fool enough to believe Glenrae wants to force Isobel to elope so he can marry Marguerite and get all the money. Actually, it's not a bad plan and if I didn't know Glenrae better….

"It would seem that if you want the money, you have no choice but to wait then," he said aloud, lifting his quizzing glass to inspect Rookwood deliberately. 

Rookwood took a deep breath and held his temper with an obvious effort. "You seem to be good friends with Glenrae, do you think he would reconsider if we were to elope? I believe Marguerite would wish to avoid a scandal and accept our love."

Why, you two faced… Dick bit his tongue. "From my understanding, sir, I do not believe it would matter. Like Marguerite, he would no doubt accept a marriage to avoid a scandal, but he would not have control over the money. It would automatically go to Marguerite if Isobel marries without her guardians' consent; even if they are later reconciled."

Rookwood's face contorted and it looked as if he wanted to swear as he swung away without another word and stalked back to the pistol table to check his weapons.

Dick frowned after him uneasily. There was something about Rookwood's expression that made his blood congeal. "Dick? What's wrong?" Swiftnick spoke softly as he came up beside Turpin and gazed up at him anxiously.

"Nothing, lad," Dick replied quietly, putting an arm around his shoulders in a gesture of affection. "But watch your back around, Rookwood, I think he's planning something."

"He was rude about Cynthia," Swiftnick commented.

"Yes and it was uncalled for. But still, mark my words…." Dick told him.

"Yes, Mr Tur-"

"Ah!"

"Fortesque Smythe," Swiftnick corrected as he looked over at Rookwood thoughtfully, then followed as Turpin went to fetch his gun.

"Two pistols each, two shots each," Freddy announced as they reached the table.  "Nicholas should go first as he's winning."

Rookwood's lips went so tight you could have cut lemons with them, but he nodded curtly and gave Swiftnick a mocking bow up to the line. Turpin propped one hip against the table and lounged there comfortably with folded arms as he watched.

"Am I missing something?" Glenrae asked as he ambled up to join Turpin.

"I thought you were off discussing things with Marguerite," Dick murmured.

"Amazing how kissing a woman will shut her up," Glenrae responded with a wink. "Which reminds me, I want to talk to Nicholas about plants."

Turpin laughed. "I'm sure he'd enjoy botany lessons if it involves sucking heather."

"Oh shut up," Glenrae growled.

Swiftnick had tuned them out as he sighted carefully; easily able to pick out the twin rows of cards Freddy had pinned to the board.

"Fire when ready," Rookwood urged.

Swiftnick ignored him too, feeling the pistol melt into his hand as he aimed and gently squeezed the trigger…. 

"Oh marvellous shot, marvellous!" Freddy applauded wildly. "Shot the pip clean out!"

Smugly, Swiftnick turned round and bowed, pleased to see both Turpin and Glenrae were applauding his marksmanship too. Rookwood's expression was fit to sour milk as Turpin eased upright and took his mark.

Turpin took his time, acting the fop as he shuffled his feet and made a display out of adjusting his aim before he fired. His bullet took out the centre of his card without difficulty. Rookwood followed, rushing his shot and blowing away the edge of the card.

"Aye, that's marked it. Won't be playing with this pack again," Glenrae observed wryly.

"Your turn, Nicholas," Freddy urged eagerly, looking at Swiftnick with genuine admiration.

"Centre card," Swiftnick announced as he took careful aim. Another pip met its doom as his bullet went clean through the centre.

"Oh, well done!" Freddy yelped in delight. "You shoot as well as Turpin!"

"What?!" Dick froze on his way to the line, unsettled by the comment.

"Dick Turpin, the highwayman, Sir Richard," Freddy explained. "Supposed to be a quite a marksman."

"Oh, heard he was a dab hand with a sword myself," Turpin muttered uncomfortably. He took aim at his card and paused, unnerved enough to lower his weapon and aim again. Once again he scored a hit; blasting the centre from Swiftnick's already holed card. There was a startled silence.

"Wow," commented Swiftnick with amazed respect.

"Oh, I say, sir," Freddy breathed in awe. "Superb, absolutely superb!"

Turpin smiled vaguely and strolled back to Glenrae. Glenrae eased to his feet from his perch on the table. "You were aiming at the other one, weren't you?" he remarked in amusement. 

"Aye, and if you ever tell anyone I’ll deny it!" Dick shot back, turning to look across at Swiftnick. As he did so, he caught a glimpse of Rookwood lifting his pistol to his shoulder like a duellist and then lowering it to turn towards the line.

Something prickled in the back of Dick's neck and without thinking he whipped around and shoved Glenrae violently, knocking him aside as the pistol shot exploded. Dick heard Glenrae yelp as he landed against the table, felt the heat of the bullet passing and felt it tug at his coat.

"By damn!" Rookwood bellowed. "A misfire! My deepest apologies, sirs! A tragedy has been narrowly avoided. My pistol went off by mischance!"

Turpin hesitated, torn between ripping Rookwood's throat out on the spot and helping Glenrae. The Scotsman had subsided to the ground; one hand clamped around his upper arm as blood trickled between his fingers. "Quite," Glenrae said faintly. "Richard…a hand if you’d be so kind…" Turpin dropped to his knees beside him, careless of staining his breeches.

"Let me see…" he urged.

"It's barely a scrape. Stop Nick…." Glenrae hissed.

Turpin frowned into his blue eyes then looked round sharply. Swiftnick was standing behind Rookwood and his pistol was levelled on the man's back; his eyes were shimmering with fury. "Nick, put it down," Dick ordered sharply. "It was an accident."

Rookwood looked over his shoulder in surprise and then froze. Swiftnick tilted his head to one side, meeting his eyes in challenge.

"Nicholas…." Dick repeated firmly.

"Yes, sir," Swiftnick responded, slowly and stiffly lowering the weapon. "We wouldn't want another misfire."

Rookwood bit his lip, his angry words clearly barely held back by the expression of angry distrust on the youth's face.

Freddy looked almost as white as Glenrae did as he looked from one to the other of them. "I'll get Marguerite, shall I?" he ventured.

"Good grief no!" Glenrae exploded, fending off Turpin's attempts to examine his arm.

"I'm sure she won’t have the vapours," Freddy protested. "She's not like Cynthia."

"There's no need. Richard here will help me," Glenrae said hastily, nudging Turpin into helping him to his feet. "The woman's a menace," he muttered to him. "Can't fault her, but she's as cack-handed as they come when it comes to something like this."  

"Are you sure?" Freddy fretted.

"Quite sure."

"Allow me to assist you…" Rookwood offered.

Turpin waved him aside. "No, no, we can manage. Nicholas, come along. You can get the doors."  He glared at Swiftnick as the youth opened his mouth. "Don't argue," he hissed at him. "I don't want you around Rookwood."

"I'm not afraid of him."

"It's not that I'm worried about, you little savage. Move!"

Swiftnick shot a worried look at Glenrae and scrambled on ahead. Turpin steered a shaken Glenrae after him and didn't bother to look back; well able to feel Rookwood's eyes boring into his back. Glenrae's chuckle surprised him. "What?"

"Och, it's a good thing Rookwood's a lousy shot, hmmh?"

"You’re bloody delirious," Dick snorted.

"Dinna fash yerself. It barely scratched me."

"Maybe it did, but he meant to kill you. That was no misfire."

Glenrae didn't answer but gave Turpin a troubled look and they walked on in silence to the house together.

                                                            * * *

"You’re very quiet, Isobel," Cynthia murmured, looking up from her sewing to find her friend gazing from the window.

"I am worried about Neville," Isobel said slowly. "He was quite put out with me."

"Jealous of Nicholas you mean," Cynthia said smugly, setting aside her sampler to join her friend. "Why don't you marry him instead?"

"What?"

"Or Freddy. The silly sausage adores you, you know."

Astounded, Isobel turned to look at her. "Freddy? But -," she coloured becomingly. "Really?"

"Really. Always has done. Thinks I should model myself on your behaviour. But why I should when you have become such a dowd since Rookwood came along I do not understand. Dowds aren't to Freddy's liking at all you know."

"I am not a dowd!"

"Why, even Freddy thinks you have become quite a dowager duchess!"

"Take that back, Cynthia!" Isobel exclaimed pettishly. "I am not. I merely strive to please Neville."

"I don't see why you should. He does nothing to please you. Don't do this, don't do that. Why, next he will be telling you not to sing or dance or even play upon the spinet. Which you haven't done since the handsome Sir Richard and his ward arrived."

"I do not wish to be considered forward."

"Oh, ods bods!"

"Cynthia!"

"Well, as if playing the spinet would be thought forward! Why, I shall suggest it myself. You shall play and I shall sing. I am sure I shall captivate Nicholas and you will enchant Freddy."

"My heart is already taken by Neville."

"Taken, yes, but is your heart given?" Cynthia responded.

"You put my thoughts in a spin, Cynthia," Isobel snapped irritably as she settled herself on the window seat and started to pull at the petals of the flowers on the sill.

"If you were so sure of yourself, that would not happen," Cynthia pointed out. "Come, dear, tell me why you are so set on Rookwood?"

"He is handsome…"

"I suppose, in an older man sort of way."

"Protective…"

"Overly so."

"Heir to a title."

"As if you ever cared for a title."

Isobel gave her friend a sober look. "It is a good offer. We will make an excellent match."

"Your grandfather didn't think so. Your grandfather told you never to see him again," Cynthia retorted. "Is that why you stick to him so? Because they gainsaid you?"

"No, don't be so foolish…"

"I see nothing in Rookwood to endear him to you. Less so the more I see of him. True, his attentions were flattering but I thought you meant to indulge merely in a flirtation for practice before you came out, not marriage. We are both too young for marriage."

Isobel's lips thinned. Cynthia who had begun as her staunchest supporter had changed her tune of late. It didn't help her emotional equilibrium that her friend's to often cut close to her own rising doubts. "Do you truly think that I could make a better match in London?" she asked coldly. "You may well do so. You are blond and fashionable and you have a large inheritance and a title. I am Scottish with no title."

"Is that what bothers you? You think you would fail to attract a better match in London?" Cynthia studied her in amusement. "You would be all the rage in London, you know," she observed. "Why, we would be quite the thing. You so dark and beautiful and me so fair. As to being Scottish, such rot you have filled your thoughts with! You would have the gentlemen throwing themselves at your feet!"

"Oh, you are absurd!"

"Mr Glenrae says so."

"Mr Glenrae is a flirt. Marguerite says so."

"But have you seen the way Marguerite looks at him?"

Isobel gave her friend a thoughtful look.  "He is very handsome. But it wouldn't do. He is not rich you know."

"Neither is Rookwood." Cynthia pointed out with devastating logic.

"Oh, you do confuse me…"

"If it was true love, nothing would confuse you," Cynthia said gently.

Isobel gave her a look compounded of equal parts confusion and misery. "Oh, Cynthia, I don't know what to do any more," she sighed as her friend came quickly to her side on the window seat.  "Everyone treats me like a child unable to make up my own mind. I thought Neville was perfect. But now…"

Cynthia put her arms around her friend, pulling her head against her slim shoulder. "But now?" she prompted.

"Oh, I don't know. He's become so tetchy since Sir Richard and Nicholas arrived."

"Jealousy you see, as I said."

"Perhaps you’re right. He was quite rude about Nicholas simply because I tied his hair ribbon for him but that was only because I'm sure his shoulder was sore after Neville pinked him….It didn't mean anything…"

Cynthia sniffed primly. "Quite," she murmured, paused and murmured, "Did you know he offered for Marguerite once?"

Isobel flushed but lifted her chin with a toss of her head. "Yes, but that was before he saw me…"

"You mean before you were old enough for him to notice and before you inherited," Cynthia said crisply and hastened on as she saw the proud fire light in Isobel's eyes. "But then there was the incident with the swords when Rookwood quite lost his temper. I think his temper does not become him…"

"Nor I. I remonstrated with him over it. I'm sure he was contrite."

"And you were no doubt mollified by his honeyed words."

"Cynthia!"

"Come now, he well knows how to calm you and make it seem as if you’re the one in the wrong, even when you are not. Do not say it is otherwise for I have seen it happen. And he has flown into more that one rage since Nicholas arrived. Take dinner when he kissed your hand…"

"You were more jealous than Neville!"

Cynthia blushed. "Perhaps I did not hide my feelings so well," she murmured.

"Nicholas shows no preference for me," Isobel assured her earnestly. "I do find him charming, but I am quite sure Marguerite and Mr Glenrae asked Sir Richard to bring him here merely to distract me!"

Cynthia considered this for a moment then suddenly giggled. "My, what a charming gift," she laughed. "I wish Freddy would be so thoughtful!"

Isobel pushed away from her, her eyes widening in astonishment. "Whatever do you mean?!"

 Cynthia calmed herself with an effort. "Your guardians mean only the best for you," she said solemnly. "I think they wish you to see what you would be missing if you do not come out as Marguerite planned. She'll be very disappointed, you know."

"Neville doesn't…"

"Ods bods, girl! Do not let him bully you so! You’re not a child! Think for yourself for once. What do you want to do?"

"I, I'm not sure…."

