The leader would be someone with eyes as sharp as glass shards, Mosca thought, a man whose mind cut to the heart of things like a knife through cheese, a man like her father. The leader would be a man calm in every crisis, with a clear gaze and a smile as frank as a handshake.

Pertellis held the door ajar for Mosca and Clent, and he followed them into the room. It had the sickroom smells of vegetable soup and laudanum, but the man seated in a mahogany chair was dressed crisply, not with the slack helplessness of the invalid.

The radical leader was Captain Blythe, the highwayman.

S Is for Sedition

S
IS FOR SEDITION

Captain Blythe, the highwayman. Captain Blythe in a redingote of good green cloth, with his hair combed back in its pigtail, and cobbled boots on his feet.

“This is the young lady with the printed heart.” Pertellis diligently recounted Mosca’s words.

Blythe did not offer him so much as a glance. Nor did he look at Mosca. His eyes were set upon the face of Eponymous Clent, as if he hoped to pin him with his gaze like a butterfly to a board.

“How long has this man been here?” he asked sharply as soon as Pertellis had finished speaking.

“Mr. Eponymous Clent was one of many languishing in the jail when your men led the rescue mission using the information and keys that Mr. Goshawk gave us. He is . . . not exactly of our party but we took him with us because, well, we were not sure what else to do with him.”

“I need to speak with him. Alone, if you please.” Blythe remembered Mosca and gave her a fleeting glance. “All right, his familiar may stay if she must.” Pertellis left the room without complaint.

“I must say,” Clent declared, rallying from his shock, “this is not a total surprise to me. When we, ah, met by the road to Mandelion, even then I noted something of a twinkle in your eye and said to myself, Here is a gentleman who is more than he seems. Thievery is a game that he plays to, ah, mislead those who seek the leader of the valiant, freedom-loving radicals . . .” Something in Blythe’s glare quelled Clent’s flow of words.

The highwayman placed his hands upon his knees and leaned forward, still piercing Clent with his eyes. “Are you aware that you and your infernal ballad have ruined my life?”

“Ah . . .”

Blythe erupted to his feet and took a few angry paces down the room and back, gripping his own fist as if trying to crush it.