Mr. Dalrymple Revealed by Lydia M Sheridan

THE COUNTERFEIT CAVALIER, VOLUME TWO:
    MR. DALRYMPLE REVEALED
     
    Copyright
2012 Lydia M. Sheridan
     
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    THE COUNTERFEIT CAVALIER, VOLUME TWO:
    MR. DALRYMPLE REVEALED
     
    Her single candle barely illuminated the thick darkness of the
stairwell as Kate tip-toed down to the kitchen in stockinged feet. At the
landing, she paused, tapped an age-darkened door twice, twice more, then twice
again. The reply came: three soft knocks. Reassured, she eased on down the
stairs. At the scullery door, she blew out her candle, lifted the latch, and
slipped out. It closed without a sound on well-oiled hinges.
    Her breath caught and held in the clear night, an unseasonable
coolness speaking of the coming autumn. Overhead, clouds obscured the moon and
another shiver of apprehension skittered down her spine. Every instinct told
her tonight was not a night to gamble, but if the mortgage payment wasn’t paid,
the house of cards she’d carefully built up would tumble down. Bertie wouldn’t
be able to go to school, Lucy would end up marrying Awful Adam, and Horrible
Uncle Oliver would split the children up and distribute them as charity cases
to various relatives. So despite her qualms, she pulled on a worn pair of
dancing slippers and trudged to the stables. Luckily it’s no longer raining, she thought. And just as if on cue, she heard an
ominous rumble of thunder in the distance.
    Yes, someone was definitely trying to tell her something. A smart woman would head back to bed. However, Kate was also a desperate woman, and she did not allow her steps to
falter.
    By the time she reached the stables, her natural good spirits
had reasserted themselves. She was a woman of the modern age, she assured
herself, not a believer of superstitions and black magic. She crossed her
fingers just in case and soldiered on.
    The routine was so familiar Kate needed no other light than
the pale moon shining between scudding clouds to unearth her disguise from
underneath a loose board in the tack room. Silently, with the ease of much
practice, she pulled on the grey wool breeches, doublet and full-skirted coat,
and covered the whole with a grey wool cloak. The fabric was slightly
moth-eaten, but it covered her from chin to knee and had a way of swirling in
the wind which was both ghostly and sinister, a highly satisfactory effect.
    With her height, so unfashionable in a female, combined with a
great deal of buckram wadding in the shoulders of the coat, most would take her
not for a highwayman, but a bruiser of considerable proportions. She gave her
red hair a quick tuck under a wig of blonde, shoulder-length curls, attached a
fake beard and moustache to her face with a smear of spirit gum, and clapped
upon her head an old-fashioned hat with dancing grey plumes.
    There. Not even the closest of her acquaintance would know
her as the latest in a long line of Grey Cavaliers. For almost two centuries,
these men (and now woman) had been the scourge of the King’s Highway, the
despair of the local constabulary, and the romantic ideal of adolescent chits.
It was really a local tradition, Kate would often rationalize on those
occasions when her conscience pricked her.
    In the flicker of a pig’s whisker, Kate saddled and bridled
her trusty mare, Diana, and smeared lamp black liberally over her three white
socks. Shoving two pistols in the saddle bag and a wicked-looking dagger in
her boot, Kate swung up into the saddle and they were off.
    Horse and rider had lived near the village of Oaksley all
their lives. There was no wood, meadow, or