"Before Rookwood asked for your hand you were sure," Cynthia reminded her briskly. "If Rookwood loves you I think he should be happy for you, not refuse you a London season. It's not as if he has to pay for it."

"Yes, but…."

"Isobel, darling," Cynthia took her hands as they in her lap. "If Rookwood loves you, then I see no reason why he should not be perfectly willing to wait a while longer to marry you. If you are both constant then there is little doubt a season will change your minds. He must want the best for you and surely that must mean that you have a chance to experience society. How can you make an informed choice about marrying him, when you have not experienced any alternatives."

Isobel blinked, much taken by this piece of deft rationalisation. "When you put it like that…." she murmured. "But no, it would not please Neville…"

"Oh, hang Neville! I am sure he will fly into one of his rages and refuse his permission as if he has a right to refuse you anything. And if he is like this before you marry, think what he will be like after!"

"I am sure he would see the logic of it…"

"Nonsense. He will refuse and cow you into agreeing with him not to do it. I do believe you are afraid to say him nay."

"I am not!"

"You think him so churlish as to turn away from you for daring to argue with him, is that why you cling to him?"

" I do argue with him. And I do not cling!"

"You do. You hang on his every word. You would not even dare to suggest coming out to him."

"I will!"  Isobel flamed as she flounced to her feet in a swirl of skirts. "I shall tell him at tea! And I will play the spinet if I wish to whether he wills it or not!"

Cynthia allowed herself a small smile of triumph as her friend stalked out and complacently went to retrieve her sewing.

                                                            * * *

"It's nothing, Marguerite," Glenrae said insistently. "Barely a scratch."

"But he fired on you!" Marguerite exclaimed, alarmed. "And I was not there to tend your wound. You should have called on me."

Glenrae manfully suppressed a shudder at the thought of his escape from Marguerite's tender care. "Richard was to hand and he follows instructions well enough."

They were in the gardens watching Turpin and Swiftnick batting the croquet balls around the lawn. Swiftnick was showing more enthusiasm than skill and Glenrae felt the odd qualm for the windows safety at times. Dick was a steadier player, advising Swiftnick on how to improve his aim.

"The lawn's slanted," Swiftnick complained as he missed the hoop by several inches.

Dick laughed. "Your aim was off, widgeon," he teased. "Hold your mallet like so…"

Swiftnick scowled, copying Turpin's easy handling of his mallet. To his surprise, the ball hit the hoop even if it didn't actually go through. His yip of delight made Dick grin and watch indulgently as his apprentice's enthusiasm increased.

"Croquet, sir?" Rookwood's voice was chilly as he ambled towards them. "Hardly much challenge for a sporting gentlemen."

Turpin's fingers clenched tight on the mallet handle and he turned to face him, slapping the mallet head absently against his free hand as he fought the urge to swing it at Rookwood's sneering face and take his head off his shoulders. "Ah, no good at the game yourself then?" he said coldly.

Lifting his quizzing glass, Rookwood inspected Swiftnick whose boyish enthusiasm had vanished to be replaced by an expression nearly as marbled as Turpin's. "Can't say as I have bothered to learn it," he commented.  "'Tis a game for striplings and schoolroom chits, don't you know."

Swiftnick's fingers clenched tight on his mallet as Dick whipped around to stare at him. "Give me your mallet a moment, lad," he said quietly. Swiftnick's eyes flew to his face, his expression pleading with Dick to allow him to give Rookwood his comeuppance. Dick however implacably held out his hand and Swiftnick reluctantly handed it over. "You consider there to be no skill in the game then?" Dick purred, turning back to Rookwood.

"Why, none at all."

"Perhaps you would care to play a round then?"

"And place a small wager on the outcome perhaps?" Glenrae suggested, ambling over and ostentatiously holding his wounded arm stiff against his side. "I, of course, cannot play, but Sir Richard and Nicholas can perhaps oblige…."

"Nicholas has promised to walk in the rose gardens with me," Marguerite interrupted, holding out her hand to Swiftnick. Swiftnick gave her a startled look, but Turpin had taught him his manners and he automatically offered her his arm.

Glenrae gave them a put out look but Dick smiled mirthlessly. "I am obliged to you for entertaining my ward, my lady," he murmured gratefully.

"My pleasure, Richard," Marguerite said politely and moved away, drawing Swiftnick gracefully away from the battleground towards the archway leading into the rose garden. 

Rookwood frowned after them, suddenly uncertain at being left alone with Turpin and Glenrae. Grudgingly, he accepted the mallet Dick offered him. "This is foolish," he said sharply. "I have never played this ridiculous childhood game and certainly will not bet on it.  Why, it's like challenging a man to a game of spinning tops and I have never played that either!"

"Ye must have had a very boring childhood," Glenrae commented darkly.

Rookwood glowered at him. "My upbringing was strict but proper. I see nothing to complain about."

"No doubt," Glenrae responded.

"Balls," said Dick.

"What?!" Both Rookwood and Glenrae exploded in unison as they gave the highwayman startled looks.

"Balls," Dick repeated innocently, holding up the retrieved croquet balls. "Will you start, Neville, or shall I?"

                                                            * * *

Strolling through the arbour with Marguerite Swiftnick wasn't sure whether to be pleased at her taking his company or outraged at being removed from what looked like a promising display of Rookwood getting his comeuppance. But he did like the rose garden and the cool shade thrown by the flower garlanded trellises and he inhaled happily of their sweet scents wafting on the warm breeze. 

"You are annoyed with me, Sweet Nick?" Marguerite said lightly, tapping her fan against his wrist.

"No, my good lady, how could I be annoyed with you?"

"Because you wanted to see if there would be - now what would Robert call it? Oh yes - a mill between your guardian and Rookwood and I took you away?"

"Oh no, of course not," Swiftnick mumbled, blushing and ducking his head in chagrin that she had read him so well.

"You are so young," Marguerite sighed. "But there are other things to take pleasure in beside bear baiting."

"Bear baiting?" Swiftnick gave her a blank look, awed by her delicate beauty and smile.

Marguerite inclined her head. "Baiting Sir Rookwood then," she said lightly. "You should take care, young man. Rookwood is an expert with a sword."

"I noticed. But my guardian's better!"

"Indeed. But a lady prefers a gentleman to show accomplishments in other skills besides fighting and trouble making."

"I haven't started any trouble," Swiftnick protested, hurt. He had been on his best behaviour since he arrived; well, most of the time at least.

Marguerite smiled at him indulgently and patted his arm. "You must not let Rookwood goad you so," she said gently. "He is jealous of Isobel's attention."

"Isn't that what you wanted?" Swiftnick blurted then bit his lip. "I'm sorry…."

"Touché, monsieur," she laughed however. "I think your charms have shown Rookwood in an unfavourable light indeed. But you must not challenge him so. You're too young and you put your guardian in an awkward position."

"Oh…." Swiftnick wavered, knowing that Dick's antagonism towards Rookwood was as much his own as spurred on by any threat towards his apprentice or Glenrae. The young highwayman would not soon forget the look on Turpin's face when he saw the blood on Glenrae's arm. If he had had a pistol to hand, Rookwood would have no longer been a problem to anyone. On the other hand, Swiftnick didn't want his actions to back Turpin into a corner. He had learned to be wary of ruining Dick's plans. If only he knew what Dick's plans were it would help!

"There now, sweeting," Marguerite said gently. "Let be now.  I think you have enchanted Cynthia. The girl is bewitched by you."

Swiftnick laughed at that. "She barely notices me."

"Oh, but you are her brave hero. Why she fumed with jealousy when you kissed Isobel's hand and she talks of almost nothing else but you to me."

Swiftnick blushed; well aware that it had been to taunt Rookwood he had done that. On the other hand, he had been delighted by the reactions he got from both young ladies at the gesture. "You tease me, my lady," he exclaimed.

Marguerite laughed, releasing his arm. "Come now, strop your claws elsewhere, my cub," she teased. "I am too old to be fair game for you."

"Oh never say old when you are barely out of the schoolroom!" Swiftnick responded gallantly, taking her hand and touching it to his lips.

Marguerite laughed again, her fan snapping open as she furiously fanned herself with it. "Ah, you are well named Sweet Nick," she said lightly, cupping his sun tanned cheek for a moment before withdrawing her hand.

Swiftnick grinned and turned to pluck a vivid red rose, bowing as graciously as any Earl as he presented it to her.  "A rose by any other name would not smell as sweet as Marguerite," he ventured.

Marguerite blushed, enchanted despite herself at his efforts at innocent flirtation. The lad was without doubt a charmer destined for high flirtation and even higher success.  Better perhaps that he practised his wiles on her than on Cynthia and Isobel. He might turn their heads while she could resist his youthful flattery. "You have a silver tongue, Nicholas. Who has taught you so well?"

Swiftnick's responding smile faded abruptly as he gazed past her, staring down the gravelled path with widening eyes. "Stand still," he hissed.

Marguerite frowned. "Come now, do not think to fool me…"

"No, it's a dog," Swiftnick put out a hand to stay her movement. "Look but slowly."

Marguerite turned her head slowly and her mouth went dry as she stared at the huge shaggy animal standing on the path a few feet from them. It was staring at them, a cruel light in its amber eyes.  "It looks angry," she whispered. "Perhaps if we back away?"

"Yes," Swiftnick agreed uncomfortably. He wasn't too keen on dogs. Especially big vicious looking dogs. Dragoons had a tendency to hunt highwaymen with packs of big vicious dogs. Marguerite stepped backwards, gathering up her skirts in both hands so she could run if she needed to. Swiftnick felt a flash of admiration for her courage as he moved to put himself between her and the dog.

It watched them hungrily, sniffing the air and snarling as it started a low menacing growl.

"I could scream for help," Marguerite murmured as she backed carefully along the path. "But it's so undignified and I think might alarm the beast."

Swiftnick eased after her, wishing his knees wouldn't tremble so and wishing even more that he was armed.

The hound started to slink after them, its growling growing ever angrier…

"Nicholas, I think you should get behind me," Marguerite said firmly.

"I can't do that!" Swiftnick exclaimed.

"Yes, you can," Marguerite told him with brisk force. "My skirts will protect me from the animal while you fetch help."

"Certainly not!" Swiftnick exploded, his voice raising indignantly at the very thought.

The dog erupted into a paroxysm of barking and lunged, hurtling up the path towards them. Marguerite let out a scream of shock and pushed at Swiftnick, attempting to knock the youth out of the way. Swiftnick went sprawling as the dog became entangled in her skirts, barking and snarling furiously as it fought its way free and sending the woman tumbling into a rose bed.  It lunged after her, then swung back and went for Swiftnick as a hail of gravel thrown by the highwayman stung its face.

Swiftnick scrabbled to get out of the way, but the hound was on him in an instant, flattering him to the path and knocking the breath out of him as large paws landed scrabbling in his midriff. Its slavering jaws snapped at his face and throat as he fought to hold it off; its infuriated strength telling against his own….

Gravel crunched under the sound of running footsteps.

"Get off him!" Turpin's infuriated bellow cut through the sounds of the dog's snarling and Swiftnick's own hammering breathing. The dog yelped and twisted, squirming around to bite at the mallet swinging at it. Snapping at the makeshift weapon, it was forced back and away from Swiftnick by Turpin's fury.

"Down, you brute!" Freddy's voice cried as he rushed up, catching up with Turpin. "I said, down!" 

Whether it was the note of command or the sheer compelling force of his voice, the hound suddenly obeyed, dropping to the path with an abject whine and rolling its eyes up at Freddy in apology. Freddy glared at it, never taking his eyes from the dog as he eased up to it and took hold of its collar. "Easy now, you brute," he said grimly once he had hold of it and could look round at the others. "I’d oblige you to lower the mallet, Sir Richard. I have him now." 

"That bloody thing should be shot! If I was armed…." Dick grated, but he lowered the mallet reluctantly, aware that he was only making the dog growl with his belligerence. 

"It isn't the dog's fault," Freddy interrupted sharply and his eyes flashed past Dick to Rookwood as he came up to join them. Turpin followed his glance but knelt beside Swiftnick as the youth sat up somewhat shakily. Glenrae had gone to help Marguerite escape the clutches of the rose bushes that had clasped her full skirts in an amorous embrace.

"And where were you, Neville?" Dick demanded as he put a hand on Swiftnick's trembling shoulder and gave the youth a searching glance. "You all right, my lad?"
Swiftnick nodded shakily, not trusting his voice as he examined himself and was amazed to find himself unbitten.

"I thought it wise to fetch a weapon," Rookwood answered pertly.

"To control your own dog, sir?" Freddy spat.

"Aye," Glenrae said quietly as he helped Marguerite to her feet. "Yon gamekeeper of yers said ye were the only who can control yon beastie."

Rookwood gave him a chilly look. "I was not to know it was my dog," he responded. "Marguerite, my dear, I am sorry you were frightened. Isobel and Cynthia were quite distressed when they heard you scream."

"The girls?" Marguerite queried shakily. "They were inside…."

"We'd come out to watch the croquet," Freddy explained. "Cynthia thought to ask Nicholas to walk in the rose gardens with her. I think she will be jealous, my lady."

"Not of the dog, I think," Marguerite said lightly.

Rookwood frowned. "The young ladies wanted to come to you at once, but I ordered them to go into the house immediately. I did not think it wise to abandon them without protection."

