“Yes, you! Come here!”
With clear reluctance, he shuffled a few steps in her direction. Close enough, Delia decided.
“You’re Barney, aren’t you?”
He blinked and his eyes slid from one side to the other. “What if I am?”
“I have a message for your master.”
Barney’s mouth dropped open. “Eh?”
“You heard me.” She kept her tone even, but cold. “Tell him, if you please, that I wish to speak to him.”
The jaw dropped further. “What?”
“I wish to speak to him,” Delia repeated. “In public. Let him visit the Assembly Rooms and find me there.”
Barney scratched his head, dislodging the hat. “I dunno, miss.”
“Tell him what I said.”
A shrug came. “Dunno what you mean, miss.”
Delia eyed him with scepticism. “Yes, you do. You are Piers Gaunt’s tool, along with your friend Sam.”
Both arms came up and Barney shrank back as if to ward off a blow.
Delia pressed her advantage. “It is of no use to pretend.”
“I ain’t doing nuffing.”
“You’re watching me. You’ve been watching me for days, both of you.”
He rallied, straightening up and sniffing. “No, I ain’t! Dunno nuffing about it.”
“Well, if you’ve any sense — which clearly you haven’t or you wouldn’t have got close enough for me to recognise you — you’ll make yourself scarce. The militia are coming back.”
“What’s it to me? Ain’t my concern.”
“I imagine it’s very much your concern. I could have you laid by the heels right now, but I won’t do it.”
He wiped his sleeve across his nose. “Dang me if I know what your lay is, miss.”
“You don’t need to know. Just give your master my message.”
With which, Delia turned away from him and walked swiftly to where Scoley was holding his stringed fish and handing over the necessary coins.
“Not much of a catch today, miss, but I got a couple of sole for her ladyship’s breakfast.”
Relieved, she realised he’d seen nothing of the recent exchange with the ruffian. “Excellent. Then let us go back.”
She looked for Barney as she turned with the groom to retrace their steps, but the fellow was nowhere to be seen. He’d melted away as easily as he’d popped up behind her. Delia could not help a shiver at the memory of her boldness. What had she let herself in for?
CHAPTER EIGHT
Giff shifted this way and that, trying to see himself in the inadequate mirror. Was the blue frock coat too comfortable a fit? Too bad if so. He hated constraining clothes. Were men still wearing double-breasted waistcoats? And was it too decorative with the broad stripes and silver buttons? At least the buckskin breeches could not be faulted, he hoped.
“What do you think?”