The Riddle of the Reluctant Rake (38 page)

Toreador lurched to a halt some distance from the house and stood, head down with exhaustion. Flinging himself from the saddle, praying he hadn't ridden his gallant horse to death, Adair staggered across the lawn. The smell of the fire hung heavily on the damp air. House servants, grooms and gardeners were milling about, carrying water buckets from the pump, passing articles from the house, shouting and gesticulating. The glow from the flames lit their features eerily; some still wore their night-rail, others were half-dressed, and they all looked frightened and dishevelled. As he came up, Adair searched for a glimpse of Cecily or his grandfather, and finding neither dared to hope they hadn't passed the night here.

Grimed with smoke and barely recognizable in shirt and breeches, the butler ran to grasp his arm. “Colonel!” he shouted. “Thank heaven you came! There's been some—” He interrupted himself as Adair flinched away. “Oh, Lord! You're hurt, sir! You'd best—”

“Is everyone out?”

“Mrs. Chatteris is safe and caring for those who were burned. Mr. Willoughby was out but I believe he ran back in again, and the General—”

“The General?” His heart plummeting, Adair gasped hoarsely, “Do—do you say he stayed here? And—Miss Hall?”

Randall nodded.

“Are they out?”

“Oh, God, I wish I knew, sir! I've not seen Miss Hall. She may be upstairs still, with Miss Minerva. General Chatteris went back inside to help a maid who was injured in an accident. It's been so hard to wake people. I suppose they're overcome by the smoke, but—Sir! Don't! You can't get through that way!”

Adair was already running up the front steps and onto the terrace. The smoke that poured through the open doors was acrid and blinding. Plunging into the house was like running into an oven. Flames were licking at the lower stairs but he wrapped his cloak about his arm, held it across his face and started forward.

The burly man who was his uncle's head groom/coachman and Burslem's beloved Henry caught at his arm and howled, “It's no use, sir! We can't reach them! We can try the back, but—”

“Like hell!” snarled Adair and wrenched away.

Heat seared him as he took the stairs two at a time. Half-blinded by the smoke, he peered through the clouds and stumbled along the corridor, calling, praying for a beloved voice to answer, refusing to admit defeat when no answer came. His cloak began to smoulder but his heart leapt to the sound of a faint cry. It had come, he thought, from his aunt's bedchamber. He groped his way to an open door, and blinking through drifting smoke saw Cecily on her knees by the window, trying to pull Minerva to her feet.

Tears of relief washed some of the soot from Adair's eyes. He ran to take her in his arms. “My love! My dearest love!” And, dishevelled, scorched, her beautiful face grimed with soot, she clung to him croaking, “Hasty! Thank … God!”

There came a thunderous roar, and the floor lurched under them. He pulled Minerva to her feet, but she sank down again. Leaning to Cecily's ear he howled, “We must go out through the window. Is she hurt?”

“No. It's just—we're all so very tired. Dearest … Harrington is here!”

For an instant Adair stood motionless, staring at her.

The doorway brightened to a red glow. He lifted Cecily and sat her on the window-sill. “Take my hands. Now—out you go! I'll lower you as far as I can, then you'll have to jump.”

She obeyed at once.

Pain lanced savagely up his arm as he took her weight, but it was something he could not heed now. Lord above, but it was hot! Leaning perilously far over the window-sill, he gulped in a few breaths of clearer air. Cecily screamed something. He heard a male voice yell. God send there was someone down there to help her … He relaxed his grip and she vanished into the smoke.

Minerva was trying to get up. She croaked, “Hasty! I don't—I don't know why … so tired…”

Coughing rackingly, he picked her up and gasped out his instructions. To his relief she seemed to comprehend and did as he said. She was heavier than Cecily and he swore in anguish as she clung to his hands.

From the impenetrable and crimson-tinted murk below, someone shouted, “Jump, Miss! Jump!”

Minerva shrieked a frightened “Hasty, I—I can't see! I daren't jump!”

“You must!” he howled, “Or I can't come!”

At that her hands relaxed their frantic grip.

Adair half-collapsed across the window-sill, suddenly drained and lacking the strength to get up.

