Page 68

The portly gentleman sniffed.

“Look there,” he said. “Those saddles sit at sixteen hands.”

Kit followed his gaze. The Mutton Wheelers had cycled into view, the spokes of their towering front wheels glaring in the light. They circled the fountain at the top of the drive, Deighton in front, his four wheelmen riding double file behind him.

“Is that a bugle?” asked the long-suffering wife, in a voice rich with horror.

One of the Mutton Wheelers was indeed holding a bugle. He sounded a piercing note. Kit and the wife winced.

Hell. This was hell. Kit made for the buffet. Maybe there was wine in one of those copper urns.

“Tea,” said the footman, pointing to the urn on his left. He pointed to the urn on his right. “Coffee.”

Kit glowered at both urns and then down at a chafing dish of sausages.

“Coffee, you said? Thank the Lord!” Ponsonby came barreling from nowhere, hopelessly rumpled and reeking like a distillery. “Coffee. A bucket, please.” He turned to Kit. “I’m late. Am I late? You haven’t gone yet. Bless you.” He took a cup from the footman, gulped, and gave a yelp. “Bloody hot!”

Kit fought the urge to grab him by the shoulders. “Is she with you?”

“Who?” Ponsonby blew on his coffee.

Another bugle note sounded.

Kit’s skin tightened. Last night, he’d refused to face this possibility. Hence the beer, the billiards, the whiskey, the cards, the imbecilic attempt to paddle a boat to the lighthouse, which might have been dangerous if remotely successful.

He checked his watch. Quarter past ten.

“I know what’s to be done,” said Ponsonby, knuckling his eye. He stood straighter, inflating his chest. “I won’t cock it up. Have no fear.”

Mother of God.

“Champagne?” Kit asked the footman. The footman shook his head.

“Ponsonby,” said Kit, trying to keep his tone level. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The cock-up with Coover. I’ll make it right. Not whatever’s cocked up between the two of you, obviously. The bit I bungled, when I told her you were here.”

Kit began to intuit his meaning, despite the thicket of cocks and bungs.

“I’m sure she’ll insist on making the trip, no matter what excuse I wire. But I’ll send her packing before next Thursday, I swear. Her and Burgess and Nelly, and whoever else. She’ll bite my head off and chew. She’s not one for half measures. And Nelly will give me that look.” Ponsonby shuddered. “But I will persevere.” He lifted his coffee cup high, striking a valiant pose, then spoiled the effect by bringing the cup slowly to his lips for a timid sip paired with a preemptive wince. “Or maybe Nelly won’t give me that particular look,” he added, sipping again, with more confidence. “Now that I’m not trying to court her.”

“You’re not?” Whether Ponsonby was or wasn’t still mooning after Nelly should be the last thing on his mind, but Kit frowned, intrigued. “Since when?”

“A few days.” Ponsonby flushed a painful shade of red. “I still think she’s ripping. It’s just…” He emptied his coffee cup and pivoted back to the footman. “A spot more?”

Kit rolled his shoulders. The knapsack grew heavier by the second. Wonderful that Ponsonby promised to ensure he arrived back to a Sisters-free St. Ives. It didn’t change the fact that his planned departure was suddenly in jeopardy. His bicycle shop. Perhaps more than that.

Had his instincts been so wrong?

Fifteen minutes remained. Should he race to the Towans? Force Muriel to say something he didn’t want to hear?

You’re not who I thought you were.

He could spit a version back at her.

I didn’t see you as the sort who welched on a deal.

“Where’s Raleigh?” Ponsonby glanced about. “Did he come with Mrs. Pendrake? Where is Mrs. Pendrake?”