The Riddle of the Lost Lover (16 page)

The little duchess blinked up at him. “Well,” she said, for once at a loss for words. “Well, now…”

Paige Manderville burst into the room, grinning broadly and obviously much excited. “Excelsior!” he cried. “How d'ye do, ma'am?”

“Pray come in,” she said with daunting sarcasm.

“Eh? Oh, yes, well you must forgive me, for I've grand news! I came upon one of my sergeants, Jack. He's been sent home because he lost a leg. Had blisters on his heel and if you can believe—But never mind that. Thing is, he's a wheelwright now, and he told me he worked on a large cart yesterday morning. The cart was full of
rugs!
”

Vespa stiffened and the duchess uttered an excited gasp.

Manderville said, “The owner was a cultured gentleman but clearly wits to let. He claimed to have just come back from France, which so astonished my sergeant that he asked how ever the gentleman was able to travel there in these times. The rug dealer said he's well known to be a ‘collector' and everyone knows him because over the years he has brought back some fine specimens!”

“By George!” cried Vespa, his heart pounding rapidly. “Did your man know where this ‘collector' is going next?”

“Apparently the gentleman likes to chat, and while he was waiting for his wheel to be repaired he said he'd intended to stay at his home in
Suffolk
for a while, but—”

“
Suffolk!
”

Manderville grinned. “Yes, dear boy! Suffolk! But he's apparently learned that a
flying carpet
has been discovered near Antwerp, so he will go there as soon as he unloads his cart. It
must
be Kincraig, don't you agree? I mean, there couldn't be
two
of 'em!”

“Not likely!” exclaimed Vespa. “What tremendous luck!” He wrung his friend's hand. “Bless you, Paige! I'm deep in your debt!”

Manderville rubbed his numbed fingers and stared at Vespa in an oddly embarrassed fashion. “No, no, my boy,” he protested, his face very red. “Glad to be of assistance.”

Elated, Vespa scarcely heard the mumbled words. “I'll warrant Kincraig plans to sail from East Anglia. I'll leave at once!”

“Not now, you won't,” said Manderville. “There's fog rolling in. It was all I could do to find my way here.”

Vespa strode to the window. The gardens were wreathed in a white blanket. He swore under his breath. “I'll have to wait till morning then. But if he's driving a laden cart to Suffolk it shouldn't be hard to come up with him before he embarks for Belgium.”

“I'm going with you,” declared Manderville. “Wouldn't miss it for the world!”

7

Consuela's hope that she could enjoy her misery in private was doomed. When she reached her bedchamber she found Manning sitting before the fire, replacing a button on her dressing gown. Consuela hesitated in the doorway, and then realized the woman was fast asleep. Sighing, she crept in and sat on the bed.

Why had she said such a dreadful thing? Poor darling Jack had so much to bear, and for her, of all people, to turn on him, was inexcusable. It was her horrid temper: the bane of her existence. Try as she would, she could not seem to behave in a cool, poised and dignified way, as an English lady should. On the other hand, Jack and
Nonna
gave her no credit. It was the same as when she'd followed that horrid man into the Alabaster Royal quarry in September. She'd not
meant
to be caught. She'd been trying so hard to help. Instead of which …

Manning's snores were getting louder. Consuela looked at her maid resentfully. She could wake her, of course, but if she did she would either be treated to another homily on the unwisdom of a young lady talking to strange gentlemen, or endure a report on the condition of Manning's corns. If she sent the woman away, Manning would at once run to Cook and wail that Miss Consuela was upset, and Cook would tell Grandmama, and there would be a fuss. She suffered a guilty pang. Manning was often tiresome, but she was also loyal and impeccably honest. She had suffered a bad head cold last week, and she really did look tired.

There was no refuge up here, it seemed. She took her warmest cloak from the press and ran lightly downstairs. The drawing room door was closed but she heard the murmur of voices. Grandmama and Jack were likely discussing her shocking want of conduct. The entrance hall was empty. From the kitchen passage came a rattle of crockery and cook's merry chatter, interspersed by deeper male tones. Watts, their elderly coachman, had probably come in for a cup of tea.

