“Nonsense. Today is perfectly convenient. And you are welcome at Green Oaks. May I offer you some wine?”
“You are most kind, Sir William, but I would not wish to put you to any trouble on my account.”
“Trouble? I have more wine in my cellars than I could possibly drink in a lifetime. Someone’s going to have to help me drink it, you know. It can’t all go down Her Royal Majesty’s alabaster throat. And I would much rather it be an honest man who drank my wine than all those dissipated hangers-on at court.”
Smythe smiled, despite his discomfort. “In that event, milord, it would be both an honor and a pleasure.”
“Excellent. You should find a decanter of port and several glasses over on the sideboard there. Be a good fellow and pour us both a drink. I have given strict instructions that we are not to be disturbed.”
Smythe glanced back at him as he made his way over to the heavy, carved mahogany sideboard. “That sounds rather ominous, milord.”
Worley raised his eyebrows. “Does it? Are you afraid that I shall do away with you in here and secret your body underneath the floorboards? ‘Twould eventually make the room smell rather piquant, don’t you think?”
Smythe brought him a glass of port. No pewter or clay goblets here, he thought, but the very finest glassware. “To be sure, milord. In any event, ‘twould be a far more elegant resting place than a man of my lowly station would deserve.”
Worley raised his glass. “I see. Well, what shall we drink to, then? To… proper resting places? From each according to his ability to each according to his need? Hmm. In that event, paupers would be buried in Westminster and half the men at court would be thrown into Fleet Ditch.”
Smythe chuckled. He was finding it impossible not to like the man. “Why not drink to chance encounters?” he said.
Worley grinned. “Splendid! To chance encounters, then.”
They raised their glasses and drank.
“And ‘twas, perhaps, our chance encounter that you wanted to discuss?” said Smythe.
“Which encounter?” asked Worley. “You mean the first or the second?”
“The first, milord. That day in the country, near the crossroads and the inn known as The Hawk and Mouse.”
Worley smiled. “Ah. That encounter. Well, then. What of it?”
Smythe shook his head. “I… do not understand, milord,” he said. “Why?”
Worley simply shrugged. “Why not?”
“But… you have everything, milord. Everything that it seems to me a man could conceivably want. Wealth, position, power, and influence… ‘twould seem you lack for nothing. Why
play at being some lowly highwayman?”
“I do it for the fun,” Worley replied, bluntly.
“Fun?” said Smythe, with disbelief.
“Aye, fun,” said Worley. “Is that so difficult to comprehend? That a man in my position might feel the need for some occasional stimulation? Some skylarking? A bit of fun? Besides, I am not just any highwayman, you know. I am the infamous Black Billy. Why, there are ballads and broadsheets written about me. You can pick them up in the stands down by St. Paul ’s. I have most of them here. I collect them. True, they exaggerate my exploits considerably, but I find them quite amusing.”
“But… what of the risk, milord?”
“The risk?” Worley shrugged. “Oh, I suppose there is some slight risk, but that only makes it part of the fun, you see.”
“Surely, you must realize that if they catch you, you shall hang.”
“You think? Well… I may hang, I suppose. And then again, I may not. The queen is rather fond of me, you know. But she is a bit of a stickler for form. She might be moved toward clemency, or else she might just have me beheaded. Bit quicker that way. Or so they say. In any event, I should think the odds are greater that I might be killed during a robbery, rather than be apprehended.”
“How can you discuss this with so little concern?” asked Smythe, amazed not only at the substance of their conversation, but at Worley’s casual tone about it.
“Because it does not concern me,” Worley replied.
“But… how can it not, milord?” Smythe asked, with exasperation.