The Riddle of the Reluctant Rake (27 page)

“Yes. Might your coach have been recognized?”

“I doubt it. The light in the alley was not good and there is no crest on the door panels. Tell Peters your direction, and then I'll show you my cousin's ill-gotten gains.”

Adair leaned from the window and called to the coachman. When he sat back again, Cecily handed him a small velvet bag. “These are the only things we found,” she said regretfully. “I'm afraid they're of no help, Hasty.”

They inspected the various items together. In the dim light it was difficult to see details, but in addition to some small items of jewellery, a pair of scissors, a comb and an elaborately embroidered handkerchief, there were several buttons, as Rufus had said.

When the coach pulled up on the corner of Fleet Street, Cecily told him he could keep the bag and inspect the contents in his new home. “You are not fighting your beastly duel in the morning, I take it,” she said, watching him suspiciously. “Else you'd not have gone out tonight.”

“I shall start a new fashion,” he teased, “and send out written invitations to witness our meeting.”

She was not amused and declared her intention to pester Rufus until he told her where and when the duel was to take place. “And I shall notify Bow Street at once.”

Adair swung open the carriage door. “In which case I shall probably be tossed into gaol,” he said. “With even less chance of proving my innocence.”

He stooped to kiss her cheek. “Try to remember me kindly.”

“I shall remember that I hate you,” she retaliated, but she leaned to his kiss and as he sprang from the coach she called, “Hasty! Do
please
take care!”

He stood on the dark rain-swept street and watched the carriage out of sight. Walking on towards his flat, the smile died from his eyes. It was all too clear that public sentiment was running high and that if he was caught he was more likely to be dealt summary justice than be handed over to the authorities. He unlocked the outer door and walked slowly up the stairs to his flat. He felt tired and dispirited and with every step he heard again those enraged voices: “The scoundrel! The scoundrel!” But routing despair was the glowing recollection of the beautiful Cecily coming to his rescue. Impossible as it seemed, she had admitted that she cared for him and that when he cleared his name … He smiled the tender smile of lovers. Truly, to every cloud there was a silver lining.

York answered his knock. His face was as closed as ever, but he enquired mildly if the Colonel would wish that a Cognac or a glass of port be carried to his bedchamber.

Adair noted the oblique glance that came his way and requested with a smile that the Cognac be served to him in the parlour. “Is the fire still burning?”

“I fear it is almost out, sir. I assumed you would be retiring early. There is a warming-pan in your bed and—”

“Thank you. But first, let's have another shovel-ful of coal on the fire, and light some more candles, if you please. No, don't look at me so reproachfully. Truly, I am grateful for your concern, but there's something I must do before I go to bed.”

York bowed and attended to the fire. Adair went to his bedchamber and changed quickly into his night-shirt and dressing-gown, reflecting that his “aspiring undertaker” was already starting to act like a long-time retainer. He had not the least objection. It was, in fact, a rather comforting thought.

His glass of Cognac was presented on a silver tray. He told York to leave both, and spread Miss Alice's little hoard of treasures on the tray.

The Spanish hair-comb was an elaborate affair but the only clue to its owner's identity was a faint scent—nothing like that worn by his beloved Cecily. One blade of the little scissors was chipped at the end, and an ear-ring was set with sapphires rather than the aquamarines Rufus had supposed. There was also a delicate gold bracelet with a beautiful miniature painting in the centre. Adair looked eagerly for some identification on the back of the painting, but the inscription noted only the name “Ada,” and rack his brains as he might, he could think of no lady of his acquaintance who was so named. With a sigh of frustration he examined the buttons. There were seven, some obviously having come from feminine attire, and two of a larger size from a man's coat or waistcoat. The female articles were pretty and one looked to be set with a nice topaz, but none was identifiable. Of the large buttons, one was covered with a rich silver brocade and had likely fallen from the evening coat worn by some elegant Georgian gentleman. The remaining button was of tarnished silver, and was bent, as if it had been stepped on. There was the faint indication of some embossing, and he was peering at it curiously when York again appeared at his elbow and with an apologetic cough enquired if the Colonel would take another glass of wine before retiring.

