The Riddle of the Reluctant Rake

by Patricia Veryan

  “As far as—as possible.”

  Those great scared eyes were fixed on him. He said, “Be easy, ma’am,” but he could imagine her state of mind, if she really believed he had done away with her cousin. He slid the blouse down over the handkerchief he had wrapped around her upper left arm, tore the blouse into strips and fashioned a pad, but when he began to ease his clumsy bandage away, he found that his hands were trembling. He had seen hideous wounds on the battlefield, and several times had acted as a makeshift surgeon to aid a stricken comrade. This was only a flesh wound, but to see a woman’s white flesh so cruelly torn horrified him. Miss Hall flinched and drew in her breath. “I wish I had some brandy,” he muttered.

  “For—for you, sir? Or—for me?”

  He glanced at her, and saw a faint twinkle in her eyes.

  “Both,” he said with a grin.

  After he had sweated his way through some long minutes of bathing the wound, she asked, “Have you ever done—this sort of thing—before?”

  “Are you questioning my credentials? I wish I could say I had not, but war being what it—”

  She gave a little whimper, and he recoiled. “Oh, God! I am so sorry to have to hurt you. But—at least it is a shallow wound. You’ve no bones broken.”

  She said threadily, “You look worse than … than I feel.”

  “You are very brave,” he said, wishing he had some basilicum powder or anything that would serve as an antiseptic. The wound was clean now, at least, and the bleeding much lessened. He told her he would bind it up tightly, and that at first light she would be taken to a doctor.

  She did not answer. Her eyes were closed. He thought she had swooned again, and he put the pad in place, then proceeded to bandage the injury as tightly as he dared.

  Miss Hall opened her eyes abruptly. She appeared to be momentarily confused, and uttered incoherent cries as she struggled to sit up. Adair’s cloak slid to the floor, revealing the dainty and very well-filled bodice of a camisole.

  “Ooh!” shrilled Miss Hall, lifting her right hand concealingly. “You’re looking!”

  Adair wrenched his fascinated gaze away. Reddening, he protested, “For heaven’s sake, woman! I’ve seen more revealed in—or out of—an evening gown! Do try not to—”

  The outer door crashed open.

  An enraged masculine voice roared, “Be damned if he ain’t at it again!”

  Springing up, Adair turned quickly, but he had not the slightest chance to avoid Rufus Prior’s flying fist.

  * * *

  “I may have been mistook, this time,” growled Prior, “but he warrants a deal more than a bloody nose.”

  “If this is your cottage,” said Adair stuffily, “dare one hope you’ve some blankets?”

  “For goodness’ sake, take him out and put some snow down his back,” said Lady Abigail Prior, turning from a soft-voiced exchange with her granddaughter to cast a shuddering glance at Adair.

  “I’ve blankets for the ladies, not you,” said Prior, opening a cupboard that appeared to be stocked with bottles, a large bowl of apples, some candles and several untidily folded blankets.

  Adair held Prior’s handkerchief to his streaming nose and observed that the ladies were indoors with a fire to warm them. “My horse is not. I’ll take one of those, if you please.”

  Prior did not please, and when Adair ignored his belligerence and commandeered a blanket, he grabbed for his coat pocket, only to pause and look chagrined.

  “Miss Hall took your pistol, alas,” said Adair mockingly.

  “And we want no more bloodshed tonight,” said Lady Abigail. “Do as the Colonel says, Rufus. We’re properly marooned and the beasts have little protection out there. Oh, and you’ll find a fruitcake in my coach. I’ve been meaning to take it down to Mrs. Flynn in the village.”

  “For how long?” Prior tossed three more blankets at Adair and unearthed a lantern.

  Her ladyship frowned thoughtfully. “Long enough for it to be nicely aged, but if you don’t care for it, there will be that much more for the rest of us.”

  Swinging the door open and admitting an icy blast, Prior said softly, “You’re my prisoner, Adair. Keep it in mind.”

  “At least I have a mind.” Adair slammed the door shut, and bowing to the teeth of the wind shouted, “You’ve evidently lost yours! Why bring the old lady out on such a night?”

