Broderick said, “His lady will surely be very pleased. D’you think the General will sanction the match now, Hasty?”
Adair stood and paced to the window. Looking out at the misted air unseeingly, he did not at once answer. Then he said slowly, “I’ll ask him. I must be getting back to Town at all events, and since my uncle has allowed me to read his Lists—”
“Good Lord!” cried Broderick, taken aback. “He has?”
“Yes. I’m sorry, Toby. I forgot you weren’t here at the time.”
“Hasty says they were not at all as he’d expected,” said Manderville. “And that they were more after the style of a London diary and in no sense treasonable. Correct, Colonel, sir?”
“More or less. Do either of you ride with me?”
“What d’you mean—‘more or less’?” demanded Broderick. “And where’s the rush? I’ll tell you what, Hasty, my mama has charged me to deliver a parcel to my eldest sister. She lives near Farnborough. I’ll be lucky if I can break away inside an hour. There’s a new little niece to be admired and I’ll have to relay all the Society gossip. If you’ll ride down there with me, it’ll give me an excuse not to linger. Then I’ll go back to Town with you.” He added with an air of tragedy, “But I had hoped to be offered a crust of bread here, at least!”
“Of course. I’m a poor host. I’m sorry.” Adair tugged on the bell-rope. “You stay and enjoy your ‘crust,’ Toby, but forgive if I don’t visit your sister. I really must get to Town. What about you, Paige? Do you go with me?”
Manderville said lazily that he wouldn’t mind a “crust” himself, and that he’d then keep Toby company on his errand.
Within minutes, Adair rode out alone.
In the house he’d left, Manderville toured the breakfast parlour, then returned to the drawing room. “They’ve brought our ‘crusts,’ Toby. Some jolly nice cold roast pork, fried potatoes, asparagus, and scones with honey. I’m not going to await your pleasure, so you’d best come.”
“Mmm.”
“Succinct and to the point, I suppose. If one knew what you are mulling.”
Broderick turned from the window. “I’ve not cried friends with Adair for a great time,” he said thoughtfully. “But I saw him often on the Peninsula, of course, and I’ve always fancied him to be well-bred.”
“Have you now. Pray tell how he has fallen from grace.”
“Didn’t you notice? The lad he sent for Toreador was running.”
Manderville clapped a hand to his brow with theatrical drama. “Infamous behaviour to demand such an effort! He was in a hurry, you great gudgeon.”
“In so much of a hurry that he couldn’t spare the time to say his farewells to his uncle, or to Miss Minerva? Simple courtesy, Paige.”
“How the devil d’you know he didn’t see them? Been watching him?”
“Yes. I’d swear he deliberately avoided Minerva, and he rode out as though the devil himself was perched on his shoulder.”
“Not like old Hasty,” agreed Manderville uneasily. “What d’you think we should do?”
Broderick hesitated. “Think on it while we eat our ‘crusts’?”
“Jolly good tactics, dear boy!”
* * *
Adair set a steady pace and wasn’t sorry that his friends had not accompanied him. He had much to think about, and besides, he would travel faster alone.
Yet he was not alone. Beside him, all through that mist-shrouded early afternoon, rode the Daemon Suspicion.
He tried not to heed the sly whispers. It was, he told himself, despicable to think for a moment that a close friend might be capable of treachery. Harrington had proved his loyalty in countless ways. “He stands by his friends…” Minna had said that. Certainly, Harrington had not hesitated to side him when Webber had attacked him in front of that hostile London crowd. He’d risked condemnation by championing the Adairs while the rest of the haut ton turned their backs on the family. And even after the man had been injured when calling at Adair Hall, he’d appeared to be as staunchly supportive as ever. He was in love with Minna, and she with him. Adair thought wretchedly that if his half-formed conclusions proved to be fact—Lord! It would break Minna’s heart!
Rounding a bend, he had to rein Toreador onto the grassy verge as a heavy-laden waggon pulled out from a misty farm gate. The cart-horses snorted and reared with fright and Toreador shied. Adair swore and urged the dapple-grey onward again, and with a thunder of hooves they swept past, leaving behind eddying swirls of grey vapour and the angry shouts of the waggoner. But the Daemon was not left behind.
