The Scottish Prisoner - Diana Gabaldon [76]
Quinn was chatting easily to John Grey, telling him things about Dublin, asking after Grey’s plans, offering to recommend him to the best livery stable in the town.
“Will it be a coach ye’ll be needin’, sir, or are you after takin’ the post chaise?”
“How far is it to Athlone?” Grey asked. Siverly’s estate was, by report, within ten miles of Castle Athlone.
“Oh, maybe two days’ ride, with the blessing and a good horse. Slower by coach, of course. The post chaise would be one and a bit, but that’s if it doesn’t rain.” Quinn made a quick sign of the horns against this evil thought.
Grey tapped his chin thoughtfully, looking at Jamie.
“I can ride,” Jamie assured him, scratching his ribs. He felt fine now—extremely hungry, in fact.
“But there’s the baggage to consider, me lord.” Tom had popped back into the room, armed with a mug of shaving soap, a folding razor, and a strop.
“Well, yes. You’ll have to go by coach with the baggage, Tom. I’m thinking, though, that Captain Fraser and myself might travel by horseback. Quicker, and less chance of being held up by bad roads.”
He glanced at Jamie, one eyebrow raised in question.
“Aye, fine.” Jamie set aside the empty cup. Now that he was fully awake, his attention was focused more on Quinn than on Grey. He narrowed his eyes at the Irishman, who sedulously ignored him.
“And a fine day for the riding it is, too,” said Quinn approvingly. “My own road lies toward Athlone—if you gentleman might find it convenient, you’re more than welcome to travel with me, so far as ye like.”
Jamie jerked, startling Tom, who was about to apply a brushful of soap to his face.
“I should think we can find our own path,” he said, putting up a hand to ward off Tom. “Athlone’s not out of the way, from what I understand. Though we thank you for your kindness, sir,” he added to Quinn, not wanting to seem churlish. He was in fact strongly inclined to pick Quinn up and decant him swiftly out of the window. The last thing he needed was to have a pixilated Irishman along on this expedition, breathing traitorous suggestions down his neck and distracting his attention while he dealt with Grey and Siverly and whatever else Ireland might have in store for him in the way of trouble.
“Oh, not at all, at all,” Quinn said, waving an airy hand. “I’ll be setting off just after the Angelus bell—at noon, I mean—should that suit your honors. I’ll meet you in the courtyard, aye?”
He moved swiftly out the door before anyone could say anything, then popped his head suddenly back in.
“Darcy’s, in the High Street. Tell Hugh Darcy that it’s Toby Quinn as sent ye, and he’ll see ye mounted on his best.”
GREY THOUGHT THAT Quinn had been as good as his word. The horses provided by Mr. Darcy were sound, well shod, and as well tempered as a livery horse was likely to be. Mr. Quinn himself had turned up at the stable to give advice and had successfully bargained for a decent price. Jamie had given Quinn a narrowed eye, but the man seemed merely kind, if a trifle familiar, and besides, there was no way of preventing his riding out of Dublin along with them—it was a public road, after all.
There was a bit of small talk, as was common among strangers traveling together—Mr. Quinn was bent on business in County Roscommon, he said; an inheritance from a cousin that required the personal touch.
“Are you familiar with County Roscommon, sir?” Grey asked. “Do you perhaps know a gentleman named Siverly? Gerald Siverly.”
Quinn looked interested but shook his head.
“Sure, I’ve heard the name. He’s got the fine estate, he has, over near Ballybonaggin. But he wouldn’t be knowing the likes of me,” he said, with a deprecating grin.
“What is your trade, sir?” Grey asked, though worried that the man might be a gentleman—there was something in his manner that suggested it, though not his dress—and thus might be insulted. Quinn seemed not to take the question amiss, though,