The Riddle of the Reluctant Rake (37 page)

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. “Faster, 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 General gave an exasperated snort.

“How very odd,” murmured Cecily thoughtfully.

“Where did you find your new fellow?” asked the General.

Sure that his choice was about to be criticized, Willoughby drew on an unimpeachable source. “That was a lucky chance. An old—er, friend of mine is now the Mother Superior of a nunnery. She had sent a man to me with a letter recommending him highly and asking that—that I consider him if I knew of a place for a reliable servant.”

“It seemed providential,” put in Minerva. “And when he told us his wife was an experienced maid—”

“You snapped 'em up, eh?”

“I did, Papa.” Willoughby lowered his voice. “Though I must admit they're not quite the type I'd have thought—” He broke off as the new footman carried in another tea-tray. “Oh, there you are, Gillis.”

“I am most awful sorry, sir,” said the footman, affecting what he evidently believed to be a cultured accent. “Your maid what was injured was raising of such a dust that Mrs. Chatteris and your lady cook they had to go up and see to her. My missus, as is by name of Dolly Gillis, made the tea. Mrs. Chatteris asked as how you doesn't wait for her.”

Very aware of his father's beetling eyebrows in the wake of this unorthodox performance, Willoughby dismissed the man hurriedly, and Minerva poured the tea, wondering whatever that charming Mother Superior could have been thinking of, and chattering brightly about her dogs.

Cecily was too tired to pay much attention and, refusing more tea, soon excused herself. Minerva summoned Gillis and told him to desire Randall to light Miss Hall to her bedchamber. Gillis bowed so low that his thinning black hair came near to dusting the floor, and with a sweeping wave of his arm ushered Cecily from the room. The stately butler did not conduct her up the stairs, however; her candle was lit and she was escorted to her room by the wife of the new footman. Dolly Gillis was a stony-faced woman whose manner bordered on the insolent. Cecily refused the cup of tea that was then set on the bedside table. She also refused an offer to be of assistance while she changed into her night-rail. Mrs. Gillis bobbed a sketch of a curtsy, advised that the tea was good and hot and would help Miss sleep, and left her. But just before the door closed it seemed to Cecily that those hard bright eyes glittered as if with sly laughter.

She was quite accustomed to dance the night away, and even allowing for the long and tiresome journey it was unlike her to be so terribly sleepy. The bed looked inviting and she lay down for a minute before getting undressed. There were several things she meant to discuss with the General in the morning. Several things that were … really … most odd …

The scream woke her. The candle on the chest of drawers was guttering and she blinked stupidly around the unfamiliar room. Where on earth was she? And why was she sleeping while fully dressed? She could not seem to think, and when another scream echoed along the corridor it was with a great effort that she managed to stand. The bedchamber tilted. She fought the dizziness. Someone was in trouble. She must go and help. If only her silly feet would move …

The door was a long way off and seemed to retreat from her outstretched hand, but she reached it at last, and flung it wide. A cloud of smoke billowed in. Coughing, she thought, ‘My heavens! The house is afire!' At once, her mind cleared. The air felt hot. She made her way to the top of the stairs and peered down.

Through the billowing smoke she saw Willoughby Chatteris staggering along the lower corridor. He seemed only half aware, and was clinging to one of the servants and screaming, “Are all—the women—out?”

The footman, or whoever he was, shouted, “Everyone's safely out, sir! Don't worry!”

The man was sadly mistaken, thought Cecily. There was no sign of the lady who had uttered that piercing shriek, and she herself wasn't “safely out.” She attempted to call to them, but the acrid smoke was burning her eyes and making it hard to breathe. She must have made some sound, however, for the footman turned and looked up at her.

It wasn't a footman. It was Minerva's fiancé, Mr. Julius Harrington.

Smoke billowed upward then, hiding him from her view. If he really loved Minerva he might indeed have helped her outside. But what of the General and Mrs. Hilda and the servants?

With an eye to propriety, Willoughby Chatteris had positioned the female bedchambers on the east side of the house while gentlemen occupied rooms in the west wing. To try to reach the General through this dreadful smoke and heat would be folly. But Cecily determined at least to try to make sure that the women were safe.

Coughing, she tottered back along the corridor and managed to shout a hoarse “Minerva…? Mrs. Hilda…?”

There was no response. The smoke was thickening. Men were shouting somewhere, and behind their voices she could hear a terrifying crackling roar. She thought, ‘I must get out!' But even as she turned, snatching for the stair railing, her bare toes caught against something on the floor. She bent lower, her smarting eyes peering. Minerva Chatteris lay in a huddled heap at her feet.

“Oh … good heavens!” Cecily dropped to her knees and tugged at the girl's shoulders. “Miss Chatteris! Wake up! We—we must get out!”

Minerva's eyes opened. She blinked but seemed unable to focus. “Can't…” she muttered. “Too … tired … Much … too…” Her eyelids drifted shut again.

Cecily shook her without effect. In desperation, she slapped the girl's face, then slapped it again, hard.

Minerva roused and frowned at her. “What … on earth?” Comprehension dawned. “Oh! The house … is afire! My mama…”

“We must help her,” panted Cecily. “Can you get up? Put your arm around me—so. That's—that's good. Now—hurry! Hurry!”

Clinging to each other, coughing, they struggled towards the stairs, trying to see through the ever thickening smoke and to ignore the appalling voice of the fire.

18

Long before Blackbird Terrace came into view, Adair could see the red glow that lit soaring clouds of smoke. The dark premonition that had haunted his frantic ride was realized when Toreador carried him up the drivepath. The east wing of the old house was ablaze, flames licking from several ground-floor and basement windows.