A Traitor's Touch. Helen Dickson

your craft more. You are a most inferior footpad.’

      Henrietta found herself meeting dark eyes set in a face of leanly fleshed cheekbones. There was a cleft in his strong chin, his nose was thin and well formed, slightly aquiline, and beneath it were generous, but at the moment unsmiling, lips. There was an air of the professional soldier about him, a quality that displayed itself in his crisp manner and rather austere mien. The handsome features bore the look of good breeding and those eyes, glinting with a sardonic expression and blue, she thought, seemed capable of piercing to her innermost secrets, causing a chill of fear to go through her.

      ‘For pity’s sake! Do not kill me,’ she pleaded, having no idea of the kind of men she was dealing with.

      An evil laugh was the answer. ‘No witness—that’s the first rule in this business.’

      ‘Who—who are you?’ Henrietta demanded, feeling most uneasy.

      Simon raised his eyebrows at her question. ‘Who am I? I might ask the same question of you—and with considerably more justification.’ He looked the youth over disapprovingly, taking in every detail of his clothes. His eyes quickened as he studied him with the keen glance of a man accustomed to noting the minutest detail around him. The lad was no country boy, though he might dress like one. His voice gave him away. Simon was secretly intrigued. ‘Explain what you’re doing here, lad. Why the devil are you wandering about the countryside by yourself?’

      ‘That’s my business.’

      Simon’s eyes gleamed coldly in the darkness. ‘Not any more.’ The hard line of his mouth tightened and the crease at the corner grew deeper. ‘The person who sent you cannot have done so merely for the pleasure of visiting the heath after dark.’

      ‘Why should you think anyone sent me?’

      He stared at her intently. ‘If you are indeed here on a mission, the most likely supposition is that you’re an agent. But whose? Did you follow us here?’

      ‘No, I swear I didn’t. I—I saw the light and I was curious.’

      ‘Perhaps you are on a mission, which argues a high devotion to duty, and I must congratulate whomever employs you on their ability to inspire it.’

      Henrietta stared at him, beginning to realise what he was implying and that he was accusing her of spying on them. ‘No one employs me. I work for no one.’

      ‘And we are to believe that?’ Jack grumbled. ‘What are you running away from, lad? Maybe the law, eh? Likely you’re a thief, I shouldn’t wonder.’

      To hear herself accused of theft was more than Henrietta could bear. ‘I am no thief,’ she retorted fiercely with a fine and cultured accent, ‘and I forbid you to insult me!’

      ‘Forbid? Listen to me, laddie, you’re in no position to forbid anything. I’d watch that tongue of yours if I were you. There’s nothing to stop me taking you by the scruff and tossing you in the river.’

      Henrietta was too angry to be frightened. ‘If you wish to throw me in the river, feel free to do so. You will be doing me a service. I regret that I was mistaken in you. I took you for a spy. It seems, however, that you are a murderer!’

      ‘Hell and damnation!’ Jack, seething with fury, was about to throw himself at the insolent young pup, but Simon cast himself bodily between them and thrust him back.

      ‘Let it be, Jack. Can’t you see he’s only a lad? He’s scarce out of breeches.’ He turned to Henrietta and gradually his stern visage softened as he stared at the worried figure. When a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, he quelled it as quickly as it came. ‘I’m sorry, lad. My friends are a long way from home. I fear their manners need as much improvement as their judgement. How old are you?’

      ‘Old enough to know what’s what,’ she replied sullenly. ‘Not that it’s any of your concern. I have not asked you questions—but after what I overheard, I imagine there are people who would be extremely interested in what you are about. Unpatriotic activities, they would say, of which gathering support for Prince Charles Edward Stuart, Young Pretender to the throne, is one.’

      Simon nodded slightly. ‘You heard right. We meet in secret. ’Tis dangerous for us to meet like this.’ He glanced at his silent friends who remained motionless. ‘You must understand,’ he went on, ‘that if you fear for your skin, you will keep your mouth shut.’

      ‘And if I don’t?’

      Anger glinted for a moment in Simon’s eyes, then receded. ‘It would be a dirty deed I would have to undertake—regrettable since you are but a lad—on that you must accept my word. What have you to say?’

      Henrietta bit her lip, the words sticking in her throat. The men gathered before her, silent and antagonistic as they awaited her response.

      Chapter Two

      Henrietta’s eyes flashed defiance as she held Simon’s stare. There was a self-assurance about him which was unmarred by arrogance. It inspired her confidence and she relented.

      ‘You have my word that I shall not speak of what I overheard. I have my own reasons for remaining silent.’

      He nodded, satisfied. ‘That is all that I shall say on the matter.’

      ‘Thank you. When your friends turned up I was about to go on my way, but I was afraid of what you would do to me if you heard me.’

      ‘So if you aren’t a spy, what are you doing here?’ Simon demanded.

      She gave him a scowl that suggested he mind his own business, but then thought better of it. With four angry men glaring at her, she was in no position to argue. ‘I’m going to my uncle. I—I’ve moved out of the house of the people I was living with.’

      ‘Do they know where you are?’ Simon watched the youngster thoughtfully.

      ‘They’d turn over in their graves if they did,’ she answered quietly.

      ‘I see,’ Simon said, beginning to understand her plight. ‘And your uncle? Where does he live?’

      ‘In Scotland.’

      ‘That’s one hell of a journey for a lad to undertake alone.’

      ‘I have no choice. There—are reasons why I have to leave London.’

      ‘You make it sound like a matter of life or death.’

      ‘It is.’

      She shivered and sent a furtive glance over her shoulder, as though expecting something terrible to materialise out of the darkness, her gaze scanning the impenetrable blackness among the trees, cocking her head, as if listening for something, some far-off noise.

      Simon was sorely tempted to dismiss her remark as wild exaggeration, but by rights he could not do so unless he had a chance to delve into the matter. His gaze softened at the lad’s plight and he instantly suffered a pang of compassion. He couldn’t be any older than fifteen and he didn’t think he had known much kindness. He reminded him for all the world of some little prey animal, his preternatural senses alerted to the imperceptible sound of some fierce predator’s approach. His curiosity for this unfortunate youth was beginning to grow.

      ‘Do you have a name?’

      Henrietta squirmed uneasily and glanced around her.

      ‘You do have a name, don’t you?’ Simon enquired with a hint of sarcasm.

      A brief, reluctant nod gave him an affirmative answer. ‘Henry,’ she prevaricated evenly. ‘My name is Henry.’ There—her first lie. It wasn’t so bad.

      Fixing her eyes on the man’s face, she studied him as much as she was able in the moonlight. She had heard him say he was to go to Scotland. Hope surged up in her. He was on a mission—a dangerous one, too, if what she had heard was to be believed—and could not be too particular in the matter of formalities.