Adair said with a chuckle, “All right, all right. I'm going to bed. Be sure to wake me at five.” He stood and stretched, suddenly aware that it was close to one o'clock. “By the by,” he added, handing York the silver button. “What d'you make of this?”

The valet inspected the button closely. “It is from the garment of a gentleman of Quality, that much is sure, sir. And there was some sort of crest engraved. It—looks like an … umbrella, perhaps, and I think there might be a letter here … It's hard to tell. A
T,
possibly?”

His remarks echoed Adair's conclusions. Webber's family had a profitable trade in umbrellas, and Webber's first name was Thorne. He said, “I agree. Have you ever before seen such a design?”

York admitted he could not recall having done so.

Yawning, Adair sought his bed. He had thought he'd fall asleep at once, but the moment his head hit the pillow, Cecily's image was before his mind's eye, her musical voice in his ears, and love for her warming his heart and causing him to envision wonderful and highly improbable images of their future life together. He was smiling when at last he drifted into sleep.

*   *   *

Dawn was lighting a grey morning and the copse of trees in the fields beyond the Foundling Hospital was lit by two pairs of carriage lamps when York guided Toby Broderick's pair towards the other coaches and reined them to a halt.

Adair groaned.

Manderville, never at his best in the early morning, muttered disgustedly, “If ever I heard of such a thing! Nobody oversleeps the night before a meeting! What it is, you lack sensitivity,
mon Colonel!
”

“Well, he certainly don't lack gumption,” said Broderick. “Trouble is, Hasty, dear old Webber will claim you're late because you were scared.”

“If he don't, that wart Droitwich will,” agreed Manderville.

Their surmises proved well-founded. Adair's apology that he had overslept was received with a disparaging snort from Thorne Webber and a sneer from his pale and languid friend, the Honourable Millard Nestor. Captain Droitwich, golden curls gleaming under his rakishly tilted hat, smiled his broad and perpetual smile and remarked that there was no disgrace in being a tiny bit late, so long as a fellow was able to get himself to the ground eventually.

Manderville demanded haughtily, “Would you care to speak more plainly, sir?”

Adair said, “Let it pass, Paige. Poor fellow likely couldn't speak plainly if he tried.”

“It's still damned dark,” grumbled Webber, peering at the sword-box by the light of his carriage lamps.

“And it's beastly well freezing.” Mr. Nestor drew his cloak tighter about him, and simpered, “If it means to rain, I shall go home. I'm sorry, Thorne, but my constitution—”

“Devil with your constitution,” snapped Webber. “We'll be able to start in a few minutes.”

Broderick and Manderville went over to inspect the weapons, and Adair's sword was compared to the other two and accepted by the seconds.

“Much difference it would make was it a foot longer,” boasted Webber. “The poor fellow is doomed and knows it. That's why they'd such a time getting him here.”

Adair held out a hand that was steady as a rock. “As you see, gentlemen,” he drawled. “I am all a-quiver! But you should not have your crest emblazoned on your buttons, Webber. The umbrella identifies you for the scheming rogue you are!”

“By God, you really are wits-to-let!” Webber stared at him, then turned away, shaking his head, and voicing his opinion that for the first time he would fight a lunatic.

Returning to his principal's side, Broderick muttered, “The weapons are the exact same length. More's the pity. Webber has the longer reach and he's counting on it. For the love of God, keep your wits about you!”

Adair said grimly, “I've more reason than ever for besting him now.”

“Then don't let him drive you into losing your feet,” urged Manderville. “It's damned easy to do and once your position is lost—”

Droitwich called dulcetly, “Are we ready, gentlemen?”

“I doubt it,” sneered Webber, flexing his blade between his hands.

Adair walked to face him.

The seconds drew their swords and stood watchful and ready.

The salute. Adair offered the customary brief raising of the sword hilt to his lips. Webber, however, executed an involved old-fashioned series of Italianate flourishes culminating in his holding his hat at arm's length and bowing. Adair was not a little astonished by these antics and was almost caught off-guard when Webber suddenly hurled his hat aside, yelled,
“En garde!”
and sent his blade in a flashing thrust in
carte
that Adair was barely in time to parry.