"Cynthia's not bird witted enough to get in the way around an angry dog," Freddy protested. "Neither is Isobel."

Marguerite gave Rookwood a chilly look as Freddy voiced her own thoughts. "You are so thoughtful," she said icily, clearly holding herself under tight control. "Nicholas, my darling, are you all right?"

"I think so," Swiftnick admitted, glad of Dick's arm to help him to his feet and give him something to lean on until his legs would hold him.

"Ye both need a stiff drink and a lie down," Glenrae decided. Swiftnick gave him a shaken but speculative look.

"Nonsense, Robert, I shall be fine once I clean up and assure the girls we are all right," Marguerite said firmly. "But what are we to do about the dog?"

"Shoot it," Dick's growl was as menacing as the hound's that now lay silently at Freddy's feet. Turpin was watching Swiftnick like a hawk and Swiftnick smiled at him faintly.

"No, that would be unfair!" Freddy protested.

"Give it to me," Rookwood said flatly, taking a step forward. The hound's head came up and it growled at him.

"Och, I dinna think so. The beastie's got out too often for my liking," Glenrae announced  "It needs a firmer hand."

"Gamekeeper's fault no doubt. Wouldn't be the first time, he broke a rope to come and find me."

"Then buy a chain," Dick snapped stiffly.

"Rookwood, I’ll buy him off you," Freddy said abruptly, looking from Rookwood to the dog and back again. "Our gamekeeper is good with dogs; taught me everything I know. The man can turn a monster into a fawning puppy. He can use him I'm sure."

Rookwood's jaw set. "There is no need."

"That might be for the best," Turpin snapped. "At least Freddy seems to be able to control him."

"Och, lock him in the old stable for now, Freddy," Glenrae ordered, catching Turpin's fulminating glance at Rookwood. "We'll decide what to do with it later when we've all calmed down…"

                                                            * * *

"Only a scrape, lad," Dick said soothingly half an hour later. It had taken most of that to disentangle Swiftnick from the alarmed cooings of Isobel and Cynthia, both of who seemed determined to outdo each other in offering their sympathy, having been thwarted of comforting Marguerite who had whisked away with great aplomb as if nothing had happened. 

Swiftnick studied his scratched stomach and arm where the dog's claws and teeth had ripped his shirt and shuddered.  He could still see the slavering jaws poised to bite his face off, the hideously long sharp teeth pricking his throat and the stink of the animal's breath….

Turpin's arm was suddenly around his shoulders, pulling the youth against him. "There now, no need for you to be shaking like a leaf," Dick said easily, grabbing the quilt to wrap around him. "You're only bruised and scraped and the ladies all love you for it."

Swiftnick smiled wanly and leaned gratefully against the older man's comfort. Turpin had a rough tongue, but his hands were always gentle when his apprentice needed his care and kindness.

A light tap at the door disturbed them. Turpin ruffled Swiftnick's hair and went to open it. It was Freddy. "Brought Nicholas a hot toddy," he explained as Dick let him in. "How are you, Nicholas?"

"Fine," Swiftnick murmured, hugging his quilt around him for warmth.

Freddy proffered him the cup he had brought and turned back to Turpin with a worried air. He took a grubby length of blue ribbon from his pocket and held it out to Dick. "This was tied round the dog's collar when I took it off," he said grimly. "Recognise it?"

"Aye," Dick flashed a quick glance at Swiftnick as he sipped his hot toddy and crushed the bedraggled ribbon in his fist. Yes, he knew what it was - Swiftnick's hair ribbon and no doubt used to give the dog his scent. 

"It's not the dog's fault," Freddy added warily.

Dick blinked and focused on him, aware that his expression had probably frightened the younger man. Swiftnick was long past that stage. "You're good with dogs," he observed.

Freddy ventured a smile. "With most animals, sir. Dogs always listen to me. One of my few accomplishments."

"Oh, I don't know about few, Freddy," Dick said with a sudden display of warmth. "Few men would have tackled the beast unarmed."

Freddy coloured slightly. "You did, sir."

"I'd tackle anything if I was in a bad enough mood," Dick grinned. "And I had a mallet which I would have preferred to use on Rookwood."

Freddy gave him a startled look for the blunt remark. "You think he was responsible for this?"

"There are quite a few things I think he's responsible for," Turpin told him tartly. "He forced Nicholas into a duel, he's fired at Glenrae and this is not the first time that dog of his has attacked someone. And, if he didn't start the fire then I’d like to know how his dog came by that ribbon."

"You think that it was Rookwood?" Freddy exclaimed, shocked.

"If I could find out how someone got into Nicholas' room to start the fire, I’d be even more sure."

"What about the secret passage?"

"What?" It was Dick's turn to look startled.

"The secret passage," Freddy repeated. "It runs right along the rear wall of the house and connects with an escape route into the garden. Isobel told Cynthia about it and she told me."

"And no doubt Isobel told Rookwood as well," Turpin growled, flashing a glance at a wide-eyed Swiftnick.

"Does that explain why I've heard whispering a couple of times?" Swiftnick asked hopefully.

"Probably. You do get echoes," Freddy said cheerfully. "Er, you didn't hear giggling, did you?"

"Giggling? Why would I hear giggling?" Swiftnick demanded suspiciously.

"Well, er, young ladies, curious and all that," Freddy mumbled, blushing. "Overheard them gossiping, warned them it was frightfully unbecoming behaviour. Don't think they meant anything by it…."

"You mean they might have spied on me?!" Swiftnick yelped.

"Sure they wouldn't have," Freddy assured him hastily. "Too shy. No chance, changed rooms anyway. No passages on this side."

"That isn't the point!" Swiftnick complained.

"Hardly gentlemanly to ask them."

"Yes, but, but…."

"If someone was skulking about in it, it would also explain why Marguerite and Isobel heard strange noises in the house," Turpin commented thoughtfully, ignoring Swiftnick's outraged spluttering over his privacy.

"Whose Mildred then?" Swiftnick demanded sharply. "Has she been spying on me too?!"

"What?" Dick gave him a sharp look, catching the name in surprise.

"Mildred. I heard the name a couple of times. Or thought I did. I was mostly half asleep…."

"The only Mildred I know was Tobias' wife, first wife that is," Freddy explained cheerfully. "Don't remember her well. Very nice lady though. Always gave us cake."

Turpin gave him a strange look but decided not to comment in front of Swiftnick. If there was a ghost in the house, then it was friendly one. Something had woken him in time to save Swiftnick… "Which reminds me…" he announced.

"What does?" Swiftnick asked in bewilderment.

"Never you mind. You're supposed to be resting. You were wheezing when you came up."

"I got pummelled by a mad dog! Of course I was wheezing!"

"Rest or you'll get tea in bed; assuming you get tea…" Dick ordered.

"But I…"

"Maybe I should go?" Freddy suggested, backing towards the door as Swiftnick gave him a betrayed look.

"Excellent idea!" Dick marched after him, firmly shooing the young man out and closing the door behind him. He turned back to an indignantly pouting Swiftnick and folded his arms. "Finish your hot toddy and take a nap," he told him briskly.

"I don't…"

"Or I'll get Glenrae to come and look you over."

Swiftnick hesitated, taking another mouthful of his hot toddy as he eyed Turpin in calculation. "You would too," he muttered.

"Naturally," Dick said firmly, adding more gently. "Nick, you need a rest. You look frazzled. And I need to think."

"About what?" Swiftnick pressed.

"Rookwood. It's all got very complicated since we arrived. I thought all Glenrae wanted was to break up Isobel's little romance. No big deal I thought. But the more I've learned, the more I've become convinced it isn't that simple. I think Glenrae and Marguerite are right. Rookwood could have murdered Tobias."

"What? How?" Swiftnick exclaimed in horror, sitting bolt up right. 

"Aren't you supposed to be resting?" Dick asked sternly.

"How am I supposed to rest when you tell me I'm sharing the house with a murderer?! He could have killed me with that sword! And he had a go at Glenrae and the dog couldn't have been an accident!"

"Swiftnick, hush," Turpin scolded, raising his hands in a gesture to pat him down to silence.  "I can guess at Tobias being murdered, but I can't prove it. He'd been drinking, he could have slipped and fallen into the weir and drowned. Everything else that's happened could have been accidental."

"Hah!" Yipped Swiftnick, setting aside his cup and folding his arms to give Turpin a look that was a remarkably good if unknowing copy of his mentor's.  

Turpin raised an eyebrow at him and smiled. "Can you prove he set the fire in your room? Or that he meant to kill you in a duel?"

"Well, no…" Swiftnick admitted.

"And a dog getting out, even more than once, means nothing."

"But he did shoot Glenrae. We all saw it."

"A misfire as he said…"

"But Dick…"

"I never said he wasn't clever. A man like him makes a dangerous foe. I may have been in error in thinking of him too lightly." Swiftnick stared at him wide eyed at this and Dick turned away, pacing restlessly. "If it is him, we need to force his hand."

"I could kiss Isobel. That would get his attention." Swiftnick offered.

Turpin gave him a slow stare and Swiftnick ducked his head, his loose curls hiding his blush. "No, I don’t think so. That'd more likely make him call you out, which means he'd have to call me out…"

"Why you?" Swiftnick demanded.

"Because you’re too young and I'm responsible for you."

"But you could take him, Dick!"

Turpin hid a grin. "That isn't the point. I can't very well kill him." Tempting though it might be, he reflected.

"What then?" Swiftnick pressed.

"I'm not sure yet. So far all Rookwood seems to have done since we arrived is attempt to frighten us off. Taking a shot at Glenrae could have been a spur of the moment thing when he lost his temper. I'd pointed out to him that even if he and Isobel did elope, it wouldn't matter whether Glenrae changed his mind or not. The money would go to Marguerite."

"If Glenrae was out of the way, maybe he thinks he could persuade Marguerite into agreeing, or bully her into it."

"No one could bully that lady into anything," Dick said firmly. "But, if she was distraught over Glenrae…."

"We should warn Glenrae," Swiftnick decided, shrugging off the quilt lying cape like around his shoulders.

"No, I should do that.  You’re going to take that nap while I lock you in."

"But Dick!"

"Swiftnick, lad, I've known Glenrae a lot longer than you have. He'll listen to me even if I have to beat some sense into him. You get some sleep and I’ll come to get you in time for tea."

Swiftnick pouted at him, but he knew when not to argue with his mentor and slumped back onto the bed. "All right, but I'm not getting undressed. You never know who might be watching." For a fleeting second, he looked as tired as he felt as he crawled over the mattress and slid under the covers.

"Good lad," Turpin said briskly as he took the key from the lock and opened the door. "You rest now, I may need you to do some flirting later."

Swiftnick flashed him a grin as he wriggled into a comfortable spot. "We should go the water mill," he said however.

"Whatever for?"

"That's where Tobias was killed. There could be a clue."

"I am going to have to stop you reading those novels," Dick said dryly. "Now, go to sleep. And you’d better be here when I get back." He added, remembering Swiftnick's undeniable propensity for and skill at picking locks. "You are not go near the water mill. Understand?"

"Yes, Dick," Swiftnick agreed sweetly and yawned innocently.

"I mean it."

"Yes, Dick."

 Turpin grunted, even more suspicious but he let himself out and locked the door. At least that way he could be fairly sure no one could break in on the sleeping youth.

                                                            * * *

Glenrae was not in a good mood. Swiftnick could tell that from the expression on the handsome Scotsman's face the moment he walked into the study after Dick woke him. "What did you tell him?" he hissed urgently to Turpin.

"The truth, that he's a daft Scottish nitwit who isn't safe to be let out loose on his own if he thinks Rookwood hasn't got it in for him and Marguerite," Dick responded, sounding a touch waspish himself.

"I'll bet that went down well," Swiftnick muttered under his breath. "What did he say?"

"That he could take care of himself," Dick replied succinctly.

"That sounds familiar," Swiftnick murmured innocently and promptly made himself scarce as Turpin scowled at him. Isobel and Cynthia were discussing dresses when he approached shyly, but to his gratification they instantly turned their attention to him. Isobel seemed a trifle distracted, but Swiftnick assumed it was lingering fear over the dog and did his best to reassure her. His efforts won him a brilliant smile from Cynthia and a giggle from Isobel as he did his languishing hero bit.

Rookwood ambled in in time to hear her sudden giggle and his bland expression turned into a sharp scowl for a moment before being wiped away again.

Turpin groaned, eyeing Rookwood as he watched the three of them. There was no telling what the man was thinking, but it wouldn't be good. Rookwood was more than jealous, he undoubtedly saw Swiftnick as a rival despite his age and, worse, a threat to get between him and Isobel's money.

Swiftnick was laughing as he pressed one hand to his brow, mocking himself by declaiming his own bravery. "Oh, but you were brave!" Isobel exclaimed, taking his arm and smiling into his eyes. "Marguerite told us all about it!"

"Oh, yes," Determined not to be outdone, Cynthia took his other arm. "She said you absolutely flung yourself in front of the dog to protect her!"

"She did?" Swiftnick said in surprise.

