Free A Rag-mannered Rogue by Hayley A. Solomon Page A

furtively, for the safety of the Luddite cause hung on each separate instance.
    Finally, the speaker hushed the low voices and held out his hands for attention.
    â€œGentlemen, I ’ave saved this moment for last, for I thought it might amuse you. You see, we have a traitor in our midst.”
    Nicholas’s face remained perfectly impassive.
    â€œBe‘old before you Mr. Murray Iggins. ’Iggins, we have rumbled yer lay. Yer are a spy for the king. Leastawise, for ‘is right royal ’ighness. An if yer think yer can quibble, let me inform yer that our password changed last Saturday at ten from silks ter silence. You did not know, for you were, at that stage, canterin’ off to God knows where, bleatin’ of our plans.”
    There was a tumultuous roar in the barn.
    â€œHush! Do yer want the watch down on us? Now, Mr. ’Iggins, what say you?”
    â€œA mistake, gentlemen. And a ’orrible one at that.”
    â€œNo mistake! A certain Mr. Murray ‘Iggins was spotted by a palace guard—one of us—locked in earnest conversation with the Lord High Chancellor. That’s nuffin’ to snigger at!”
    â€œTommyrot!”
    â€œIt is not tommyrot that ‘is royal ’ighness’s cavalcade to Vauxhall was changed from Bruton Street to Upper Wimpole, nor that our sharpshooter is now moulderin’ in Newgate, charged with treason and such!”
    â€œI know nothing of that.”
    In this, Nicholas spoke the plain truth, for he had had no prior notion whatsoever that the Murray Higgins he was impersonating was actually in the service of his majesty’s government. The matter would normally have struck him as absurd, but, being within inches of his own probable demise, he quite refrained from laughing.
    â€œLawks alive! It will take a sod more convincin’ than that! And Mr. Grange, let me assure you, is not a slow-top!”
    His lordship had heard of Mr. Grange. Indeed, it had been his particular mission to infiltrate the Luddites headed up by this person, for “Mr. Philip Grange,” as he preferred to be known, was as infamous across the Channel as he was in England.
    Known by certain circles as “the chameleon,” he was said to hold high office. Not in England, of course, but in its erstwhile enemy, France. A Parisian born and bred, Mr. Grange was actually Monsieur le Duc du Marie—a new title, born of an equally new emperor—Napoleon. Sadly, Napoleon was even now languishing—or Nicholas hoped he was—in St. Helena, and the title seemed to be worth as much as the paper it had been written on. Nothing, in point of fact.
    So, Monsieur le Duc, not content with inciting revolution in his native country, now sought to sow its seeds in England instead. Apparently, he had a burning hatred of the English, though he was related in blood to one of the noble houses of the land. This made him doubly villainous, for he could switch from English to French like his namesake, the chameleon.
    Where there were whispers, so was there Monsieur le Duc, stoking at those whispers, igniting small fires of discontent. The Luddites, the free traders, the vassals oppressed by corn laws, all of these were cultivated by Mr. Philip Grange, who understood their desires and pandered to their vanities. Nicholas had been charged with observing his methods, with reporting on dangers. He now stood in grave danger himself.
    â€œKill ’im!”
    â€œLordy, no! That is a ’angin’ offense!”
    â€œSo is burning looms, and we do it!”
    â€œFor England we do! This is murder!”
    â€œAn example, an example!”
    A lantern overturned in the excitement. There was a scuffle, in which Nicholas saw his chance, his reflexes as swift as his intelligence. He threw a punishing left at the man called Tallows, beside him. Then, with no one immediately at hand to restrain him, he dived past the open fire and for the door. Too bad Fagan,