Kestrel’s eyes danced. Fanshawe had undoubtedly taken leave of his senses, but this promised to be a rare morning’s work. “You can count on me, Rensley,” he struck in.
“Nothing, be sure, would please me more, Sir Anthony,” Rensley answered, “but I have a meeting with your protégé tomorrow and your quarrel must wait on his.”
“Really, Tony, you must — ”
“Give me leave, Molyneux.” A hand was raised to enjoin silence. “I don’t wait on young Merriot’s pleasure, Rensley.”
“In this instance, sir, you will find you must.”
Sir Anthony smiled. “You must think me a much bigger fool than I am, Mr Rensley.”
“I doubt it, sir!” There was a bite to the words.
“Oh, but you do, my good Rensley, if you suppose that I do not perfectly understand the meaning of this refusal of yours to meet me now.”
“And what is the meaning, sir?”
Sir Anthony pointed his long cane at Rensley, and answered in a voice of indulgent scorn. “Oh, you will prove your mettle on young Merriot to the satisfaction of the world, and I shall hear next that you sustained some slight hurt in that encounter for which the surgeon prescribes a foreign clime.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “No, no, Rensley, it won’t serve!”