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Certainly, there is a lot to recommend not being seen by someone sworn to the Thief-Taker's Guild, even if that man just happens to be a manservant or knave. Though you may find yourself harvesting naught but chaff here; for if there is a buggy parked immediately without the Coaching house, then it is well within reason that a Taker has called upon this establishment - to that point, you vaguely remember that right as you were quitting this place, the master of the house sent a boy off to inquire about hiring some members of the Guild to protect his coaches. It could be that no matter what you do, your presence here will be made know to the Taker ... and if that is the case, then you can see little sense in making any more of a scene here than necessary by calling at a private door at this hour. Someone might get the wrong idea - or worse, someone might get the right idea! And of course, foot-padding your way over there wouldn't be worth the risk of being discovered and made more suspect than you already are, as all things considered, the bench of the buggy is a rather commanding vantage point, even if the driver is distracted and facing away. No, if you are going to get through this, you will have to play it as you did at the gatehouse - utterly unabashed at your presence.
Mustering up that serene look for your face that served you so well with the Guard at the gate, you blink your eyes a few times, making sure they feel dry. To tell it true though, you feel a mess. You are flushed and warm from the exertion of coming here, and you wonder if your stomach and nerves are ever going to settle - with the aches and pains besides, not to mention the perspiration ... no, it cannot be helped. You set your back as straight as you can, wincing as you squeeze and pry open some of your cuts and gouges you took in the Refinery. Once you are certain that it has not affected your face, you break cover, forcing yourself to make slow, deliberate strides towards the front door of the Coaching house. Your riding habit rustles like a stiff breeze through a pile of leaves, and before long the driver hears your approach. As he lays eyes on you, your step hitches and your heart skips a beat - or three - but you draw your face up tight as serene as you can make it and press on. The driver shifts on the bench to get a better look at you, and as you draw closer still, you call out to him on an impulse, with the words that worked so well with the Guard.
"Hail and well-met this evening."
