The Riddle of the Reluctant Rake (2 page)

On those bitter words he turned and marched out of the door the gaoler held open for him.

He left behind a man who still stood staring blankly at the door and on whose ashen face shone the bright traces of tears.

*   *   *

“Better wake up now, old fellow.”

Adair started. He'd thought he wouldn't sleep before they came for him, but at some time during these nightmare hours of darkness he must have dozed off. A dark grey sky was visible through the high barred window. He sat up hurriedly. This was the day, then. The priest must have come … His stomach gave a painful lurch. Mustn't look scared. And—Lord, but he was scared!

He blinked up at the man who stood by the cot. “Yes, Father. I'm—ready if you…”

“Deuce take you, Hasty! I'm not your father! Don't be such a lunkhead!”

“Broderick!” Adair's shoulders slumped, and he put a shaking hand over his eyes. ‘Another reprieve,' he thought numbly. ‘For how long this time?'

A mug of hot coffee was pushed into his hand, and Lieutenant Tobias Broderick sat beside him. He was a sturdily built young man, with Saxon fair hair and blue eyes that just now were full of compassion. Wounded during the Battle of Vitoria, he had been sent home and had met Adair while staying at the home of a friend. Later, they had been ordered to help resolve a critical situation that had taken them across the Channel into Brittany, and by the time it was resolved a mutual liking and respect had sprung up between them.

Adair drank the coffee gratefully, and summoned a smile. “Not a social call, I fancy, Lieutenant? So I won't embarrass you by saying how good it is to—to see a friend.”

The drawn white face and that twitching apology for a grin appalled Broderick. “The trouble with you, Adair,” he scolded, “is that you're too high in the instep. If you didn't outrank me, I'd punch your head for that remark.”

Adair searched the cherubic young face with a painful desperation. “Toby—
are
you here as—as a friend?”

Taking a long pull at his own mug, Broderick then said gruffly, “Course I am, chawbacon. Partly, anyway.” Before Adair could pounce on that qualification, he went on, “You don't think we believe it? I mean, old Jack Vespa, and Consuela, and Paige and me, we all know it's a—a damned tapestry of lies. We don't know how—or why. But we believe you, old fellow, never doubt it!”

Adair bowed his head, overcome, but his hand went out gropingly. Broderick took and gripped it strongly, and after a brief emotional silence he said, “Now, Colonel, sir, as Counsel for the Rebuttal I need some answers. If you don't object.”

Adair smiled wearily. “Why? I can't add anything to what has been said in Court, and—”

“But I wasn't in the Court, old lad. None of your friends were allowed to darken the curst doors, in fact.”

The truth was that Jack Vespa had been deeply involved in hearings on another matter, and Paige Manderville had been recalled and was even now with Wellington's army in France.

Adair said, “You're very kind, Toby, and I'll answer any question you put to me, but—what good will it do? I've an—an imminent date with the hangman, and there's nothing to be done at—”

“That's been ruled out.” Broderick caught the mug that tumbled from Adair's hand, and said contritely, “Sorry, old fellow. Didn't want to break it to you right away, y'know.
Hasty?
” He sprang up, seized his friend by the shoulders and forced his head down between his knees. “Dammitall,” he grumbled, “if you're going to pop off in a faint I'll have to call the guard and I won't get my answers!”

Adair waved him away feebly, and sat straight again. “Tell me—for the love of God…! You mean—you
can't
mean—I've been cleared?”

“Er—well, no. Not cleared, exactly.”

“What then? A re-trial?”

“Not—ah, not that, either.” Adair stared at him, and Broderick said unhappily, “From what I can make out, Lord Wellington wrote to his brother. Lord Richard Wellesley, I mean. And Lord Richard took the matter to Prinny.”

“The
Regent
intervened?”

“I don't know about that, but the upshot is that—er, that they've decided not to hang you after all. Jolly good, what?”

Suddenly very cold, Adair stood and faced him. “Dishonourable discharge?”

Standing also and looking utterly miserable, Broderick said, “More or—er, less.”

Adair wrenched away, stumbled to the window and gazed out at the grey sheeting rain. “My God,” he whispered. “I'm to be—cashiered, is that what you're trying to say?”

Broderick cleared his throat and mumbled something about no prison sentence.