“… Be sure of your sources, Colonel!”
Another voice invading his thoughts; this time the strident tones of Field Marshal Lord Wellington. The remark had been made after an incident in Spain when, during a perilous advance through enemy territory, Adair had begun to question their guide’s loyalties. He had acted on his suspicions at once, which had spared them from what would have been a deadly ambush. Not expecting praise from Wellington, he’d been somewhat taken aback when the General had fixed him with a stern stare and warned, “You were lucky this time, Colonel. But you should always be sure of your sources before rushing off half-cocked.” Since he was not responsible for having hired the guide and had, in fact, been instrumental in averting disaster, the scold had seemed unjustified. Might it apply today?
The truth was that he had precious little evidence against Harrington. A battered old button; Uncle Willoughby’s possibly prejudiced Lists; and now the Cabinet appointment that had been so completely unexpected.
He could all but hear the Field Marshal; sneering …
Very well. He would not “rush off half-cocked” but would consider his sources.
To judge Harrington guilty must be to assume that he was capable of betraying the lady who loved him, and whom he professed to love; to hold him responsible for the seduction of an innocent young girl and to have cunningly contrived that another man would be accused of the crime. Could Harrington have so convincingly feigned grief and sympathy when—thanks to his own scheming—his “good friend” and future cousin faced ruin and disgrace and a shameful execution? Surely no man could be so sly?
He’d inspected the button again while waiting for Toreador to be saddled up, and he’d seen that Toby had been right, as usual: Battered as it was, the “umbrella” was, in fact, an anchor, and the initial he’d taken for a T became a J with the loop almost obliterated and the second initial so unreadable it could have been an H, an M or a W. If he’d not been so ready to believe the worst of Thorne Webber, he would have recalled a similar crest on Harrington’s cane. Which raised the question of how a sheltered damsel like Alice Prior had come by the button. Harrington had said he was not acquainted with the Prior family, so it was unlikely that he’d ever called at their home. Besides, when he himself had told Cecily and her grandmother that Minna was betrothed to Harrington, Lady Abigail had said that she’d “never heard of him.” Alice would certainly not have picked up the button in the street, or at some Society function. Even more unlikely was the possibility that an acquaintance, aware of her “gleaning” habits, would have given her so trite an object. Logic said that she must have met Harrington somewhere, in which case why had he denied it?
Next, and far more damning, was the matter of Uncle Willoughby’s notes. Most of the famous Lists were concerned with illicit romantic liaisons or the amusing personal idiosyncrasies of members of the ton. Some of the caustic comments on various social entertainments had made him laugh aloud. But there were also a number of more sober accounts of cheating at cards, poor sportsmanship, or underhanded business dealings. Included in this sorry group were several highly respected names that had caused Adair’s brows to lift in shock. This was volatile material indeed. If the details were accurate and the information should fall into dishonest hands, it could provide a lucrative source for blackmail, and if those items were ever made public, the results could be devastating. Envisioning famous families disgraced, sui
cides, marriages destroyed, charges of libel, court proceedings and notoriety, Adair could well understand why his uncle had guarded the Lists so zealously.
The summary on Harrington was involved and of an even darker nature. There were several entries, none favourable. One concerned the competition for the Parliamentary seat to which Harrington had aspired. His opponent, a popular banker, was widely held to be most likely to win, until he had been accused of embezzlement. He’d denied the charge under oath, but had been unable to prove his innocence. When missing bonds had been discovered in his home, the scandal had so wrought upon him that he had shot himself. Here, Uncle Willoughby had penned a comment at the side: (“Or did he?”) that had caused Adair to utter a startled exclamation. Rumours of fraudulent vote-counting had faded away and Harrington had won the election. Willoughby had noted:
Since taking up his seat in the Commons he has managed to make himself indispensable to gentlemen of influence. As a result, he often is given the awarding of choice contracts (over the head of some more experienced and worthy fellow). Nota bene: the building of the new steam packet. He awarded this prize plum to Barnabas Fulmer & Sons—a comparatively new concern whose major stockholders cannot be identified. I’d wager my estate that it is actually a subsidiary of Harrington Shipbuilding!