Through the smoke and heat came the echo of Cecily's voice. “Harrington is here…”

He pulled himself together and turned to the door. It was rimmed with flame. Peering from the window again, he tried to wave away the smoke and saw flames shoot out below him. His eyes were streaming. It was increasingly hard to see—or to breathe.

Harrington … Harrington had done this. He had almost killed Cecily and Minerva. Heaven only knew if everyone was safe. If the General had perished—and Uncle Willoughby…! God forbid! That murderous traitor mustn't be allowed to get away! He had come for the Lists, of course. Probably desperate to make sure that Willoughby didn't recover them. Hastings wrapped the cloak around his arm again and sprang through the doorway, trying to shield his eyes, praying there was still a corridor on the other side.

Mercifully, there was, but the cloak burst into flames and he had to throw it off. To his left the main staircase was ablaze, but wiping a hand across his streaming eyes, he could detect no flames to the right. There was a chance that he could reach the back stairs.

He stumbled along, dizzied and coughing, his tortured lungs fighting for breath, until he came at last to his knees. He was done. He couldn't keep on … His overwhelming desire was just to lie and rest … He sighed wearily, but a corner of his mind screamed that to rest was death. If Harrington was here, he'd be after the Lists … Must help poor Willoughby. Must. And so he crawled on doggedly, driven by the need to find Harrington, to stop him from hurting Willoughby, and to drag the lying weasel back to Town and retribution.

He reached the door opening onto the rear stairs at last but the heat had caused it to warp and he had to drag himself to his feet and kick it open. At once he was greeted by a breath of cooler air. He reeled to the stairs and barely avoided tumbling down them.

It was easier to breathe now and his head cleared. There was a great deal of noise from outside; shouts and crashings, the splintering of glass and the squealing of frightened horses. Through the kitchen windows he caught a glimpse of lanterns and of dim figures rushing about. The neighbours must have seen the flames and had come to help, as people did come in such a disaster; a bucket brigade was probably being organized, though it didn't seem likely that they'd be able to save much of the house.

Rounding the end of the rear corridor, he was confronted by a wall of red-tinged smoke. He threw up an arm against the heat. The fire had not yet reached Uncle Willoughby's study, but it was obvious that in a few minutes this area would be engulfed. He plunged forward, only to stop abruptly.

Julius Harrington ran from the study, a familiar cardboard box under his arm. He was looking back into the room, a triumphant grin on his face that faded into consternation as he turned and saw the man who was rushing at him.

“You…” he gasped, disbelievingly.

All the misery of these past terrible weeks, the heartbreak and tragedy this man had carelessly inflicted on many others beside himself condensed into a boiling rage that wiped away Adair's exhaustion and civilized instincts and left only a primitive lust for vengeance.

“Yes, it's me, you murdering bastard!” He drove a fist at that loathed face, and Harrington was hurled backward. Adair pounced after him, dragged him to his feet, and shoved him towards the study. “Get … in there, foulness,” he wheezed.

Despite the eddying smoke Harrington saw death in the features that were so contorted as to be almost unrecognizable. No coward, he struggled and fought for his life desperately.

Adair had struck Harrington with his right hand, but in the heat of his fury he scarcely felt the pain, and the blows rained at him were as nothing. Inexorable, relentless, he forced the traitor back into the study. As he'd feared, Willoughby Chatteris lay in a crumpled heap by the desk. “Pick him up!” he snarled.

“Madman!” cried Harrington. “Look behind you! For the love of God, look! Another minute—and—and we'll be trapped!”

“You were going to leave him! You filthy sneaking swine, you were going to leave him to die—as you planned we all would die!
Pick … him … up!
”

The bright glow of the fire was creeping into the room now and Harrington's control broke. Panic-stricken, he snatched up the box of Lists, slammed it at Adair and sprinted for the door.

Adair launched himself at his legs and brought him down.

Harrington screamed as an ear-splitting crash shook the room. “This whole curst place is—is collapsing! Do you
want
to—to die? God! Why did I come back…? You need a confession! I can't confess, if—if I'm dead!”

