again. After eyeing him speculatively for a moment, she asked him, “When you say that you do not hunt, Sir Tony, surely you mean merely that you do not hunt the fox?”
He shook his head solemnly.
“Not hares? Otters? Badgers?” Sophie eyed him sceptically, but after each question, he answered in the negative. “Well,” she concluded, almost speechless.
Tony had not been prepared for the startling effect of his pronouncement. Grinning at the ease of his success, he said, “There you go again, Miss Corby. You are looking at me as though I had suddenly sprouted horns. I assure you that you will meet many gentlemen in London who do not hunt.” But as soon as he had said so, he regretted it, for Sophie’s eyes lit with hopeful anticipation.
“I shall?” she said, almost with a sigh. Tony hoped that he had not lost all competitive advantage with one slip of the tongue.
“Nonsense, girl!” interjected Sir John. “I am sure there is no respectable gentleman who does not hunt—occasionally, at least,” he added, qualifying his statement at the sight of Tony’s rueful grin. “Of course, there might be some impediment to it. Perhaps you have not had proper introduction to the chase, Sir Tony. You must pay us a call in the Shires. Once you have been blooded and presented with the fox’s brush, you will be all set,” said he confidently.
“I thank you, Sir John, but I’m afraid nothing can excuse me. I have had ample opportunity to hunt, but find that it does not suit me for several reasons, and, as I am unwilling to devote the proper time to it, have concluded that I had best leave it alone. You will think me a frippery fellow, but I much prefer the amusements of London.”
There was nothing inscrutable about Sir John’s subsequent expression, but out of politeness to his host, he kept his thoughts to himself. “Well, I do find that queer” was all he said.
“You yourself, I take it, must hunt the majority of your time,” said Tony.
“Aye. Six days a week,” asserted Sir John.
“It is as I expected,” said Tony. “Such devotion does not come cheaply, I’ll warrant.”
“That it does,” agreed Sir John, not without pride. “It takes ten thousand a year just to manage, though last year was a bit worse. I lost three top mounts at £700 each—they each dropped dead with me astride. But this year will be different, I suppose,” he added regretfully, remembering his destination.
Tony regarded him with an enigmatic smile. “Just so. You will not need to spend so much in London. And so it is with me,” he concluded without explanation.
It was getting late, and he wanted to be off early in the morning. He looked at his guests expectantly, but each seemed lost in private thoughts. Sir John was still regretting the rest of the season he would be missing; Lady Corby just looked tired. And Sophie, who had been gazing absently at some remote object, came to when she sensed his eyes upon her. She smiled again, not quite so boldly this time, but questioningly.
Tony took her hand and bowed over it. “I would be honoured if you would allow me to call on you in London, Miss Corby,” he said.
Sophie opened her mouth to respond, but her father, suddenly alert, broke her off. “Of course, of course, naturally,” he said unconvincingly. “We’ll be happy to see you. We must be off to bed now, though, so we can get into Town early tomorrow. I’d better have a word with that innkeeper.”
“As to that, Sir John,” offered Tony, “it has occurred to me that I have a means of making other arrangements for the night, and I would be happy to give you my room. No need to wake poor Jem or Dick, as it is certain to be, and you will have a much better bed. I shall ask the man to remove my things.”
Sir John appeared uncertain, but grudgingly accepted. He had lost much of his enthusiasm for his host since Tony’s admission that he did not hunt, a fact that did not escape Tony. “If it will