It reminded Lady Peggy, as she rode along, of just such another when she and Percy had wandered up and down together in the weedy gardens at Kennaston. Of that identical night Percy also was thinking, and of his wilful Lady’s bright sallies, quick smiles, frowns; yea, even of one little touch of her red lips, light as thistledown, which now he seemed to feel the ghost of, on his forehead.
The cavalcade had left the highway some distance behind; the moon was fast being overtaken by the clouds whence she had, an hour or more ago, emerged; the dews fell thick, and the scent of the hawthorn was sweet in the air as they plunged into Epstowe Forest.
“Ah, Gentlemen,” cried out Mr. Brummell, snapping his whip, “by Gad, Sirs, what a night for Tom Kidde and his merry men! the skies dark, the moon playin’ hide and seek, fifteen watches and purses, and as many rings, pins and seals between us as you left not at Ivy Dene with my cook Elizabeth!”
“Ha! ha! ha! No fears of Tom Kidde, an he knows our caliber, jumping out upon us!” laughs Lord Wootton.
“’Slife! Sir, he’s the sort of highwayman to jump out on the best mettle that strides horse-flesh or carries gold. The young devil’s afraid of nothing that breathes, and has been the terror of travelers now these three or four years gone,” says Vane.
“He’s not above one-and-twenty, smooth-faced as a girl, those say who’ve caught a glimpse of him under his mask; dresses like a macaroni, voiced like a choir-singer, and nimble as an Indian monkey!”
“Frequents he this neighborhood?” queries Lady Peggy, who at mention of the word “highwayman” has tightened her rein, clapped a hand on her holster, and felt her heart thump, as she involuntarily connects it with possible danger to Percy.
“That he does,” said Mr. Chalmers. “His den, or one of ’em’s somewhere in the depths of Epstowe; and no one can tell when or where he’s like to turn up next.”
“When did he turn up last?” says Sir Wyatt, laughing.
“I can tell you,” returns Vane. “’Twas about Candlemas. I was down at home on a visit from town, when the news came, almost frightening my mother out of her wits, and setting the maids a-shivering like so many poppies in a storm. Tom Kidde had pounced on Lord Brookwood not a mile from his own gates, lifted him off his mount in the politest fashion imaginable, rifled His Lordship’s pockets, appropriated his weapons, and ridden off on his victim’s horse, leaving His Lordship tied to a tree at the roadside, where he was found by Biggs, the J.P., the next morning, a-bellowin’ and a-cursin’ like a wild bull.”