The Riddle of the Reluctant Rake Page 10

  Miss Hall nodded and said with a curl of her vivid lips, “Quite in character.”

  The smile died from his eyes. He said in a lower voice, “You have, between you, contrived to destroy my character, ma’am.”

  Not waiting for a response, he reined Toreador round and walked him away.

  A farm-hand in smock and gaiters directed him to a spot where the river was shallow enough to be forded safely. Starting off, Adair was quite unable to resist a backward glance.

  The pale winter sun had broken through the clouds. An artist, he thought, would have been delighted to paint the fiasco at the bridge. The coachman was attempting to respond to Lady Abigail, who was offering him a stream of shrill and conflicting instructions, which he relayed to the scared footman. The footman ran about looking ready to burst into tears, and the enormous coach was still hopelessly stuck, the four fat horses stamping about uneasily. Miss Hall’s hood had fallen back and the sunlight awoke a bright sheen on her fair curls. It occurred to Adair that she was much more than pretty; she was, in fact, quite enchantingly beautiful. Watching her, he was startled to realize that he was staring like a besotted idiot.

  He leaned forward and scanned the bridge, then called to the distraught footman.

  In response to that authoritative hail, the footman ran to his side and gazed up at him as though he were in a tempestuous sea and had been thrown a lifeline.

  “I gather that your ladies have been travelling for several days,” said Adair. “If they are like most females, you probably carry a considerable amount of luggage in the boot.”

  “Nigh a ton, sir,” quavered the footman with a nervous glance to the Berliner. “And what to do now, I don’t know for the life of me. Mr. Prior will be fit to be tied, sir! And Peters and me will be lucky if we’re not turned off! But with the carriage leaning like it is and the wheel-hubs tight ’gainst the wall, it’s just too heavy for the team to pull free.”

  “I believe you. But this is a very old bridge. If you’ll notice, the lower sides of the walls tend to slope inward. A very small lift of your wheels would bring them above the narrower space so that the hubs would clear the wall.”

  The footman blinked. “Aye. But—but we cannot lift the coach, sir.”

  “If you lighten it, the body will lift itself.”

  “Lighten it? How, sir? We cannot get the ladies out, nor us get inside to—”

  “Then climb over the roof, you silly block, and haul some of those portmanteaux from the boot!”

  The footman’s jaw dropped. “Me, sir?” He looked down in horror at his fine coat and satin knee-breeches. Cl-climb over…?”

  “Well, be damned if I’m going to do it for you, and I’d not be in your shoes if Lady Prior takes a notion to try it herself!”

  The image of his haughty mistress crawling over the roof of the Berliner brought a sudden grin to the footman’s face. “Aye, sir,” he said. “Right you are, sir. And—and—thank ye, sir!”

  Adair nodded to him, and rode away.

  When he glanced back while fording the river downstream, he saw the footman on his hands and knees atop the coach, while what appeared to be the entire population of the village cheered him on.

  7

  Adair’s enquiries at the estate of the late Mr. Rickett won him nothing but blank stares and a clear mistrust of anyone trying to locate a long-forgotten groom. The only positive reaction came from the former boot black, now head groom, Sam Henshaw, who remembered only that Walter Davis had been a surly man they’d all been glad to see the back of.

  Disheartened, Adair gave up and turned for home.

  The afternoon was unseasonably bright when he reached London. To avoid neighbourhoods in which he was more likely to be recognized, he followed a circuitous route but he did not begrudge the time required. The great City had cast its spell over him long ago and it was no less fascinating today, showing a gentler face when bathed in sunshine. His gaze drifted fondly to the distant dome of St. Paul’s, the splendour of Westminster Abbey and St. Margaret’s Church, the numerous masts that moved busily along the glittering waters of the Thames, the sparrows that hopped their impudent way along railings and gossiped in the trees. Traffic was heavy, voices were loud but generally cheerful, and an alert ear could detect accents ranging from cockney to cultured, from the Home Counties to Scots. So many lives touching briefly, and each individual busied about his or her own concerns. He loved this dear, wicked old City, but for the moment, at least, it did not love him. Not a man of these hurrying costers or vendors or apprentices but would turn on him in disgust if he was recognized. His battle to clear his name was “making haste slowly,” and if he lost that battle, if he was forced to leave England … Well, he would not lose, and he would not be driven from his homeland!