"Yon laddie reminds me of a wishbone between two cats," Glenrae commented, coming up behind Turpin and guessing that he was fretting behind his bland expression. Glenrae only hoped that Swiftnick wasn't going to get himself hurt playing a game he wasn't yet equipped for. He knew only too well that the game of dalliance was beyond Dick's young accomplice. Swiftnick couldn't tell the difference between flirtation and the genuine article yet.

"Oh, so you're speaking to me now, are you?" Dick said scathingly, turning his quizzing glass on the Scotsman.

"I'll poke ye right in the quizzing glass if ye turn that thing on me," Glenrae growled in warning.

Dick stared at him challengingly for a moment and smiled ruefully. "And which of the two cats do you think will win?" he asked dryly.

"Och, I think they'll both be losers if the laddie takes after you," Glenrae responded. "But if it makes Isobel thinks twice I’ll be a happy man."

Turpin pursed his lips, eyeing Swiftnick thoughtfully. "He's getting the habit of flirting too well for my liking," he muttered.

"Come in right handy it will when ye can't charm them out of their coaches and onto their backs any more," the Scotsman said cheerfully. 

"You, sir, are a cad!" Dick exclaimed, inspecting him through his quizzing glass anyway.

The Scotsman laughed and draped an arm across his shoulders, then sobered as he glanced over at Rookwood who was now talking to Freddy. "Richard, I think it's time ye and the laddie left," he said quietly.

"That's nice. Getting rid of the guests already. Running low on aspic jelly, are you?"

"Och, nay. There's always cold porridge. I ken how much ye love it."

"Very funny. Why then?"

Glenrae gave him a grim look. "Ye ken I've been thinking about what ye said."

"I wondered what the funny noises were."

"Be serious, my friend. I can take care of myself."

"I'd like to see you do it. How many scrapes have I pulled you out of? How many times have you come to me for help?"

"As many as ye've come to me. And ye ken I've never grudged a moment for either you or the laddie. But I'll no sleep if anything happens to either of ye over this. I dinna like the look of Rookwood."

"I've never liked the look of him," Turpin snorted.

"Richard, ye ken my meaning!"

"Aye, I do," Dick admitted, unable to escape the fierce blue eyed look Glenrae gave him. "But I can't turn my back on you when you need me."

"I never meant to put ye or Sweet Nick in danger."

Turpin frowned at him. "What about yourself and Marguerite?"

Glenrae waved that aside. "Look at Rookwood. He thinks yon laddie's more of a threat to his plans that me.  I can handle him."

"I could take him away and come back," Dick said slowly. "Pack him off to a relative."

"Och, ye have a relative here?"

"Fortesque Smythe does. I could put him up at an inn."

"On his own? Do ye know ken how much trouble the wee sprog could get into?"

Dick grimaced. "Aye, that's why I couldn't leave him for more than a day or so. It'd take him that long to get into mischief. He's getting better. Time was I couldn't let him out of my sight without something happening to him. But he'd be out of the way while we confront Rookwood."

"Have ye lost yer wits? Confront him with what? We have no proof."

"We don't need it," Dick responded cockily. "We confront him, tell him we do have it and scare him off.  If anything happens to you or Marguerite, it'll be Rookwood who gets the blame. I dare say, we might even force his hand and make him take a chance at killing you."

"I trust ye'll send flowers when he kills me and ye get your proof!"

"Lots of flowers," Turpin assured him cheerfully. "Including heather. Then I'll marry Marguerite, Swiftnick will marry Isobel and we'll make off with all the money. You’d want us to get the money, wouldn't you?"

"Och! What was it ye called me, ye sassanach? Och, aye; a cad!"

Dick laughed. "Daft haggis. As if I’d let him harm you."

Glenrae glowered at him. "I still say ye should both get out of here."

"I'll take Nick to the inn and come back. Maybe you can arrange a picnic for the ladies?"

"What a charming idea," Marguerite commented, entering in time to hear Dick's comment. She laid her hand on Turpin's arm and gave him an enchanting smile. "What a sweet thought, Richard. Perhaps we can invite Heather?"

An expression of pain crossed Glenrae's face. "Marguerite, I thought I explained to you, there is no Heather!"

"Don't shout, Robert. I can hear you perfectly well. Ah, Cynthia, don't you look charming. Cerise suits you so well…"

"Women!" Glenrae practically spat.

"It could be worse," Dick murmured.

"How?" Glenrae groaned.

"It could be me she's mad at."

                                                            * * *

After a somewhat tense tea, Marguerite suggested they repaired to the drawing room where Isobel announced her attention to pay the spinet.

"Is that seemly, my dear?" Rookwood protested, giving Swiftnick a surly look.

"Don't be churlish, Neville.  Of course it is," Isobel retorted tartly, taking her seat at the spinet. Cynthia came to her side eagerly with music in hand. "A love sonnet?"   Isobel whispered in alarm.

Casting a roguish look at Swiftnick who was talking to Freddy, Cynthia smiled wickedly. "Oh yes…."

"Neville won't…"

"I thought you intended to assert yourself?"

Isobel blushed, reminded of her plan to stand up for herself. She placed her hands on the keys, demurely composing herself before she started to play. It was a pretty little piece, light and bubbly and perfectly suited to Cynthia's sweet voice; only the implied subject matter made Turpin's eyebrow raise as he exchanged a look with Glenrae.

"Cherry ripe, cherry ripe, ripe ripe the cherries…." Cynthia warbled.

Marguerite fanned herself furiously, sliding a glance at Swiftnick and Freddy both of whom seemed oblivious. Rookwood seemed to be torn between shock, outraged dignity and downright fury.

"Charming my dears, charming," Marguerite exclaimed as the girls finished. While the men applauded, she hurriedly retrieved the music and persuaded Cynthia to sing again; this time choosing something a little more suitable.

"It's a good thing the lassies have no idea what that's really about," Glenrae muttered in Turpin's ear, his voice full of amused chagrin.

"Or Nick," Dick sighed in relief. He could imagine the kind of questions Swiftnick would have come up with if he had. "But I think Marguerite did."

"Och aye, but so did Rookwood," Glenrae muttered. "And I nay know where they got it from…Och, here he comes…"

"Good grief, he can't blame me for that," Dick groaned.

"Ah, but Nick's a bad influence on the lassies' morals."

Turpin glared at him, but put on a polite expression for Rookwood.

"Do you play, sir?" Rookwood asked mildly.

"I have been known to manage the odd tune," Dick admitted.

"Ah, not one of your accomplishments? You seem to have so many; shooting, swordmanship, the spinet…."

"Don't forget croquet," Dick said lightly. "And I am passably better with the spinet than I am a croquet mallet. Are you, Rookwood?"

Rookwood's eyes darkened, his nostrils pinching with annoyance. "Can't say as it's a pursuit that's ever attracted my attention."

"Why don't you play something for us, Richard?" Marguerite asked mildly. "Perhaps Nicholas can accompany you?"

"I would be delighted to play for you, my lady. But Nicholas is shy. Perhaps Isobel and Cynthia will sing for me." Turpin swept her an elegant bow and followed her over to the spinet. He bowed to the girls too as they moved, giggling, aside for him.

His attention attracted Swiftnick looked up from his conversation with Freddy about bare-knuckle fighting to watch.

"Not joining in?" Freddy asked. "All the rage, you know." Swiftnick shook his head, suddenly feeling very provincial. "Good oh," Freddy said cheerfully. "Can't play a note myself. Sent at least three tutors mad with frustration, you know. Got a voice like a rusty wheel too and I know it except when I'm foxed. Cynthia got all the musical talent."

Swiftnick grinned at him, enjoying Freddy's good-humoured disparagement of himself. 

Rookwood was watching Turpin with his nose in the air, clearly prepared to sneer with superiority. The cynical curl of his lips went limp however as Turpin started to play, proving himself to an accomplished hand at the keys. 

Swiftnick watched his partner carefully, enthralled as always by Dick's musical ability on a keyboard - even if his singing voice like Freddy's left something to be desired. Dick winked at him, making Swiftnick grin back proudly.

"Another, another!" Freddy enthused when Dick finished.

"Isobel," Rookwood said sharply however. ""Weren't we going to take a stroll in the garden after tea?"

Isobel looked startled and glanced disappointedly at Turpin. "I am sorry, sir, but I did promise."

"Our loss is Rookwood's gain," Dick said gallantly, taking her hand and kissing her fingertips with style. "Hurry back to us."

Isobel blushed furiously, but went to take Rookwood's hand.  "Don't forget your shawl, dear," Rookwood urged, placing the lacy confection around her slim shoulders with a territorial glare at Swiftnick.

"It looks like it's coming on to rain. Why don't you walk in the long gallery instead?" Marguerite said blandly. "Glenrae, will you let me show you that portrait I mentioned earlier?"

Glenrae gave her a blank look then caught on. "Och, aye, aye, the portrait." He took her arm hastily and Marguerite swept Rookwood and Isobel up before them, allowing them no time alone without her to chaperone them.

Turpin turned back to Cynthia and took her arm, bestowing a light kiss on her fingers. "Come my little songbird, what shall I play for you now?" he asked warmly as she blushed and slid a flirtatious glance at Swiftnick.

"I liked the one about cherries," Swiftnick offered brightly.

Dick, who had been taking a sip of his brandy, nearly choked. "Er no, we've heard that one and I don't know the music," he gurgled hastily.

"And Marguerite took the music with her," Cynthia pouted. "Do you know any others?"

Turpin quelled an open mouthed Swiftnick with a look; knowing that the ones the youth knew would bring a blush to Cynthia's face. "Allow me to choose. This is one I learned in Gibraltar…"

                                                            * * *

"It is really too much, Isobel," Rookwood growled in an undertone as they strolled ahead of an ambling Glenrae and Marguerite along the echoing length of the Long Gallery.  "Cynthia becomes more brazen every day and she is leading you into bad habits."

"A little music is hardly brazen," Isobel protested. "Must you be so surly, Neville?"

"Surly, my dear? I am merely seeking to protect you from that creature's influence."

"I don't believe I need to be," Isobel murmured but Rookwood seemed not to hear her. 

"I will not allow you to make such a display of yourself when we are married, darling. I have my position to think of. You have been behaving quite badly over the last few days; flirting with that fortune hunting young popinjay's of Sir Richard’s." 

"Nicholas isn't a popinjay and he isn't a fortune hunter either."

"Dangling after you all the time…"

"I believe he is more interested in Cynthia. I was only being polite."

"There is such a thing as being too friendly. You have been encouraging him!"

"Why, I do believe you’re jealous, Neville!" Isobel exclaimed and was astounded to realise that the quivering she felt in her stomach was more from outrage than pleasure.

Rookwood turned quickly and took her slim hands in his hands. "How could I not be jealous when you look at him? Do not be so cruel, my precious. You know I love you."

How glibly the words rolled off his tongue, Isobel thought dizzily. And yet with so little passion… "I do not think I am pleased with your jealousy, Neville. It implies a certain lack of trust."

"No, no, my darling, it implies only that I am mad for you." 

Rookwood kissed her fingers ardently and Isobel felt only a vague and surprising sense of boredom. She drew her hands free carefully and glanced towards her guardians. They were standing discreetly out of earshot but close enough to comfort and encourage her to be bold. "Neville, is this why you do not wish me to go to London?"

Rookwood blinked at the forthright question. "No, no, my dear. I have told you; it is a market…"

"I have been thinking," Isobel said slowly and carefully. "Would it not be better to make my entrance in society to please my guardians? There is no hurry for us to marry surely?"

"My darling, Isobel, how can you not feel the urgency of my need to be with you?"

Isobel cast a fleeting glance up at him and then looked away, blushing. She had little doubt that he desired her, but sometimes she wondered if love was the reason for it or mere convenience. "A small delay would help my guardians understand that my wish to marry you is constant and not a mere youthful infatuation. Also, would it not be well for me to be known at least a little in society for when we entertain?"

Rookwood stared at her, fighting to hold on to his temper. Ever since that blasted Fortesque Smythe and his wretched ward had shown up, sweet malleable little Isobel had started to dare to defy his wishes. Well, it certainly wouldn't like this when they were married. She would do as he commanded and be done with it.

"We will entertain, won't we Neville?" Isobel continued. "I understand that to be anything in society one simply must. And to be a good hostess I think I should have some experience as a guest at balls and parties and things. Don't you?"

Rookwood could feel his teeth grinding. "I have thought we would live quietly in the country as you do here," he forced out.

"But that's because I haven't come out yet," Isobel pointed out demurely.

"With the children…"

"Oh, surely we won't want children immediately," Isobel stammered, her eyes widening in alarm. "I thought we would travel a little perhaps. At your London house, I could throw a few small select parties to introduce myself as your new wife…"

Rookwood suppressed the urge to choke her into compliance. "Isobel, you are letting Cynthia fill your thoughts with butterflies. You will be a respectable married woman and we will live in the country…"

"Then I must insist on going to London first," Isobel responded. "You couldn't possibly expect me to marry you and settle down happily if I don't know what I've missed."

"I assure you, you wouldn't miss any of it. All that meaningless fol-de-riddle of balls and routs…"

Isobel gave him a level and surprisingly mature look. "Neville, we are not married yet. If I choose to go to London, then I will go. I enjoy fol-de-riddle. I had thought you would have noticed that." Turning on a small blue heel, she swung away from him in a flurry of sapphire satin skirts and lace and went to join her guardians, leaving Rookwood fuming in impotent rage at her slender back.

