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Authors: Georgette Heyer
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but he turned at this, and stared across the kitchen at his guest. Mr. Lydd met this somewhat grim look with the utmost blandness for a moment or two, and then transferred his attention to Ben. "Well, me lad, so your dad's hopped the wag, has he? What sort of a fetch is he up to? Gone on the spree, I dessay?"
"Gone up to Lunnon, to see me brother," said Ben glibly. "'Cos he heard as Simmy ain't in the Navy no more."
"Fancy that, now!" said Mr. Lydd admiringly. "Made his fortune at sea, I wouldn't wonder, and sent for his dad to come and share it with him. There's nothing like pitching it rum, Ben!"
John, who was drawing two tankards of beer at the barrel beside the cupboard, spoke over his shoulder, dismissing his imaginative protégé to bed. Ben showed some slight signs of recalcitrance, but, upon encountering a decidedly stern look, sniffed, and went with lagging step towards the door.
"That's right," said Mr. Lydd encouragingly. "You don't want to take no risks, not with your gov'nor looking like bull-beef, I wouldn't!"
John grinned, and handed him one of the tankards. "Is that what I look like? Here's a heavy wet for you! Did you come to discover where Brean is? I can't tell you."
Mr. Lydd, carefully laying down the clay pipe he had been filling, took the tankard, blew off the froth, and ceremoniously pledged his host.
After a long draught, he sighed, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, and picked up his pipe again. Not until this had been lit, with a screw of paper kindled at one of the smouldering logs, did he answer John's question. While he alternately drew at the pipe, and pressed down the tobacco with the ball of his thumb, his eyes remained unwaveringly fixed on John's face, in a meditative and curiously shrewd scrutiny. By the time his pipe was drawing satisfactorily, he had apparently reached certain conclusions, for he withdrew his stare, and said in a conversational tone: "Properly speaking, Ned Brean's whereabouts don't interest me. If you like to set it about he's gone off to visit young Simmy, it's all one to me."
"I don't," John interrupted.
"Well, it ain't any of my business, but what I say is, if you're going to tell a bouncer let it be a good 'un! However, I didn't come here to talk about Ned Brean."
"What did you come to talk about?" asked John amiably.
"I don't know as how I came to talk about anything in partic'lar. Jest dropped in, neighbourly. It's quiet up at the Manor, these days. Very different from what it used to be when I was a lad. That was afore Sir Peter ran aground, as you may say. A very well-breeched swell he was, flashing the dibs all over. Ah, and prime cattle we had in the stables then! Slap up to the echo, Squire was, and the finest, lightest hands——! Mr. Frank was the same, and Master Jermyn after him—regular top-sawyers! Dead now, o' course. There's only Miss Nell left." He paused, and took a pull at his beer, watching John over the top of the tankard. John met his look, the hint of a smile in his eyes, but he said nothing. Mr. Lydd transferred his gaze to the fire. "It's not so far off forty years since I went to Kellands," he said reminiscently. "Went as stable-boy, I did, and rose to be head-groom, with four under me, not counting the boys. Taught Master Jermyn to ride, and Miss Nell too. Neck-or-nothing, that was Master Jermyn, and prime 'uns Squire used to buy for him! He wouldn't look at a commoner, not Squire! 'Proper high-bred 'uns, Joe!' he used to say to me. 'Proper high-bred 'uns for the boy, if I drown in the River Tick!' Which he pretty near did do," said Mr. Lydd, gently knocking some of the ash from his pipe. "What with his gaming, and his racing, it was Dun Territory for Squire, but he always said as how he'd come about. I dessay he would have, if he hadn't took ill. He had a stroke, you see. Mr. Winkfield—that's his man, and has been these thirty years—he will have it it was Master Jermyn being killed in the wars that gave Squire his
"Gone up to Lunnon, to see me brother," said Ben glibly. "'Cos he heard as Simmy ain't in the Navy no more."
"Fancy that, now!" said Mr. Lydd admiringly. "Made his fortune at sea, I wouldn't wonder, and sent for his dad to come and share it with him. There's nothing like pitching it rum, Ben!"
John, who was drawing two tankards of beer at the barrel beside the cupboard, spoke over his shoulder, dismissing his imaginative protégé to bed. Ben showed some slight signs of recalcitrance, but, upon encountering a decidedly stern look, sniffed, and went with lagging step towards the door.
"That's right," said Mr. Lydd encouragingly. "You don't want to take no risks, not with your gov'nor looking like bull-beef, I wouldn't!"
John grinned, and handed him one of the tankards. "Is that what I look like? Here's a heavy wet for you! Did you come to discover where Brean is? I can't tell you."
Mr. Lydd, carefully laying down the clay pipe he had been filling, took the tankard, blew off the froth, and ceremoniously pledged his host.
After a long draught, he sighed, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, and picked up his pipe again. Not until this had been lit, with a screw of paper kindled at one of the smouldering logs, did he answer John's question. While he alternately drew at the pipe, and pressed down the tobacco with the ball of his thumb, his eyes remained unwaveringly fixed on John's face, in a meditative and curiously shrewd scrutiny. By the time his pipe was drawing satisfactorily, he had apparently reached certain conclusions, for he withdrew his stare, and said in a conversational tone: "Properly speaking, Ned Brean's whereabouts don't interest me. If you like to set it about he's gone off to visit young Simmy, it's all one to me."
"I don't," John interrupted.
"Well, it ain't any of my business, but what I say is, if you're going to tell a bouncer let it be a good 'un! However, I didn't come here to talk about Ned Brean."
"What did you come to talk about?" asked John amiably.
"I don't know as how I came to talk about anything in partic'lar. Jest dropped in, neighbourly. It's quiet up at the Manor, these days. Very different from what it used to be when I was a lad. That was afore Sir Peter ran aground, as you may say. A very well-breeched swell he was, flashing the dibs all over. Ah, and prime cattle we had in the stables then! Slap up to the echo, Squire was, and the finest, lightest hands——! Mr. Frank was the same, and Master Jermyn after him—regular top-sawyers! Dead now, o' course. There's only Miss Nell left." He paused, and took a pull at his beer, watching John over the top of the tankard. John met his look, the hint of a smile in his eyes, but he said nothing. Mr. Lydd transferred his gaze to the fire. "It's not so far off forty years since I went to Kellands," he said reminiscently. "Went as stable-boy, I did, and rose to be head-groom, with four under me, not counting the boys. Taught Master Jermyn to ride, and Miss Nell too. Neck-or-nothing, that was Master Jermyn, and prime 'uns Squire used to buy for him! He wouldn't look at a commoner, not Squire! 'Proper high-bred 'uns, Joe!' he used to say to me. 'Proper high-bred 'uns for the boy, if I drown in the River Tick!' Which he pretty near did do," said Mr. Lydd, gently knocking some of the ash from his pipe. "What with his gaming, and his racing, it was Dun Territory for Squire, but he always said as how he'd come about. I dessay he would have, if he hadn't took ill. He had a stroke, you see. Mr. Winkfield—that's his man, and has been these thirty years—he will have it it was Master Jermyn being killed in the wars that gave Squire his
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