The Riddle of the Reluctant Rake (5 page)

“
Poor
Königsmark? From all I've read of him, the man was a murderous adventurer who'd slit your throat as soon as look at you!”

“Oh, very likely, but he must have been short of a sheet to jaunter about when he knew the prince was out for his blood. Nobody knows for certain what happened, of course, but there's a widely accepted theory that hired assassins surrounded his carriage and put a period to him. Only think how foolish he must have felt to have failed to take precautions. Now Marat, you'll agree,
il est toujours premier en classe!
No, really. I mean what idiot with half a brain-box wouldn't think it a trifle unusual if a strange young woman popped in to interview him in his bathtub? If he'd had the commonsense of a mangel-wurzel he'd have kept an eye on the wench and she'd not have had a chance to finish him off with her handy little knife. You have to admit…”

Broderick, a brilliant scholar, was known for his tendency to launch into learned discourses. His voice was soothing, the leaping flames on the hearth were mesmerizing, the room was warm, and Adair was very tired. His head started to nod, but he roused when Broderick said, “… if you don't object, that is.”

“Eh? Object to—what? Oh, Gad! I'm dashed sorry, Toby. Didn't mean to drop off like that. You were talking about ambushes, I believe?”

Too good-natured to take offence when his friends failed to benefit from his little lectures, Broderick grinned. “Some time ago. And you were about to tell me what did happen the night of the Farringdon ball. You don't have to, of course, but the more I know of it, the better my chance of helping—somehow, sometime.”

“You'd be wise to stay clear of it. Not that I'm not grateful, but—”

“But keep my long nose out of your private affairs, is that it?” Broderick stood, and suddenly very much the aristocrat, said, “Time you was in bed, at all events. You're properly against the ropes. Forgive my gauche curios——”

“Oh, for Lord's sake, do stop! Of course I want your long nose in this ugly business—provided you don't complain if it gets snipped off.” Smiling, Adair held out his glass, and Broderick gave a relieved grin and hurried to refill and return it.

“Actually, I know quite a lot already,” he said, sitting down again. “You had one evening free in London before trotting back to France, so you accepted the Farringdon invitation. What I hadn't known was that you were acquainted with this Miss Prior. You being such a dashing, heroic sort of”—he laughed and warded off the cushion that was hurled at him—“sort of fellow, and a lieutenant-colonel to boot. I'm told Miss Prior's a timid mouse, the kind hostesses have to browbeat their male guests into asking for a dance.”

Adair sobered. “It's her first Season, I gather. The prosecuting counsel said that we'd been meeting on the sly, but there's not a vestige of truth in it. I'd never met the lady before that night. The fact is that I was en route to beg Dorothy Haines-Curtis to dance with me, but I chanced to hear that wart Talbot Droitwich sniggering about “the Prior wallflower” that no sane fellow would dance with. Miss Prior was sitting at the side, and she looked—oh, you know how it is for girls who don't ‘take.'”

Broderick nodded. “A sort of helpless desperation. Poor little things. Is that why you asked her to dance?”

“Yes. Only she wanted to sit and talk instead. I expected to be bored to tears. But I wasn't, Toby. It took a few minutes to put her at ease, but I managed to make her laugh, and in no time we were chattering like old friends. She has a delightful sense of humour and quite a charming way of teasing. In fact, I enjoyed being with her, and later I asked to be allowed to take her in to supper.”

“Did you dance with her afterwards?”

“No. I liked the girl, but I—well, I didn't want to seem too particular in my attentions. I went into the card-room and threw some dice with Aubrey Suffield, who had the unmitigated gall to try and buy Toreador. I've told him repeatedly he's my favourite saddle-horse and I'll never sell him, but Suffield said if I cared for the animal I'd sell him now, because when I go back into action I'll likely get killed and then what will become of him. Damned gloom merchant!”

Broderick laughed. “You know Suffield. He'll stop at nothing to get any hack he takes a fancy to, and that dapple-grey of yours is splendid and a strengthy beast besides. Suffield likely wants to enter him in one of the cross-country races he's always organizing.”

“Very likely, but he'll never get the chance, and so I told him. If I should turn up my toes, Toreador will go to my brother Hudson, and if Hudson dares sell him to Suffield, I'll—I'll come back and haunt him!”

