The Riddle of the Reluctant Rake (36 page)

“And rescued the poor lady?” Nigel laughed. “What stuff! It wouldn't have worked, because—”

Droitwich took the bait and interrupted with a triumphant grin, “It would have worked when our Minister found Miss Alice had killed herself from shame, and he shot down the man who'd driven her to her death. Aye, you may stare, but find fault with it, if you can! Neat and tidy, and no one the wiser!”

All the colour drained from Nigel's face and he was stunned into silence.

Horrified, Adair exclaimed, “I judged him ruthless, but he was bred up a gentleman. I can't believe he would have murdered that innocent child!”

“Can you not?” Droitwich laughed. “Then wake up, soldier boy! You live by your antiquated Code of Honour, I'll warrant—which has killed more fools than I could guess. Harrington has a different code. Oh, very different! He's a fanatic, is what! In his view Napoleon Bonaparte is a saint, and there's
nothing
he won't do for the bloody little Corsican! Pretty Miss Alice wouldn't have been the first he's done for. And she ain't so innocent now, is she, Colonel, sir? He had the stupid chit, but what must our almighty Minister do but fall in love! So now he's off making her his wife. Much good may it do him! I never knew a woman yet could keep her mouth shut, and he's not going to play fast and loose with
my
head at stake. When we're done with tonight's work—not too soon, mind—there'll be a sad case of a new bride surprising a thief and getting her pretty neck wrung!”

Enraged, Hastings sprang to his feet, but his battered head betrayed him and he staggered.

Droitwich chuckled and levelled the pistol at him.

Maddened by such callous plans for the lady he adored, Nigel leapt to the attack.

There was a flash, a sharp explosion and a puff of smoke.

Nigel's slim body jolted violently; he reeled back and fell.

A blazing fury seared away pain and weakness, and uttering an incoherent snarl, Hastings lunged forward.

Droitwich saw his face, but his attempt to retreat was not fast enough and Hastings' fist struck his jaw with such force that his feet left the floor.

Hastings didn't wait to see him crash down, but turned to kneel beside his brother. Nigel's eyes were closed and his face was without a vestige of colour. He looked dead and Hastings whispered a fervent “Thank God!” when he found a pulse; faint but steady. A moment later fear was a lance transfixing him and causing his hands to tremble as he unbuttoned the waistcoat and saw the spreading stain on the white linen of the shirt.

From outside came shouts and running footsteps. The other ruffians would have heard the shot, of course. He relegated that awareness to the back of his mind, and concentrated solely on helping this brother he loved, knowing that the ball had probably torn its way through a lung.

“Hasty! Are you—Oh, my Lord!” Toby Broderick's voice.

Not looking up, Adair reached out. “Your handkerchief or a neckcloth. Quickly! And I need water and something for bandages.”

A neckcloth was handed him. Manderville said, “We've a coach outside. York has my pistol on the scoundrels, and says he knows how to use it.”

Broderick hurried away and came back tearing a tablecloth into strips. “Who shot him?”

“That carrion over there. I think I've broken his jaw, but he should be tied up. He's an accomplice in treason and murder.”

Paige carried in a bowl. “Luckily, there was some hot water in a kettle.” He stepped over Talbot Droitwich and peered down at him curiously. “The things you see when you haven't got a stick,” he muttered, setting the bowl down beside Adair.

Watching his crude surgery, Broderick shuddered. “Lord knows what's happened here, but it looks as if you've been put through the wringer. We'll get you both to a doctor as soon as you're finished.”

Billy New ran along the passage, then halted, staring at Nigel. “Crikey! It's the gent what took yer message away from me, Guv. Did you scrag him?”

“No, and he's not dead,” grated Adair, praying.

“Oh. Well, if he's really yer brother like what he said, I'spect it's a good thing as I went and told the skinny gent in Fleet Street where you was.”

“A—a very good thing. Thank you.”

“'S all right.” All too familiar with the sight of blood, the boy said with a grin, “I got another borde.”

Broderick peered over Adair's shoulder. “What's that thing round his neck?”

“A locket, I think.” The locket had been driven in with the bullet, but this was no time to try and remove it. Striving desperately, Adair said, “If we're lucky it may have deflected the ball. There. That's the best I can do till—”

Nigel groaned and his eyelids fluttered open. His attempt to speak caused his face to contort with pain.