  Escaping a woman who was determined to sell him a multicoloured knitted scarf, and a vendor convinced that he could not live happily without a pint of cockles and mussels, he eventually approached Vespa House along the side alley. The groom who came to meet him looked shocked, and disapproval was written in every line of his stiff back as he led Toreador off to the stables. Adair entered the rear door of the great house feeling like an interloper.

  Since Jack Vespa was not in residence, the mansion was sparsely staffed, and he encountered only a shy housemaid who took his saddle-bags and informed him that “the gentlemen” were in the large drawing room. Adair refused her offer to announce him, and entered that impressive chamber wondering if Vespa had returned to his house after all.

  Toby Broderick was standing by the window talking earnestly. Adair paused in the doorway, seeing no one else in the room save for the marble statue of Venus that stood near the gilded harpsichord. At first he thought Toby must be rehearsing a speech before the “lady,” but then he glimpsed a pair of gleaming Hessians sticking out from one end of a sofa.

  “… and you know dashed well there are all too many powerful men who dislike the war,” said Broderick. “Some of the Whigs have never forgiven poor Sir John Moore for the retreat from Corunna, though Lord knows, without his splendid efforts it would have been a sight more of a tragedy. They tried their damnedest to back away from Boney then, and they’re still at their tricks.”

  Adair’s rap on the door went unheard as the man on the sofa yawned and remarked that it was one thing not to like the war but quite another to conspire to put an end to it. “We know more about Bonaparte now. And anyone but a henwit must be aware that if we don’t stop him he’ll be across the Channel in jig time. I think you’re making mountains out of molehills, as usual. It will all quiet down, just wait and see.”

  The deep drawl was easily identifiable. So Lieutenant Paige Manderville, whose dark good looks caused him to be dubbed “Beau” Manderville, was back in England. He and Broderick were friends of long standing who had met Captain Jack Vespa last year during the Battle of Vitoria. Wounds had sent all three home, and when Vespa had become the target of an ugly plot, Broderick and Manderville had stood by him. Adair himself had been involved and during some rather desperate encounters deep loyalties had formed between them.

  Accustomed to the good-natured bickering that was customary for these two men, Adair wasn’t surprised when Broderick argued:

  “It won’t quiet down unless we kick some of these dashed malcontents out of Whitehall! If you look back through history, there’s an alarming trail of damage wrought by ruthless schemers whose mission in life has been to usurp authority and install their own brand of rule—usually despotic. Take our conniving Prince John, for example, or Mordred, or—”

  Adair paused in amused anticipation.

  “Who?” Paige Manderville’s handsome head lifted above the sofa-back and he eyed Broderick incredulously. “Haven’t heard of that one. A Whig, is he?”

  “Block,” snorted Broderick. “Mordred was King Arthur’s evil bastard and mortal enemy, and—”

  “What the deuce has he got to do with Napoleon Bonaparte? If you’re going to trot out mythical plo
tters—”

  “What makes you think he was only mythical? Did you know the Arthurian legends are firmly entrenched in Brittany as well as—”

  Manderville groaned and flopped back down again. “Cease and desist! I am newly home from the wars and in no condition to endure your latest lecture!”

  “A few lectures would do that soggy brain-box of yours no harm, my poor pseudo-invalid.”

  At this Manderville sprang to his feet, his face almost as red as his military coat. “And just what might you mean by that snide remark? There’s nothing pseudo about this blasted shoulder of mine, and if you—”

  Adair said heartily, “Manderville! How good to see you. Are we—” He put out his hand, but recalling his disgrace hesitated and withdrew it. “Oh—egad! Perhaps you’d as soon I left.”

  “Another word out of you, Colonel, sir,” said Manderville, marching over to seize and wring his hand strongly, “and I’ll deck you instead of our almost-don here!”