“Hudson? I thought you once told me you'd bequeathe him to young Nigel?”

“That was my intent, though I never told Nigel.” Adair stared rather fixedly at the glass in his hand. “When all this—ghastly business came up, my man of affairs said I must make a will. And—well, poor old Hudson has really worked terribly hard for that Cabinet appointment, and now, thanks to me, he's lost it. I know he's always coveted Toreador, so…” He shrugged.

“A sort of consolation prize, eh? A jolly nice one, if you was to ask me. So what did you do? Abandon Suffield to his dice?”

“I was putting a flea in his ear for refusing to take no for an answer when a page brought a note from Miss Prior, begging that I escort her home.”

“Hadn't she been brought by her family?”

“By her brother, Rufus. A lad with a red poll that looks likely to ignite when the sun hits it, and a disposition to match. Miss Prior wrote that they'd quarrelled and she didn't want Rufus to take her home. Naturally, I assumed she'd have her maid or some other lady with her as chaperon. But when I climbed into her carriage she was alone.” He paused, then said, “And that's the sum and substance of it, Toby.”

Broderick stared at him. “What d'ye mean, the ‘sum and substance'? Ain't none of either that I can see. Don't be shy, Hasty. What happened then?”

Adair said stonily, “Nothing. I saw her sitting there, and woke up two days later in a cell with one of Ed Whinyates' rockets ricochetting around inside my skull.”

“Poor Whinyates. He never really knows where those blasted rockets are going but he still believes they'll help us win the war. Do you say you don't remember the drive? Taking her to the hotel? Frisking about?
Nothing?
”

“No. And furthermore, I know damned well I wouldn't have ‘frisked about' with that angelic little soul. Lord, Toby, she's scarce out of the schoolroom! Acquit me of interfering with innocence!”

“Oh, of course, dear boy. No question. None. Er—whew!” Broderick leaned back and shook his head. “You don't recall feeling ill? Or hurt?”

“Not until I woke up. If you're thinking I was struck down, that was my first hope, but there wasn't a mark on me. If I was drugged, I'd be deuced glad to know how, or when. I had supper, as I said, with Miss Prior. In the card-room I took a glass of Cognac, but at least half an hour elapsed before I received her note and went out to the coach. If the cognac was drugged, I'd think it would have started to affect me long before that. And furthermore, that the onset of symptoms would have been more gradual; not that I'd be fully conscious one minute and then—nothing for the following thirty-six hours.”

Broderick nodded glumly. “What about Miss Prior? Surely she could shed some light on the matter?”

“Oh, surely. Unhappily, the poor lady is said to be very ill, and has been whisked off to her father's country seat. It's out near Tenterden, I believe.” Adair yawned, and apologized. “Enough of my troubles. What of you, Toby? I'd thought you were called back to duty?”

“Was. I'm on detached service, actually. I've had to testify in Jack Vespa's murky mess down at Alabaster Royal, and now I'm cooling my heels here, waiting to be interrogated about his antics in Brittany. Be dashed if ever I knew such a fellow for getting himself into trouble—though you bid fair to catch up with him! And never mind trying to turn the subject, Hasty. What d'you mean to do now?”

Adair stood, and stretched. “Go to bed. Sorry, old lad, but—”

“No, no. After the day you've had…” It was very clear that Adair was quite done up and could scarcely keep his eyes open. “I'll light you up the stairs,” Broderick offered. “And on the way you can tell me where you mean to start. The lady and the coachman, I fancy?”

“Just so.”

“If you like, I'll go down to Tenterden and sniff about the neighbourhood, while you have a chat with the coachman.” He held open the drawing-room door and barely prevented his friend from stumbling into the wall. “What did he have to say at your trial?”

“Enough to help win me the death sentence! And then he seems to have—taken French leave.”

Incredulous, Broderick pulled him to a halt. “You don't mean it! Didn't they try to find him?”

“Said they did. Couldn't. Perhaps…” Adair blinked drowsily at the end-post of the stair railing before realizing it wasn't Broderick. “Perhaps you'll have better luck.”