                                                            * * *

The distant boom of thunder made Cynthia squeak in alarm and look up, finally noticing how dark it was getting in the drawing room.

"Silly goose," Freddy commented. "Won't hurt you. Said it'd rain."

"No, you didn't. Marguerite did!" Cynthia retorted, blushing as she glanced at Swiftnick.  "I'm not actually afraid of it, but it does make me jump," she explained.

"I like it," Swiftnick said cheerfully to her surprise. "It's fun to ride in. Spooky!"

"Oh…"

"No, it isn't. It's dangerous," Dick interrupted hastily.

"It would be exciting to run through the rain though, wouldn't it?" Cynthia mused. "It happens in all the novels."

"Does it?" Freddy exclaimed. "Sounds dashed silly idea to me. Get wet."

"Oh, you have no romance in you at all! Nicholas understands."

"No, he doesn't," Dick said firmly, glaring at his partner and having visions of Swiftnick suddenly taking it into his head to run through the rain with her. 

Swiftnick gave him an impish grin. "Have to agree with Freddy. Get soaked," he said however.

Turpin gave him an alarmed look, realising his apprentice was starting to sound like Freddy. Dick didn't think he could cope with that. A searing flash of lightening followed by another clap of thunder, this time right overhead, made Cynthia squeak again and clutch at Freddy's arm.

"Ow," commented Freddy. "Nails, dear."

"Sorry." Cynthia let go hastily.

"Why don't we go and watch?" Swiftnick suggested enthusiastically.

"Watch?" Cynthia gazed at him in alarm.

"Marvellous idea!!" Freddy agreed. "Why don't we go out to the gazebo…"

"Freddy! You can't leave me!" Cynthia wailed.

"Dash it all, why not? Said you weren't scared…"

"Yes, but, Freddy…." She clutched at her brother's arm again and Freddy sighed, patting her hands as they clamped in a steel vice on his forearm.

"Yes, yes, all right. Now let go, there's good girl. I may need the use of my arm again. You could stay here with Sir Richard, you know. I'm sure he'd protect you."

Cynthia shot a quick look at Turpin's expression and smiled weakly. "Frederick!! Don't be mean!"

Freddy gave her a grumpy look but succumbed to her pleading expression and slumped. "Better stay then," he sighed, rolling his eyes at Swiftnick.

"Can I go and watch then?" Swiftnick asked Dick hopefully.

"No," Dick growled, caught the youth's disappointed expression and sighed. "Not outside anyway. Go upstairs and watch it from your room if you want to. You should get a good view from there."

Swiftnick brightened, remembered his manners long enough to excuse himself politely and then rushed out, barely remembering not to run.

Dick sighed and stretched out in his chair, studying the tips of his well-polished toes. He had chosen a wine coloured jacket over black breeches set off with diamond studded buckles. Sipping his brandy, he spared an idle thought to how things were going in the Long Gallery and looked over at Cynthia and Freddy.

Cynthia was looking extremely disappointed at being left to her brother's comfort.

"Shouldn't be such a goose, Cyn," Freddy told her smugly. "Nicholas isn't the type to like weedy sorts."

"I'm not weedy!"

"Yes, you are." Freddy said cheerfully.  "A weedy wet goose!"

"I am not! You take that back, Frederick!"

Dick smiled and took a lazy mouthful of brandy, enjoying their affectionate bickering and noticing that Cynthia was too annoyed to notice the next burst of lightening as it brightened the room.

                                                            * * *

Swiftnick had reached his room and was opening the windows wide so he could watch when in the sudden tense hush between one clap of thunder and the next he heard footsteps on the creaky landing outside. Curious, he looked back at the door, listening to their approach and expecting Turpin to be joining him.

The footsteps didn't even hesitate at his door but walked quietly past, the stride sounding determined. Slipping off the window seat, Swiftnick padded over to the door and cracked it open. As far as he knew none of the rooms beyond his were occupied by anything except spiders. He knew that several of them were locked because Dick had checked, wanting to make sure no one sneaked up on them.

Peering down the corridor in the fading light, he saw a tall familiar figure stepping into Dick's old room that the highwayman had abandoned after the fire. "Now what does Rookwood want in there?" Swiftnick murmured. His curiosity overwhelming his common sense without a fight, he slid out of his room and raced silently down the corridor to peek through the gap of the half open door. There was no sign of Rookwood, but he could hear sounds coming from his own former room. Swiftnick eased the door back, holding his breath in fear that it would creak, then eeled through the gap and tiptoed over to the connecting door.

Rookwood was groping along the wainscoting, poking and prodding impatiently at the rose finials as if searching for something. He was muttering, swearing under his breath. "Come on, come on, where's that damned catch….Ah hah!"

Before Swiftnick's amazed eyes a panel pooped open, leaving a gap that Rookwood slipped his hand into and tugged wide. Rookwood then slipped into the darkness inside the wall. After a moment, a glimmer of light flickered into view and then the panel clicked softly shut. "So that's how he got in," Swiftnick breathed. "I wonder what he's up to and where he's off to." He frowned, easing the door open and stepping into the still soot smothered room. Little puddles of water turned the floor to charcoal and his heels left smudges as he padded across to the wall and started to examine the wall. He soon found the ornate finial Rookwood had used to open the panel and studied it carefully. It looked simple enough to use; a firm twist should open the secret panel and allow him to follow Rookwood.

Swiftnick frowned. Should he follow him though? Or should he go back and get Dick and Glenrae? His hesitation didn't last long and he was twisting the finial before the thought had finished crossing his mind. How could he possibly go back to Dick with nothing more than seeing Rookwood using the secret panel into the hidden passage? It didn't mean anything. For all he knew, Rookwood might be meaning to spy on Isobel.  Dick would want to know what he was up to and why Swiftnick hadn't followed him to find out.

The passage beyond looked awfully dark though when he peeked inside. He couldn’t see any sigh of Rookwood's light, but there were scuff marks in the thick dust and cobwebs on the floor; all of them leading in the same direction.

Coming to a quick decision, Swiftnick slipped into the passage. Inside was a low stool with a nub of candle in a sconce and a flint and tinder. Lighting the candle, Swiftnick pushed the tinderbox into the jamb of the panel so it couldn't close up behind him and seal him in since he had no idea how to open it from the inside.  Then he set off with a quiver of excitement to find Rookwood.

                                                            * * *

The thunder had been rolling endlessly around the Grange for some time and the rain had started to lash down with explosive vengeance before Glenrae and Marguerite returned with Isobel. Isobel promptly hurried over to sit with Cynthia, the two girls putting their heads together and soon immersed in deep conversation that made them oblivious to the violence of the weather.  Marguerite trotted off in search of the butler to make arrangements for dinner and Glenrae seated himself beside Dick.

"If you'll excuse me, I think I'll go and find Nicholas," Freddy announced, finding himself ignored. "Er, Rookwood not doing that, is he?"

"He'd better not be anywhere near Nicholas," Dick muttered.

"Och, nay, he went to his room to rest until dinner," Glenrae answered.

"Oh, that's all right then. Neville's been in a bit of a bad mood. Wouldn't want to get in his way."  Freddy announced blithely and trotted off happily in search of Swiftnick.

"Those two seem to be getting along well," Glenrae noted.

Dick grunted and flicked a bit of lint off his impeccable sleeve. "What about Rookwood?" he asked.

"Think the lassie's given him a set down," the Scotsman murmured in a low voice to Turpin.  "Looked angry enough to chew nails when he stalked off."

"Interesting. You know why?"

"I think they argued. But she told Marguerite that's she's decided she wants to have her season before she marries Rookwood after all."

"Arguing is a good sign. But she's still set on marrying him?"

"Och, I hope not but I’ll nay argue with her.  She may change her mind after her season. I dinna want to pressure the lassie now. Nay telling which way she’ll jump."

Dick nodded thoughtfully. He knew from his experiences with Swiftnick that if he told the lad he couldn't do something, the odds were he would go right ahead and do it anyway.

                                                * * *

Peeking nervously from the edge of the doorway, Swiftnick peered uncertainly out into the gloom. A blue white flash of lightening lit the garden brilliantly, making him sure that Rookwood wasn't hiding anywhere near by. It was bound to rain soon he was sure, he could smell it in the air, but he wasn't giving up on his hunt for such a paltry reason. Rookwood had to have come this way. The passage simply didn't turn off, but ran from his room straight along the wall of the house, down a flight of steps and finally emerged here into the walled herb garden. Dousing the candle and hiding it under a convenient lavender bush, Swiftnick stepped out onto the path and looked round. There was a gate at the far end and - unless Rookwood had climbed over the wall, which Swiftnick thought the man would consider beneath his dignity - it was the only way out of the garden. Swiftnick trotted over and tugged it open, peering out warily. There was still no sigh of Rookwood, but the path led off towards the stables and the rose gardens in one direction and the wood in the other.

Another flash of lightening whipped across the overcast sky, reminding Swiftnick that he had better hurry if he didn't want to get wet. Irresolute, he took a tentative step towards the stables, then swung back and loped the other way, heading into the woods. He could think of no reason for Rookwood to take a secret route if he was going somewhere as mundane as the stables. But on the other hand he could be heading off to a secret rendezvous at the water mill and if Swiftnick caught him in the arms of another woman, why that would soon set Isobel against him! And if not, well, Swiftnick would have the perfect chance to look for clues to take back to Dick. Oh, he could imagine his mentor's face when he discovered the clue that would solve the whole mystery. Dick would be so thrilled with him!

                                                * * *

"Gone? What do you mean gone?" Turpin gave Freddy a blank look. He and Glenrae had moved to the study to share the whiskey bottle and relax before dinner, which was where Freddy had found them.

"Gone, sir," Freddy repeated. "Not in his room, not in the Long gallery, not in the kitchen, nowhere. Vanished."

"Did you check the garden?" Dick asked suspiciously.

"Raining," Freddy pointed out. "Wouldn't be out there."

"What about the gazebo?" Glenrae questioned.

"Looked empty."

"Sod it," Dick commented grimly. "Didn't see Rookwood anywhere around?"

"Would have avoided him, but no." Freddy looked slightly anxious. "Thought of the fire and all the bother. Maybe you have an enemy, sir?"

"Me?" Dick looked at him astonishment.

"Your ward and all that. Assume he's your heir…"

"Oh, no, no."

"Ah, thought not. Rookwood then?"

"He'd better not have bloody touched him. Don't sit there like a haggis, Glenrae, come on. We have to find him."

"Where do we look that Freddy hasn't?" Glenrae asked as he obediently got up.

"How should I know? His room to see if his cloak's gone?"

"Shouldn't worry. Wouldn’t have run off," Freddy commented. "Seems happy with you."

Turpin gave him a quick, uncomfortable look. "I wasn't thinking that."

"Kidnapped then? Cynthia's always on about kidnappings in her books. Ward gets kidnapped, rescued by a noble disguised as a highwayman. That sort of thing."

Glenrae choked, but managed to hold his tongue under the glare Turpin shot at  him.

"I don't think anyone would dare kidnap him," Dick responded tartly, stalking out the door followed hastily by Glenrae.  Freddy shrugged and followed them, concerned about his young friend's mysterious disappearance.

                                                            * * *

The window was open in Swiftnick's room, spilling rain across the window seat and filling the room with the fresh cool scent of wet air and flowers. Turpin slammed it forcefully shut while Glenrae checked for Swiftnick's cloak. "Still here and he's not armed," the Scotsman announced quietly, watching Turpin carefully. The expression on Dick's face spoke volumes to anyone who knew him. Glenrae wouldn't want to be the man who had harmed Dick Turpin's partner.

Freddy wisely stood aside from leaning on the doorjamb as Turpin brushed past him and looked grimly up and down the corridor. "How could he get out of the house?" he muttered bitterly.

"The secret passage?" Freddy suggested tentatively. "Didn't think to look…"

Dick gave him a sharp look and abruptly set off, striding along the corridor to slam into his own room and then on into Swiftnick's old room.  Glenrae followed, bringing the candle he had paused to light against the gathering gloom. The bright flame of its light flickered over the soot stained room as he held it up over Turpin's shoulder, catching the glint of pewter from the tinderbox wedged in the gap in the secret panel.

Turpin pounced on it instantly and yanked the panel open with a protesting creak of wood at being so manhandled.

"I say…" Freddy murmured. "Gone exploring, has he do you think?"

"Gone a hunting, I'd say," Glenrae observed dryly.

"I'll bet I know where he's bloody gone," Dick growled. "Off to that bloody water mill to look for clues I'll be bound!"

"In this weather?" Glenrae exclaimed. "Och, he'd nay be so foolish. Yon river will be flooded."

Dick gave him a slow stare. "This is Nicholas we’re talking about," he pointed out. "It'd never occur to him that it might be dangerous. His head's full of curls."

"Oh, aye, maybe yer right," Glenrae had to admit after a moment's thought. "I'd best get my cloak."

"And a pistol," Dick said grimly.

Freddy looked anxiously from one to the other of them. "Nicholas has only slipped out. Maybe gone off to the village pub?" he suggested.

"I hope so," Dick said grimly, shoving past him to race off to get his cloak and pistol. "Hurry up, Glenrae!"