  It occurred to Adair that his nerves were not what they’d once been. During the thick of the fighting in some very savage battles, confronted by scenes to send a man’s sanity reeling, he had managed, outwardly at least, to keep his emotions in hand. Even the mighty Wellington had once laughingly described him as “my unshakeable hussar,” a rare accolade which had astonished almost as much as it had pleased him. Now, he was dismayed to find that this demonstration of loyalty and the warm light in Manderville’s famous green eyes conspired to make his throat close up and his vision blur. He was obliged to turn away while he fought for the self-control that had so bewilderingly deserted him.

  Quick to comprehend Adair’s state of mind and come to the rescue, Broderick exclaimed, “Hey! A colonel has come among us, and just in time for tea! Let us all partake while we gossip.”

  The tea was carried in by a maid and footman. Gathered informally around the fire, the three young men compared notes while they ate heartily of buttered scones with jam, cheese and watercress sandwiches, lemon sponge cake, and biscuits.

  Manderville, who had come from the front with despatches, and also to have his old shoulder wound examined, demanded to hear everything that had happened. Broderick did most of the explaining, his account leaving Manderville alternately aghast and hilarious.

  Adair asked at length, “What luck at the Horse Guards, Toby?”

  Broderick reported that as promised he had relayed the fire-boy’s tale of the coach that had arrived at Singletree in the middle of the night when Miss Alice Prior had vanished.

  “Now, that’s promising, surely,” said Manderville, pouring himself another cup of tea.

  “It might be, were Whitehall not staffed by intransigent worm-wits!” Broderick said, exasperated. “Not only did they imply I had made up the whole tale, but they demanded to know where they could find Hasty.” He glanced at Adair and added with reluctance, “I sent them off on a wild-goose chase, but you’d as well know they seem half-way convinced that Miss Prior has been done away with, and—er, well, the truth is—”

  “That I’m the prime suspect, is that it?” Adair said bitterly, “Regardless of the fact that I was imprisoned at the time.”

  “The argument appears to be that you were allowed visitors and could have sent word to an accomplice to arrange the—er, business.”

  “What damnable nonsense!” Flushed with anger, Adair exclaimed, “Much chance I have of proving my innocence to such closed minds! Have I actually been named, Toby? Is there a warrant out against me?”

  “Not so far as I’m aware. But…” Broderick looked unhappy. “There have been Runners from Bow Street and some dashed impertinent newspaper fellows swarming about your father’s house.”

  Adair could well imagine Lord Joshua’s reaction, and as for his mother … “Damn and blast them!” he groaned, running a hand through his hair distractedly.

  “Quite,” said Broderick. “Rather a sticky wicket, old boy.”

  Manderville, busied with the sponge cake, prompted, “Don’t forget the letter.”

  “Jove, but I had!” Broderick jumped up and retrieved a letter that was stuck irreverently in a fold of the draperies of Venus. “Came yesterday.” He handed it to Adair. “Looks to be the General’s writing.”

  Manderville demanded, “How d’you know it’s the General’s writing? Had several letters from him, have you?”

  “I’ve taken a moderate interest in chirography, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Well, it ain’t what I mean since it’s another of your jawbreakers that I never before heard uttered by man nor beast, so—”

  “Then by all means permit me to explain,” said Broderick grandly. “For your benefit, I’ll use very small words. Chirography, or writing with the hand rather than printing, is a most interesting study, and has proven that no two people write in exactly the same way. Which makes forgery, for example, a tricky task.”

  “What stuff! I’ll wager I could forge your scrawl so no one would know the difference!”

  “If you had nothing better to do than to attempt such silliness you might hoodwink some dimwit, I grant you, but it is very difficult to disguise one’s hand to the point that an expert would be deceived. The study of handwriting is not a new science. Leonardo da Vinci is said to have used mirror writing to preserve his secrets. The Chinese noted the connection between handwriting and personality in the eleventh century, and in 1622 Camillo—awwwk!”

  Broderick’s “explanation” had been lost on Adair as he read his letter, but the final word, being more of a strangled howl, broke through his concentration.