  “You don’t know my grandmama! You may thank your stars you were flat on your back when she saw Cecily and thought you’d shot her! She was ready to claw your eyes out!”

  This, Adair did not doubt, and he said nothing while they unsaddled Toreador and Miss Hall’s mount and led Prior’s pair from between the shafts of his light travelling-coach. Fortunately, there was a bin of oats in the lean-to, and Adair was less anxious when Toreador had been rubbed down and was munching contentedly, with a blanket tied over him.

  Prior’s remark turned his thoughts back to Lady Abigail’s arrival. He had been somewhat confused at that moment, but he’d heard her screech of fury, followed—mercifully—by Miss Hall’s admission that she had “accidentally dropped” the pistol and that he had brought her to the cottage. Prior had been disgusted by his cousin’s blunder, but the old lady had expressed her gratitude for Adair’s efforts and pointed out that he could very well have ridden off and left Cecily in the snow. Shocked, he’d protested, “As if I would have done such a thing!” Prior had laughed scornfully, but both ladies had watched Adair in such a considering way that he’d begun to hope—

  He howled as Prior rammed a large snowball down the back of his neck so forcefully that he was driven to his knees.

  “Just trying to help your bloody nose,” chortled Prior.

  Adair said wrathfully, “Since you feel so obliging, you can let me have the lantern for a minute.”

  “Why? So you can smash it on my head and ride off free as air?”

  “Idiot. Who could ride off in this air? Give it to me.”

  Instinctively obeying that note of command, Prior surrendered the lantern and watched curiously as Adair searched about on hands and knees. “What the deuce are you looking for? My unhappy sister ain’t down there, I promise you.”

  “Good of you to tell me. Perhaps you’ll be so generous as to also advise me where you’ve tucked her away!” Adair rolled swiftly to the side as Prior uttered a bellow of rage and plunged at him. He was ready this time. A bewildered Prior found himself seized in an iron grip, flung to the side, and, before he could make a recover, rendered helpless by the arm twisted up behind him.

  Adair said harshly, “Don’t much like it when you’re the accused, do you?”

  “Damn you! Let be! You—you’re breaking my arm!”

  “It would be so easy,” muttered Adair, but he released his grip, shoved Prior away and resumed his search of the ground.

  Massaging his arm, Prior said sullenly, “I’m freezing! Whatever you’re looking for, look in the morning.”

  “I’m looking for my emerald pin. It was in my cravat when I left the inn where I’m racking up.” The pin, a family heirloom, had been his twenty-first birthday present from the General. He had always prized it, less for the size and beauty of the stone than for its sentimental value. He wouldn’t normally have worn it on a brief visit to the country, and the knowledge that he’d done so because it seemed to provide a link to his family made him curse such folly.

  Prior was putting up the poles of the carriage. “If you mean to crawl around till you freeze, you have my blessing,” he grunted. “We’ll haul you away in the morning.”

  Adair’s hands were so cold he could scarcely feel them. He’d been able to detect no gleam of gold, and he cursed bitterly as he gave up the search and climbed to his feet.

  Prior took a box from the boot of the coach and peered at it dubiously. “This is the fruitcake, I hope.” He bent to hold it closer to the beam of the lantern, disclosing a small label neatly inscribed: “Nun’s Fruitcake.”

  “I’ll read it for
you,” offered Adair sardonically.

  Prior swore at him.

  Adair grinned and continued to direct the lantern’s beam at the ground as they went out into the full force of the storm once more.

  “Your pin must be of great value,” shouted Prior.

  Adair said brusquely, “It is beyond price.”

  * * *

  Shortly after three o’clock in the morning Adair threw another log on the fire. When he woke again at six the flames were sputtering but gave off enough light to enable him to move about noiselessly. Accustomed to harsh campaign conditions, he had slept in comparative comfort on the hearthrug. Prior was still snoring on the sofa. The ladies had retired to the small bedroom and there was no sound from beyond that door. The wind had died down during the night, and when Adair eased the front door open there was no inrush of frigid air to betray him.

  Outside, it was still dark and very cold, but it had stopped snowing. Toreador greeted him affectionately and he spoke softly to the grey as he saddled up, then turned to the other three animals. The sky was lightening, the brighter eastern glow giving him his direction. He’d scribbled a brief note to Prior, but riding out, leading Miss Hall’s hack and her grandmother’s coach-horses, he felt the ultimate villain.