“A public—ceremony?” persisted Adair. “Drummed out? The whole hideous rigmarole?” His voice rose. Agonized, he cried, “D'you think I want
that?
Doesn't Wellington
know
I don't want it? Lord above, I'd sooner be hanged!”

“I collect Old Nosy thought—er, where there's life there's—”

“
Hope?
Hope for what? To be kicked out a marked man? I'll be despised wherever I go! My family … my friends…” Adair turned and seized Broderick's arm. “Toby—
please!
Get me a pistol. You can smuggle one in somehow, and I'd sooner—”

“Give up?” Aching for him, Broderick brushed the clutching hand from his sleeve. “Play the craven? 'Fore heaven, I expected better of you! It's a beast of a coil, but if you're innocent, at least you'll have a chance now to prove it.”

Adair's ashen face burned to a slow flush. His eyes were so tormented that Broderick could not meet them and had to look away. “Blast you,” whispered Adair brokenly. “Blast you! If you were in my shoes…”

The door was swung open. The guard called a curt, “Time's up, Lieutenant.”

Not trusting himself to speak, Broderick left without a word. He was sweating, and he wiped his face and felt drained as he strode along the narrow passage.

Adair's words echoed and re-echoed in his ears. “If you were in my shoes…”

With a murmur of thanks he took the cloak and hat a sergeant handed him and a moment later was outside and in the cold rain.

“If you were in my shoes…”

“I'd choose the pistol,” he muttered. “Poor fellow. Most decidedly, I'd choose the pistol!”

*   *   *

Two days later a pale winter sun broke through the early-morning clouds to gleam upon steel breastplates, shining helmets, and fixed bayonets. A light but very cold breeze stirred the horses' manes and tails and ruffled the plumes on the helmets of the men of the Household Cavalry. Row upon row, those military units still in or near London were drawn up on the parade ground. Silent and stern and unmoving.

To one side, a group of officers and high-ranking government officials waited almost as silently, but there was a slight stir among them when the prisoner was escorted out.

The steady beat of the drum began, and Hastings Adair clenched his fists until the nails bit into his palms.

For as long as he lived, every detail of that scene would haunt his dreams. He tried not to see faces as he was marched in front of the assembled officers and men, some of whom he had fought beside. Their scorn was an almost palpable thing. Among the spectators he caught a glimpse of red hair that glowed like a flame in the sun. Rufus Prior. So poor little Alice's brother was here. He could only pray that no member of his own family would witness his disgrace.

The interminable march ended at last.

The beat of the drum was loud in the hushed silence.

Now came the ultimate degradation.

Despite the cold, he was sweating. Who would have dreamed when Grandfather bought him a pair of colours that his military career would end like this? He'd always wanted to be a soldier. Always hoped to distinguish himself; to serve his country and bring pride to the old gentleman. He'd risen rapidly until he attained the regimental rank of major with a battlefield rank of lieutenant-colonel, and Grandfather had been proud. Now … Lord above!

A colonel was standing before him. He couldn't see the man's features clearly, but he knew he was what they'd unkindly referred to in Spain as a “Hyde Park soldier”—one of the Whitehall crowd.

He fought against shrinking back as the colonel reached out and grasped the epaulette on his left shoulder. It refused to tear. The drumbeat kept on … rhythmical … remorseless … The colonel tugged again. It would be nice, thought Adair, to faint. Mustn't faint. He'd brought enough shame on his family … The colonel had a little knife now; the left epaulette was wrenched away, and then the right. The buttons on his tunic were next. One at a time, while he kept his head high somehow, and the drumbeat never faltered, and the sun shone, and the breeze blew … and it was such a ghastly nightmare.

And they were wrong, damn them! He had done none of it! Not knowingly, at all events. Did his record count for nothing? Didn't they know he was an honourable man…? ‘Lord God, why are you letting this happen?'

The last button fell. His sabre was removed from its scabbard and snapped across the colonel's knee. He was turned and marched in front of the rows of scornful faces again, with his jacket hanging open, the shoulders torn, the buttons gone, his knees threatening to buckle under him, and that demoniacal drumbeat following his every step.

An eternity later he was being escorted from the parade ground, the drummer following.

The ordeal was over.

He was a ruined and disgraced man.