“Easy, lad,” said Adair. “Toby's going to lift you a little. Just so I can tie you up.” Broderick raised the boy gradually, but despite his caution Nigel swooned away again. Adair set his teeth and bound the makeshift pad over the wound as tightly as he dared. Nigel looked up as Broderick lowered him, and Hastings said in a very gentle voice, “We've help now. Our friends have come. You're safe. No, don't try to talk. You're going to be—”

“Must…” whispered Nigel. “Did—did you … hear? About Black—Blackbird Terrace?”

“I heard Harrington mumbling something about being sorry, and—‘fuel,' I think.”

Manderville, who was using strips of the tablecloth to tie up Droitwich, whistled softly. “Harrington? Then York was right, by Jupiter, and this house belongs to crow-bait Talbot!”

“They claim it was bought in my name,” said Adair, dabbing gently at the sweat that beaded Nigel's face. “Our fine Cabinet Minister held Miss Prior captive here.”

“What?”
Broderick exclaimed thunderously, “The black-hearted rogue! Is she—”

Nigel was gazing at his brother imploringly, and Hastings raised a silencing hand. “A moment, please, Toby. What is it, old fellow?”

“He couldn't find Uncle's … Lists,” panted Nigel. “So—so he means to burn down the—the whole house.” He moaned and his eyes closed, but then he roused a little and whispered, “Says Uncle will surely … try to save … Lists. Droitwich told him to—to leave no … witnesses…”

*   *   *

“We didn't want to tell you, Willoughby, while Minerva and Hilda were with us.” General Chatteris leaned back in the armchair and nodded at Cecily, seated beside him in his son's study. “You likely thought I came down to comb you out, eh?”

“I did at—er, at first, sir,” Willoughby admitted shyly. “But when I saw Miss Hall alight from your coach, I—ah—”

“Felt reprieved, I don't doubt. Well, and so you are, my boy. It seems to me that of all of us you were the first to see through that cheating varmint! By God! When I read some of your notes just now, I could scarce believe the cunning of it. If your suspicions are justified, he's one of the greatest villains unhung!”

Cecily said, “Sadly, we have no proof of any of that, do we, sir?”

The General gave her an irked frown and said, “If I know Hastings, he's gathering proofs at this very minute!”

Cecily glanced at the window. It was dusk now, and a little wind had come up. “I wish we hadn't missed him,” she said. “The fog is beginning to blow away, I think. Perhaps we should start back to Town, sir?”

The journey down had taken much longer than usual, the fog so thick in places that the footman had been obliged to get down and guide the leaders. Nothing would have induced the General to admit he was tired, however, so he said with a chuckle, “Worrying about him, are you, m'dear? Don't. That fighting grandson of mine is like a cat—always manages to land on his feet, whatever the odds against him.”

“No, really you must—er, must not think of travelling any farther tonight, Miss Hall,” urged Willoughby. “Broderick and Manderville are likely already back in Town and will support Hastings if he pursues the—ah, business. Besides, my sister and Minerva are so—er, pleased to have company, they will be greatly disappointed if you leave us. I'm sure they are even now helping the servants to prepare guest chambers for you, and—and I've no cause to—er, apologize for our cook!”

“You are very good, sir.” Cecily dazzled him with her smile. “Thank you. I cannot help but wonder, if our suspicions prove true, do you intend to warn your niece?”

Willoughby answered hesitantly, “She becomes upset if I even hint against him. And—and it would be dreadful if my information is—is at fault, wouldn't it? What do you think, Father?”

The General pondered. “I suppose it's a case of ‘sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,' or however that goes. But we'll have to watch the bounder. And thanks to you, we're forewarned.”

Willoughby became quite pink with gratification and muttered something unintelligible.

“Sir Gower says that your Lists are truly remarkable,” said Cecily.

The General nodded emphatically. “So they are. What baffles me is how the deuce you were able to gather all those snippets of information. I hadn't thought you went about Town very often.”

“More often than you think, sir. But I'm a rather—nondescript sort of fellow, you know; people tend not to—to notice me.”

“And you keep your ears on the stretch, eh?”

“That, and I have three—ah, investigators who gather interesting—what you call ‘snippets' for me. I pay them well, but I insist that they only supply me with factual information and they—ah, they know they will cease to work for me if—if they invent stories.”