  Toreador snorted and tossed his head.

  Adair said, “I know, I know. I’m not behaving like a gentleman. But I mean to search that confounded house, and it won’t hurt—well, it won’t endanger the lady to wait just a little while longer to see a doctor.”

  He turned northward for a mile before releasing his appropriated horses in a patch of woodland. Cecily Hall’s lovely eyes haunted him, but the tracks of four horses were clear in the snow; Prior should have no difficulty following them. The redhead’s opinion of him at about this time was easy to imagine, but he told himself that they had the fire and there was still some of that very good fruitcake for a makeshift breakfast.

  He kept to the trees for some distance, emerging eventually at the foot of a hill, and then guiding Toreador to the west. It was daylight now, but there were few people abroad on this cold early morning and he stayed well clear of occasional travellers in case they might later be questioned by Prior. He was soon cantering towards Singletree. The lodge gates came into view and he began to rehearse what he would say to Mr. Prior. It would be a tricky situation, he thought grimly, but by heaven, if it was humanly possible—

  His reflections were interrupted by the pounding of rapidly approaching hooves. A large group, by the sound of it; too many for him to deal with. He sent Toreador plunging behind some tall shrubs and swung from the saddle to hold the grey’s nostrils.

  Scant seconds later a dozen or more mounted men rode through the gates. The husky individual in the lead drew rein, and as they gathered around him proceeded to bark out commands. A young man, a groom by the look of him, appeared to venture a suggestion. The leader’s voice rose to an irritated roar, cutting off the youth’s remarks. He waved his arms imperatively and there were no more comments.

  Between the low-crowned hat and the muffling scarf Adair glimpsed bushy red eyebrows. This harsh-voiced gentleman must be the father of Rufus and Alice Prior. He was clearly leading a search party. The stern-faced men separated into small groups and rode off in varying directions, the youth who had spoken trailing along dejectedly.

  There could be no doubting whence had come young Prior’s hot temper, yet Alice was such a gentle, shy little creature. Miss Cecily Hall seemed cast in the same mold as her uncle. To think of her made Adair squirm. He could have saved the search party considerable time by directing them to the cottage. On the other hand, Mr. Prior was more likely to shoot him than to listen. Besides, this was an undreamt-of opportunity and he dared not waste it. He watched until the searchers were out of sight, then turned Toreador onto the Singletree drivepath.

  The maid who answered the prolonged clamour of the doorbell was very young and pale, and clearly frightened. Pushing past her, Adair demanded authoritatively to see Mr. Alfred Prior.

  “Master be—be out, sir,” she faltered.

  “What—at this hour?” He turned on her and warned, “See here, my girl, I am Major Newton. Lord Holland has sent me down from London on a most urgent errand. Do not dare tell me untruths, or you are like to end in prison!”

  She half-sobbed an insistence that she was telling the purest truth and went on to explain that there was some of the family lost in last night’s storm, and all the men out seeking them. Tears came into her eyes and she looked so pathetic it was all Adair could do to preserve his fierce pose. He next demanded the housekeeper, but (much to his relief) that lady had gone to visit her ailing mother the previous day and was likely not able to get back “on account of all the snow, sir.”

  In apparent exasperation, he snapped, “Then summon whoever is in charge here! I’m commanded to search this house from attic to cellars, and I must have help!”

  Her jaw dropped. “Search … the house, sir? Whatever for?”

  “Whitehall has reason to suspect that a foreign spy has abducted Miss Prior. I am ordered to make sure she is not hidden somewhere on these premises.” Ignoring the maid’s screech of fright, he went on, “If you’re the only person here, then you must assist me. If there are secret passages or priest’s holes, you had best tell me if you wish to avoid prosecution for aiding a traitor.”

  The poor girl looked ready to faint. She gulped that she’d never heard of any secret rooms in the house. There was the fire-boy she could call though he wasn’t of much account; still, she’d be only too glad to do anything that would help the Major.

