The Riddle of the Reluctant Rake (6 page)

“There's for you, libertine!” howled Webber. “In behalf of the gentlemen of London!”

Reeling and dazed, Adair half-fell against the side of the coach. Through a red haze of pain he could hear Webber shouting, egging on the men who were gathering around.

Webber trumpeted, “Here's a merciless villain wants thrashing, chaps!” His riding-crop arced upward once more.

“No, he don't! Let be, Webber!” A fine amber cane blocked the whizzing riding crop but was beaten from its owner's hand. It spun at Adair. Half-blinded, he managed to catch the cane and he peered at it stupidly, wondering who had dared come to his aid. The handle was gold, and a small crest containing an anchor was intricately wrought in gold. Minna's betrothal gift to Julius Harrington, he thought dully.

“Stand clear, Harrington,” bellowed Webber. “We know how to deal with womanizing deserters!”

“Then you should know he ain't neither,” cried Harrington staunchly. “If you'd just use your brains for once—”

“Move out of the way, you stupid block!” Webber's roar was echoed by angry shouts and a suggestion of tar and feathers won instant approval.

Harrington tore the chaise door open and pushed the swaying Adair inside. “Too many,” he panted. “Go, Hasty! Go!”

“No. Wait!” Adair struggled to his feet.

The frightened post-boy cried, “Lorramighty!” cracked his whip and set the coach in motion.

Leaning from the window, Adair tossed Harrington his cane and called, “Thanks … Julius!”

The horses thundered around the corner, and Harrington, the bank, the angry crowd and the roaring Thorne Webber were lost to sight.

Adair held a handkerchief to his throbbing cheek. It felt as though Webber's riding crop had cut to the bone, and he was relieved when he found no bloodstains. The whip had marked him, though; small doubt of that, nor of the interpretation that would be put on the welt by anyone he met. It had been a cowardly blow and would do nothing to diminish Webber's reputation as an arrogant bully. Nor would it be of any help to Colonel Hastings Adair. Settling back onto the seat, he muttered a correction: “
Mr.
Hastings Adair.”

The tale of his latest disgrace would sweep London in an hour, and Thorne Webber would gleefully spread it about that he had run away like a whipped dog. He thought grimly, ‘Grandfather will love that!' He'd have to return to Town directly after he'd found and talked with Miss Prior. His only hope of retrieving a shred of his honour would be to call out Thorne Webber. He considered duelling to be a ridiculous and outmoded solution to quarrels, although it was still widely practised in France. Still, he was a fine shot, and under the present circumstances, he had no choice. He wondered if Toby and Jack Vespa would be willing to act as his seconds.

*   *   *

Singletree was undoubtedly a charming estate when viewed in summertime. The gentle valley would be lush and green then, and its pastures dotted with the sheep that had brought prosperity to this part of The Weald. Even blanketed in snow, as it was on this cold February afternoon, the manor-house presented a pretty sight, smoke spiralling from several chimneys and lamplight already glowing in some of the latticed ground-floor windows. Adair had dismissed the post-chaise when he'd secured a room at the White Ram, a tiny and remote wayside inn. Now, guiding Toreador along Singletree's winding drivepath, he thought inconsequently that the name of the estate was ill-chosen since there were trees everywhere. Of more concern was the sort of reception he could expect from the Prior family. Hostility, certainly; perhaps violence. The pistol in his pocket was a reassuring weight. If necessary, he was resolved to hold Miss Prior's menfolk at bay until they agreed to let him see her.

Occasional snowflakes drifted down as he dismounted and secured Toreador's reins to a post at the foot of the entrance steps. A wide terrace ran along the front of the two-storey stone house and he was crossing it when the front door flew open. A young man wearing riding dress rushed out and ran at him.

“Filthy swine!” he howled, his clenched fist flying at Adair's jaw. “How
dare
you show your wicked face here, when—”

The flaming red hair had warned Adair, and he dodged the blow deftly, caught the enraged man's wrist and with a supple twist sent him sprawling.

“Rufus? Who is it?” A tall young woman hurried from the house. Adair had a fleeting impression of fair windblown curls, a superbly cut riding habit that enclosed a superbly shaped female, and eyes somewhere between blue and grey that widened as they rested on Prior. “What … on earth…?” She crossed quickly to help him up. “Did you fall?”