Clearly, Willoughby had been unable as yet to confirm his suspicions or verify the fact that lucrative bribes were whispered to have changed hands, and that exorbitant fees had been paid for materials—said to be inferior—that had gone into the building of the vessel.
There had been more incidents, not all so flagrant, but forming an ugly pattern, and Willoughby had noted:
My earlier apprehensions concerning this young man were justified. I believe that far from being amiable, as most people judge him, he is an unscrupulous rascal consumed by ambition. I doubt he has gone near his home district since he was elected, and he ignores the needs of his constituents while assuring them through his assistants that he is working night and day in their behalf. One might suppose that such behaviour would hinder his chance for re-election—but perhaps Mr. Harrington has loftier goals in mind.
There was a more recent entry:
Disaster! This creature is now courting my precious Minerva! I have tried to influence her against him, but he is so cunning as to pretend affection and admiration for me, and she is distressed if I speak, as she says, unkindly of her “betrothed.” The dear innocent has had so few beaux that she is quite taken in. Also, he has gone out of his way to befriend Hastings, who appears to like him, thus further influencing Minerva; she has always looked up to her cousin.
By this time deeply disturbed, Adair had confronted his uncle on the subject. “If you really believe all these charges, sir, you could have gone to my grandfather, and—”
Willoughby had given a derisive snort. “The General would have laughed at me, as he—er, always does. And after all, what can I prove? For what reason would an ambitious man pursue a sweet child who is not a great beauty and who has lived mostly in the country? Minerva would not know—ah, how to go on in the home of a statesman, and though my fortune is comfortable, it is scarcely worth such deception—for deception I—er, believe it to be. I can only surmise that he craves the social prestige of marrying into our family, and thinks your present—ah, embarrassment will soon be forgotten. My sister Hilda is well pleased with the prospective match because she feared she would never be able to fire Minerva off. Such nonsense! But I’m outnumbered and outmanoeuvred, for if I reveal the extent of my—ah, private investigations, I run the risk of turning the child against me.”
Pondering all this, he’d asked cautiously, “Sir, do you think Harrington might be aware of your investigations? Could that account for the attempt to steal your Lists?”
“It has crossed my mind. But I am prejudiced, and I suppose I could be wrong.”
“But you don’t believe you are wrong, do you, Uncle?”
With a deep sigh, Willoughby had said, “No, Hastings. I’m sorry to judge your friend harshly, but—in the light of all the facts I’ve unearthed about him, how—ah, how could I be wrong?”
But he could be wrong. Doubtless the Field Marshal would say that most of the “facts” Uncle Willoughby had uncovered could be set down to hearsay, or the prejudices of a devoted father who believed his daughter to be making a disastrous marriage. Harrington’s rival for the Parliamentary seat might really have embezzled funds and committed suicide. Willoughby had himself admitted that the vote-counting frauds had “faded away”—probably for lack of substantiation. Nor had he been able to verify the true ownership of the shady Barnabas Fulmer shipbuilding company. The verdict would be that it was all conjecture; much of it based on the reports of hired investigators who may have been willing to report whatever they thought their employer desired to hear.
And how would the Field Marshal explain the Cabinet appointment, pray? Julius knew how hard Hudson had worked to win the post, yet had never even hinted that he himself had ambitions in that direction. He must have been aware that he was being considered. In view of his close connections with the Adairs, simple courtesy should have demanded that he inform them of his hopes. Instead, he had kept the matter a close secret even while he must have been working hard behind the scenes to ensure his nomination. If confronted with this, Julius would probably claim that he’d refrained from mentioning his ambitions for fear of upsetting Hudson and the family. And under the circumstances it would have been an awkward topic to raise.