  “You can tell him to first take my horse to the stables,” said Adair. “But I don’t want him unsaddled. I cannot waste too much time here.”

  He was obeyed; the fire-boy soon joined them in the attic and twenty minutes later Adair had rushed them through most of the upstairs rooms. Unpleasantly aware of the need for urgency, he had no need to feign impatience.

  The fire-boy cooperated enthusiastically. He was a stocky lad not yet in his teens, with untidy black hair and a perpetual sniff. He was far more quick-witted than the maid and clearly regarded this opportunity to search the attics and bedchambers of his employer as a fine lark. He corroborated the maid’s statement that Miss Alice was nowhere in the house, and that she had vanished in the middle of a rainy night soon after she was brought home from London Town.

  “I suppose you saw the lady slip out, eh?” jeered Adair.

  The boy flushed. “I never did,” he said pugnaciously. “But I got ears, ain’t I?”

  “Which will be boxed if you take that tone with me!” Adair thumped the wall experimentally. “Do you say you heard the lady leave?”

  “Ar, sir,” said the boy, backing away from this fierce soldier and keeping a watchful eye on him. “I heered a coach, I did. And a gent talking soft. And it weren’t none of our lot. If y’please, sir.”

  “Oh, you wicked boy,” exclaimed the maid, opening the door to a small dressing room. “You never told the master that! How could you have heard a coach when you sleep down in the cellar?”

  “P’raps I weren’t in the cellar,” he said with defiance. “P’raps I’d crep’ into the pantry and found a left-over chicken wing an’ a jam tart goin’ to waste. An’ p’raps that there coach come to the tradesmen’s entrance, not the front door. Wot then, Millie Bell? Think you knows so much! Hah!”

  “I knows enough to know what the master will say when he finds out you didn’t say nought about that there coach!”

  The fire-boy looked scared momentarily, then retaliated that if Millie Bell “bubbled” on him, he’d say she was in the kitchen stealing food with him.

  This terrible threat drew a squeal from the maid and a command from Adair that they stop arguing and search the last bedchamber. It was a fruitless effort, but Adair was cheered by the conviction that this disappointing search was not a complete loss. En route to the stairs, he asked, “And did you recognize this gentleman�
��s voice, lad?”

  The boy shook his head. “But I know who it was.”

  Adair jerked him to a halt. “Devil you do! Who, then?”

  “Why, that there Colonel they was goin’ to hang, a’ course.”

  “Like what they should’ve,” said the maid.

  Adair frowned. “And you’ve not seen Miss Alice since that night?”

  “No more has no one else.” The maid sighed. “Such a sweet-natured young lady, she were. Her poor brother is quite aside of hisself. How could any man be so wicked?”

  Downstairs, Adair rushed them through the servants’ quarters, kitchen, pantry, breakfast and dining rooms, a small study, a morning room and a large drawing room, none of which gave up any hint of the missing girl, a secret room, or a priest’s hole. They were emerging from the drawing room and turning towards the cellar steps when an irked female voice demanded, “And what may you be about, dare I ask?”

  The newcomer was a large woman with the unmistakable air of a long-time retainer. Her neat but plainly cut garments and the black bonnet with the severely curtailed poke told Adair that she was Mr. Prior’s housekeeper. He introduced himself as Major Newton, and added with smooth courtesy, “Are you by chance Mrs. Prior, ma’am?”

  The maid giggled and put a quickly concealing hand over her mouth. The fire-boy grinned broadly, but the housekeeper, clearly flattered, introduced herself as Mrs. Heath, and accepted Adair’s brief explanation of his activities without question. It was, she declared, a terrible tragedy that had come down upon the Prior family. She shook her head solemnly. “A judgment, to my mind.”

  Adair told her he must now search the cellars and asked about possible secret rooms or such contrivances. Mrs. Heath said she had been with the family in one capacity or another since her twelfth year. “If there was any such things in this house, Major, you may rest assured I would know of ’em. The master trusts me implicitly—and with good reason. And the butler, who retired just two years since, was a very talkative old gentleman and told me plenty.” She tucked in her chin and nodded portentously. “I asked him once if we had a priest’s hole or secret entrances, and he said the only secret things here was to do with the family, not the house!”