Coggin stared, open-mouthed.
‘But – but ’tis not one of his Grace’s horses, sir –’
‘Tare an’ ’ouns, would his Grace own such a brute? Do ye take me for a fool?’
‘But ’tis Mr Manvers’ roan, your lordship!’
‘I don’t care if ’tis the devil’s own chestnut!’ cried Rupert. ‘I want it, and that’s enough! How long before you have that shoe on?’
‘Why, sir, twenty minutes, or maybe longer.’
‘A guinea for you if you hasten!’ Rupert searched in his pockets and produced two crowns. ‘And ask it of Fletcher,’ he added, stowing the crowns away again. ‘Don’t sit staring at me, man! Hammer that shoe on, or I’ll take the hammer to knock sense into your head withal! Stap me if I won’t!’
Thus adjured, the smith set to with a will.
‘The groom’s walked on to Fawley Farm, my lord,’ he ventured presently. ‘What will your honour have me say to him when he comes back?’
‘Tell him to present Lord Rupert Alastair’s compliments to Mr Manvers – who the devil is Mr Manvers? – and thank him for the loan of his horse.’ Rupert, walked round the animal, inspecting its points. ‘Horse, is it? Cow-hocked bag of bones! A man’s no right to own a scarecrow like this! You hear me, Coggin?’
‘Yes, my lord. Certainly, sir!’
‘Hurry with that shoe, then, and fetch the animal up to the Arms.’ Away went Rupert up the road again to the inn, where he found Fletcher awaiting him with a large pistol.
‘’Tis loaded, sir,’ Fletcher warned him. ‘Indeed, my lord, and are you sure your lordship is well?’
‘Never mind! Which way did the coach go?’
‘Making for Portsmouth, sir, as I judge. But surely to goodness your lordship isn’t of a mind to chase it?’
‘What else, fool? I want a hat. Produce me one.’
Fletcher resigned himself to the inevitable.
‘If your lordship would condescend to take my Sunday beaver –’
‘Ay, ’twill suffice. Make out the reckoning and I’ll pay – er – when I return. Damn that fellow Coggin! Will he be all night at his work? They’ve nigh on an hour’s start of me already!’
But Coggin came presently, leading the roan. Rupert stowed his pistol away in the saddle holster, tightened the girths, and sprang into the saddle. The smith gave vent to a last appeal.
‘My lord, Mr Manvers is a testy gentleman, and indeed –’
‘To hell with Mr Manvers, I’m sick of the fellow!’ said Rupert, and rode off at a canter.
The borrowed horse was no fiery charger, as Rupert soon discovered. It cherished its own ideas as to a suitable pace to maintain, and managed to do so for the most part, to its own satisfaction and Rupert’s disgust. Thus it was close on four in the afternoon when he came at last into Portsmouth, and both he and his mount were very weary.
He rode at once to the quay, and learned that the private schooner anchored there for the past three days had set sail not an hour ago. Rupert dashed Mr Fletcher’s hat on the ground.
‘Blister me, I’m too late!’
The harbour-master
eyed him in polite surprise, and picked up the hat.
‘Tell me now,’ said Rupert, dismounting. ‘Was it a French scoundrel embarking?’
‘Ay, sir, ’twas a foreign gentleman with red hair, and his son.’
‘Son?’ ejaculated Rupert.