"What does he want a pistol for?" Freddy asked, in increasing alarm.

"Yon badgers can be dangerous in the rain. Freddy, laddie, ye'd best stay here with the lassies," Glenrae urged. "Nay need to alarm them but Richard's got his suspicions of Rookwood."

"Well, yes, he mentioned them. But dash it all; Rookwood? He's a gentleman." 

"That's nay what I'd call him," Glenrae murmured.  "Ye may tell Marguerite we’ve gone looking for the laddie, but say nothing to Isobel about Rookwood."

"As if I’d be so foolish. I'll do as you say, Glenrae, but if you don't come back I’ll send the servants out to look for you."

                                                            * * *

By the time Swiftnick finally started to have second thoughts about the wisdom of the course he was pursuing, it had started to rain heavily and he was so far out in the woods that going back would have taken longer than going on. Going back would probably have been sensible, he admitted, but the water mill was closer and would offer immediate shelter against the rain and wind that was blowing up. Once the worst of it had passed over as it was bound to do, he could get back to the Grange and be in bed before Turpin even noticed he had gone. Assuming he didn't find any clues of course. If he did, Dick wouldn't think twice about his apprentice going off on his own without telling him about it. He would be far too pleased with him.

"Hah! And badgers really do sing!" Swiftnick snorted aloud, hunching his shoulders against the eerie sound of the wind keening though the trees and rattling the branches. Freddy had happily given him directions for getting to the water mill when he'd asked him earlier and he was sure he was close to it now if the noise the river was making was anything to go by. It wasn't really that dangerous, he was sure. Dick was worrying unnecessarily the way he always did when Swiftnick came up with a plan.

 He knew perfectly well that Turpin would be furious with him for this escapade. But what else could he have done? There hadn’t been time to go back to fetch Dick without losing Rookwood. Besides, Dick had been far too vehement in his refusal to let Swiftnick search for clues.

Swiftnick bit his lip as he picked his way across a treacherous stretch of muddy ground. He was a fair-minded lad and he knew Dick hadn't been that vehement, merely firm. If he'd really meant it, he'd have shouted at him. Deep down Dick probably wanted him to go to the water mill and find the vital clue but his pride wouldn't let him.

By now Swiftnick had reached the river and could hear the loud roar of the rising waters. Every now and then he caught a glimpse of its shining surface below as he picked his way along the bank, grasping at branches and bushes for balance.

After a few minutes of precarious creeping along the path on the bank, the dark bulk of water mill loomed up suddenly; hunching over the river as it brooded to itself. The wheel itself was straining against the rising water, turning too fast and setting up a racket of complaining wood as the water battered the paddles.

Swiftnick made his way slowly along the side of the building and climbed the rickety stairs up to the platform over the wheel. The wheel turned rapidly, moaning on its pins as the force of the river turned it.

Perching on the platform above the wheel, Swiftnick felt a qualm of alarm as he watched the churning muddied waters. The maelstrom looked dangerous and his all too vivid imagination supplied him with dire images of what would happen to him if he fell in there.

And this was where Tobias had been killed, sucked under by the suction of the water wheel. Freddy said they'd put his body in the mill itself. Maybe his ghost was watching him even now….

With a shiver that was as much from fright as being cold and wet, Swiftnick backed away, making sure he kept a tight grip on the rail. The water soaked wood was slippery and he yelped in fright as his feet slipped from under him, sending him to his knees with a bruising crash.

"Who's there?" the gruff voice came from close by and a panic stricken Swiftnick dropped flat on his stomach as he saw a shadowy figure detach itself from the shadows below the mill platform. "Is that you, Mr Rookwood?"

Swiftnick held his breath, not daring to move or make a sound as he watched the shadowy figure peer around him. His fear that he was seeing a ghost faded away as he listened to the man swearing as he retreated back to the meagre shelter of the platform. "Damn bastard," the man grumbled. "Should bloody well drown that damn dog of his."  

Swiftnick looked round anxiously, wondering how he could escape if the man decided to take shelter inside the mill. There was a door in the wall behind the youth and Swiftnick was afraid the man might come up the stairs to get indoors.

"Oates, where the bloody hell are you, man?" Rookwood's familiar arrogant tones defied the noise of wind and rain, carrying clearly to Swiftnick on his perch.

"Here, sir," the man below replied, emerging once more. A rude word escaped him as he hurried to meet the approaching Rookwood as he stalked out of the gloom. Rookwood was towing the black dog on a length of rope and the animal was clearly in a filthy mood.

"Here, Oates, take Butcher," Rookwood barked, thrusting the rope at the gamekeeper. "Take him home and tie him up again. And this time use a chain…"

"You said, sir…" Oates whined, fawning.

"I know perfectly well what I said. But Fortesque Smythe is too damn quick with his gun for my liking. I fancy he’ll shoot Butcher if he gets another chance."

"Good," muttered Oates.

"What did you say?"

"Er, good, sir. Good dog, sir, to Butcher," Oates said hastily. "Done the trick this time, has he, sir?"

"No. Didn’t rip the bloody boy's throat out, did he?" Rookwood snarled.

Wide eyed, Swiftnick put a hand to his throat and shivered, then glared in loathing at Rookwood as he realised he had been the target.

"If you don't mind me saying so, sir, the dog ain't been trained to kill, sir. I did say, sir."

"I do mind you saying so, Oates. Less of your impudence now! Are you so dim-witted that you don't know when I am making a joke?" Rookwood sneered. "Butcher was meant to frighten the ladies into understanding that they need someone to protect them, like myself. And show up Sir Richard, Glenrae and the two brats to be the cowards that they are. Now, get the dog out of my sight and make sure he doesn't get out again." 

"Yes, sir," Oates scraped a bow and towed the dog off, passing out of sight around the mill house as he headed off towards the bridge.

Swiftnick stayed where he was, watching Rookwood like a hawk. Rookwood was clearly in a bad mood from the way he paced up and down. Swiftnick really, really hoped that he would go away so he could go back to the Grange. Thoughts of exploration and clues had vanished when he looked down into the millrace and suddenly remembered how young and inexperienced he was.

"Damn you, Tobias, damn you!" Rookwood's voice suddenly floated up to Swiftnick's keen ears. He shook his fist in the direction of the mill house, obviously enraged. "Why couldn't you have agreed to let me marry Isobel? Wasn't it bad enough that you took Marguerite without refusing me Isobel too? This is all your fault! You deserved to be killed! You did! You deserved to be murdered that night! And I'm glad I did it! I'm glad! Do you hear me, you bastard?!" Rookwood stopped, the clenched fist raised to his mouth slowly lowering as he seized control of himself and drew his composure around him. "I can feel you watching me, Tobias. I know you're here. Well, I won't let you stop me. I'm not afraid of you! I am not going to let Glenrae or Marguerite or any of the rest of them stop me! No one is going to stop me and I don't care who else I have to kill to do it!"

A small smothered squeak of fright escaped Swiftnick and he slapped both hands over his mouth in horror, then slithered backwards, scrambling back towards the steps as silently as he could. A wash of freezing cold air wafted over him and for a second he thought he saw someone walk past him on the walkway.

"Who's there?" Rookwood called uncertainly. "Who is it? Oates, is that you?.…Tobias? No, you’re, you’re….No!"

Swiftnick felt for the first step with one foot, easing his weight gingerly on to it. It creaked noisily and he froze, terrified….

Footsteps suddenly sounded below, but running away rather than towards him. Astounded, Swiftnick sneaked back onto the platform and peeked over the edge. The clearing was empty and he could see Rookwood racing away along the bank, his cloak flowing behind him.

"What do you know? He's afraid of a ghost!" Swiftnick laughed in triumph and turned to dart down the steps and follow the nobleman, his courage bolstered by Rookwood's alarm.

                                                            * * *

Turpin strode along, restraining himself from the urge to run with the knowledge that if he slipped and broke an ankle he would be of no good to Swiftnick. He had convinced himself that the youth would have come to no harm and was now entertaining himself with thoughts of what he would do to him for upsetting and disobeying him like this. Not that he was going to tell Swiftnick that he had frightened him out of his wits. He was nearly at the water mill and could hear the sound of the wheel plashing as it churned the river to froth. He thought he could hear a voice too, but dismissed it as his imagination making words from the sound of the mill race.

Lost in thought, it took Dick a moment to realise that there was someone up ahead of him on the path. As he did so, the dark cloaked figure dodged out of sight into the trees. Dick halted warily, resting one hand on the pistol shoved through his belt. "Nick?" he called softly. "Don't be a bloody fool if that's you, lad." Swiftnick knew better than to hide from him but would give warning of his presence before approaching.  Long experience as a highwayman had taught Turpin the wisdom of allowing no one to sneak up on him if he could help it and he had taught Swiftnick the same caution.

There was no response to his hail.

Tossing his cloak back over his shoulders to be out of the way,  Turpin eased his pistol loose from his belt and moved forward. He moved almost silently, by necessity experienced at creeping through forests. The rush of the river did much to hide the sound of his prey's movements and the mysterious figure had gone when Dick reached the tree.

Uncertain of his next move, Turpin hesitated, his dark eyes sweeping the surrounding shadows as he considered what to do next. "Glenrae?" he called again. The Scotsman probably wasn't far away. They had separated in the hopes of finding Swiftnick in the forest and were due to meet up again at the water mill. Glenrae was as likely to be as cautious in approaching Turpin unawares as Swiftnick; if not more so from long association. "Glenrae? Stop mucking about! I haven't found him…"

The cry came suddenly, making Dick's stomach lurch in fright as a horrible slithering sound and a loud splash followed it from the direction of the river bank. Without thinking Turpin raced towards the sound. Whoever it was who had fallen in would need help.

"Hold on!" Dick slithered on the mud as he reached the bank, searching the water surface for the victim. Near by a tree stuck out from the bank, hanging perilously out over the water that was eroding away the soil beneath it. The mud was scraped and scarred where something had slid down it and there were what looked like footmarks in the mud at the top of the slope. Dick eased towards the tree, peering down at the river. It was churning here, frothing in excitement as it sped up towards the water wheel only fifty feet or so further on. There was a tangle of branches below the tree, a rotten log still caught up on the muddy slope it had been pushed down, but Turpin could see no one struggling the water.

Dick drew back warily, aware that something was wrong. He sensed rather than heard someone behind him and half turned, grappling with the cloaked figure that lunged at him out of the darkness.  For a terrifying moment they struggled, Dick's feet slipping in the precarious footing of the muddy bank. Then his assailant flung his cloak over Turpin's head in a treacherous manoeuvre, entangling him in its thick folds for long enough to shove Dick away. The highwayman dropped to his knees, clawing aside the cloak in time to see Rookwood's infuriated face a second before he smashed a branch across Turpin's temple.

Dick jerked his head aside frantically, but the blow was nonetheless hard enough to stun him and he slumped. Hands promptly grabbed him, rolling him down the slope towards the river. As he fell, Dick's survival instincts kicked and he flailed dazedly, his desperate hands grabbing wildly as they encountered the tangle of branches. His body slid off the edge of the bank into the cold water of the river and he gasped aloud in shock, his hands clenching convulsively on the branches as he clung precariously to a fragile line. 

"Damn you!" Rookwood snarled, venturing to take a step onto the bank to poke at him with the blood stained branch. He was slightly too far away to reach which Turpin was grateful for. Dick was in no condition to be able to dodge another blow.

Rookwood hesitated, testing the bank with a cautious foot and when it seemed to hold firm, started to ease downward. Abruptly however he looked round with a scowl, tensing as if he had heard something. Then he scrambled back to the top of the bank and disappeared from Dick's view.

"Sod it," Turpin hissed, tightening his grip on the branches in an effort to pull himself out of the rising water. The muddy river swirled around him, sucking at him and tossing bits of twig and branch at him in a callous game of mockery. His hands slipped and he gasped again, clinging on desperately as he groped for support for his feet.

"Hello? Is there anyone there?"

Dick's soul leapt in relief as he recognised Swiftnick's young voice. "Swiftnick! Here!" he yelled without thinking, then cursed as he realised he was luring the lad towards Rookwood. "No! Never mind! Find Glenrae!" he qualified. It was too late, Swiftnick had appeared at the top of the bank, peering down at him in alarm.

"What are you doing down there, Dick?" he asked as he sought for a safe way down to his mentor.

"What the bloody hell does it look like I'm doing?" Turpin snarled. "I'm fishing and using me toes for bait!"

"I think you fell in," Swiftnick retorted loftily, venturing a step down onto the mud. "Hold on a second…"

"No, I will not and you forget coming down here. Go fetch Glenrae!"

"But you could fall in before I could get all the way to the Grange and back," Swiftnick pointed out.

"Glenrae's around here somewhere. We were looking for you. I'm warning you, lad, don't you come any closer!" Dick's voice rose a notch as a chunk of mud slithered past him, dislodged by Swiftnick's movements. Swiftnick retreated in alarm. "Go and get Glenrae," Dick repeated his order, keeping his voice calm with an effort. If Swiftnick knew how scared he was, he would never get him to go.

"I can't leave you!" Swiftnick protested. "I'm not stupid. You'll drown."

"I do no intend to do any such thing. Do as you’re told!"

