 Brought to you by Penguin. Devils Cub by Giorgette Haya Read by Michael Maloney Chapter 1 There was only one occupant of the coach, a gentleman who sprawled very much at his ease with his legs stretched out before him, and his hands dug deep in the capacious pockets of his greatcoat. While the coach rattled over the cobbled streets of the town, the light from an occasional lantern or flambeau momentarily lit the interior of the vehicle and made a diamond pin or a pair of very large shoe-buckles flash. But since the gentleman lounging in the coach wore his gold-edged hat tilted low over his eyes, his face remained in shadow. The coach was travelling fast, too fast for safety in a London street, and it soon drew out of the town past the turnpike onto Hunslow Heath. A faint moonlight showed the road to the coachman on the box, but so dimly that the groom beside him, who had been restive since the carriage drew out of St. James's, gasped presently as though he could no longer keep back the words, Lord, you'll have a turnous—it's a wicked pace! The only answer, vouchsafed, was a shrug and a somewhat derisive laugh. The coach swayed precariously over a rough stretch of ground, and the groom, clutching the seat with both hands, said angrily, You're mad! You think the devil's on your heels, man? Doesn't he care? Or is he drunk? The backward jerk of his head seemed to indicate that he was speaking of the man inside the coach. When you've been in his service a week, you won't call this a wicked pace, replied the coachman. When Vidal travels, he travels swift, you see. He's drunk! Three parts asleep! The groom said. Not he. Yet the man inside the coach might well have been asleep for all the sign of life he gave. His long body swayed easily with the lurch of the coach, his chin was sunk in the folds of his cravat, and not even the worst bumps in the road had the effect of making him so much as grasp the strap that swung beside him. His hands remained buried in his pockets, remained so, even when a shot rang out, and the vehicle came to a plunging standstill. But apparently he was awake, for he raised his head, yawning, and leaning it back against the cushions turned it slightly towards the off-window. There was a good deal of commotion outside, a rough voice was raised. The coachman was cursing the groom for his tardiness in firing the heavy blunderbuss in his charge, and the horses were kicking and rearing. Someone rode up to the door of the coach and thrust in the muzzle of a big pistol. The moonlight cast ahead in silhouette, and a voice said, And over the prettys, my heart, eh! It did not seem as though the man inside the coach moved, but a gun spoke sharply and a stabbing point of flame flashed in the darkness. The head and shoulders at the window vanished. There was the sound of a fall, of trampling hooves, of a startled shout, and the belated explosion of the blunderbuss. The man and the coach drew his right hand out of his pocket at last. There was an elegant silver-mounted pistol in it still smoking. The gentleman threw it onto the seat beside him and crushed the charred and smouldering portion of his greatcoat between very long white fingers. The door of the coach was pulled open, and the coachman jumped up onto the hastily let-down step. The lantern he held lit up the interior, and shone full into the face of the lounging man. It was a surprisingly young face, dark and extremely handsome, the curious vividness overlaid by an expression of restless boredom. Well, said the gentleman coldly. Hi, woman, my lord. The new man being unused, though, to say to such things was late with the blunderbuss. There was three of them. They've made off two of them, that is. Well, said the gentleman again. The coachman seemed rather discomposed. You've killed the other, my lord. Certainly, said the gentleman. But I presume you've not opened the door to inform me of that. Well, my lord, shall we do I? His brains are lying in the road, my lord. Do we leave him like that? My good fellow, are you suggesting that I should carry a footpad's corpse to my lady Montecute's drum? No, my lord, the coachman said, hesitatingly. Then shall I drive on? Of course, drive on, said the gentleman, faintly surprised. Very good, my lord, the coachman said, and shut the door. The groom on the box was still clasping the blunderbuss and staring Sample complete, ready to continue?