But if Harrington really was guilty, where was the motive for such appalling behaviour? A long-held grudge? A slight some member of the family had dealt him? An obsessive determination to remove Hudson Adair from his path to winning an influential Cabinet post, and to do it in such a way that he himself would not come under suspicion? Was any political career so important as to justify two murders, the ruination of a close friend, the destruction of a proud old family?
Thus the miles passed while Adair fought against believing what the Daemon Suspicion whispered in his ear, and was plagued by a familiar and disquieting sense of impending disaster.
Despite the fog and the fact that he had to stop twice to rest Toreador, he reached Town shortly after two o’clock. He went straight to Julius Harrington’s house on Clarges Street and was advised by the soft-voiced young gentleman who was secretary to the Member of Parliament that his employer was not at home, but expected to return this evening. No, he did not know where Mr. Harrington might be found but he rather thought he had gone out of the City.
The information was relayed in nervous little rushes of words. Adair scrutinized him grimly and the glare in the narrowed blue eyes caused the secretary to pale and draw back, babbling that he’d tell Mr. Harrington the Colonel had called. He was obviously panic-stricken to be faced by so notorious a soldier, and was probably telling the truth. In which case there was nothing to be gained by waiting there and wasting hours that could be better spent.
Frustrated, Adair rode to his own flat, keeping his hat pulled low and turning up the top cape of his cloak since the fog was not sufficiently thick to conceal his identity. He gave Toreador into the hands of the lad who served as messenger for the four flats in the building, with instructions that the tired horse was to be taken to the stables and pampered.
York answered the door and took Adair’s saddle-bags, asking solicitously, “Have you ridden from Woking, sir?”
Adair was tempted to answer, “No, you fool! I walked!” But he mustn’t vent his mood on poor York, and he answered, “I have. What are you cooking? It smells delicious.”
“I thought you might come home and want some luncheon, so I’ve potatoes au gratin in the oven, and we’ve some cold chicken and a sallet, if that would suit?”
Until that moment, Adair hadn’t realized how hungry he was. “It will suit splendidly,” he said, making for his bedchamber. “And I’ll take a glass of claret now, if you please.”
Dismayed by his employer’s look o
f restrained ferocity, York lost no time in providing a glass of wine and a ewer of hot water. Having sampled the first and washed with the second, Adair felt refreshed. He was brushing his hair when York set out a clean shirt, murmuring that this fog put a layer of grime on everything, and would the Colonel wish his boots to be pulled off?
Adair growled that he would be going out again shortly, and when he’d changed his shirt and shrugged into a comfortable old corduroy coat, went into the dining room. His luncheon was on the table, and beside his plate were three newspapers atop a small pile of what looked to be York’s accounts of household expenditures. He delayed wading through the collection till he’d finished his lunch. York’s culinary skills were as satisfactory as ever, and his dark mood had eased slightly by the time he set aside the newspapers and took up first a listing of amounts expended upon such vital necessities as coal, candles, soap, beeswax, and silver cream; and next, a butcher’s bill. Reaching for another bill, he saw instead a fine paper inscribed in a neat feminine hand to “Colonel Hastings Adair.” He broke the seal eagerly and read:
Dearest Hasty:
Late last evening Grandmama and I saw Talbot Droitwich take up your brother Nigel near Adair Hall. I know how you’ve been trying to find Nigel, and I am anxious to talk to him, as you know, so we followed their coach. Nigel was set down at the Madrigal Club. Mr. Droitwich drove on to the house on Clarges Street now owned by your cousin Minerva’s fiancé. He was admitted at once.
I crept to the window. I couldn’t see inside, but I heard a lot of hearty talk and laughter, which puzzles me.
If Harrington is your friend, what was he doing with that nasty Talbot Droitwich? And why was your brother with the creature?
I knew you were still at Woking, so I called on General Chatteris early this morning. Perhaps I am making mountains out of molehills, but I thought you must be told of this at once, and since the General also wants to talk to your uncle about his Lists, we are driving down to Blackbird Terrace together.
The Riddle of the Reluctant Rake Page 25