The Riddle of the Reluctant Rake (30 page)

Mr. Chatteris was white as a sheet and stared at the lady in obvious stupefaction.

Advancing, she held out her hands. “Will? Can you find no welcome for me?”

“LaVerne,” he gulped hoarsely, taking both her hands.
“You? Here?”

She nodded. “It is, I think, time.” She turned to Adair, who had watched this meeting in frowning silence. “Pray be so good as to for just a little time excuse us, Colonel.”

He bowed, and did not follow when his bewildering uncle led the nun towards the morning room.

“And what do you have to say about that, Hastings Adair?”

The laughing question brought him to the open front door in two swift strides. The lady who now stood there wore a cloak of rich mulberry over a light pink gown. Her eyes were alight with triumph, and she was, he thought with a jolt of the heart, the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. “Cecily!” He pressed her fingers to his lips. “How wonderful to see you! But what on earth are you doing here, and with the Mother Superior?”

“We have been contriving in your behalf, Colonel,” said Lady Abigail, from the terrace.

Cecily chuckled. “Grandmama certainly has. She called upon your grandfather, though she will not tell me what she asked of him.”

“He—er, came to see me.” Adair hurried to bow over the old lady's hand. “For which I am more than grateful, ma'am. Pray come in, and I'll call for refreshments.”

Lady Abigail refused this offer, however, saying that she had glimpsed Miss Chatteris down at the kennels and meant to join her and see the puppies. “I presume,” she added, rapping her fan on Adair's wrist, “that since there is a nun in the house you are to be trusted with my granddaughter?”

“With or without the nun,” he answered with a smile.

“Not too long, mind, Cecily,” she called. “We must be back in Town before dusk if we're to go to the Tenbury ball tonight.”

Adair closed the door behind her and led Cecily to a comfortable if rather faded sofa. “You are lovelier each time I see you,” he said, sitting beside her. “Do I take it that you brought the Mother Superior here?”

“Grandmama and I.” She added with a twinkle, “I didn't know how we would manage it, but I knew you suspected some connection between your uncle and the nunnery, so I asked Grandmama to drive down there with me this morning.” She paused, smiling fondly at Adair's down-bent head as he took up her hand and kissed it. “Between us, we were able to persuade the Mother Superior to come here and talk to your uncle. But I must say, Hasty, I cannot believe the lady is a French spy. She is much too delightful.”

“I think spies very often are. I own she has great charm, but it is very obvious that she is well acquainted with my uncle. She called him ‘Will.' I've never known anyone to use his name in that way.”

“She implied that they are simply old friends.”

He was silent, thinking that there was nothing simple about this remarkable uncle he had once thought he knew well.

Cecily said lightly, “The lady appeared to be genuinely distressed when I told her of the fix you're in and how desperately you are striving to clear your name. You have made a great impression on her, you know, and although she was reluctant at first, she eventually said she would try to help and asked that we bring her here.”

“Bless you, my darling girl! And your splendid grandmother!”

“Thank you, kind sir. How wonderful it will be if she can really help! Well, you will soon know. And now, Hastings Chatteris Adair, be so good as to answer me a question. When is your horrid duel to take place? Rufus has taken himself off somewhere and I could get nothing from him before he left.”

“Oh. Well—er, to say truth, it took place. Early this morning.”

She gave a little shriek and paled, turning to grasp his arm and search his face anxiously. “My dear heavens! After staying up half the night—”

“And dreaming of you the other half.”

“I wonder you are alive! And I knew nothing of it! Oh, you wretch! If I had—What is it? You're hurt!”

“Only slightly,” he said, wincing away from her gripping hands.

“Your arm! Oh, mercy, I shall swoon! No—I haven't the time! Here?” She was unbuttoning his shirt-sleeve and turning back the cuff, slapping away his hand when he attempted to restrain her. “Bandages! I can feel them! Oh,
Hasty!
”

The fear in her eyes warmed his heart, but he said with mock severity, “Do you mean to remove my shirt, ma'am? I am shocked! No—stop, do! Really, my love, poor old Webber managed to scratch me—nothing more, and it is, as you can feel, above the elbow, so do not ask that I take off my coat. Remember, I told your grandmama that I was trustworthy!”