Adair wheezed a laugh. “We've got Droitwich. And you've an enormous debt to pay, my
dear friend
”

“I'll confess! I promise you! I'll clear your name! I
swear
it! Only let me—”

“You'll confess, all right,” gritted Adair. “Now …
pick … him … up!
”

Sobbing with fear, Harrington dragged Willoughby up and over his shoulder. Adair gestured to the hall door. The roar of the flames was a terrifying sound and the heat and smoke made it all too clear that they had very little time.

Harrington staggered and went to his knees.

Adair bent to seize his uncle's lax form.

With a strength born of desperation, Harrington grabbed a footstool, hurled it at Adair and, standing again, sprinted into the corridor. “Burn, damn you!” he shrieked.
“Vive l'Empereur!”
Laughing hysterically, he raced for the back door.

Adair started after him.

There came a deafening creak, then a section of the corridor ceiling came down with a thunderous roar, bringing with it what seemed a solid wall of heat and flame.

Scorched and gasping, Adair reeled back. He must get his uncle out of this. He spun around and caught sight of Willoughby on his hands and knees gathering Lists.

“Never mind about … that now, sir! We've got to—”

Willoughby pushed him away and went on gathering frenziedly. “No! My Lists!”

It went against the grain, but their time was gone. Adair aimed for the jaw and struck once, but the rage that had sustained him was also gone. He was trying to lift Willoughby when the windows burst inward and glass showered the room.

“Here they are!” howled Toby Broderick.

Strong hands were taking Willoughby, who moaned faintly, “My … Lists!”

Adair tried to tell them that Harrington had escaped, but they didn't seem to hear him.

Cecily's voice, frantic, cried, “Hasty? Is Hasty in there?”

Someone—Grandpapa, he thought—roared, “It's going to cave in! Get the hell clear! Get clear!”

Scrambling through the shattered window, Hastings learned what “by the skin of your teeth” really meant.

*   *   *

By sunrise Blackbird Terrace was a charred and smoking ruin, but to Willoughby's enormous relief nobody had been killed. They had not escaped unscathed, however. General Chatteris had a nasty burn, sustained when part of a blazing beam had fallen across his shoulder while he'd been carrying the injured maid from the house. Mrs. Hilda Chatteris and several of the servants had suffered minor burns and abrasions; Coachman Henry had two cracked ribs to show for his valour in having caught Minerva when she fell from Adair's grasp at the upper window. Cecily's lustrous curls were scorched on one side of her head, and her skirts had caught fire as she'd fallen past the ground floor, so that although Manderville and the cook had at once beaten out the flames, her ankles had been slightly burned.

Thanks to their combined efforts, quite a surprising amount of furniture, Mrs. Hilda's jewel-case, most of the silver and the more valuable paintings had been salvaged. At the General's suggestion everything had been conveyed to the long-unused dower house. The aunt who had left the property to Willoughby had occupied the old house in her declining years, finding it easier to maintain than the mansion, and much of the furniture had been protected by holland covers. It became a haven now. Willing hands had swept away dust, dispossessed spiders and lit lamps and fires. Bedding had been donated, and although some people had to sleep on the floor, no one had any complaints.

In the morning, neighbours returned with food baskets so that an ample breakfast was served.

They'd decided on a conference after they ate, but had first made their halting way to view the heart-breaking sight that a family home presents when it has been destroyed by fire. Minerva and Mrs. Chatteris had wept quietly, and Willoughby had been tearful. They had made an effort to converse sensibly, enquiring about the injured, and discussing the merits of either enlarging and refurbishing the dower house or rebuilding the manor. Anything but the topics that were uppermost in everyone's mind.

Paige, who had burned his hands while beating the flames from Cecily's gown, accompanied a very shaken Minerva to the kennels, and the rest returned to the dower house, where Mrs. Hilda, Randall and the cook went off to make their own lists of necessities to be purchased in Woking.

The conference was held in the drawing room, cleaned and tidied now, but with the smell of smoke still lingering on the air. Looking around at his grandfather, Uncle Willoughby, and Toby Broderick, and with his love very close beside him, Adair knew each one of them was in some degree of pain today, but he could only marvel that there had not been more casualties.