"I'll get a branch and pull you out." Swiftnick decided, scooting to his feet and half turning. His yell of terror as Rookwood materialised behind him wielding his branch like a club, gave Dick the impetus to fling himself wildly against the bank. Oblivious to the all too real danger of sliding further into the river, his feet somehow found a grip and he clawed his way over the lip onto the edge of the bank. By then it was too late and Swiftnick was lying in a limp, unconscious huddle at Rookwood's feet.

Rookwood grabbed the youth by one arm and pulled him up, wrapping his arm around his midriff.

"Are you mad?" Turpin roared at him as he struggled to crouch on the bank, preparing himself to lunge towards him. "Let the boy go! He's done nothing to you!"

Rookwood's lip curled in a sneer. "You think I don't know whose been trifling with Isobel's affections and confusing her? She's mine, man. No one else is getting in my way again!"

"Is that why you killed Tobias? Because he got in your way?" Turpin blurted, fear and anger making a heady brew inside him as Rookwood swung Swiftnick up in his arms and walked heavy footed down the bank towards the waterwheel.   "Rookwood! Don't you walk away from me, you coward!"

Rookwood looked back over his shoulder at the highwayman as he clawed his way up the bank. "You’re mistaken, sir," he sneered. "I'm not walking away from you. Merely disposing of the rubbish!"

"No!" Dick screamed in anguish as Rookwood swung Swiftnick out over the water and flung him in, dropping the youth into the deep fast moving water off the bank.

"Your choice, sir!" Rookwood laughed mockingly. "The whore or the catamite!"

Without a thought, Turpin turned back, ripped off his cloak and dived, hitting the water in a clean line and kicking off furiously, letting the current speed him after his apprentice as the youth was tumbled helplessly downstream.

Dick had never swum so fast in his life and even so it was pure luck that swept Swiftnick into an eddy, delaying his progress down river. Turpin nearly burst in his efforts to lash his way across the cross current and grab him by the shirt, dragging him towards him as he went under. Turning over on to his back, Dick pulled Swiftnick across him, holding his head back against his shoulder to keep his face out of the water.

The roar of the waterwheel was deafening, like a thousand waves crashing to shore all at the same time. Turpin felt cold terror blossoming inside him as he fought the current and felt cold and exhaustion weighing down his limbs. If he let go of Swiftnick, he might possibly be able to swim back to the bank and escape the lethal paddles of the wheel the river was shooting them towards like bullets from a pistol. But nothing and no one could have made him abandon his young friend to such a doom….

It was hopeless. Not even Dick Turpin could beat a river in the rage of full flood. All he could do was hug Swiftnick close and fight to the last second.

Maybe they would be in luck and he could grab one of the paddles and be pulled through with it rather than battered by them, If he held on long enough, could hold his breath....

"Dick! Keep fighting the current!"

Glenrae's voice was one Turpin had thought he would never hear again. He strained against the darkness and the water spray, struggling to see the Scotsman and spotted him racing along the bank towards the water mill. He disappeared under the walkway.

Swiftnick was cold in his arms, limp and lifeless….

"Hold on…" Dick wasn't sure whether he sobbed it aloud or not. He was bone aching tired, he could hardly move his weary legs and arms any more from the cold…

"Dick!" Glenrae was back and screaming as he whirled what seemed to be a small log around his head. "Grab hold!" The Scotsman hurled the log out into the river and it landed a couple of feet away from Turpin. Dick stared at it blankly as it bobbed on the water. "Catch it, ye stupid bloody sassanach!" Glenrae screamed. 

Turpin rebelled and grabbed one handed at the log; his other arm was locked tight around Swiftnick and he couldn't have let go if he’d wanted to. He had no idea what Glenrae thought he was doing, but no bloody haggis eating heather sucking Scotsman was going to yell abuse at him….

"Dick! Hold on to it, ye moron! Pretend its bloody gold!"

The log suddenly jerked in his hand, almost tugging free of his frozen fingers.  Instinct made him drag it close, tucking it under his arm and looping the rope that he belatedly realised was attached to it around his forearm.

Bracing his feet in the wet soil Glenrae heaved, hauling on the rope that he had wrapped around a tree trunk to use an anchor. And bit by bit, inch by inch, he dragged Turpin and Swiftnick back towards the bank and away from the ravenous embrace of the waterwheel.

Only when they close enough for Glenrae to grab, did he tie off the rope and scramble down the bank to help, wading through the narrow band of shallows at the river's edge with gravel scrunching under his feet to get to them.

"Take him," Dick managed through chattering teeth as he half rolled, half dropped the youth into the shallows. Glenrae grabbed Swiftnick obediently, hoisting him up the bank. He then seized Turpin by the back of waistcoat as he crawled after them and hauled him out of the river before the highwayman got swept away again in his exhaustion. Giving the highwayman an assessing look, the Scotsman turned back to Swiftnick and bent over him.

Shoving the wet blond hair off his face, Glenrae bent down close and pressed one ear to his mouth, then tugged at Swiftnick's jaw and tucked a finger inside his mouth before he rolled him briskly on to his side, pulled his head back and whacked the youth between the shoulder blades.

Kneeling beside them, it was all Dick could do to sit and shiver and watch in cold dread. "Breathe, Nick, breathe…." He whispered, reaching out to pat the youth's pale hand. 

Glenrae glanced at him, leaned down to check for breathing and thumped the lad again. This time Swiftnick coughed up a mouthful of water, gurgled and coughed again and woke up with a struggle. Glenrae steadied him, continuing to massage his back as Swiftnick spat water and gasped. "Easy, laddie, we’ve got ye. Ye're safe now," he told him reassuringly.

"Dick…" Swiftnick gasped, his fingers clenching convulsively on Turpin's hand as he peered shakily at his mentor. "Are you…?"

"I'm fine, you idiot," Dick snapped. "Didn't I tell you not to turn your back on him? Didn't I tell you to fetch help? Do you never listen to anything say? How dare you go sneaking off without telling anyone?! You could have got us killed!"

Swiftnick's blue eyes welled with tears and he let go of Dick's hand, struggling to sit up. Turpin made a small cross sound in the back of his throat and grabbed him, pulling his young friend tight against his wet chest in a fierce hug. "Bloody pest! Like to finish me off for good, you are," he growled, smoothing back his wet curls. "Look at you, you little drowned rat! I should've thrown you back."

Swiftnick sniffled and held on tight, upset and confused but only too glad that for all Turpin's growling the highwayman had obviously been worried about him. His tongue might have a rough edge to it, but his hands and touch were always gentle. He flinched however when Glenrae probed the side of his head with one fingertip, suddenly made aware of its bruised throbbing. "Ow! Stoppit!" he yelped, shoving his hand away.

"Neither of ye look at yer best," the Scotsman observed dourly.

Swiftnick gave him a wan look. "I didn't do anything," he protested miserably. "Did I? What happened?"

Dick froze, his grumbling stilled. "Don't you know?" he asked hesitantly.

"You’re yelling at me, so it must've been bad. The last thing I remember is you were in the river and I was going to find something to pull you out…"

"Glenrae?" Dick asked weakly, shooting a worried look at the Scotsman.

"Och, it's quite a bump the laddie has. Nay to be wondered at if he nay remembers."

"He got clouted with a tree branch."

"A tree attacked me?" Swiftnick wondered. 

"No, you half-wit…" Turpin snapped, fear making him exasperated. Swiftnick's bottom lip trembled with a pout and the hint of more tears at the brusque response.

"Dick, ye'd help by nay yelling at him," Glenrae said gently. Turpin glowered at him, unaware that it was hard to look tough when he was cuddling Swiftnick like a pet cat. "Let's get ye both inside the mill house. It'll be warmer and dryer in there."

Turpin grunted sourly but complied, letting Glenrae urge Swiftnick to his feet before struggling to unfold his own cramped legs. The Scotsman had to help him up as well, steadying the highwayman before turning his attention to helping a limping Swiftnick.

Once inside the mill house, Glenrae produced dry if dusty towels and clothes from a wooden chest and started a fire going while the two highwaymen stripped off. "Tobias always kept plenty of spare clothes here," he explained. "Fishing is a wet sport."

"Never understood why a man would go fishing in the rain," Dick responded, casting a worried look at Swiftnick at the youth perched on a chair, coughing as he hunched into a blanket and made a desultory attempt to dry his hair.  "Here, lad, put this on." He held out a dry shirt to the youth and Swiftnick accepted it gratefully, pulling it on over his head. Tobias' breeches were somewhat too big for Swiftnick, but a length of cord soon sorted that out.

Dick was unimpressed by his own borrowed outfit, feeling it lacked something in sartorial elegance to be dressed in worn velvet breeches and a flounced and ruffled shirt. He was glad to sit next to the fire, toasting himself and drying his boots, while he watched Glenrae patch up a nasty bruised gash on Swiftnick's knee that Dick assumed he had got in the river. Turpin certainly had plenty of bruises of his own to think about where he had been rolled against the river banks and bottom and had branches bounce off him as he fought to protect his apprentice from the flotsam and jetsam being washed downstream.

Now that he was sitting quietly though, he was starting to think again and a dark and dangerous anger was swelling like a flood tide in his thoughts. Rookwood had done this. Rookwood had meant to kill not only him, but his apprentice. "No one else is getting in my way again," he repeated grimly.

"Sorry, Dick, what was that?" Glenrae looked up from urging Swiftnick to lie down in a nest of blankets on the floor by the floor. Swiftnick was shivering and coughing, clearly thoroughly miserable as he pulled the blankets up around him.

"What Rookwood said, before he threw Swiftnick in the river," Turpin said sourly, dropping his boots to the floor. "He must have gone back to the Grange, Glenrae. The man's snapped."

"Ye don’t know that."

"Is it the act of a sane man to kill two people he hardly knows?" Dick growled.  "He wants Isobel and he won't be thwarted. The man must be obsessed by her to go this far."

Glenrae scowled. "The lassie told him she plans to come out before she marries him," he said slowly. "Ye ken she was only standing up for herself, wanting to make him wait a bit. A wee bit of flirtation…"

"Rookwood won't see it that way. I think she's pushed him over the edge."

"But he’ll nay harm her…."

"Perhaps not, but he may force her into marrying her."

"Och, he'd nay…"

Turpin raised an eyebrow. "Och, he would," he echoed the Scotsman sarcastically. "Whisk her off, seduce her whether she will or not, but one way or another ruin her reputation so she has to marry him…"

A stony expression settled over Glenrae's face. Swiftnick made a small sound of complaint, snuggling deeper as a shiver shook him. Glenrae frowned. "The laddie should nay walk so far."

"He'll be all right here," Turpin said flatly. "Won't you, Swiftnick?"

"Mmmh…" Swiftnick yawned, too exhausted to realise that he was being left out. 

"Glenrae, he called her a whore and Swiftnick a catamite…" Dick pressed, seeing Glenrae hesitate doubtfully.

"What's that?" Swiftnick asked drowsily.

"Never you mind. I thought you were bloody asleep…" Turpin grumbled.

"Did he now," Glenrae said in a slow dangerous voice; the battle light glowing in his dark blue eyes. "Maybe it's time I introduced him to a claymore…"

"Maybe it is," Dick agreed grimly. "Don't forget Marguerite and Cynthia are there too."

"So's Freddy. He'll stop him…"

"And do you think Rookwood won't kill him and anyone else who gets in his way?"

"Ye want to kill him for hurting yon laddie."

"You'd better bloody believe I do! Damn it, Glenrae, don't be so bloody civilised!" Grabbing his damp boots, Dick stamped his feet into them. "I'm going back."

"Wait!"

"I don't have sodding time."

"Yer not armed and Tobias kept a pistol or two here." His decision made, Glenrae hurried from the room while Dick knelt next to Swiftnick, pulling the blankets over the youth's shoulder.

"You'll be all right here, Swiftnick, and you'll feel better once you get warmed up," he said quietly while the youth watched him dazedly.  "Glenrae and I are going back to the Grange to get you a carriage so you don't have to walk back."

"I don't need a carriage."

"Yes, you do," Dick snapped, then restrained himself to cajole, "It'll make the ladies fuss over you…."

Swiftnick pouted but agreed. "All right. But Dick, there something I should tell you," he said slowly, gingerly touching his aching head. "Only it's all foggy and I can't quite remember…"

"It'll come back to you," Dick assured him kindly.  He looked up as Glenrae came back with the pistols.

"They’re loaded and the powder's dry," the Scotsman announced.

"Good. Tell me, is it safe to leave Swiftnick? He's still a bit dazed…"

"Nay more so than you," Glenrae responded dourly. "If ye think ye can get me all fired up and then leave me behind, ye can think again. Ye can stay here if ye want."

Turpin snorted at that. "Oh, aye, Rookwood would love that. He'd really love to kill you! Give me those."  Glenrae gave him a sour look but handled over the pistols since he had his own concealed in the dryness of his cloak. "Swiftnick?" Turning back to his apprentice, Dick showed him one of the pistols as he put it on the blanket chest beside him. "It's loaded, lad. If Rookwood turns up here and threatens you in any way, shape or form, you shoot him. We'll worry about hiding the body later."

Swiftnick gave him a round eyed look and a small nod. "Yes, Dick," he agreed hesitantly.

