In which our heroine is offered a position.

Pistols in her hands, Corinna edged around the corner of the shed. Her heart was beating so wildly, she was glad her ancient round gown didn't show the slightest bit of bust—it would have quivered in the most inappropriate fashion.

Outside, in the sun-burned clearing, all was still. Midges danced through the slats of sunlight, laced with the faintest trace of honeysuckle and manure from the nearest farm. As peaceful as the place might be, something was wrong. Something was here that didn't belong.

No, she wasn't being fanciful. A shame her stalker stood so close, there was no point in sending out her consciousness. Her vision would be too blurry to be of any use.

"Show yourself, I said. I'm aware you're out there."

Whatever the attentions of her unwelcome visitor might be, it wasn't murder he had on his mind, otherwise she would already be lying on the grass, dead.

She left the shadow of the shed and stepped into the clearing, the hem of her gown with its jaded ruffle swishing over the grass.

In the village, the bell struck the hour, and a cockerel responded to the challenge. In the clearing, everything was obstinately quiet.

"I'm seeing white mice," she said to herself, lowering her pistols.

A scent drifted into her nose—tobacco and male sweat. She snapped up her hands and pointed the pistols at the shrubbery where fabric rubbed upon fabric, a soft rustle that might have been a twig, but wasn't.

"Perhaps not." A shadow peeled from the bushes, sending the twigs into a frenzy.

Corinna jumped back, both weapons pointing at the intruder, a middle-aged man with a round face, an even rounder belly, and sparse hair. He wore buckskin breeches, not unlike the ones she had been wearing before and an old-fashioned moleskin vest with brass buttons.

He didn't seem to be armed, but he looked the sort who would have a weapon hidden somewhere about his person.

His eyes, black raisins sunken in the flushed flesh of his face, twinkled. "I suggest you lower your poppers, Miss Wolverstoke. It's hard to conduct a meaningful conversation when one stares at the muzzles of two barking irons."

He didn't seriously expect her to comply, did he? The hardness of the man's mouth and his tense stance spoke their own language. He had one hand in the pocket of his breeches, no doubt holding on to something small but lethal.

"It appears there's a stalemate, so I'd rather keep my weapons where they are, if you don't mind. And you have the advantage over me, since you know my name, but didn't introduce yourself."

He inclined his head. "My apologies for the oversight. Joshua Brewster at your service, Miss."

From the name he could be a tradesman, but his entire posture spoke of the military, despite his substantial girth. She recognized a soldier when she saw one. Whether that was his true name remained to be seen.

"Bow Street Runner, are you?"

He chuckled. "A good guess, lass, but alas, I'm not. Let us say my employers are...less obvious."

Ah, a Northener, Yorkshire or Lancashire or thereabouts. "Know thy enemy," father often said. What good that insight would serve her, she couldn't fathom. All it did was crowd a brain, already fogged by her fast-beating pulses and the many thoughts that wanted out at the same time. One thought made sense, so she gave it words.

"You're a spy."

He chuckled. "We'd better not get into too much detail, lass."

"I resent the address, my good sir," Corinna said in the meek-mocking tone of a former maidservant who didn't last long at the hall. But Corinna made good use of her inflections whenever she wanted to irk someone. Unfortunately, the specimen in front of her remained unfazed.

"Would you prefer me to address you as Gentleman Jim? A merry chase you gave everybody, though I must admit I respect you for running rings around the King's finest. Neither the magistrate nor the dragoons stood half a chance against a lady of quality. That takes quite some mettle, lass."

If he called her lass one more time, he'd reap a response unworthy of what he called a lady of quality.

"And the proof of your accusations being..."

"Ah, but I watched you ride out this morning. And followed you when you returned this afternoon. No doubt that,"—he raised his chin at the shed—,"hides not only your gear but your ill-begotten gains."

An icy fear crept down her spine. "And now you want to search the shed."

She would have to shoot him.

"No, what purpose would that serve? Told you, lass, I know who you are and I respect you for it. You're dancing in the shadow of the gallows, and that takes more mettle than most females would possess."