“Aye. With the aid of his fist,” snapped Prior, his face almost as red as his hair. “Keep clear, Cecily. This is the slimy varmint who assaulted poor Alice!”

The girl gave a sort of leap and turned on Adair, her eyes narrowed with rage. “And you let him knock you down? Have you no pistol about you? Shoot the monster!”

Prior's hand darted to his coat pocket, but Adair's pistol was levelled before he could withdraw the weapon.

“Easy,” cautioned Adair. The girl, who was quite remarkably attractive, started to back away. He added, “And if you've any affection for this fire-eater, ma'am, I'd suggest you stand still. I'd not wish to feel obliged to put a ball through his foot.”

She glared at him, but halted. “You
wretched
creature,” she said, her voice low but ringing with fury. “You must be stark raving mad to come here. My uncle will return at any moment and he'll know how to deal with you!”

“Somebody already has,” jeered Prior. “Look at his face. A horsewhip, applied by some public-spirited citizen, unless I mistake it.”

“Then it was well done, but a small payment. Hanging is what the revolting libertine needs!”

“A kindly lass, aren't you,” said Adair. “I did not come here to listen to your nonsense. All I want, Prior, is a few words with your sister. I mean no harm, but—”

“Oh, do you not?” The girl's lip curled contemptuously. “Did you mean poor Alice ‘no harm' when you—”

Prior had climbed to his feet and now interrupted sharply, “What makes you think my sister is here?”

“He thinks no such thing,” said the girl. “He knows perfectly well she is not!”

The snow was getting heavier, great flakes floating down to cling to their hair and garments, and it was very cold, but the chill Adair felt now had nothing to do with the weather. He said desperately, “Don't fence with me. Everyone knows she's here.” He paused, for it seemed to him that they exchanged a tense look, but neither spoke, and he went on: “If she had been well enough to testify at my trial she could have cleared me. I demand to see her, and I warn you I'll not be fobbed off with a lot of fustian!”

“Rubbish!” the girl exclaimed. “If I scream our servants will come, and—”

“And find Prior with a smashed foot,” said Adair. The fact that the door was still wide open and no servants or other family members had appeared was odd, and he'd begun to suspect that the house was empty. “All I ask is five minutes with the lady. Five minutes only. You can stay with her. She must have told you by now what really happened, and—”

Made reckless by anger, Prior sprang at him. Adair had no wish to shoot the boy. He leapt aside and flailed his pistol in a hard swipe which landed just below Prior's ear. The redhead went down and stayed down.

“Stand clear, Cecily!”

A new arrival entered the scene: a frail-appearing lady of advanced years, whose elaborate gown had the tiny waist and full panniered skirts fashionable thirty years earlier. Adair stared in astonishment as she tottered onto the terrace. Snowflakes fell on her powdered hair but she advanced with erratic determination, the heavy blunderbuss she held in both thin hands pointing more or less at him.

He lowered his own weapon. One did not, after all, threaten an old lady. “Have a care with that, ma'am,” he warned, stepping back a pace.

“Don't tell me what to do, you black-hearted toad! Not content with ruining my beloved granddaughter, you dare to come here and render my grandson sense——Lud!” She gave a little yelp as her high-heeled and buckled slipper slid on the thickening carpet of snow.

The girl, who had started forward, uttered a shriek and sat down abruptly as Adair shoved her aside.

The blunderbuss exploded with a deafening roar.

Adair had ducked just in time to hear the familiar and wicked whine of shot flying over his head. Straightening, he returned the pistol to his pocket. The old lady had fallen. “Oh, Jupiter!” he groaned, hurrying to lift her.

Confused, she gasped, “Thank you, dear boy,” and clung to him gratefully.

“Are you all right?” he asked, steadying her.

“Quite all right, but—but I'll confess I had never—never realized how those horrid guns work in both—directions at once! There. You are most kind, sir, and—Oh! Oh, my goodness! No, you're not! You're the rogue who has ruined my darling Alice! Where is my naughty horse-pistol? Why they call them that I cannot fathom, for if anyone fired it, one would bring down a whole herd of horses!”