Intrigued, Cecily asked, “Are your ‘investigators' policemen, perhaps? Or Watchmen who have retired?”

A twinkle crept into Willoughby's eyes. “To say truth, Miss Hall, two are highly respected Mayfair dowagers, and one is an eminent modiste.”

General Chatteris gave a bark of laughter. “Do you say these ‘highly respectable ladies' actually take payment for their gossip?”

“It is my experience, sir, that few people, whatever their station in life, can resist a little extra cash in the purse.”

“But whatever do you tell them, Mr. Chatteris?” asked Cecily. “Aren't you afraid they'll give you away?”

“They believe I am preserving for—ah, posterity a record of today's Social Scene,” Willoughby said with a shy smile. “I suppose in a sense I am. And they cannot very well give me away without the risk that I'll reveal my—ah, sources. Do you see?”

“I see that you're a crafty rogue,” said the General, laughing and revising his opinion of this son he had always judged a bacon-brain. “I'll tell you one thing—it would make a dashed good book, not that you'd dare publish it, of course.”

“Thank you, sir.” Pleased, Willoughby asked, “Now may I tell my ladies that you will overnight with us?”

“Indeed, you may, my boy. Provided you don't object, Miss Hall?”

“I shall be pleased to accept,” said Cecily. But she thought, ‘How can I say anything else? Oh, I do wish we had come up with Hasty.'

*   *   *

“You're stubborn as two mules,” grunted Broderick, adjusting Toreador's saddle and tightening the cinch-strap. “You're in no condition to ride all that way. Have some sense for once and let me go.”

“Someone must be here to care for my brother,” argued Hastings, abandoning the effort to ease his right glove on. “You'll stay by him, till Paige brings the Runners and a doctor, and see that he is carried home, Toby?”

“Of course I will, you dolt! But you're the logical choice to take care of him—not me. And only look at you! Can't even get your glove on! Your hand's likely as broke as our traitor's jaw, and his boot didn't do your head any good! You'll fall out of the saddle before you're half-way—”

“You've only been to my uncle's house once or twice. You'd never find it after dark and in this fog.”

“The fog's lifting, if you haven't noticed.”

“Thank heaven for that,” Adair muttered fretfully. “God knows I want to stay with Nigel, but—Oh, give over, Toby! I
must
get down there! My grandfather and—and Cecily…”

Broderick straightened and peered at him anxiously. “What did you say?”

“I must get there before Harrington, don't you understand? The man is obsessed with his zeal for Bonaparte. He'll destroy anything or anyone who stands in his way! You've seen that!”

“Yes. So I'll ride with you. York can—”

“York is guarding Droitwich and Harrington's louts, and I need you to tell the Runners what has gone on—if Paige ever gets them here!”

His awkward climb into the saddle drew an explosion of curses from Broderick. Seizing the bridle, he looked up at his friend's sagging figure and exclaimed, “Hasty! For Lord's sake! You can't—”

“I'll—be all right.” Dragging his head up, Adair argued in a thread of a voice, “A touch pulled, is all. This cold air will—will soon wake me up. You and Paige—come when—when you can, will you?”

Broderick's profane response followed him as he guided Toreador into the lane. He checked the big horse when Billy New ran out from the shadows.

“Want me to go with yer, Guv'nor? Won't cost yer nuthink. I'm a good fighter, I am.”

“Yes, I'm sure you are. Go and help Lieutenant Broderick and Mr. York. You can—you can tell them you work for me now.”

The boy let out an eldritch screech of excitement and leapt three times into the air before making his exuberant way back to the ugly red brick house.

Adair rode on, groping his way towards the river. For a while he thought that Broderick's remark about the fog lifting had been overly optimistic. London's streets were silent and ghostly. The vapours drifted and swirled about him and created misty haloes around the occasional lanterns and flambeaux that materialized eerily through the murk. But soon he realized that a strong breeze really was dispersing the fog—or perhaps much of the fog had been inside his confused mind. His head throbbed so brutally that it was hard to collect his thoughts, and when he instinctively attempted to use his right hand he was reminded most unpleasantly that he had hit Talbot Droitwich very hard. Not that he had the least regret on that score. And gradually, as he had hoped, the damp air and the bitter cold restored him so that he felt steadier.