Turpin hesitated then ruffled Swiftnick's hair that was cautiously starting to fluff out as it dried. "I want you safe when I come back.  Hide if anyone comes. Understand?"

This time Swiftnick smiled. "Yes, Dick," he said warmly.

"Good lad." Dick squeezed his shoulder and thrust to his feet.  "Come on then, Glenrae, let's go catch ourselves a murderer."

                                                            * * *

"Freddy, do stop pacing like that, dear. It's making the girls nervous," Marguerite scolded.

Freddy glanced at her, looked at Isobel and Cynthia who were occupying themselves with a chess game and flung himself into a seat. He had of course told Marguerite about Nicholas going missing, but not the two girls. Since he had found Rookwood to be missing as well however his trepidation had increased. A part of him strongly urged him to go out to help find his young friend and warn Glenrae and Sir Richard about Rookwood. But what exactly was he supposed to warn them of? He had also been ordered to stay and guard the women and he could not in all honour abandon them. Goodness knew what would happen if Rookwood returned and found them alone and unprotected; assuming Sir Richard's fears were correct and Rookwood wasn't the gentleman he pretended to be. Why, if he was desperate to marry Isobel, he might even attempt to ravish her to force her guardians into accepting their marriage! 

Freddy sniffed disparagingly at his own thoughts. Why he was starting to sound like one of Cynthia's romance novels!   No, no, Rookwood couldn't be that much of a cad with his breeding. He was far more likely to attempt to induce Isobel to elope with him. Silly little chit was love struck enough to think that dreadfully romantic and it would be up to Freddy to save her from him. Then of course, she would realise how wrong she had been and fling herself into Freddy's waiting embrace….

"Dash it all, rubs off on a chap…." Freddy exploded. "Ghastly nonsense!"

"Sorry, Freddy?" Cynthia looked over at him in astonishment.

"Romance novels. Nonsense."

"How would you know if you've never read one?" Isobel wondered.

"Would you like to?" Cynthia offered.

"No, thinking out loud. Need to move your horse thingy if you want to win…"

"It's a knight," Cynthia sniffed, miffed and knowing that Freddy was the only person she knew who could beat her and still not know the names of the chess pieces.

 Freddy waved an airy hand and sunk back into his thoughts, wishing he had something to distract him.

The distraction soon arrived, but it wasn't the one he had hoped for as Rookwood stalked into the room from the hall. He looked to be in a filthy temper and had clearly taken a soaking. His fine boots were mud splattered and his clothes were rumpled and creased.

"My goodness, Neville," Isobel exclaimed as she rose to her feet to greet him. "Whatever have you been doing? You look as if you've been absolutely rolling in the mud!"

"I was attacked by that swine who calls himself Sir Richard!" Rookwood barked, his eyes glittering dangerously. "I swear, the man is certainly not a gentlemen. Why, I quite believe he is an impostor!" 

"That's nonsense, Neville," Marguerite said tartly. "Robert has known him for a very long time."

"Has he indeed, my lady," Rookwood retorted, giving her a sardonic look.  "Glenrae has always been something of a black sheep though, hasn’t he? I have always considered him to be something less than a gentleman himself. It only confirmed my opinion of him when he refused to allow me to marry Isobel. Obviously he is after her fortune himself."

"What utter balderdash!" Marguerite exclaimed.

"I think not," Rookwood snapped. "Seeing that Isobel's affections are engaged, he no sooner arrived here than he switched his attentions to you!" He swung to Isobel, clasping her hands in his own. "Isobel, my darling, let us fly from here and be married at once!"

 "But, but…" Wide-eyed, Isobel gazed up at him in awe, quite taken aback.

"You won't get a penny of her inheritance if you do and you know it," Marguerite warned sharply.

"As if I care a fig for her money…" Rookwood snarled, gazing deep into Isobel's confused eyes.

"As if you don't!" Freddy rose to his own feet, having recovered from his own initial amazement at the sight of Rookwood.  Rookwood gave him a dangerous look that made Freddy quail in his boots, but still he stood his ground. "You, sir, are a fortune hunter! Your reputation is well known to be that of a rake!"

Rookwood's laugh had a nasty febrile edge to it. "Listen to the puppy talk," he sneered. "Ignore them, Isobel, their petty jealousy and greed for your money is all that stands between us and our happiness."

"But, Neville, I don't wish to upset my guardians," Isobel protested faintly.

"And she wants to come out!" Cynthia put in.

"Oh, shut up, you silly little bitch!" Rookwood barked at her, making poor Cynthia flinch back in mortification.

"Don't you speak to her like that, or I shall, I shall draw your cork for you!" Freddy snarled, outraged.

"Be quiet! This is none of your concern!" Rookwood roared at him then looked sharply at Isobel as she tugged her hands free.

"You’re being very rude," Isobel said angrily.  "I want you to apologise to Cynthia at once. And to Freddy and Marguerite as well."

"Don't be such a little fool!" Rookwood snarled. "I have been exceedingly patient with you, Isobel, but I can only stand so much and my temper wears thin."

"So I noticed," Isobel said forbiddingly. "I do not like that in you, Neville."

"You will learn to like it. I will not be thwarted again. You will marry me and I will claim your inheritance for you. There will be no opposition when everyone knows how Glenrae and Marguerite have conspired against us in order to keep control of your money."

"But I don't care about the money. I've told you that…"

"Well, I do!" Rookwood interrupted her rudely, rushing on under the shocked look she gave him. "Because it is yours, my dear! It makes my temper boil when they would deny it to you…"

Isobel succeeded in freeing her hands and stepped back. "But why must we rush to marry now?" she demanded sharply. "Mr Glenrae has already said that if we remain determined to marry after I come out, then he will set no obstacles in our way. And I am still awaiting your apology to my friends for your rude behaviour!"

"I will arrange to have my carriage brought round," Rookwood ignored her protests. "You may tell your maid to pack for you. My own trunk can be brought down when the carriage is ready." Taking a firm grip on Isobel's slender hand, he turned and bowed stiffly to Marguerite. "We will not bother you any longer."

"If you take her away from here without my permission I shall cry kidnap on you!" Marguerite said furiously.

"Then do so and see her reputation ruined," Rookwood sneered, turning to the door and finding Freddy obstinately planted in his way with his fists raised.  "Get out of my way, boy!"

"No," Freddy said grimly. "Isobel, listen to sense, girl! This is all a hum. Rookwood may have a tendre for you, but I don't believe for a moment that he truly loves you. No man worth his salt would force a girl to elope with him when she is obviously reluctant."

"You’re a fool. Isobel isn't reluctant, she loves me!" Rookwood snarled.

Isobel however was looking up at Rookwood with obvious doubt in her eyes. "But I really don't wish to elope, Neville," she said miserably. "I want to get married properly, with flowers and guests and a huge banquet and a ball and everything!"

 "You'll do as I say!"

"I won't!" Isobel stamped her foot indignantly. "Now you’re being mean and bossy!"

"You’re too young to understand," Rookwood told her.

"But not to young to marry?" Marguerite said sarcastically. "Why don't we all sit down and talk abut this like reasonable people?"

"Hah!" said Rookwood and took a step towards Freddy. Freddy promptly gritted his teeth ands took a swing at him. Rookwood however ducked and punched back, decking the youth with a fist to the jaw that sent him over and down in a heap. Isobel, who he had had to release to punch Freddy, let out a squeal and ran back to flung herself into Marguerite's arms.

"Freddy!" Cynthia ran to her brother's side and flung herself to her knees beside him in a swirl of lavender skirts. "Oh, darling, darling, Freddy, are you hurt? Speak to me! Has the monster hurt you?!"

Freddy gave her a look of dazed exasperation as he clutched at his aching jaw. "Broke me jaw, how can I?" he mumbled, discovering that his mouth was filling with blood from a split lip.

Rookwood swore violently at the pair of them and stuck out one hand to Isobel. "Come here immediately, girl. We are leaving."

"You are leaving indeed, sir, but without Isobel," Marguerite told him icily, holding her terrified ward consolingly.  "You have frightened her badly."

"Shut up. Isobel, I order you…." Rookwood took a step towards her and Marguerite pushed Isobel behind her as the girl cowered.

"Ye'll do no such thing," ordered a Scottish voice from behind him. Startled Rookwood looked round into Glenrae's glittering eyes as the Scotsman stood in the study doorway with a pistol in his hand. Rookwood took one look at him and lunged, grabbing Cynthia and plucking her away from her brother's side. Before an armed Turpin, who had entered through the hall door, could do more than block his exit, Rookwood had clutched the squirming girl to him and drawn his musket to press against her temple. Cynthia insistently stopped squirming and stood very still, her eyes huge with fright.

"You cad, sir, release her immediately!" Freddy snarled, staggering to his feet. Exasperated, Turpin grabbed him by the back of the jacket and dragged him back out the line of fire.

"We seem to have a stalemate, sirs," Rookwood said in surprisingly quiet tone of voice.

"Why didn't you bloody shoot him, Glenrae?" Dick demanded, sliding a quick look at the Scotsman.

"I didn't have a clear shot with Marguerite in the way," Glenrae growled.

"Then you should have waited for me," Dick snapped.

"Excuse me, but I am the one with the hostage!" Rookwood interrupted sarcastically as he backed towards the French doors that led out onto the lawn. "I suggest you put your weapons on the floor and move over there."

"Put down your weapons and fight me like a man, you cur!" Freddy yelled.

"Be quiet before I shoot you, boy," Rookwood snapped.

"Freddy," Dick put a steadying hand on the younger man's shoulder. "Do as he says. You don't want him to hurt Cynthia, do you?"

"No, but…."

"I know he's got your temper up, but listen to the voice of bitter experience. The man has a gun. Do as he says."

Rookwood laughed. "The voice of experience! Your weapons, gentlemen! I insist!" 

                                                            * * *

Swiftnick twitched like a puppy in his sleep, rousing restlessly and tossing off the blankets Turpin had tucked around him. He felt uncomfortably hot now and oddly clear headed. His memories swum like fishes in as stream battling up river as he sat up, confused and wondering why he could hear voices again. Had Dick and Glenrae come back so soon? Or had he only dreamed they had left?

Puzzled, but certain he needed to get up, he pulled his boots back on and tottered to his feet. Picking up the pistol Dick had left him and looping a blanket around his shoulders, he weaved over to the door to get a breath of fresh air.

The voices swelled as he cracked it open and the blast of freezing cold air that rushed in to chill him to the bones stopped him in his tracks. Through the crack in the door, he peeked out, listening to the voices.  One of the voices belonged to Rookwood, although it sounded faint and faraway like an echo. The other held a Scottish burr but Swiftnick, whose ear was accustomed to Glenrae's accents, knew it wasn't his friend. As he watched a figure suddenly materialised on the walkway; literally as if he had taken a step out of a thick cloud to appear like magic in front of his youthful audience. He paced up and down the walkway, his head half turned as if he was talking to someone out of Swiftnick's sight. He was an older man with a substantial but not fat figure and was probably in his fifties. But for all his solid outline, he appeared misty and insubstantial and the boards under foot didn't creak the way they had when Swiftnick stepped on them earlier.

Bewildered but curious, Swiftnick held his tongue to listen and watch, still too dazed to realise what he was seeing was a bit of ghostly play acting.

"I’ll nay allow it, Rookwood," the man was saying. "Yer after the lassie's money and that's all it is. Ye nay love her."

"You’re jealous," came the echoing response. "You refuse to allow Isobel her happiness."

"If I thought she'd be happy with ye, I’d agree. But as soon as ye've got her money, ye'd be off after yer bits of muslin. Ye think I didn't look into yer background? Yer father the Earl's about to cast yer off in disgust at raising such a rake. I say yer father has the right of it, it might be the making of ye!"

"Damn it, I will marry her with or without your permission!"

"Yer a fortune hunter. Make no mistake I know it."

"And what are you? If you’re not marrying Marguerite for her money what are you marrying her for?!"

"'Tis nay your concern if I care for a bit of companionship! Unless of course, yer afraid it'll cost you Isobel's money!"

"Tobias, I am giving you one last chance to be reasonable about this. Refuse and we will elope!"

"Ye'll both of ye find yerself without a feather to fly with if ye do. I’ll take the lassie back, reputation or no, but I doubt the Earl will…."

Rookwood let out a strangled cry and Tobias flung up his hands, clearly squaring off to an invisible opponent. Before Swiftnick's horrified eyes, they struggled; Tobias obviously getting the worst of it and receiving a battering from unseen hands. At one point, he apparently clutched at the wrists of his attacker as hands choked him. Making gurgling noises he kicked and struggled and was suddenly flung to the walkway where his head hit against a rail post with a horrible scrunching sound and he went limp. A dark pool started to spread under his head…

Clutching his gun tightly, Swiftnick ventured to push the door open. He could hear the sounds of heavy breathing as Tobias' body shook slightly, his head lolling at a strange angle, then the body suddenly rolled over against the rails as if it had been shoved through the gap to vanish into the water below. Swiftnick heard the splash and ran forward unthinkingly, darting to the rail to look over in the hopes of helping. He had a glimpse of the body below, arms and legs waving helplessly in the current, as the undertow sucked it under the wheel where it vanished…