Read Online Leopard in Exile by Andre Norton, Rosemary Edghill - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Andre Norton, Rosemary Edghill
Tags: Demonoid Upload 6
Ads: Link
thank you
for an evening I'd not care to repeat, Master Blaise."
He wheeled his horse and trotted away. Wessex wasted no time in spurring Hirondel on his own path.
At this hour, it was not possible to use the regular entrance to the White Tower Group, which was a
haberdashery on Bond Street. Instead, Wessex spent precious minutes locating a certain coaching inn
that lay along High Holborn. He did not stop in the Globe and Triangle's innyard, but rode Hirondel
directly into the stable.
A surly ostler looked up, reaching for the lead-weighted club with which he kept order in his domain.
"The Scarecrow has business with England," Wessex said, and the ruffian subsided. He jerked a thumb
over his shoulder.
Wessex dismounted—to have dismounted before giving the code-phrase would have been to ensure his
immediate execution—and led Hirondel through the stable. The Globe and Triangle was a busy inn, and
for the most part its traffic was entirely ordinary.
A second groom watched carefully as Wessex led Hirondel into the last stall on the end, taking with him
the lighted lantern that hung on the peg there. It was a loose-box, scrubbed clean and with thick straw
strewn upon the floor. Wessex went quickly to the manger in the back and pushed it toward the left.
There was a loud click as the mechanism engaged, and then the entire back wall of the stall swung inward
as if it were a door, to disclose a long downward-sloping narrow passageway, just high enough for a
mounted man, if he were a careful one.
Wessex led Hirondel through the opening, then shoved the wall back until he heard the click that meant
the mechanism had engaged once more. The stallion nosed at him inquisitively, and Wessex took a
moment to reassure the beast before he swung into the saddle again.
The passage was damp and close and smelled pervasively of horse. Hirondel's hooves made only the
faintest of sounds, for the passage was floored in thick rubber tiles. It led from the stables at the Globe
and Triangle to the cellars of the Bond Street house, a passage of no little distance. Wessex had used it
only once before, but tonight he had no choice: there could be no possible reason for the Duke of
Wessex to call upon his tailor at this hour of the morning—and he could not approach Baron Misbourne
at a public function even if he knew where the White Tower's master might be.
A quarter of an hour brought him to the end of the passage. The passageway seemingly ended in a solid
wall, but Wessex knew its secret. He dismounted, tied Hirondel to a ring set into the wall, and cast about
until he found the pulley-ropes that worked the dumbwaiter. As Wessex strained at the counterweighted
ropes, an open-sided box that only moments before had appeared to be a part of the tunnel walls began
to rise skyward, bearing Wessex with it.
It was just as well that my lord of Wessex had dressed the part of a low fellow when he had gone
seeking the highwayman, for no Pink of the Ton 7 would have been able to work the mechanism without
imperiling the work of the impeccable Weston. But Wessex's coat was slovenly loose, and a few minutes
of exertion saw the open elevator rise into the lowest of the cellars of the Bond Street establishment.
Charteris was there to greet him as always, the impeccably-liveried White Tower butler giving no
indication that there was anything amiss regarding the hour or fashion of Wessex's arrival.
"Good evening, Your Grace," Charteris said imperturbably, reaching for Wessex's cloak and hat.
His Grace surrendered the items reluctantly. The Mirror Rose was in the inner pocket of his coat. "I need
to see Lord Misbourne. It is a matter of the utmost urgency."
"Of course, Your Grace. If you will come with me to the Yellow Parlor, I shall enquire if His Lordship is
at home. I shall send a servant to see to your horse."
A few moments later, Wessex stood in one of the four small rooms on the ground floor of the premises.
Except
for an evening I'd not care to repeat, Master Blaise."
He wheeled his horse and trotted away. Wessex wasted no time in spurring Hirondel on his own path.
At this hour, it was not possible to use the regular entrance to the White Tower Group, which was a
haberdashery on Bond Street. Instead, Wessex spent precious minutes locating a certain coaching inn
that lay along High Holborn. He did not stop in the Globe and Triangle's innyard, but rode Hirondel
directly into the stable.
A surly ostler looked up, reaching for the lead-weighted club with which he kept order in his domain.
"The Scarecrow has business with England," Wessex said, and the ruffian subsided. He jerked a thumb
over his shoulder.
Wessex dismounted—to have dismounted before giving the code-phrase would have been to ensure his
immediate execution—and led Hirondel through the stable. The Globe and Triangle was a busy inn, and
for the most part its traffic was entirely ordinary.
A second groom watched carefully as Wessex led Hirondel into the last stall on the end, taking with him
the lighted lantern that hung on the peg there. It was a loose-box, scrubbed clean and with thick straw
strewn upon the floor. Wessex went quickly to the manger in the back and pushed it toward the left.
There was a loud click as the mechanism engaged, and then the entire back wall of the stall swung inward
as if it were a door, to disclose a long downward-sloping narrow passageway, just high enough for a
mounted man, if he were a careful one.
Wessex led Hirondel through the opening, then shoved the wall back until he heard the click that meant
the mechanism had engaged once more. The stallion nosed at him inquisitively, and Wessex took a
moment to reassure the beast before he swung into the saddle again.
The passage was damp and close and smelled pervasively of horse. Hirondel's hooves made only the
faintest of sounds, for the passage was floored in thick rubber tiles. It led from the stables at the Globe
and Triangle to the cellars of the Bond Street house, a passage of no little distance. Wessex had used it
only once before, but tonight he had no choice: there could be no possible reason for the Duke of
Wessex to call upon his tailor at this hour of the morning—and he could not approach Baron Misbourne
at a public function even if he knew where the White Tower's master might be.
A quarter of an hour brought him to the end of the passage. The passageway seemingly ended in a solid
wall, but Wessex knew its secret. He dismounted, tied Hirondel to a ring set into the wall, and cast about
until he found the pulley-ropes that worked the dumbwaiter. As Wessex strained at the counterweighted
ropes, an open-sided box that only moments before had appeared to be a part of the tunnel walls began
to rise skyward, bearing Wessex with it.
It was just as well that my lord of Wessex had dressed the part of a low fellow when he had gone
seeking the highwayman, for no Pink of the Ton 7 would have been able to work the mechanism without
imperiling the work of the impeccable Weston. But Wessex's coat was slovenly loose, and a few minutes
of exertion saw the open elevator rise into the lowest of the cellars of the Bond Street establishment.
Charteris was there to greet him as always, the impeccably-liveried White Tower butler giving no
indication that there was anything amiss regarding the hour or fashion of Wessex's arrival.
"Good evening, Your Grace," Charteris said imperturbably, reaching for Wessex's cloak and hat.
His Grace surrendered the items reluctantly. The Mirror Rose was in the inner pocket of his coat. "I need
to see Lord Misbourne. It is a matter of the utmost urgency."
"Of course, Your Grace. If you will come with me to the Yellow Parlor, I shall enquire if His Lordship is
at home. I shall send a servant to see to your horse."
A few moments later, Wessex stood in one of the four small rooms on the ground floor of the premises.
Except
Similar Books
