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 snaps? Bring your own nags?”
“Own horses, own pistols,” agreed the Viscount.