The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Also by Patricia Veryan
Copyright
1
London
February 1814
It had rained again yesterday, but despite the cold and wet, the Horse Guards on Whitehall had been a noisy place, thronged with military gentlemen, the scarlet coats of guardsmen predominating, but augmented by the green jackets of riflemen and the occasional blue coat of an artillery officer. Voices had been brisk, boots had stamped firmly, spurs had jingled and optimism had been an almost tangible entity, for it was rumoured that Field Marshal Lord Wellington had received the funds he so desperately needed, and that his army was on the move again, preparing to “make a run” at the forces of the French Marshal Soult.
Today, the rain had stopped and a weak sun shone upon Whitehall’s wet pavements. Yet inside the imposing building that housed the Horse Guards there was an unnatural quiet. Voices were kept low, men trod softly, spurs seemed not to dare jingle, and there was everywhere a sense of gravity and depression. One of their own faced a court-martial verdict today; a young and popular officer against whom the charges were so serious, the evidence so hard to believe yet so incontrovertible that a finding of guilty seemed inevitable, and such a verdict must result in the death sentence.
At the end of a certain narrow corridor the hush was even more marked. Little clusters of officers stood about conversing murmurously, their troubled eyes turning often to a closed door outside which a sentry stood as if carven from stone. Not a sound penetrated the door; partly because it was of heavy oak, and partly because the inside room was, for the moment, deathly still.
Six army officers sat at a long table in that room. They were all past forty; the eldest among them, and President of the Court-Martial Board, was a colonel whose iron-grey hair and lined countenance placed him in the sixties. He was conferring with his board members, the other men leaning forward in their chairs to participate in the low-voiced discussion. From time to time they paused and glanced curiously at the tall young lieutenant-colonel who stood alone and at attention before them. A very solitary individual this, his head well up and his shoulders back, but his face strained and deathly pale. It was a striking face, framed by thick dark hair, the cheek-bones high and finely cut, the thin nose slightly Roman, the chin a firm jut. Today there were black shadows under the intensely blue eyes, but even so he looked younger than his nine and twenty years; young to have achieved his high rank.
Behind him, spectators and those who had been summoned as witnesses occupied four rows of chairs. Most were army officers, but there was a naval captain, a scattering of distinguished-looking civilians, three non-commissioned officers, and a very tall and imposing white-haired gentleman wearing the uniform and medals of a retired General Officer.
The President of the Court-Martial Board shook his head and looked grim. His companions leaned back in their chairs and every eye turned to the accused.
“Colonel Hastings Chatteris Adair,” said the President, “throughout your trial your counsel has striven to prove you innocent of the charges against you. You have been given every opportunity to call witnesses, to establish your character, to challenge those who testified against you. For the past three days this Court-Martial Board has considered your case in the greatest detail. You stand accused of gross dereliction of duty. You were sent to England with vital despatches from Field Marshal Lord Wellington. Having completed your mission, you failed to return at once to France, as you had been ordered. Nor did you report to your superiors as to why you disobeyed your orders, choosing instead to drop out of sight. A very young unmarried lady of Quality also disappeared, and when her distraught family appealed to Bow Street to find her, she was discovered in a hotel room with you, sir! And both of you in an intoxicated and extremely, ah, compromising condition. Not to wrap it in clean linen, Colonel Hastings, you were unclad and—and in bed together!”
Despite the fact that they had heard all this before, a murmur of disgust arose from the spectators. The President of the Board raised one hand and the room quieted again.
“To all intents and purposes,” he went on, “you deserted. In time of war. Nor have you been able to offer any cogent explanation for conduct that is beyond doubt unbecoming an officer and a gentleman. Quite apart from your own crime, the reputation and the life of a young girl has been ruined. However”—he glanced at the white-haired General Officer among the spectators—“out of respect for your distinguished family, your impeccable military record, and the apparent lack of any former—er, libertine tendencies, this Court has given you every opportunity to prove your innocence. Your defending counsel has failed utterly to do so. Yet, before judgment is passed, we will offer you one more chance. If you yourself have anything to say in your defence, sir, you had best say it now.”
The sword, noted Hastings Adair, lay on the table. If the point was turned towards him—as it almost certainly would be—he would be shot. Provided he was spared the ultimate horror of a public hanging. God…! They’d given him a last chance. Think! Dammit! Think! What could he say that he had not already said? Grandfather was somewhere behind him. The old gentleman must be heartsick … Papa hadn’t come. Of course. Wellington would be infuriated: one of his officers disgraced, and so terribly disgraced. And that poor girl … She’d seemed such an angelic little creature … And, above all—why? Why had it all happened? He gritted his teeth. He was wasting time. Must say something …
“I can add nothing to what I have already said, sir.” His voice was hoarse but steady, thank heaven. “I had never met the lady prior to the Farringdon ball. I thought she was unhappy, and when I asked her to dance she desired instead to sit and talk. Later in the evening I took her down to supper, and at about half past one o’clock she sent me a note asking that I escort her home. I gathered there had been some sort of disagreement between her and her brother—”
“Untrue!” A tall red-headed young man in the front row sprang to his feet and shouted ragefully, “You lie in your teeth, Adair! If you escape the hangman—” At a gesture from the President, two burly troopers ran to seize him and attempted to drag him to the door, but he fought them, his voice rising “—you will answer to me, damn you!” Struggling, still hurling threats, he was bustled into the outer passage and the door closed.