She blinked and sat back, staring at him. “You may laugh, but—what do you mean when you say
poor
old Webber? Did you put that nasty man into his grave?” Springing up in renewed agitation, she exclaimed, “Oh, what next? Then you must fly the country! Today! At once, or—”

“Hush.” Standing also and pulling her into his arms, he said laughingly, “Gad, what a dramatic scenario you paint! I was lucky is all, and Webber was—not. He will be safe abed for several weeks at least, by which time his temper may have cooled. Now do pray tell me—exactly how does the Mother Superior mean to help me?”

Cecily glanced past him. “I think she will answer that question herself.”

Willoughby Chatteris looked worried as he accompanied the nun into the room, but the lady's lovely face was as serene as ever. She said, “I have talked with my dear friend, Miss Hall, and I can do no more. So now, I ask that you will please to take me back to my nunnery. If I am away, you see, my little ones—they tend to get into the difficulties.”

Adair ushered both ladies to the door and was surprised to see Lady Abigail being escorted across the lawns by Paige Manderville. When the coach departed, with Cecily waving a lacy handkerchief from the window, Manderville refused an invitation to come into the house, saying with a sideways glance at Mr. Chatteris that Miss Minerva awaited him at the kennels.

Adair closed the door and turned to his uncle.

Willoughby said unhappily, “Well, you have—er, won, Nephew. That lady I cannot deny and she—ah, she has convinced me that your—your reason for demanding to read my Lists is—er, is of an urgency. You may come to my study. I ask only for your word that should you indeed find something vital to the well-being of our nation, which—er, which is quite ridiculous, you will report on that subject only and reveal nothing else.”

“I give you my word of honour, sir. And thank you.”

Stamping off down the corridor, Mr. Chatteris grunted, “You are far from welcome. And I want to hear no snide comments. These papers are extreme private and were intended for no other eyes than my own.”

An hour later, however, Mr. Chatteris wore a very different expression and he watched avidly as Adair turned a page and uttered another whoop of laughter.

“What? What?” Chatteris demanded.

Not for an instant had it occurred to Adair that his uncle's Lists were in fact observations upon the character, romantic escapades and foibles of many leaders of the
haut ton.
The notes of this shy and usually mild-mannered gentleman revealed a biting wit, and his barbs were often so close to the mark as to reduce his nephew to tears of mirth. “Oh, egad, Uncle!” gasped Adair, wiping his eyes. “What a rare gift you have! If this were to be printed—”

Grinning delightedly, Willoughby exclaimed, “I would be lynched! And rightly—er, so, for I've no business pointing out the failings of others. Except in private.”

“You have an incredible eye for detail. This note about the Regent and Mrs. Fitzherbert at that Carlton House dinner party is truly hilarious! Were you there, sir?”

His uncle shook his head. “Much of what I've written was relayed to me by friends or—ah, overheard about Town. People like to talk, you know. As to the Carlton House fiasco—yes, that was the actual cause of their separation; because he had her—ah, moved to a less distinguished place at table.”

“The straw that broke the camel's back, perhaps,” said Adair, turning several pages at once. “How I'd love my grandfather to…” His light words trailed into silence and his smile died. He had come upon a long evaluation of a young lady who would seem to have been the epitome of beauty and purity. Expecting cynicism, he found only adoration, but not until he read the name “LaVerne” did he realize the girl's identity. “Jupiter,” he said, his face hot with embarrassment, “I do beg your pardon, sir. I'd no intent to pry into your personal—”

Chatteris shook his head. “LaVerne wanted you to understand. Read on.”

“No. To put it mildly, your Lists are not what I'd expected, but this is—”

“It is the tale of the happiest—er, time in my life,” said Willoughby simply. “We met in Hookham's Lending Library. I walked around a bookcase too rapidly and we—er, collided. When I retrieved her books and looked up, she was smiling down at me. My—my heart just—it turned over.” He sighed and said nostalgically, “I am older now, and I know you and—and the rest of the family look on me as a—er, milquetoasty sort of fellow.” He raised a hand to halt Adair's attempted protest. “No need to deny it. I know. But then—then I was young and—and my hair was not thinning, or my—ah, shoulders so stooped. Not that I was ever a dashing fellow like you, of course.”

