Read Online Barbara Metzger by Miss Lockharte's Letters - Free Book Online
Authors: Miss Lockharte's Letters
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Your slugs will be winded before we've gone ten miles."
"We'll race."
Tom wasn't so sure. “What's the winner get?"
"He gets to Worthing first, you chinch."
"Uh, Tim, where is Worthing?"
"Damned if I know."
Viscount Stanford hadn't placed the Heatherstone twins on his mental list of suspects for either stealing his soldiers or making off with Hume's hat. He hadn't recalled their first names or initials, since he always thought of them merely as Rattle and Pate. But he did remember that they'd been at his house the night before once he saw their names on the guest list Stubbing had compiled with the butler's help. They'd been wearing yellow Cossack trousers and puce waistcoats with cabbage roses embroidered on them. With their red hair, Haddock and Hake had looked like wallpaper for a whorehouse.
And they'd been making calf's eyes at Susan. The Heatherstones were known to follow the latest fashions, both in their attire and in paying court to the latest belle. Wynn was pleased that his sister had the nod, but not from those noddies, as rackety a pair as he'd ever known. They'd always seemed harmless enough, but someone had been in his studio.
Wynn's first call, after discussing the list with Stubbing, was at the Albany. The porter there reported that the twins had left in tandem an hour earlier, arguing over horses, roads, and who would pay the tolls.
"I wouldn't be surprised if they came a-cropper before they reach Reigate, the way they was carrying on.” The porter was garrulous, with a new guinea in his pocket. “On the go and on the wrong road for Brighton."
They were cow-handed, to boot. But what the deuce were those two jackstraws doing, going to Brighton?
"Trying to beat Prinny's time, from what I heard,” the porter said, shaking his head at the young men's chances.
"But during the Season?” Wynn wondered out loud. “Those two nodcocks never miss a free meal."
The porter had no answer. “Maybe they don't know it ain't summer yet."
"Do you mind if I go up and leave a message?"
For another guinea, the porter wouldn't have minded if Viscount Stanford left the twins a mangel-wurzel. “You can try, but they'll never find it in that pigsty."
Wynn looked around the sitting room, not even pretending to be seeking a safe place for his calling card. Lud, his pigs lived better than this.
"The maids come on Thursdays. They do the best they can, but it would take more'n a dustmop and a broom to make this place look presentable."
A fire or an earthquake, perhaps, Wynn thought. He did find a top hat, resting on a bust of Homer that could only have come with the furnished rooms. He smelled the hat while the porter shrugged at the ways of the gentry.
"Queer as Dick's hatband, all of ‘em,” he muttered.
No, there was nothing in the hatband or the lining either, just the stamped initials TH. And the hat smelled of London's stews, not of cigar smoke. Wynn gave up the search. A battalion of his miniature soldiers could have bivouacked in this dump and he wouldn't spot them. So he left, stepping on the letters that had sent the Heatherstones hying for the high road.
The rooms belonging to Tripp Hayes, the Honorable Thorence Hayes the Third, that was, were ascetic in contrast. Nothing was out of place or less than immaculate, including Tripp's valet, Fullerton. The fastidious gentleman's gentleman was packing.
"Mr. Hayes has decided to visit his family,” the gray-clad servant said with a sniff, expressing his opinion of gentlemen who went haring around the countryside without their valets. “Quite unexpectedly. I shall follow this afternoon with the baggage."
"Nothing wrong with his mother, I trust."
"I'm sure I couldn't say, not being in the master's confidence.” Which the little man obviously resented.
He also couldn't say when Hayes might be returning to Town. He was, however, able to state unequivocally that no hats had suffered mistaken identity at his hands. “Ours are made by Locke, of
"We'll race."
Tom wasn't so sure. “What's the winner get?"
"He gets to Worthing first, you chinch."
"Uh, Tim, where is Worthing?"
"Damned if I know."
Viscount Stanford hadn't placed the Heatherstone twins on his mental list of suspects for either stealing his soldiers or making off with Hume's hat. He hadn't recalled their first names or initials, since he always thought of them merely as Rattle and Pate. But he did remember that they'd been at his house the night before once he saw their names on the guest list Stubbing had compiled with the butler's help. They'd been wearing yellow Cossack trousers and puce waistcoats with cabbage roses embroidered on them. With their red hair, Haddock and Hake had looked like wallpaper for a whorehouse.
And they'd been making calf's eyes at Susan. The Heatherstones were known to follow the latest fashions, both in their attire and in paying court to the latest belle. Wynn was pleased that his sister had the nod, but not from those noddies, as rackety a pair as he'd ever known. They'd always seemed harmless enough, but someone had been in his studio.
Wynn's first call, after discussing the list with Stubbing, was at the Albany. The porter there reported that the twins had left in tandem an hour earlier, arguing over horses, roads, and who would pay the tolls.
"I wouldn't be surprised if they came a-cropper before they reach Reigate, the way they was carrying on.” The porter was garrulous, with a new guinea in his pocket. “On the go and on the wrong road for Brighton."
They were cow-handed, to boot. But what the deuce were those two jackstraws doing, going to Brighton?
"Trying to beat Prinny's time, from what I heard,” the porter said, shaking his head at the young men's chances.
"But during the Season?” Wynn wondered out loud. “Those two nodcocks never miss a free meal."
The porter had no answer. “Maybe they don't know it ain't summer yet."
"Do you mind if I go up and leave a message?"
For another guinea, the porter wouldn't have minded if Viscount Stanford left the twins a mangel-wurzel. “You can try, but they'll never find it in that pigsty."
Wynn looked around the sitting room, not even pretending to be seeking a safe place for his calling card. Lud, his pigs lived better than this.
"The maids come on Thursdays. They do the best they can, but it would take more'n a dustmop and a broom to make this place look presentable."
A fire or an earthquake, perhaps, Wynn thought. He did find a top hat, resting on a bust of Homer that could only have come with the furnished rooms. He smelled the hat while the porter shrugged at the ways of the gentry.
"Queer as Dick's hatband, all of ‘em,” he muttered.
No, there was nothing in the hatband or the lining either, just the stamped initials TH. And the hat smelled of London's stews, not of cigar smoke. Wynn gave up the search. A battalion of his miniature soldiers could have bivouacked in this dump and he wouldn't spot them. So he left, stepping on the letters that had sent the Heatherstones hying for the high road.
The rooms belonging to Tripp Hayes, the Honorable Thorence Hayes the Third, that was, were ascetic in contrast. Nothing was out of place or less than immaculate, including Tripp's valet, Fullerton. The fastidious gentleman's gentleman was packing.
"Mr. Hayes has decided to visit his family,” the gray-clad servant said with a sniff, expressing his opinion of gentlemen who went haring around the countryside without their valets. “Quite unexpectedly. I shall follow this afternoon with the baggage."
"Nothing wrong with his mother, I trust."
"I'm sure I couldn't say, not being in the master's confidence.” Which the little man obviously resented.
He also couldn't say when Hayes might be returning to Town. He was, however, able to state unequivocally that no hats had suffered mistaken identity at his hands. “Ours are made by Locke, of
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