The buzz of comment ceased when the President took up some papers and leafed through them. “You have testified that you met the lady at her carriage, where you fell asleep, awakening two days later to find yourself under arrest, with no knowledge of having deserted your regiment or seduced the lady. A pathetic tale! Do you still hold to it, Colonel?”
“Yes, sir. If you will just speak with Miss Prior—”
“Your victim,” interposed the President icily, “collapsed and has been taken to her family’s countr
y seat, where she now lies in a state of shock, and unable to speak with anyone. Nor is it necessary that she testify. The evidence of the Bow Street officers who found you says all, alas, that need be said. And since you have nothing to add…” He glanced at his fellow officers. “I believe we are in agreement, gentlemen?”
With grave reluctance, five distinguished heads nodded.
The Counsel for the Defence came forward and stood beside the accused. The room was so hushed that had the proverbial pin been dropped it would have sounded like a clap of thunder.
The President said, “Colonel Hastings Chatteris Adair, you have been tried in a fair and impartial procedure of court-martial. It is the finding of this court that you are—guilty, as charged.”
Adair closed his eyes briefly, and his fists clenched very hard at his sides. When he looked up, the sword on the table had been moved. The point was now levelled at him.
He felt sick; there was a buzzing in his ears, and the room seemed to waver. As from a great distance he heard the cold, merciless words that sealed his doom.
“… and hanged by the neck, until you are dead…”
* * *
Sitting on the edge of his cot, hands loosely clasped between his knees, Adair did not move when the door to his cell was opened. For hours he had sat thus, alternating between rage and despair, re-living it all over and over again, and finding never the least crumb of hope or explanation.
A pair of highly polished boots stamped into his field of vision. They had come for him, then. Was it morning already? Was he to die today?
“Repenting, are you?”
The cold voice brought him to his feet. “Grandfather! I didn’t think—I mean, I thought you wouldn’t—”
“I am here,” said General Sir Gower Chatteris, “to have it from your own lips.”
Adair was tall, but the old gentleman was an inch taller. His keen blue eyes, so like those of his grandson, hurled lances of ice, his hands were locked behind him, and his demeanour was so fierce that the hand Adair had tentatively stretched out was lowered.
“Tell me,” barked the General, “that you were entrapped. That the gel drugged you. That you were struck down and held prisoner. Tell me it was some vicious blackmailing scheme. So far as I know, Hastings, you never have lied to me. Look me in the eye now, and say you are innocent, and—” His whiskers vibrated, he blinked, and for just an instant anguish was in his eyes. “And—by God!” he went on harshly, “I’ll fight the lot of ’em to the far side of hell!”
Adair’s eyes misted, and his throat was so choked up that for a moment he could say nothing. “I—don’t know,” he managed helplessly. “I swear, sir. It’s just as my counsel—”
“Confounded mealy-mouthed ineptitude that he was!”
“It’s just as he said. I never met the lady before that night. She was charming, but—to say truth, sir, not—not the type I—and much too young to even think of—”
“I take it that you’re saying they all lied. That you did not meet her on the sly several times prior to that miserable ball? That you did not share a night with the wretched wanton? That you weren’t found in her bed?”
“Yes. I mean—no. I don’t deny what—I mean, where we were found, but, why, or how—I swear, I cannot understand—”
“Poppycock, sir! Claptrap! Do you suggest a plot? Why would anyone go to such lengths to ruin you? Tell me that! You were discovered by witnesses of sterling character. The Priors’ coachman, the maid, and the hotel manager each testified—well, dammitall, you know what they testified! And now all you can do is mumble and stammer nonsensicalities. You condemn yourself out of your own mouth, by God, but you do! Well, I hope you’re proud of yourself, sir! Your unrestrained lust has destroyed a lovely young girl, thrown mud all over our family name, fouled the proud heritage of your regiment! Your father and your brothers are held up to shame and disgust and can scarce venture out in public, and much chance poor Hudson has for that cabinet post he has worked so hard to snabble! Your mother is half-crazed with mortification and I think would strangle you herself had she the chance. I can well imagine what Wellington must think of all this! You are a disgrace to yourself and to your family, sir! I have only one hope left to me—that you—” the old gentleman’s voice broke, and he finished threadily, “that you may face your death with some faint semblance of courage!”
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 feeb
ly, 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 Riddle of the Reluctant Rake Page 1