He would never be able to serve in the military again; never be allowed to hold any kind of governmental post; never be able to run for public office. He'd be lucky to find work as a ditch digger. His only logical course was to get out of the country, and as fast as possible, before Miss Prior's family, or an outraged citizenry, visited their own brand of justice on him.

Suddenly, a searing rage burned through him. Leave England? Leave this cold and damp and proud little island that he so loved? Never!

Toby was right. He had a chance now to find out who had done this, and for what possible reason. If it took the rest of his days, he'd track down the damnable blackguard who'd destroyed him, ruined a gentle and innocent girl, and broken an old man's heart.

‘Before God,' he vowed savagely, ‘I swear it!'

2

Toby Broderick had been kind enough to bring Adair a coat to replace his shredded jacket and drive him to Adair Hall off Grosvenor Street. There had been little talk between the two young men during the journey, Adair feeling too wrung out to make conversation, and Broderick guessing at and respecting his state of mind. As the jarvey pulled up his hack, the front door of the mansion was opened.

Adair said, “I am more than grateful to you, Toby. So I won't ask you to come in.”

“No, by Jove!” said Broderick vehemently. “Thank you. Er, what I mean is, er—quite.”

The jarvey cracked his whip and the coach scurried around the corner before Adair reached the top of the steps.

The butler admitted him with polite dignity but without the smile he had always received in the past. He had given up his London flat when he joined Lord Wellington's Peninsular Campaign, and he went straight up to the second-floor suite he occupied on the rare occasions when he was in England. A maid who was dusting industriously on the first-floor landing bent lower at her task and gave him not a glance, but he knew she had seen him, and a muffled giggle from somewhere close by strengthened his conviction that every servant in the house was aware he had come home.

He rang for a footman and requested hot water and a light luncheon. The man's eyes were hostile, and he said with wooden impudence that the family was taking their lunch in the breakfast parlour. Adair turned from his wardrobe and stared at him. “Perhaps,” he said icily, “I did not make myself clear.”

The footman fled and returned in a very few minutes with a ewer of steaming water, and a maid who carried a tray of cold sliced chicken and ham, a wedge of cheese, warm bread, a mince tart and a tankard of ale.

Adair washed, and ate while he changed clothes. He would have to move his belongings; his parents wouldn't want him here. No doubt of that. Nor would he be welcome at his club. He scanned himself in the cheval-glass. A pale and haggard face stared back at him; a stranger with sunken and shadowed eyes who looked ill at ease in the civilian garments, although they had been tailored by a master and were a perfect fit.

The passage was empty when he left his suite, but as he went down the stairs he heard a rustling that spoke of a feminine gown. With remarkable boldness a woman said, “Shameful, I calls it!” Adair's hand tightened on the banister rail, but he knew that if he turned there would be no sign of whichever maid had dared make the insolent remark.

Other ears had heard, however. On the landing below him a lady said sharply, “Whoever just spoke so rudely had best leave this house before I discover her identity—as you may be sure I shall do!”

Adair heard a dismayed gasp, then he was on the landing and the eldest of his female cousins was hurling her plump self into his arms. He was mildly surprised. Firstly, because of this demonstration of affection, and secondly because the rather shy girl had made such a martial declaration. He was fond of most of his cousins, but there had never been a particularly strong bond between him and Minerva Chatteris. The daughter of his mother's brother Jerome, a Major of Artillery who had fallen at the Battle of Corunna, Minerva's best feature was a pair of deep-set grey eyes. Her many friends were wont to describe her as having a “kind” face. This, she certainly had, but one of her brothers had remarked that the trouble with Minna was that everything about her was “too” for her to be judged pretty. She was a touch too plump; her nose was too snub, her mouth too wide, her hair, which was luxuriant, was too mousy, and she was far and away too tender-hearted, the slightest set-back for anyone she knew turning her into “a watering pot!” Obsessively fond of dogs, she had established quite a name for herself by breeding beautiful King Charles spaniels. She had appeared quite contented to make this her life's work, and nobody judged it remarkable when she remained “on the shelf” long after two younger sisters had made gratifying alliances. Nor could anyone have been more surprised than her mama when the daughter she had come to think of as being doomed to spinsterhood had attracted the interest of so fine a prize as Julius Harrington, M.P.