Broderick shouted angrily, “Unfair! A foul!”

Manderville whispered, “Blast! Hasty'll have to do better than that, else he'll not last five minutes!”

Five minutes later Adair was still on his feet, but he was all too aware that it had been a desperate struggle to defend himself, and that he'd had no opportunity to attack. Webber was truly a splendid swordsman and was clearly enjoying himself. Resorting to an outside guard in
tierce,
Adair was once more almost overpowered when Webber reversed his wrist in a brilliant
carte
over the arm. A long rent was opened in Adair's shirt-sleeve, crimson splashed onto the white linen and the opponents stepped out of distance as Manderville leapt to strike the swords up.

“First blood!” he cried.

“Stuff!” howled Webber. “I barely scratched the poltroon! Besides, we did not agree to first blood!”

“Gently, gently,” murmured Droitwich, smiling. “We must not frighten the poor fellow.”

Broderick asked anxiously, “Is it deep, Hasty?”

“Do please allow them to bind it up,” wailed Nestor. “I knew this would happen and I cannot
stand
the sight of blood!”

Broderick ripped Adair's shirt and revealed an ugly gash above the right elbow. “Your sword-arm,” he growled. “And that's no ‘scratch.'”

“Nor is it sufficient for me to surrender,” said Adair grittily.

Manderville hurried up with the surgeon, a pompous little man who clicked his tongue and chattered continuously to himself in an under-voice, but moved with swift precision to bandage the cut.

Webber shouted an enquiry as to whether they meant to delay till the Watch discovered them and stopped the duel. The little surgeon surprised everyone by bellowing fiercely, “In a hurry to meet your Maker, are you, sir? You must have led an examplary life, sir! Very well—have at it!” He went stamping back to his coach, grumbling all the way about “stupid, hot-at-hand ninny-hammers,” and the duel resumed.

Webber was more aggressive now and set a furious pace that taxed Adair's uncertain skills to the limit. Broderick let out his pent-up breath in a gasp of relief when Webber at length jumped out of distance and threw up his left hand for delay.

Adair lowered his weapon immediately and wiped his sweating hand on his breeches. As if he'd seized the opportunity to attack, Droitwich leapt between them flourishing his sword dramatically and roaring, “A halt! A halt! At once, Adair! You must obey the rules!”

Manderville shouted, “He
did
halt, damn your eyes!”

Broderick demanded, “What's to do?”

Webber's answer was to roar a sneeze and resort to his handkerchief.

Adair waited, glad enough of the chance to catch his breath.

Manderville grumbled, “Nine men out of ten would have run the makebait through while they'd the chance!”

“It may have been his last chance,” said Broderick. His pleasant face was unwontedly grim and as Webber suddenly leapt to the attack, he added, “Hey! We're off again!”

Manderville shouted, “Give fair warning, blast you!”

Adair had anticipated such a breach of the rules and he parried a thrust in
seconde
neatly. Webber immediately attacked in
tierce.
Adair's feather parade succeeded only in turning the blade and again he felt the sharp burn of pain, this time across his ribs. He retreated, gasping, but waved off Broderick's attempt to intervene.

“Webber means to cut him to ribbons,” groaned Broderick. “This is plain murder, Paige. We must stop it!”

As he spoke, Adair was making a clumsy business of parrying a thrust in low
carte,
and Droitwich called mockingly, “Give you odds, Manderville. Eighty to one against your pathetic amateur!”

Manderville's response was to spring at him and in a flash a second duel was raging.

Supremely confident, Webber laughed and thrust to the left, leaving his right side exposed. Adair guessed it for a
feinte
and managed to counter Webber's lightning reversal to the right by essaying a half-circle parade. The manoeuvre spared him the thrust that would have pierced his lung, but it was awkwardly done and his attempt to force Webber into a disengage failed.

Webber gave a whoop and a moment later a
glizade
almost tore the sword from Adair's hand. His breath was coming hard and painfully now, and his face was streaked with sweat, but he fought on doggedly, defending himself as best he might, praying for a chance to attack.