“Uncle!” exclaimed Adair, squirming. “For Lord's sake!”

“But LaVerne thought I was,” went on Willoughby, lost in the past. “We fell deeply in—ah, in love. She was French-born and my father—your grandfather, you know—straitly forbade the match. LaVerne also resisted my pleas for a while, but at—er, at last she consented. We were married secretly. I had not come into this estate then, and I leased a cozy cottage near Lewes. We were so—ideally happy. When LaVerne found she was with child, our union seemed blessed. She gave me a little girl…” He sighed again and lapsed into silence.

Adair found he was holding his breath, and after a moment prompted gently, “It sounds to have been a blessed union indeed, sir. What went wrong?”

“Eh?” Willoughby started. “Oh—well, it—ah, it did, of course. Go wrong, I mean. I had decided to bring my little family up to Town to confront the General. We chose Christmas-time, thinking everyone would be in a—er, more charitable frame of mind. But—the weather, alas, was not kind.”

“Your babe became ill?”

“Not ill, Hastings. There was ice. A horse stumbled, the coach slid off the road and overturned. I was unhurt, but—my wife and the baby…” He drew a deep breath and went on in a low voice, “All that night I feared for their lives. LaVerne regained consciousness at dawn, and was frantic when she heard about our—er, child. She blamed herself and in a frenzy confessed to me that she had been a novice nun and this was God's punishment because she—she had renounced her vows.”

“Surely, that was not the case, sir. Even with the tragedy of the loss of your child, could you not convince her—”

“We did not lose the child. LaVerne prayed and prayed and took a sacred oath that if the Lord would but spare our babe, she would complete her vows and—and spend the rest of her life in His service.”

Awed, Adair said, “Then her prayers were granted?”

“They were, thank heaven.”

“But—you lost your wife.”

Willoughby sighed. “I did—in a sense. It was not—not easy for me. But at least I could see her now and then. And—it was her wish. How could I go against it?”

After a moment, Adair asked, “And none of the family knew anything of it? Is your little girl now one of the nuns, sir?”

“One of our family knew of my marriage,” corrected Willoughby. “My brother Jerome.”

Major Jerome Chatteris … who had fallen during the retreat from Corunna … and whose widow and children Uncle Willoughby had taken in to live with him as if they were—Adair gave a gasp. The Mother Superior's beautiful grey eyes had reminded him of someone …

He said incredulously,
“Minerva?”

“You are very quick,” said Willoughby, smiling.

“Does she—know?”

“No. Hilda had suffered a miscarriage a few months earlier, and was delighted to welcome my child. Out of respect for my wishes, Jerome told the General they had decided to adopt the daughter of an impoverished friend, and to bring her up as their own. He agreed to keep their confidence. If he noticed a family resemblance, he never mentioned it. Perhaps he thinks Minerva was Jerome's child, born ‘on the wrong side of the blanket.'”

In Hastings' opinion, Uncle Willoughby had denied the General the joy of knowing that Minerva really was his granddaughter, and denied the girl the truth of her parentage. But, how easy it was to make such judgments for others; how difficult to resolve problems that were one's own. Accepting that awareness, he made no comment.

As if sensing his reaction, Willoughby said defensively, “My sister-in-law has been a wonderful mother to her; Minerva thinks Hilda
is
her mother. And I have—er, have had the joy of watching my child grow up. Though…” His face clouded and he said hesitantly, “It does—you know—seem unfair to LaVerne, though it was as she desired.”

Adair waited through the pause, then began to tidy the Lists.

“Why do you frown, my boy? Do you think I am wrong in concealing the truth from Minerva?”

“Jupiter, sir! I'd not presume to judge. That decision, I think, could only be made by the people involved. No, if I am disturbed it's because for the life of me I cannot understand why men would risk imprisonment and even hanging to get their hands on your Lists. There's nothing here of any military significance.”

“So I thought. Do you suppose someone—er, might fear I intend blackmail?”