“Just so, ma'am,” he said, a twinkle creeping into his eyes. “But actually, it is a blunderbuss.”

“Is that the case? Oh. Well, give it me at once! At once, I say!”

“It's empty now, ma'am,” he pointed out, handing it over obediently. “Please believe that I did not harm your granddaughter. And you should not be out in the snow. If I were—” He broke off as the blunderbuss whizzed at his head.

“Roué!”
shrilled the old lady. And wielding the weapon ferociously, sliding on the snow with each word, went on, “Evil … viperous … murdering … libertine!”

Adair drew back. Outraged gentlemen he could face. Angry termagants he could deal with—to a point. Hysterically vengeful old ladies reduced him to a craven.

The girl was tugging at Rufus Prior's pockets, searching for his pistol, no doubt.

A fine pickle he would be in, thought Adair, to have to wrestle with two women.

He bowed and retreated, their enraged cries gradually muffled by the snow and a rising wind.

4

Although it was not yet four o'clock, the light was failing as Adair turned Toreador back down the drivepath. The snow was becoming ever more dense, the flakes so large as to limit visibility, and he had to strain his eyes to distinguish the gates. He held Toreador to a walk on the rutted drive, but when they reached the improved paving of the lane, urged him to a trot. The White Ram Inn was no more than three miles to the east, but in this snowstorm he'd have his work cut out to find it once darkness fell.

His thoughts lingered on his encounter at Singletree. During the course of his Army career he'd had to deal with some decidedly odd people, but deuce take him if he'd ever laid eyes on a more peculiar group than the one he'd just left! Young Rufus Prior was so hot-at-hand, it was a wonder that red thatch of his did not ignite all by itself; the old lady was a spirited creature also. She had probably been a beauty in her day, but clearly some of her wits were wilted. As for that lanky shrew named “Cecily Somebody,” she had a pretty face, but her temper was uncontrolled; if she'd found Prior's pistol he had no doubt that only the thick screen of snow had prevented her from putting a bullet in his back as he'd ridden out.

They'd all lied like troopers, confound them! Pretending poor Miss Alice wasn't in the house. She was there, all right! The tense glance that had passed between Prior and the Cecily chit had convinced him they meant to try and gull him. It was downright evil that although Miss Alice must have told them long since what had really happened on that fateful night, they'd been willing to let him be executed rather than make the true facts known and risk sullying their family name. Never mind the tragedy to his own family! Never mind that his career was wrecked and his honour in shreds! He scowled at the snowflakes. They'd won this round, he acknowledged grimly, but, by God, they wouldn't defeat him! He'd get into Singletree and search the place from cellars to attics even if he had to hire a pack of vagrants to help him! And once he found Miss Alice Prior, Lord help the man—or woman—who tried to keep him from questioning her and—

At this point a dark shape loomed up directly ahead. His heart leapt and his hand darted for his pistol but he gave a faintly embarrassed grin when he realized that he was confronted by nothing more menacing than a tall holly bush. “I yield the right-of-way, Sir Holly,” he muttered, reining Toreador aside. The big grey snorted at the sound of his voice and Adair nodded. “You're right, my dappled friend. What the deuce is a holly bush doing in the middle of the road?”

The answer was all too obvious. Dismounting, chilled by the icy breath of the wind, he drew his warm scarf higher. The light was almost gone now but it was sufficient to show him that he was off the road and in lightly wooded country. He swore softly. This was no night to be lost in the open. If he didn't find the White Ram or an obliging farmer soon, he must contrive some sort of shelter or both he and Toreador could be frozen stiff by daylight.

He caressed the grey's neck and promised that they'd search for a few more minutes and then he'd find a likely tree and start collecting branches. Toreador nuzzled at his neck and blew small clouds of steam to mingle with the snowflakes. “Never doubt my ability,” said Adair. “I've built a shelter often enough in Spain. We'll have a roof over our heads one way or—”

“You will need no roof, Colonel!” The feminine voice came clear and contemptuous through the gloom. “A shroud, more like!”

Adair whipped around.

Miss Cecily stepped closer, the reins of a fine chestnut mare in one gloved hand, a long-barrelled duelling pistol in the other, and snowflakes on the hood of her pelisse and collecting on her brows.