‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t expect anything less. And good morning to you, young Strong Arm. I haven’t seen you in aeons. How the devil are you?’
‘Well enough, thank you, Mr Featherston-huff,’ I said with a smile. I had known him for many years and always made a point of mispronouncing his surname. ‘Though last winter is hardly an aeon ago.’
‘Is that all it is? Well, well. One day I shall get you to say “Fan-shaw”, you know,’ he said with a chuckle.
‘You’re more than welcome to try, sir,’ I said. ‘I enjoy a challenge.’
‘So you do, so you do. I’ve been telling Fishy all about you and your love of challenges.’
‘I gather you have.’
‘You don’t mind, do you?’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t want to embarrass you, but you do lead such an exciting life. I thought he might enjoy hearing about it.’
‘My life isn’t exciting enough, then?’ said Lady Hardcastle indignantly.
‘Hardly, sis. You just swan about looking posh and gormless. It’s Strong Arm here who does all the dangerous stuff.’
‘I’ve been shot at.’
‘In a drawing room in Dribblington St Nowhere, or wherever it is you live these days. It’s hardly the same thing.’
‘It was the dining room, and I nearly died. I should say I’m every bit as exciting as Flo.’
It was true, she had nearly died, and Harry and I had shared the anxious vigil at her bedside while we waited for her to recover.
‘All right, all right,’ he said, putting his hands up. ‘My little sister leads just as exciting a life as her maid. I know when I’m beaten.’
‘Beaten again, eh, Fanners?’ said a jovial voice from behind us. Lord Riddlethorpe had emerged silently from the house through the large French windows and had joined us in admiring the view.
‘What ho, Fishy,’ said Harry.
‘What ho, what ho,’ said Lord Riddlethorpe. ‘Good morning, Emily.’
‘Morning, Fishy,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘And good morning to you, Miss Armstrong,’ said Lord Riddlethorpe.
‘Good morning, my lord,’ I said with a smile and a hint of a curtsey.
He laughed. ‘I’ll get you to call me Fishy before the week’s out, you see if I don’t.’
‘Best of luck, old chap,’ said Harry knowingly.
Lord Riddlethorpe frowned in puzzlement, but pressed on enthusiastically. ‘I expect you’re wondering why I called you all here this morning,’ he said.
‘You’re going to give us the tour, darling,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘You want to show off your new racing track.’
‘I say. Am I that transparently vain?’
Lady Hardcastle sighed. ‘We arranged it all last evening, dear. At dinner.’
He frowned again. ‘I say, you’re right you know, we did, didn’t we. Quite a night, what? I’ve already had Spinney tutting at me over the amount we put away. No wonder some of the details are foggy.’
The other two reflexively clutched at their heads, while I hid my serves-you-right smile behind my hand.
‘Come then, my fine friends,’ said Lord Riddlethorpe, pointing, somewhat oddly, skywards and striding off purposefully across the terrace. ‘Let us explore the new and exciting world of motor racing.’
We crossed the formal garden and cut through the kitchen garden to get to an arched doorway set into the boundary wall. On the other side was a flagstoned area that had clearly once been the stable yard. A coach house with large doors stood to one side. The doors were open, revealing not coaches, traps, or dog carts, but two gleaming, green single-seater motor cars. They had numbers painted on their sides. Motor Number 3 stood close to the wall to the right, while Number 2 stood in the middle. There was a space by the wall to the left. The old coach house clearly now served as his ‘motor stable’ and workshop.
A third sleek, strangely aggressive-looking machine stood in the yard. Number 1. Morgan had one side of the bonnet up and was tinkering with the engine. Another man stood beside him. He was of average height, with an incongruously chubby face atop a slender body, which gave him the look of a small boy in his father’s overalls.
‘Morning, Morgan,’ said Lord Riddlethorpe jovially. ‘You’ve all met Morgan Coleman, haven’t you?’
We nodded and offered our own greetings.
‘Morning, my lord,’ said Morgan. ‘Morning Lady Hardcastle, Mr Featherstonhaugh, Miss Armstrong.’
‘And this cherubic chap is Ellis Dawkins, driver extraordinaire. He’s the senior driver for Codrington Racing, and is a scoundrel, a cad, and quite the fastest chap on four wheels.’
We murmured our how-do-you-dos.
‘Good morning,’ said Dawkins. ‘No one told me we was expecting such beautiful company.’
I raised an eyebrow in response to his leering smile. Unabashed, he leered again before returning his attention to Lord Riddlethorpe.
‘What do you think?’ said Lord Riddlethorpe proudly.
‘Of the car, dear?’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘Or of Morgan and Dawkins, if you prefer, but I was thinking of the car, yes.’
Dawkins turned towards me and winked. I pondered the potential consequences of flooring an earl’s trusted employee with a sharp blow to the chin.
‘Well, it’s very long, isn’t it? It’s certainly bigger than our little Rover.’
‘Faster, too,’ said Lord Riddlethorpe, patting the motor car and making Morgan flinch as the precariously balanced bonnet wobbled a little, threatening to close on his hands.
‘I’ll bet. Is it difficult to drive?’
Lord Riddlethorpe smiled. ‘No more difficult than any other motor. But to drive it quickly? That’s another matter entirely. Fanners tells me you’re quite the driver yourself.’
‘Well, I . . .’ said Lady Hardcastle, trying to affect an air of modesty.
‘Come now, I’m told you bomb along the country lanes like you’re in the Gordon Bennett Cup. You, too, Miss Armstrong.’
‘Not I, my lord,’ I said. ‘I like to take my time and enjoy the view.’
He laughed. ‘So it’s just you, then, Emily, what?’
‘I confess I have been known to put on a turn of speed when the mood is upon me, yes,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Harry suggested there might be a chance to race this week.’
He laughed again. ‘Did he, by George! You’re awfully free with my motor cars, Fanners, what?’
‘I thought we were all invited to drive,’ said Harry, slightly defensively.
‘Just teasing, Fanners. Of course you may drive, Emily, dear. Everyone can. Whole point of coming to stay.’
‘You don’t mind ladies driving?’ she asked.
‘Plenty of gels in the motor racing world, old thing. We’re a truly egalitarian, twentieth-century sport.’
‘Egalitarian, as long as one has sufficient oof to fund the running of a thoroughbred motor car.’
‘Three thoroughbred motor cars,’ said Lord Riddlethorpe, gesturing towards the old coach house.
‘Crikey, Fishy,’ said Harry. ‘I didn’t know you had three of the bally things. What do you need three for? Surely you can only drive one at a time.’
‘Well, there’s me and young Ellis, so that’s one for each of us, and one for development.’