The Pinchbeck Peer: Book 6

The Pinchbeck Peer - Book Six – Goodbye Gentleman Jim Andrew Wareham Copyright © 2023 Andrew Wareham KINDLE Edition All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored, in any form or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them. PublishNation www.publishnation.co.uk Contents Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter One Viscount Oakham, once merely Fabius Newcombe, then a militia lieutenant before becoming Gentleman Jim, the renowned prize-fighter, now the husband of Lady Euphemia Verstappen, crippled daughter to the Duke of Mendip, sat in the post chaise rattling through the evening in its rush south from London. His wife was at Itchenstoke, between Winchester and Southampton, and she was ill and he was not at her side. They drew up at a posting inn. There was silence, no rush and bustle of ostlers making the change. Dunham, his manservant stepped down, called to the landlord. “Where are the horses, man?” “Eight of the clock and gone, master. A dark night and clouding up in the west. Goin’ to piss down inside the hour, master. Ain’t no horses goin’ out of my stables tonight, not post nor ridin’. If so be you wants to get further, you walks. I got rooms and a hot fire and a good table still set.” They had made some thirty miles since leaving London late in the afternoon, were still well north of Guildford. There was no such thing as street-lighting and the rare night traveller was dependent on the moon. Rain clouds made travel ridiculously dangerous, impossible to avoid the potholes of the deeply rutted highway, difficult to see bends, of which there were many. Even at the height of midsummer, rushing through the night broke horses’ legs and only too often overturned chaises; early in winter, haste at night was suicidal. Dunham turned to his master, found Fabius stepping down from the chaise. “You are right, landlord. Your four best horses for first light – literally!” “If so be it be raining still, might be wiser to delay, master…” “I said first light! Do as you are bid!” The landlord shrank away from the tall, powerful figure. “Yes, sir. Dawn as is, sir. Ah… Who is it I am speaking to, sir?” “Oakham. Coffee, if you please, first of all.” Dunham nodded to the landlord to precede them, whispered quietly. “Viscount Oakham, and his lady lies ill at home we are just informed. Deathly ill.” The inn was turned upside-down, every person in it running, or so it seemed. Viscounts were important men in England, capable of ruining an innkeeper who caused offence. A word in the ear of the authorities and he could find his doors closed for selling bad beer and no court to appeal to. The Sheriff’s men could root through the cellars and find smuggled brandy, and that would mean imprisonment for sure, even if every inn in the whole county kept the same. My lord would find his every wish met and a very reasonable bill in the morning. Hopefully he might be open-handed with tips for all; if he was not, there would not be a word said. The landlord caught Dunham’s eye. “We have the remains of a leg of pork and a rack of lamb. Beefsteaks if wanted. Half a goose has not been eaten yet. Given an hour and we can roast chickens fresh. What I ain’t got, and can’t get hold of, is fish, for hungry buggers earlier having ate it all up. Fresh cod of the best, it was, too!” “Have you vegetables fresh cooked?” “Spuds and parsnip and runner beans and broad beans and cabbage, green and red and white, sir, and leeks and onions. Always has plenty of they, for the missus keeping a good garden out of liking.” “Good. My master enjoys fresh vegetables.” The landlord showed surprise. In his experience, the gentry required a poundage of flesh and little else at mealtime. “You have a private dining room, landlord?” “Aye, sir. One other traveller overnighting, sir, and him coming up from Portsmouth, a naval man. He is sat over a brandy bottle in my lounge room, sir. There are a few of local young men there as well. They are on their way home after a cocking down at Guildford, will walk their horses the little distance to their parents’ houses. There will be no more call for dining tonight, sir.” It came hard to the landlord to call a mere valet ‘sir’, but the gentry must not be offended, even at second hand. “Good. The coffee first, and keep a pot hot for after. My master drinks little of wines or spirits but coffee he requires. Look to the postboys’ comfort. They must be at their best in the morning if we are to see twelve miles an hour in the wet.” “That’s asking too much, sir!” “It is not asking!” “Yes, sir.” The postboys’ meal of bread and cheese became beef and potatoes and in large portions. The landlord begrudged the two shillings it cost from his limited profits on hiring his post horses, the more for fearing for the animals’ legs on a wet road. Post horses rarely survived more than three years on the road, and that was with care being taken. A wild