These Old Shades (Alastair-Audley Tetralogy 1)

‘The French gentleman’s coach, sir?’

Rupert had collapsed on to the settle, but he sat bolt upright now.

‘French? French? So that’s it, is it? Oho, M. le Comte! But what the deuce does he want with Léonie?’

The landlord looked at him sympathetically, and waited for him to explain.

‘Ale!’ said Rupert, sinking back again. ‘And a horse, and a pistol.’

The landlord was more perplexed than ever, but he went off to fetch ale in a large tankard. Rupert disposed of it speedily, and drew a deep breath.

‘Did the coach stop here?’ he demanded. ‘Did you see my brother’s ward in it?’

‘Mistress Léonie, my lord? No, indeed! The French gentleman did not alight. He was in a mighty hurry, sir, seemingly.’

‘Scoundrel!’ Rupert shook his fist, scowling.

Mr Fletcher retreated a pace.

‘Not you, fool,’ said Rupert. ‘What did the coach stop for?’

‘Why, sir, the reckoning was not paid, and the moossoo had left his valise. The servant jumps off the box, comes running in here to settle the reckoning with me, snatches up the valise, and was out of the place before I’d time to fetch my breath. They’re queer people, these Frenchies, my lord, for there was me never dreaming the gentleman proposed to leave to-day. Driving hell for leather, they was, too, and as good a team of horses as ever I see.’

‘Rot his black soul!’ fumed Rupert. ‘The devil’s in it now, and no mistake. A horse, Fletcher, a horse!’

‘Horse, sir?’

‘Burn it, would I want a cow? Horse, man, and quickly!’

‘But, my lord –’

‘Be hanged to your buts! Go find me a horse and a pistol!’

‘But, my lord, I’ve no riding horses here! Farmer Giles hath a cob, but –’

‘No horse? Damme, it’s disgraceful! Go and fetch the animal the smith’s shoeing now! Away with you!’

‘But, my lord, that is Mr Manvers’ horse, and –’

‘Devil take Mr Manvers! Here, I’ll go myself ! No, stay! A pistol, man.’

The landlord was upset.

‘My lord, it’s a touch of the sun must have got into your head!’

‘Sun at this time of the year?’ roared Rupert, thoroughly exasperated. ‘Go find me a pistol, sirrah!’

‘Yes, my lord, yes!’ said Fletcher, and retreated in haste.

Rupert set off down the road to the blacksmith’s, and found him whistling to himself as he worked.

‘Coggin! Coggin, I say!’

The blacksmith paused.

‘Yes, my lord?’

‘Hurry with that shoe, my man! I want the horse.’