The Riddle of the Reluctant Rake Read Online Free Page A

taste, although he always found it rather oppressively formal. The murmur of conversation ceased as he entered. It seemed to him that the air vibrated with hostility, and Harrington had been right—or almost right. A quick scan of the company revealed that two of his uncles on his father’s side were present—both scowling at him; Captain Sir Joseph Adair, who commanded an East Indiaman, was absent, although his ship had returned to Bristol a week ago. Three of Mama’s brothers had come, and also scowled at him. His elder brother, the Honourable Hudson Adair, a handsome and usually elegant man who now looked rumpled and distracted, darted a rageful glance at him. He suffered a shock when his younger brother, Nigel, met his eyes with a glare that could only be judged hate-filled. The boy had always put him on a pedestal; the idol had fallen, understandably. Lady Caroline Shand, every bit as proud as her parents, was the only one of his three sisters to have come, and looked ready to strangle him.
    Joshua Adair, Viscount Esterwood, had taken up a position by the fireplace. A tall man who had kept himself trim, his thinning brown hair only slightly touched with grey, he was as distinguished as ever, but he had been wounded in his most vulnerable area—his pride, and there was rage in every line of him.
    Hastings gathered his courage, walked forward, and bowed. “I have brought you grief, Father. I am sorry for it.”
    â€œBy God, but you have,” snapped his lordship.
    Samuel Chatteris, his puffy features an even brighter red than usual, roared, “I wonder you dared show your face, Hastings! I won’t name you ‘nephew,’ since I refuse to acknowledge you!”
    â€œAs do we all!” Major Roger Adair had served for many years in India and thoroughly enjoyed recounting one or another of his hair-raising experiences to long-suffering friends. “Buried us in shame, be damned if you ain’t!” he shouted. “Not worthy of our fine old name! Ain’t that the case, Will? I haven’t dared set foot in my club, by Gad, have I, Will?”
    Thus appealed to, Willoughby Chatteris, the youngest of the General’s surviving sons, murmured, “Right-o, old fellow.” He glanced in embarrassment at Hastings, and added apologetically, “He hasn’t, y’know, Hasty. Sorry.”
    Samuel Chatteris rolled his eyes at the ceiling and muttered something about “sapskulls.”
    Willoughby reddened and retreated to a far corner of the room. A diffident, withdrawn individual, who lacked both the physique and the good looks of most Chatteris men, he seemed, rather, a washed-out copy of them, for he was thin and stoop-shouldered, his colouring pale, his rather protuberant eyes a watery blue, and the straight hair that sprang from his low forehead a light nondescript brown. He had never married and was generally believed to be “a little strange.” His mission in life appeared to be to make “lists,” though of what and for what conceivable purpose no one had ever been able to determine. He had inherited a sizeable fortune and a large country estate from a maternal aunt who believed that Fate had dealt harshly with “poor Willoughby.” When his brother had been slain at Corunna, Willoughby had opened his lonely house to his bereaved sister-in-law and her brood. His friends had been sceptical, but it had proven to be a success. Mrs. Hilda Chatteris ran the house and held the accounts nicely in balance. Willoughby was fond of his nephews and nieces, and enjoyed having a family around him. His niece, Minerva, had beguiled him into sharing her canine interests, so that when he was not busied over his Lists, he could usually be found at the kennels. His was not a gregarious nature, and that he and the volatile Major Roger Adair should have struck up a friendship baffled the rest of the family, but friends they were and whenever the Major