sounds of commotion drifted in from the front of the hotel. That would be Nolan. Archer ran a friendly hand across the horse’s ragged coat. The animal had been beautiful once, strong once; with luck he would be again. He dug in his pocket for more coin. Money was all he had to keep the horse safe. Archer pressed a third round of coins into the ostler’s hand. ‘This is for you, as my personal thanks for your efforts, one horseman to another.’ Perhaps an appeal to the man’s ethics would be enough. There was no time for more. The commotion was demanding his attention now. Archer gave the ostler a nod and strode into the courtyard, aware that the horse’s eyes followed him out.
In the darkness, he almost collided with Nolan who was moving at a near run. ‘Archer, old chap! Where did you get to? We’ve got to go!’ Nolan seized his arm without stopping and dragged him towards the waiting coach, his words coming fast. ‘Don’t look now, but that angry man behind us thinks I cheated. He has a gun, and my good knife. It’s in his shoulder, but I think he shoots with both—hands, that is. It wouldn’t make sense the other way.’ Nolan pulled open the coach door and they tumbled in, the coach lurching to a start before the door was even shut.
‘Ah! A clean getaway.’ Nolan sank back against the seat, a satisfied grin on his face.
‘It doesn’t always have to be a “getaway”. Sometimes we can exit a building like normal people.’ Archer straightened the cuffs of his coat and gave Nolan a scolding look.
‘It was fairly normal,’ Nolan protested.
‘You left a knife embedded in a man’s shoulder, not exactly the most discreet of departures.’ If Nolan had been discreet, he would have stopped playing two hours ago. The other players could have respectably quit the table, their pride and at least some money intact. But then he never would have had a chance to save that horse. ‘You got away in the nick of time.’
Nolan merely grinned, unfazed by the scolding. ‘Speaking of time, do you think Haviland is at the docks yet?’ They were scheduled to meet two friends at the boat this morning to begin their Grand Tour. ‘I’ll wager you five pounds Haviland is there.’
Archer laughed. ‘At this hour? He’s not there. Everything was loaded last night. There’s no reason for him to be early. Besides, he has to drag Brennan’s sorry self out of bed. That will slow him down.’ He and Haviland had known each other since Eton. Haviland was notoriously prompt, but he wouldn’t be early and Brennan was always late.
‘Easiest five pounds I’ll ever make,’ Nolan said something more, but Archer had leaned back and closed his eyes, blocking it out. He wanted a moment’s peace. Between angry teamsters, rescued horses and irate gamblers, the late hour was starting to take its toll. Sometimes, Nolan wore a person out. Provoking a fight on the brink of departure wasn’t exactly Archer’s idea of bon voyage.
Still, whether he agreed with Nolan’s choices or not, it was his job to have Nolan’s back just as it was Haviland’s job to have Brennan’s. He and Haviland had divided up the duties of friendship years ago at school when it had become apparent Nolan and Brennan weren’t entirely capable of exercising discretion on their own.
Back then, what couldn’t be tamed had to be protected. These days, Nolan did a pretty fair job of protecting himself. He didn’t need defending as much as he needed what one might call support. That was the gentlemanly way to put it. Needing a duelling second would be another.
It was times like this morning when Archer appreciated horses. He understood them, preferred them even. It was horses, in addition to his long-standing friendship with the others, that had provided the final, but not the only piece of motivation to leave Newmarket. Perhaps there were new breeds waiting for him in Europe, breeds he could send back to the family stud.
His father had charged him with purchasing any exciting prospects he could find and had given him carte blanche to do it. But Archer knew what that charge really was. It was his father’s way of apologising. His father was very good at apologising with money. It was easy to do if one had a lot of it and his father, the Earl, had bags of it, rooms of it even. He’d never understood his family wanted more from him than his money or what it could buy. Not even at the last had he understood that and Archer had had enough of his father’s aloof, uncaring reserve, enough of the coldness. He was off to seek warmer climates, warmer families: his mother’s people in Siena.
Archer had never been so glad to be a second son. His brother was the heir. He, as the eldest, was confined to the estates, whereas Archer had been given the stables, the racing string and that had been the avenue of a convenient escape when Haviland had delicately proposed the tour last autumn. He could be in Siena for the Palio, the town’s grand tradition in the heat of August. He could be with his mother’s family, horse breeders like himself. Perhaps that was what drew him most of all, these people he’d never met, only heard about in letters over his childhood; his uncle Giacomo, the breeder whose famed horses had won that race more than any other, a chance to be part of something great, a chance to keep the vow he had made to a dying mother. Her dreams and his promises were all he had left of her now.
There was the rustle of Nolan shifting, his body leaning forward to look out the window. ‘I don’t think he followed us, not with a knife in his shoulder,’ Archer muttered, eyes closed. He heard Nolan’s body relax once more against the squabs. Not quite relaxed, he amended. He could feel Nolan staring at him, those grey eyes boring into his head in a very one-sided staring contest. He would not open his eyes, he would not, would not, would not... Archer’s eyes flew open. He couldn’t stand it. ‘What?’
Nolan crossed his arms over his chest, a wide smile taking his face. ‘Archer, why is there a horse following us?’
‘A horse?’ It was Archer’s turn to look out the window. He stared, he squinted, he looked at Nolan and then back out the window. It couldn’t be. But it was. The Cleveland Bay he’d rescued was cantering down the road behind them. Right beside them, as if he knew Archer was inside the coach.
‘I sort of rescued him this morning while you were playing cards,’ Archer explained. What was he going to do with a horse at the docks? He couldn’t take the beast to France with him. It would hardly be fair to make the poor horse endure a Channel crossing or to make him walk from Calais to Paris. He needed good food and rest. That didn’t mean the horse’s efforts hadn’t tugged at his heartstrings. Nolan might laugh at the notion horses could and did communicate with their owners, but Archer had seen too many examples to the contrary. A horse’s loyalty was not to be taken lightly. Horses would give their lives for the people they loved.
Their coach turned in to the docks, the horse slowing obediently to a trot to match the pace. Archer jumped down the moment the coach stopped. The horse still wore the rope bridle, but thankfully no lead line dangled dangerously at his hooves. Archer held out his hand and approached slowly. ‘Easy, boy.’ The horse blew out a loud snuffle, flecks of foam at his mouth. The running had started to wind him. A horse like him should be able to run for miles, but poor nutrition and hard labour had taken their toll on his natural endurance. They had not, however, taken their toll on the horse’s sense of a good man. The horse stood patiently, letting Archer put a hand on his long nose and another on his neck.
Archer stroked the sweaty coat and spoke in soft, reassuring tones. ‘I’ve got a good home for you. The ostler at the hotel is going to take you there after you have had a rest. There are green pastures. You can run all day and eat orchard grass.’
‘He doesn’t understand you, Arch.’ Nolan chuckled, coming to stand on the horse’s other side. ‘He sure is a game fellow, though, to chase after you. Smart too. You’ve got to respect that.’
And
