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.
As the moments ticked away, his anxieties for Cecily and his family increased to the point that he could think of little else. He urged Toreador to greater speed. Briefly, the mighty river gleamed below him; occasional coaches loomed up and were gone; great wains trundled past en route to London’s markets; a Watchman wandered wraith-like through the dark with his lantern and his bell, calling the hour while the City slept.
Was Cecily sleeping? Was she—heaven forbid—passing the night at Blackbird Terrace? Was Nigel still alive? It was taking too long … Did he dare attempt to cut across country in the dark? If he became lost—
A mail coach burst from the mists and thundered straight at him. He reined Toreador aside desperately, and the dapple-grey bounded into the ditch and almost went down. Adair managed to hold him together and to keep his seat while directing a flow of barracks-room language at the fast-disappearing coach. The profane response of the reckless coachman drifted back to him as he urged Toreador onto the road again. He peered about for familiar landmarks that were so hard to find in the darkness, and was then perversely horrified by the awareness that it was getting lighter. Was it dawn? Had he been such a fool as to fall asleep in the saddle? He peered upward and saw a lamp above him; a celestial lamp. The breeze had strengthened to a wind that had bustled away the fog so that the moon could shine down. “Thank God!” he muttered, able to breathe again. With the aid of that silvery light the way became easier to follow. Ignoring the unending throbbing in his head, he pressed on, determined to make up for lost time.
Soon he was in open country, racing past quiet hamlets and lonely farms; past inns, dark for the most part, but with an occasional lighted window that spoke of some wakeful guest; clattering over cobbled streets or slowing on unpaved muddy lanes. And always before his mind’s eye Cecily’s lovely face alternated with Nigel’s closed eyes and terrifying pallor. Mile after weary mile. An eternity of effort, accompanied by the pound of hooves, the creak of saddle leather, the voice in his head that commanded, ‘Keep on! Keep on! Faster! Faster!’ Until it dawned on him at length that he was pushing too hard; his splendid dapple-grey was losing his stride, the jaws gaped wide, the proud neck was lowered and splashed with foam, the sturdy barrel laboured painfully.
Remorseful, Adair drew to a halt and dismounted to caress the big horse fondly and murmur his apologies. He bent to pull up some grass from the verge beside the lane, and learned at once that a fellow with a broken head did not bend down. He had to clutch at the saddle to keep from falling on his face, but when the world stopped dancing he tried again, keeping his head up this time. He managed to gather enough grass to give Toreador a hurried rub-down. When the big animal was breathing more easily, Adair walked beside him for a while, chafing at the delay even as he reproached himself for not having stopped before this. As soon as he dared, he mounted up again, an ordeal that made him swear and caused Toreador to sidle about uneasily. But they were off once more and minutes later he was surprised to find they had passed Hampton Court. Small wonder his gallant dapple-grey had been near exhaustion. But there was still at least an hour’s ride before them. Another hour …
Tormented by such feverish imaginings and by the constant pounding in his head, he failed to notice that Toreador had slowed to a walk. He roused to that awareness only when his face touched the horse’s mane. He was bowed forward over the pommel! Dragging himself upright he touched his spurs to sides that seldom felt them. Toreador was startled. More startled when a stray dog suddenly rushed from the hedgerow to bark frenziedly and nip at his hooves. Toreador shied. Adair, reeling in the saddle, was unhorsed and hurtled into the ditch. He didn’t feel the shock of landing, and in fact felt nothing at all until Toreador snorted into his face and woke him.
For a minute he blinked up at the dimly seen dapple-grey in bewilderment. With the return of full consciousness came anguish and remorse. Toby had warned that he’d fall out of the saddle and he’d been so stupid as to do just that! Staggering to his feet he gripped the stirrup. Toreador loomed up; enormous, unreachable … For how long had he sprawled in that damned ditch? And now he couldn’t muster the strength to mount up … He must get onto the back of this monstrous animal … for Cecily’s dear sake … And somehow, he was up and the reins were in his hands. Thank God Toreador had stayed close!
Urging the horse on, he was scourged by the terror that he would be too late. He prayed that his love was safely home in London, or the General had decided to overnight at some inn … But even so, Uncle Willoughby and Aunt Hilda and Minerva and the servants would be sleeping in the house … and if that devil Harrington made good his threat … The Terrace was largely constructed of wood and centuries old. It would go up like kindling. He must get there in time to warn them! He must! Surely, Harrington couldn’t be there already? The devil was in it that he had no way of knowing for how long he’d been unconscious after Droitwich had kicked him. How much time had elapsed between Harrington’s leaving Appletree Place and Droitwich shooting Nigel? How long after that had Toby helped him into the saddle? How much time had been lost while he’d lounged in the ditch?
Time … so relentless, so damnably unalterable … He groaned aloud as a church clock somewhere struck the hour. Eleven! Then he couldn’t possibly reach Blackbird Terrace before midnight!
“Lord—help them. Please help them!”
He bowed over Toreador’s neck, stroking him, talking to him. “Faste
r, old fellow! Forgive me for asking it, but—faster!”
* * *
“I think everyone in the kitchen must be deaf.” Minerva Chatteris walked across the Blackbird Terrace drawing room and tugged again on the bell-pull. “Whatever has happened to our other pot of tea?”
Cecily said that one cup was quite enough for her. “You gave us such a wonderful dinner, I doubt I’ve room for any more.”
“I’m so glad you enjoyed it. Mama was sure it would be a disaster with a kitchen maid and footman unable to work.” Minerva gave the bell-pull another tug and frowned at it. “I’m sure you would like another cup, Grandpapa, and I imagine you and my uncle will want to stay up and chat till all hours.”
Willoughby, who had no least desire to “chat till all hours,” smiled politely, and the General, who was more than ready for his bed, said evasively, “I thought that was a new man who carried in the tea-tray. Had a siege of illness here, have you?”
Cecily was so drowsy she could scarcely keep her eyes open, but she had noticed that the “new man” seemed rather too large for his garments and that he had very dirty fingernails. “If that is the case,” she said, “we should not have accepted your invitation, Miss Chatteris. Your poor mama must have her hands full.”
“No, no. Our difficulty is solved now, and we are so very glad you came.” Minerva returned to her chair. “Actually, it all seems to have been a mistake. You see, our kitchen maid’s home is north of Woking. Her mother sent a note advising that her father had been taken ill and was calling for her. My mama gave her leave, of course, but our coach was at the wheelwright, so the footman drove Millie in the gig. En route, a wheel split and the gig went into the ditch.”
“How dreadful,” said Cecily. “Were your servants much hurt?”
“The footman’s arm was—er, broke,” said Willoughby. “And the maid twisted her knee so badly she cannot walk.”
Minerva said, “It could have been worse, I suppose, but it was so needless. We learned this morning that the girl’s father is hale and hearty and had not summoned his daughter. Some idiot’s notion of a joke!”
The Riddle of the Reluctant Rake Page 28
