“Then Henderson had a shot at him later—in my uncle’s house on Crown Street.”
“Henderson!” George almost cried this aloud, so great was his astonishment.
“But I missed,” complained the dragoon. “You see, I couldn’t get a proper bead on him. I was in a sort of closet behind one of Hyde’s ancestor’s portraits, and was forced to shoot through a hole in one of the eyes. And even though I missed, I almost lost my life for the shot.”
“How was that?”
“Who stood in the middle of the room when I tore out of the closet, but Mistress Peggy Camp. Poof! What a tiger cat!” The burly man exclaimed wonderingly.
“Peggy,” said Hyde, “has always been an eager little rebel. And because I was such an ardent patriot,” laughingly, “I’ve always had her respect.”
“You once counted upon having more than that, if I remember aright. You wanted her as your wife when you thought she’d be made heiress to the old man—vice Herbert, dismissed.”
“Well, Herbert’s sudden shift to the British side of the house spoiled all that. So we’ll not discuss it.” Hyde’s voice was cold.
“And so Peggy flew at you for taking a shot at Prentiss, did she?” said the burly man. “He’d fooled her into thinking him a staunch Whig, I suppose.”
“On the contrary,” answered Henderson, “she was convinced that he was a traitor to the American cause.”