The Convenient Marriage Read online

  ‘Me?’ exclaimed Mr Hawkins virtuously. ‘Cross me heart if –’

  ‘That’ll do,’ interrupted the Viscount. ‘Blew the hat off your head on Shooter’s Hill six months ago. Now I’ve got a piece of work for you to do. What do you say to twenty guineas, eh?’

  Mr Hawkins recoiled. ‘Dang me if ever I works with a flash cull again, that’s what I says!’

  The Viscount lifted his pistol. ‘Then I’ll hold you, while my friend there goes for a constable.’

  ‘You dassn’t!’ grinned Mr Hawkins. ‘You get me put in the Whit, and I takes his peevy lordship with me – ah, and how’ll you like that?’

  ‘Pretty well,’ said the Viscount. ‘He’s no friend of mine. Friend of yours?’

  Mr Hawkins spat comprehensively. Sir Roland, his sense of propriety offended, interposed. ‘Here, I say, Pel, can’t have the fellow spitting all over another man’s house. Bad ton, dear boy. Devilish bad!’

  ‘Don’t do that again!’ ordered the Viscount. ‘What’s the use of it? Diddled you out of your money, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Ay, loped off,’ growled Mr Hawkins. ‘A boman prig, he is! When I gets my hands on him –’

  ‘I can help you to do that,’ said the Viscount. ‘What do you say to holding him up? – for twenty guineas?’

  Mr Hawkins looked suspiciously from one to the other. ‘What’s the lay?’ he demanded.

  ‘He’s got something I want,’ said the Viscount briefly. ‘Make up your mind! The Watch, or twenty guineas?’

  Mr Hawkins caressed his stubby chin. ‘Who’s in it? All of you coves?’ he inquired.

  ‘All of us. We’re going to hold up his chaise.’

  ‘What, in them toges?’ said Mr Hawkins, indicating the Viscount’s gold-laced coat.

  ‘Of course not, you fool!’ answered the Viscount impatiently. ‘That’s what we want you for. We must have three greatcoats like your own, and masks.’

  A broad grin spread over Mr Hawkins’s countenance. ‘Damn my blood, but I like your spirit!’ he announced. ‘I’ll do it! Where is this cull?’

  ‘On the Bath Road, heading for London.’

  ‘That’ll mean the Heath, that will,’ nodded Mr Hawkins. ‘When’s it for?’

  ‘Any time after noon. Can’t say precisely.’

  Mr Hawkins pulled down his mouth. ‘Dang me if I like it, then. I like to work when the tattler’s up, see?’

  ‘If there’s one thing we don’t want it’s any tattlers,’ replied the Viscount firmly.

  ‘Lord love your honour, ain’t you ever heard on the moon?’

  ‘The moon! By the time that’s up our man will be safe in this house. This is daylight or nothing.’

  Mr Hawkins sighed. ‘Just as you say, your honour. And you wants a set of toges and shaps? Bring your own nags?’

  ‘Own horses, own pistols,’ agreed the Viscount.

  ‘You’ll have to mount me, then, Pelham,’ put it Captain Heron.

  ‘Mount you with pleasure, my dear fellow.’

  ‘Own pops?’ said Mr Hawkins. ‘Us bridle culls don’t use them little pops all over wedge, your honour.’

  The Viscount glanced down at his pistol. ‘What’s wrong with it? Devilish good pistol. Gave a hundred guineas for the pair.’

  Mr Hawkins pointed a grimy finger at the silver mountings. ‘All that wedge. That’s what’s wrong with it.’

  ‘Oh, very well,’ said the Viscount. ‘But I like my own pistols, you know. Now where do we get these coats and mufflers?’

  ‘You know the Half-Way House?’ said Mr Hawkins ‘That’s where I’ll be. There’s a flash ken thereabouts where I keeps my nag. I’ll be off there now, and when you comes, why dang me if I don’t have the toges and tyes ready for you!’

  ‘And how do I know you will be there?’ said the Viscount.

