Free Gayle Buck by The Desperate Viscount Page B

in the breasts of some of those who heard him and they loudly proclaimed that the viscount could not possibly shave off the necessary minutes. The odds increased sharply.
    Lord St. John listened with a sardonic expression in his eyes.
    The gentlemen who had taken it upon themselves to record the wagers agreed that Captain Hargrove, despite his partisan remark, had already established a reputation for fair dealing and, in addition, was just in from the Peninsula and so had no loyalties, so that he could be depended upon to give impartial witness to the finish.
    Pocket watches were consulted in order to mark and record the starting time. Captain Hargrove put the yard of tin to his lips and gave a flourishing blast. Lord St. John flicked his whip and guided his team away from the curb. A few interested parties had come to the beginning of the race in their own carriages or on horseback and they accompanied the viscount’s vehicle through the street, shouting cheerful witticisms back and forth among their company.
    Lord St. John paid little heed to the tomfoolery. He tooled the curricle through the tangle of carriages and wagons, horsemen and pedestrians with consummate skill, coolly negotiating even the most impossibly narrow gaps without mishap.
    Quickly enough the other drivers fell behind and gave way. One or two of those in hacks remained in sight of the viscount’s curricle almost to the outer reaches of the congested London byways, but then they, too, turned back.
    Captain Hargrove watched the viscount work, giving a soundless whistle at a particularly harrowing squeeze between two draft wagons. “You are quite good at this,” he said.
    He was startled when Lord St. John flashed a completely open grin. In his short acquaintance with the viscount, Captain Hargrove had taken for granted that his lordship’s faintly mocking air was habitual. He recalled only one other time that he had seen such naturalness in the man and that had been on the occasion of their duel. It was an interesting insight into the viscount’s character, he reflected thoughtfully.
    London was eventually left behind and Lord St. John let his horses go. The countryside swept by in a blur of high green hedges and glimpses of fine estates and cottage roofs.
    Lord St. John drove his horses hard but not beyond what he judged to be their limits of endurance. Barring unforeseen accidents or barriers in the road, he was completely confident of making Dover well under the designated time.
    * * * *
    And so it proved. Upon entering the outskirts of Dover, Captain Hargrove pulled out his pocket watch. “Oh, well done!” he exclaimed, faithfully marking the hour in a small notebook he had carried for the purpose.
    Lord St. John said nothing, but the unusual ease of his expression was enough to show his companion that he was also pleased.
    “I think a celebration is in order, my lord,” said Captain Hargrove, putting away the notebook.
    “Do you indeed, Hargrove?” asked Lord St. John with the glimmer of a smile. “What manner of celebration had you in mind?”
    “A pint of ale and a hand of beef are called for after such dusty work,” said Captain Hargrove firmly. “There is an inn that gained my favor when last I embarked for the Peninsula. It is not the stop of the fashionable, of course, but instead lays out a man’s trenchers.” There was an underlying contempt in his words for the haunts of the fashionable that made St. John laugh.
    “You intrigue me, sir. Direct me to it, I pray,” said Lord St. John.
    Captain Hargrove did so and within a few short minutes the gentleman’s carriage turned into a lively inn yard. After Lord St. John had given instructions for the care of his team, he and Captain Hargrove entered into the crowded taproom.
    While Captain Hargrove made known to a waiter what was wanted, Lord St. John stripped off his driving gloves and looked about him with interest.
    It was as Captain Hargrove had said. The taproom clientele was