“What is it, Papa?” someone called down in a clear, piping voice.
Another said, “Is there going to be a mill?”
They began to sidle down the stairs, the maids clucking half-heartedly behind them, while their father was torn between dealing with his own offspring or tackling Ian, who was doing his best to look imposingly large and imperious. He could see at a glance that this fellow was no gentleman, despite the well-fitted clothes.
By this time, more people had appeared from the passageway, although whether they were footmen or family members was impossible to tell. Then thumps and yells and clatterings announced the arrival from the service stairs of a boiling tangle of men in the attire of outdoor servants. Amongst them, Ian recognised Barty and two or three others fromHarringdon. The arrivals from the passageway joined in and, to cheers from the spectators on the stairs, the boiling tangle became a mill in truth.
The entrance hall was not a large room, and within moments it was a scene of devastation, with chairs overturned, a vase hurled wildly into the mêlée and arms flailing everywhere. Ian was not accustomed to finding himself in the middle of a pitched battle. His cane would be a useful weapon, especially since it concealed a sword, but there was no room to swing it, nor could he be sure of hitting only the enemy, if they were indeed to be considered so. After all, they were only defending their home from strangers.
So although he used his cane to defend himself from any stray punches that came too close, he kept himself out of the battle as far as possible. He noticed that the stout man had disappeared, while his good lady had returned and was shrieking condemnation or encouragement, it was hard to tell which, from the landing above.
Ian tired of the fracas very quickly. His hand found his pistol waiting in his pocket. Choosing a moment when the battle ebbed away from him momentarily, he pulled the pistol forth and fired into the ceiling.
In so small a room, the echo of the report and the acrid smell of the powder were overwhelming. Someone screamed, but the shot had the desired effect, for the fighting ground to a surprised halt.
“Stop this nonsense at once!” Ian boomed into the sudden silence. “You two — stand up! And you — you are dripping blood all over the rug. Get downstairs and get yourself cleaned up. Barty, gather up our people. The rest of you, back downstairs where you belong.”
The authority in his voice did the trick. With only a couple of resentful shoves, the two groups separated and several men trooped obediently down the stairs.
“What happened?” Ian said to Barty.
The man grinned at him. “I wish I could do that — subdue them with the power of my voice. I did try… but dressed like this, they took no notice of me. The grooms defended the stables, we withdrew into the basement, they followed us there. We were trying to get away from them and ended up here. Sorry, my lord.”
“No real damage done, except to the ceiling,” he said, looking up ruefully at the cracked plaster. “Did you find anything?”
“No opportunity to look.”
“Then get back there and keep an eye on them, in case they try to smuggle Bayton out of captivity. And watch out for a portly man in a green waistcoat. He was here a moment ago, but he disappeared when the fight broke out.”
Barty opened the front door and led his men off at a run, leaving Ian alone in the hall. Or almost alone. On the half-landing, watching interestedly, were the remains of the nursery party, two boys of perhaps seven or eight.
Ian smiled at them. “Did you enjoy the mill?”
They both nodded. “It were grand!” the elder boy said. “Parker’s right handy with his fives! But that other man — he planted Matt Holden such a facer. Prop’ly drew his cork, he did.”
“Boys!” said a gravelly voice. “Back upstairs, this minute.”
“Yes, Grandpa. Sorry, Grandpa.”
They scuttled away, leaving Ian facing an elderly man leaning heavily on a walking stick.
“Mr Hearle, I presume?” Ian said. “I am Viscount Farramont.”
The old man smirked. “Farramont, eh? Then I pity you, sir, married to that whore.”
Ian took a step forward, and had he not been still holding a pistol in his hand, matters might have gone ill for Mr Hearle. But Ian remembered in time that he was a gentleman.
Through clenched teeth, he said, “I make due allowance for your age, sir, and will therefore not knock your teeth down your throat, this time. Should there be any further insult to my wife, I shall not be so restrained.”
The old man laughed. “I shall look forward to it.” He waved his walking stick in what he imagined was a menacing manner, wobbling rather, but Ian only laughed back at him. Hearle might have been a powerful man once, but age had taken its inevitable toll.
At that moment, Sir Hannibal and Lord Foskett emerged from the service stairs, half carrying a slender young man covered in bruises.
“Success!” Sir Hannibal called out, then noticed the old man. “Now who have we here?”
“You go rampaging through my house, and have the gall to askmewho I am?” the old man growled. “Identify yourselves, so that I know who I am throwing out.”
“Oh, you are going to throw us out, are you?” Sir Hannibal said cheerfully, looking all around the hall, and seeing no one to support the old man. “You and… erm?”