  ‘Because I wants twenty guineas,’ replied Mr Hawkins logically. ‘And because I wants to get my hands on that boman prig. That’s how.’

  Twenty

  An hour later three gentlemen might have been observed riding soberly out to Knightsbridge. Captain Heron, bestriding a raking chestnut from the Viscount’s stables, had changed his scarlet regimentals and his powdered wig for a plain suit of buff, and a brown tie-wig. He had found time, before joining the Viscount at his lodging, to call in Grosvenor Square again, where he had found Horatia in a fever of anxiety. When she learned of the new development in the affair, she first expressed herself as extremely dissatisfied that no one had killed the wretched Mr Drelincourt, and it was some few minutes before Captain Heron could induce her to speak of anything but that gentleman’s manifold iniquities. When her indignation had abated somewhat he laid the Viscount’s plan before her. This met with her instant approval. It was the cleverest notion she had ever heard of, and of course it could not fail.

  Captain Heron warned her to keep her own counsel, and went off to Pall Mall.

  He had not much expectation of finding Mr Hawkins either at the Halfway House or anywhere else, but it was obviously no use saying so to the optimistic Viscount. By this time his brother-in-law was in fine fettle, so that whether Mr Hawkins kept his appointment or not, it seemed probable that the plan would be carried out.

  About a quarter of a mile before the Halfway House was reached, a solitary rider, walking his horse, came into view. As they drew closer he looked over his shoulder, and Captain Heron was forced to admit that he had misjudged their new acquaintance.

  Mr Hawkins greeted him jovially. ‘Dang me if you wasn’t speaking the truth!’ he exclaimed. His eyes ran over the Viscount’s mare approvingly. ‘That’s a nice bit of horse-flesh, that is,’ he nodded. ‘But tricksy – tricksy, I’ll lay my life. You come along o’ me to the boozing ken I telled you of.’

  ‘Got those coats?’ asked the Viscount.

  ‘Ay, all’s bowman, your honour.’

  The ale-house which Mr Hawkins had made his head-quarters lay some little distance off the main road. It was an unsavoury haunt, and from the look of the company in the tap-room seemed to be frequented largely by ruffians of Mr Hawkins’ calling. As a preliminary to the adventure the Viscount called for four bumpers of brandy, for which he paid with a guinea tossed on to the counter.

  ‘Don’t throw guineas about, you young fool!’ said Captain Heron in a low voice. ‘You’ll have your pocket picked if you’re not more careful.’

  ‘Ay, the Capting’s in the right of it,’ said Mr Hawkins, overhearing. ‘I’m a bridle cull, I am – never went on the dublay yet, no, and never will, but there’s a couple of files got their winkers on you. We gets all sorts here – locks, files, common prigs, and foot-scamperers. Now, my bullies, drain your clanks! I got your toges up the dancers.’

  Sir Roland plucked at the Captain’s sleeve. ‘You know, Heron,’ he whispered confidentially, ‘this brandy – not at all the thing! Hope it don’t get into poor Pel’s head – very wild in his cups – oh, very wild! Must keep him away from any dancers.’

  ‘I don’t think he meant “dancers”,’ soothed Captain Heron. ‘I fancy that’s a cant word.’

  ‘Oh, that’s it, is it,’ said Sir Roland, relieved. ‘It’s a pity he don’t speak English. Don’t follow him at all, you know.’

  Mr Hawkins’ dancers proved to be a flight of rickety stairs, up which he led them to a malodorous bedroom. Sir Roland recoiled on the threshold, raising his scented handkerchief to his nose. ‘Pel – no, really Pel!’ he said faintly.

  ‘Smells a bit of onions,’ remarked the Viscount. He picked up a battered tricorne from a chair, and casting aside his rakish chapeau à la Valaque, clapped it over his fair, unpowdered locks. He surveyed the effect in the cracked mirror, and chuckled. ‘How d’you like it, Pom?’

  Sir Roland shook his head. ‘It ain’t a hat, Pel. You couldn’t call it a hat.’

  Mr Hawkins gave a guffaw. ‘