  Manderville had come up behind Broderick’s chair and was holding a cushion over the “almost-don’s” face.

  “Only way,” he panted, glancing up, his eyes alight with laughter. “Have to put a stop to the flow of his blasted erudition, or—”

  With a writhe and a twist, Broderick escaped. Flushed and breathless, his hair on end, and the lust for revenge written on his usually mild countenance, he sprang onto the sofa as Manderville darted behind it. “I’ll put a stop to you!” he roared, and launched himself at his tormentor.

  Briefly, Adair watched their struggle for possession of the cushion, then he left them. He was in the entrance hall, instructing a footman to send for his horse, when Broderick joined him and ordered the footman to wait for a minute. “Summoned, are you, Hasty?” he murmured, plucking a feather from his ear and leading Adair aside.

  “Yes. You were right about the handwriting. The General and my father want to see me. I must get over there, Toby.”

  “Not on Toreador. He’s too well known. Take Trouble. Paige won’t mind.”

  “How generous you are with my peerless charger.” Manderville came up wearing a crown of feathers. “Adair knows very well that Trouble savages any stranger who tries to ride him.”

  Broderick nodded, “Might have known you’d be mean-spirited about it. I’ll be glad to let you take my Quadrille, Hasty.”

  This remark drew a hoot of derision from Manderville, Broderick’s tall bay being every bit as unpredictable as his own prized Trouble. Adair left them arguing, and went to the stables to borrow one of Jack Vespa’s mounts.

  The afternoon was fading to dusk when he rode out, but mindful of Broderick’s warning, he pulled his hat low and the cape of his cloak high. He reached his parents’ house without incident and left his borrowed horse with a stable-boy who stared at him solemnly.

  How grand it would be, thought Adair, to inspire once again the friendly smiles he’d formerly received from the servants; or at least not to meet with obvious condemnation from those who might have been expected to give him the benefit of the doubt. He clenched his hands hard, and went into the mansion prepared for another ordeal.

  In the main hall a footman ran to take his cloak, gloves and hat. Loud voices could be heard emanating from the first floor. Adair climbed the stairs with reluctance. He paused as the drawing-room door burst open and his younger brother shouted rebelliously, “Well, I
shall not!”

  So Nigel had not returned to Oxford. Probably ashamed to show his face, poor lad.

  Hurried footsteps and the youth was before him, looking haggard and distraught, eyes glittering ragefully in the pale face.

  Hastings reached out. “Nigel, if you would just—”

  “Do what?” Nigel drew away from his hand as though it were leprous. “Forgive you? Pretend I believe you innocent? Harrington, poor good-natured dupe, will likely forgive you. But I never shall, Colonel—or—or whatever in blazes you are now! Never as long as I live!”

  He pushed past so violently that Hastings was staggered and had to make a grab for the stair railing.

  For a moment he leaned there watching that headlong flight. Of all his family, he would have counted on Nigel to stand by him, but it was clear that the boy believed the whole ugly story. That awareness brought an aching sense of grief and loss and a reinforcement of his determination to vindicate himself.

  “Took your time! Been in a brawl, I see. Not surprising.” The words were barked out as though Major Roger Adair still stood on the parade ground under a hot Indian sun.

  Hastings steeled himself to meet his uncle’s contemptuous gaze. “My regrets, sir. I have but now—”

  “Save your apologies for the General. Step lively. He ain’t pleased.”

  That fact was all too apparent when Hastings entered the big room. He was relieved to find only four other members of the family present: his father; his elder brother, Hudson; his clerical uncle, Taylor Chatteris; and his grandfather, who stood before the hearth looking fierce.

  Hastings bowed and greeted them with cool courtesy.

  Lord Esterwood, elegant as ever, rose from an armchair. “I sent for you two days ago.”

  “I’m sorry, Father. I was from Town.”

  “Cannot blame you for that,” barked Major Adair drily. “Sometimes retreat is sound strategy. Though you wasn’t quick enough to avoid Thorne Webber’s riding crop, eh?”