The Riddle of the Reluctant Rake by Patricia Veryan

Adair.”
    The tale of his latest disgrace would sweep London in an hour, and Thorne Webber would gleefully spread it about that he had run away like a whipped dog. He thought grimly, ‘Grandfather will love that!’ He’d have to return to Town directly after he’d found and talked with Miss Prior. His only hope of retrieving a shred of his honour would be to call out Thorne Webber. He considered duelling to be a ridiculous and outmoded solution to quarrels, although it was still widely practised in France. Still, he was a fine shot, and under the present circumstances, he had no choice. He wondered if Toby and Jack Vespa would be willing to act as his seconds.
    *   *   *
    Singletree was undoubtedly a charming estate when viewed in summertime. The gentle valley would be lush and green then, and its pastures dotted with the sheep that had brought prosperity to this part of The Weald. Even blanketed in snow, as it was on this cold February afternoon, the manor-house presented a pretty sight, smoke spiralling from several chimneys and lamplight already glowing in some of the latticed ground-floor windows. Adair had dismissed the post-chaise when he’d secured a room at the White Ram, a tiny and remote wayside inn. Now, guiding Toreador along Singletree’s winding drivepath, he thought inconsequently that the name of the estate was ill-chosen since there were trees everywhere. Of more concern was the sort of reception he could expect from the Prior family. Hostility, certainly; perhaps violence. The pistol in his pocket was a reassuring weight. If necessary, he was resolved to hold Miss Prior’s menfolk at bay until they agreed to let him see her.
    Occasional snowflakes drifted down as he dismounted and secured Toreador’s reins to a post at the foot of the entrance steps. A wide terrace ran along the front of the two-storey stone house and he was crossing it when the front door flew open. A young man wearing riding dress rushed out and ran at him.
    â€œFilthy swine!” he howled, his clenched fist flying at Adair’s jaw. “How dare you show your wicked face here, when—”
    The flaming red hair had warned Adair, and he dodged the blow deftly, caught the enraged man’s wrist and with a supple twist sent him sprawling.
    â€œRufus? Who is it?” A tall young woman hurried from the house. Adair had a fleeting impression of fair windblown curls, a superbly cut riding habit that enclosed a superbly shaped female, and eyes somewhere between blue and grey that widened as they rested on Prior. “What … on earth…?” She crossed quickly to help him up. “Did you fall?”
    â€œAye. With the aid of his fist,” snapped Prior, his face almost as red as his hair. “Keep clear, Cecily. This is the slimy varmint who assaulted poor Alice!”
    The girl gave a sort of leap and turned on Adair, her eyes narrowed with rage. “And you let him knock you down? Have you no pistol about you? Shoot the monster!”
    Prior’s hand darted to his coat pocket, but Adair’s pistol was levelled before he could withdraw the weapon.
    â€œEasy,” cautioned Adair. The girl, who was quite remarkably attractive, started to back away. He added, “And if you’ve any affection for this fire-eater, ma’am, I’d suggest you stand still. I’d not wish to feel obliged to put a ball through his foot.”
    She glared at him, but halted. “You wretched creature,” she said, her voice low but ringing with fury. “You must be stark raving mad to come here. My uncle will return at any moment and he’ll know how to deal with you!”
    â€œSomebody already has,” jeered Prior. “Look at his face. A horsewhip, applied by some public-spirited citizen, unless I mistake it.”
    â€œThen it was well done, but a small payment. Hanging is what the revolting libertine needs!”
    â€œA kindly