Ah, so she wouldn't need to shoot him. That was better, much better. Brewster—if that was his given name—didn't understand female mettle. But it was always so with men. As for the gallows, he wasn't telling her anything new.

The heavy weapons strained her wrists, but she would lower them in her own good time, not when a rotund ex-soldier gone spy from the northern moors told her to.

"My word counts, and if I give it, you're in a mountain of trouble."

"You won't fool me. You don't have the inclination to give it, my good sir, otherwise you would have already done so. I ask you, what is it you want?"

Annoying that she shouldn't be able to use her extraordinary senses on her unwelcome company, but none of her skylles would serve any purpose. There was nothing to see from afar, since he was too close for her liking anyway, and as to nudging him to do her bidding, well, she feared he was one of those stubborn people she found hard to nudge. But she would only find out if she tried.

He nodded. "A good question. If you care to listen, I can offer something to you."

She lowered her weapons. Her wrists complained loudly and there really was no point. He wanted something, and it wasn't shooting her. So, she might as well listen, and see if she couldn't probe him somehow.

"Fine then, say your piece."

"Pray be seated. It doesn't feel right to conduct this conversation the way we are having it." He pointed at a tree stump.

Robin had felled the rotted acacia before he joined his battalion for his last journey. It housed the remains of a badger's sett, which made for an excellent hiding place for her loot. Did Brewster know? Only if she extended her consciousness would she learn, but the attempt could go spectacularly wrong. If only her skylles were stronger. If only they wouldn't show when she used them. Great-great Aunt Augusta would have done so much better on that front.

Great-great Aunt Augusta had been the last witch to be burned at the stake on the British Isles.

Did Brewster possess the knowledge about that part of her story as well? Confound it, all this thinking and fretting fogged up her head. Her senses wouldn't see a thing, so she'd better not run the risk.

"I will stand."

"Suit yourself, lass. Just trying to be polite. Let me make my offer." He prowled the clearing right up to the wicket gate that gave access to the grounds of the Dower House, and back again.

"I don't care for either the magistrate, the runners, or the dragoons. I care only for your silence. For what I'm about to reveal, you must never talk about."

Corinna raised an inquisitive brow.

"Well, I didn't think you were the talkative type. We sorely need a female who can face danger without resorting to the vapors. There is a rumor among informed people that Gentleman Jim might be gentle, but not a man. So, I came to investigate."

That was not so good. "Who raised that rumor?"

He shrugged. "Couldn't tell ya, lass. There wasn't much substance to it, and at first I paid it no heed. It was more of a good joke, because the gentleman was so slender and slim. But no smoke without fire, as they say, and since we so badly needed a woman we could trust, and a female highwayman...er, well, how do you call yourself?"

Was he funning? Corinna searched his face and found he was not. "I'm Corinna Wolverstoke of Penninghall, as you well know."

"Deuce, I mean your profession. It was such an odd thing to hear about, so I came to investigate. I'm glad I did."

"Oh, are you? Pleased to give satisfaction, but I still don't know what it is you actually want."

"I want you to hire as a governess for the niece of the Marquis of Demoral."

1480 words

Sorry for not posting for so long, but I had to finish another story. Since that now goes into the editing phase, I can do a bit more on this one. 

A few explanations for those of you not quite so familiar with the Regency Period.

"Moleskin" isn't actually the skin of a mole, but a shorn cotton that appears like suede. 

"Bow Street Runners" were the forerunners of Scotland Yard, founded in the Seventeenth Century. However, they operated mainly in London. There was no overall police force as such, but the keeping of the peace was a local thing or it was up to family and friends to seek retribution for real or imagined crimes (think of the duels, though those were thoroughly illegal in the Regency period). Here's a link if you wish to read on. 

https://regencyredingote.wordpress.com/2011/03/04/the-regency-had-no-crime/

Image by Kellepix from Pixabay This chapter is dedicated to Sal Mason, who's taking the mickey out of a gang of vampires. Check out her ONC contribution!