“Devil I will! No, get up, do! You can't go to sleep on the stairs. And don't be ridiculous.
I'll
go to Tenterden. If you dared show your nose anywhere near Miss Prior's family, you'd likely get a hot reception!”

“Very likely,” agreed Adair, sitting on the next stair. “Be dashed lucky if … if they don't shoot me out of hand.”

“Quite. That's why—Hasty? Wake up! Oh, egad!
Hey!
You, there! Never mind about snuffing the candles. Come and help me haul the Colonel upstairs!”

*   *   *

Despite his exhaustion, Adair's habit of rising early prevailed and before Broderick was awake he had already eaten a quick breakfast, ordered up a post-chaise, packed a valise with sufficient clothing and toilet articles for a journey of several days and was en route to his bank. This was a task he dreaded, for he was well known in London, but he must have funds.

The morning was dull and very cold, with leaden skies and the smell of snow on the air. He found himself thinking hopefully that most of his acquaintances were unlikely to be abroad at this hour of a wintry morning. Sooner or later he would face someone he knew, but a craven voice whispered that it would be so much easier if he could avoid recognition until the public outrage had cooled a little.

The chaise drew to a halt. There were many people hurrying about. No one he knew, thank heaven. He had a few words with Toreador, who was tied on behind, and told the post-boy to drive around for ten minutes and then return.

Even at this hour the bank was a busy place. The clerk who usually handled his account was waiting on another man. Adair walked towards his table. A prosperous-looking merchant was making his way in the same direction. He glanced at Adair, paused, frowning, then turned aside. The muscles under Adair's ribs contracted painfully, which was stupid. It was probably a simple case of the fellow deciding to go to another table. He wouldn't let himself glance after the man, but moved up swiftly when his clerk was free. The clerk looked at him steadily. Disgust came into his eyes, and he did not offer the usual smiling “Good morning, Colonel.” Adair withdrew a large amount. The money was counted out in silence but with studied insolence. Adair put the cash in a leather bag he'd brought for the purpose and left, his ears burning to the contemptuous snort that followed him.

Outside, he thought with enormous relief, ‘That's done!' and walked towards the kennel.

“Well, well! You don't want for gall, Adair! I give you that.”

The sardonic voice was all too familiar. Thorne Webber. The last person he would have wished to encounter at any time, least of all today. The post-chaise rattled around the corner and pulled up. He could jump in and retreat at the gallop. A fine spectacle that would make, he thought cynically. He tossed his leather bag inside and turned to face the man who, until this wretched fiasco, had been one of his few enemies.

“You cannot know how your opinion weighs with me,” he said coldly.

Five years Adair's senior, Thorne Webber was tall and well built, the many capes of his driving coat accentuating the breadth of powerful shoulders. His grandfather, a successful mill-owner, had founded the family fortune, his father had added to it the manufacture of umbrellas—a modest venture that had shown a surprising profit, and Thorne Webber was today a very rich man. His wealth had brought him power and many friends, but he was shrewd enough to know that their “friendship” was extended to his money and that without it they would desert him en masse; more galling, the awareness that behind their smiles and fawning servility was a disdain for his humble origins. He had a deep loathing for Hastings Adair, and his heavy features reflected his triumph as he responded, “It ain't just my opinion. Every gentleman in London holds you in abhorrence! When I think how you
dared
to victimize my brother over a trifle, while you—”

“Your brother had a fine young soldier damn near flogged to death for refusing to shoot an old Spanish woman who couldn't understand what she was being told to do. Had I not ridden up, the trooper
would
have died! If you call that a ‘trifle'—”

“I call it
discipline!
And thanks to your molly-coddling interference my brother was demoted to lieutenant for—”

“If I'd had my way he'd have been demoted to private! Any God-fearing man seeing that boy's back would have intervened.”

“Aye, well, you won't be ‘intervening' in any more military decisions, will you,
Mr.
Adair?”

Adair gave him a contemptuous glance and turned to the post-chaise.

“What a damned shame no God-fearing man was able to protect the poor girl you assaulted and ruined!” Webber grabbed Adair's shoulder, wrenching him around as he trod onto the step. Adair staggered and Webber's riding crop flailed across his face.