The Riddle of the Reluctant Rake (33 page)

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 of 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.

I will send this note round to your flat in case you are already en route to Town and pass us on the road in this beastly fog.

Bless you, my dear.

In haste

Cecily

“Droitwich…!” muttered Adair, scowling at his letter.

York's hand jerked and the coffee he'd started to pour splashed into the saucer.

Glancing at him, Adair surprised a look of stark terror.

“Sir,” said the valet, suddenly deathly pale, “I beg you will not allow—I mean—If the gentleman has complained…”

“Why should Mr. Droitwich lodge a complaint against you?”

“So he has done so!” York's bony hands were wrung. “Again! It is always the same. When I finally win a new position I try my best to please, but then—he writes to my employer, and—” He shrugged helplessly. “He won't be satisfied until I am in the gutter or my grave! But I didn't mean it, sir! As God be my judge—”

“Ah,” said Adair, the light dawning. “Mr. Droitwich was one of the gentlemen who became ill after the accident with your shellfish, is that the case? Did anyone actually perish in that sorry affair?”

“No, sir, thank heaven. But three guests were made very ill and—and Mr. Droitwich tried to—to have me transported, though I
swear
—”

“Yes, yes. I quite believe you.” York's eyes were on the letter in Adair's hand. He said, “Miss Hall wrote on another topic. Are you aware that Droitwich seconded Mr. Thorne Webber in my recent—‘outing'?”

York looked relieved. “I wasn't, sir. May I take it that you are not close friends?”

“You may take it that we are not friends in any sense of the word.” His thoughts turning to his beloved and her heartwarming efforts to help him, Adair heard York mutter something under his breath as he prepared a fresh cup of coffee. “What was that?” he asked sharply.

“I should not have spoken. I apologize, sir.”

“You said, I believe, ‘Just as well'?”

The scared expression returned to the valet's cadaverous features. “I had no right to have done so. But—well, I know Mr. Droitwich, you see.”

“Do you, indeed! Sit down, man, I'm not going to eat you. In point of fact, you may be able to help me. Tell me all you know of Mr. Talbot Droitwich.”

16

This time Adair gave not a thought to the risk of being recognized as he guided Toreador along London's fog-draped streets. A loaded pistol was in his saddle-holster, another in the pocket of his cloak, and vengeance was in his heart. His conversation with York had left little room for doubt that at the very least Julius Harrington was involved in the plot against him and he was determined to call the devious politician to account.

Before his shellfish disaster, York had been a respected member of the social world of London's superior servants. As such, he had often shared a laugh at the stories which Mr. Talbot Droitwich's valet had related about his master. Mr. Droitwich, it seemed, had two major weaknesses—the Fair Sex, and gaming. Some of his “ladies” and card parties were of a type not smiled upon by the
haut ton,
and Mr. Droitwich had judged it expedient to hold his revels away from the hallowed halls of Mayfair. To this end he frequented a house in the back streets of Westminster. It was a district never visited by Society, and Mr. Droitwich had thought his identity well concealed. While this had been a wise move, he had lacked the wisdom to treat his servants kindly. His valet despised him, and had suffered no qualm of conscience in describing his employer's hideaway. It was, the valet had said, “a dirty little red brick house on a dirty little street in Westminster, to which gentlemen drove in closed unmarked coaches, and ‘ladies' came unescorted by maids or chaperons.”

Pressed for the identities of some of these “gentlemen,” York had named some hardened gamesters, and with reluctance had admitted that Mr. Julius Harrington was known to visit the house often, though always under cover of darkness.

For Adair, it was the last straw. Why Nigel should be on friendly terms with a rogue like Droitwich was baffling, but for Droitwich to have called upon Harrington and received an apparently cordial welcome bore all the appearance of duplicity at the very least. While professing to be his own “good friend,” Harrington had spoken contemptuously of Droitwich, and was well aware that the man had seconded Thorne Webber in that infamous duel. It would be interesting, thought Adair, his jaw tightening, to hear his “good friend's” explanation, and also to learn why Harrington, a Member of Parliament who had just won an influential Cabinet appointment, should risk frequent visits to a “dirty house” in a most unsavoury neighbourhood.