Free Ten Lords A-Leaping by Ruth Dudley Edwards Page A

goodness, I look almost like a gentleman. Fine feathers really do make fine birds.’
    ‘Now boots.’ Pooley reached into the back of his wardrobe and produced a pair of magnificent, highly polished brown riding boots. Amiss looked at them longingly. ‘ ’Fraid not,’ he said. ‘It’s wellies I need.’
    ‘You can’t ride in wellies.’
    ‘I’m not riding. I’ve only ridden once in my life and that was on a donkey in Yarmouth. I’m following the hunt by car and on foot.’
    ‘Well then, you don’t need all this stuff. Duffel coat and jeans would be fine.’
    ‘You don’t know the Marquess of Poulteney.’
    A happy grin spread over Pooley’s rather serious features. ‘Poulteney? Oh, but I do.’
    ‘Don’t tell me. He’s a mate of your old man’s.’
    ‘Well, let’s say that on the rare occasions that the pater drops by the House of Lords, Poulteney would be one of the first he would seek out to fulminate with.’
    ‘Your father hunts?’
    ‘A bit. He’s not an obsessive like Poulteney, but he does his bit of hunting and his bit of shooting and his bit of fishing with reasonable regularity. Keeps him out of mischief.’
    ‘And you?’
    Pooley looked sheepish. ‘Used to hunt a bit in school holidays. Gave it up on principle when I was at university. But I have to admit that a couple of times recently when I was at home I couldn’t resist having a go again.’
    ‘Ah, Ellis, this is another way in which you’re becoming encouragingly less priggish as the years go by.’
    ‘You, on the other hand, become ever more patronizing. Now, have we finished? I want to hear about whatever nonsense you’re up to over a drink.’
    ‘That’s it, I think.’ Amiss checked his list. ‘Barbour, hacking jacket, stock, riding crop.’
    ‘What do you want a riding crop for if you’re not going riding?’
    ‘Hunt saboteurs.’
    ‘Ah, you’re in for an exciting weekend.’
    ‘Oh yes. Wellies, please, Ellis.’
    ‘Green OK?’
    ‘Natch.’
    Amiss surveyed himself. ‘What a dash I would have cut with your riding boots. These are not the same at all.’ He shrugged and began to change back into his own clothes. ‘Thanks, Ellis. I’ll look after these to the best of my ability.’
    ‘If you’re going to be tangling with sabs, it’s going to be more important to look after yourself to the best of your ability. There are some nasty ones about. Here ’ – Pooley reached into another drawer and produced a silver hip flask – ‘you’d better take this as well. If the weather is cold and rainy and the sabs are making their presence felt, Dutch courage may be required.’
    ‘Crikey, things must be serious if Ellis Pooley is recommending me to drink whisky on a Saturday morning.’
    Amiss pulled on his sweater. Pooley by now had put the pristine wellies in a large carrier bag and was placing it with his other possessions in an expensive, if slightly battered, soft leather suitcase.
    ‘You’d better have the case too. I expect you’ve got something modern. Modern is suspect.’ He closed the catches and handed the case to Amiss.
    ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Now, how about some gin?’
    The journey did not begin auspiciously. Although Amiss was at the appointed place ten minutes early, Beesley had already been waiting for twenty-five and was in a state of high anxiety.
    ‘I feared you had gone to the wrong platform for, most confusingly, there is, at the same time, a slow train which also goes to Market Harborough and who knows, you might have forgotten my precise instructions. You’ve cut it very fine indeed, I must say. Will we get a seat, I ask myself?’ He plunged through to the platform and Amiss had to accelerate to catch up with him, surprised at how fit the old fool appeared to be. They rushed down the platform and, rather to Beesley’s disappointment, found an empty first-class carriage, where he managed through dither to spin out to five minutes much carry-on about where the luggage would be