Wanting only to be alone, Consuela went outside and closed the front door quietly. It was chilly this afternoon, with mist drifting about. A fine setting, she thought, for her gloomy mood. She wandered in the garden miserably, and was startled when something struck her foot. Corporal had deposited his doll on her shoe, and sat regarding her hopefully. She bent to stroke him. He picked up the doll, pranced away, and stopped, looking back at her. She smiled and dried her tears.

“You want to go for a walk, do you?”

His little tail vibrated, and a muffled bark came from around the doll.

“Very well,” said Consuela. “But it must be a short walk, my friend. I think we are to have real fog, and I dare not get into any more trouble.”

She set out, glad enough of the little animal's company, and throwing the doll when it was occasionally presented for her attention.

The stricken look on Jack's dear face haunted her. She had loved him very soon after their first meeting. It had been a tempestuous meeting. She and
Nonna
had moved into the then empty manor house at Alabaster Royal, hoping to discover what her beloved father had learned there—the secret that had led to his death. Jack had arrived and surprised her, and during her struggles to escape,
Nonna
had hit him on the head with the frying pan. She smiled nostalgically. Those had been adventuresome days. Dangerous days at times, but there had been gaiety, too. And comradeship. And by the time it was all over, her heart had been given completely and irrevocably.

The fog was becoming quite thick. She had given the dog a nice long walk, but now she must turn back.

There was no sign of Corporal. She called him repeatedly, but the fog muffled her voice. And then, from somewhere nearby she heard him whine. He must have heard her, but had not come. Usually, he was very good about— There he was, foolish creature! Why was he crouching down like that? She peered at him curiously. One might think he'd been turned to stone.

A feline voice rang out nearby. An orange and white cat trod daintily towards Corporal, its tail high-held in a friendly fashion. It was a very large cat. Not too long ago Corporal had been badly frightened by a similar creature and, even as Consuela called to him, he snatched up his doll and ran away, his little legs flying.

Consuela's calls and commands were ignored. The cat, having found a playmate, joined the game merrily, its pursuit lending wings to the terrified dog.

Exasperated, Consuela tried to discourage the cat while demanding that Corporal “Come!”

Refuge appeared when least expected. A large coach, apparently abandoned, stood at the side of the Alabaster Royal road, one door wide, and the steps down. Having discovered such a familiar haven, the dog sprang up without an instant's hesitation and vanished inside.

“Oh, my
goodness!
” panted Consuela, clapping her hands at the cat. “Now see what you have done, you bad moggy!”

The cat had lost all interest in such a silly game, and sauntered away with fine feline nonchalance.

Consuela peered about. Even though the brake was probably set, the owner of the carriage must not be far off. There was no sign of a coachman, but one of the four horses had been taken from the traces. It had likely thrown a shoe or gone lame, and had been led to Young Tom, the village blacksmith. She ran quickly to the carriage. Corporal was crouched, trembling, under the seat. She reached out for him, but he shrank away. “This is not your master's coach, you silly creature,” she scolded. “The cat has gone, and you must get out at once, or we'll be in disgrace. Come!”

Instead, Corporal scuttled back. With a moan of exasperation Consuela hurried up the steps and tried to catch him, but caught only the doll. She threw it into the road, urging Corporal to “fetch!” but he only whined and looked at her soulfully.

She was stunned then as a vaguely familiar voice with a French accent declared, “That blacksmith, he is a slow-witted fool. I cannot wait about. This is a good enough animal. I shall ride ahead. Dyke will bring our hack.”

“You finish with people here, master?” This asked in a frightening deep growl.

“It was a sorry waste of my time! The yokels would not have refused my money had they known anything. Save that young woman.
Certainement
she knew more than she pretended. Could I but get my hands on her…!”

Consuela gasped with fright and prepared to jump from the coach. It was too late. Their figures were already looming up through the fog: a very tall man mounted on a fine bay horse, and his companion, incredibly broad and powerful looking, striding at the stirrup. There could be no doubt; it was the same pair who had tried to question her on Wednesday afternoon, the Swiss whom Jack thought was very dangerous and his great coachman. She shrank down, expecting to at any moment be confronted by a dead-white face and piercing black eyes, and trying to think whatever she would say to him.

Another horse came up at reckless speed, almost colliding with the Swiss who unleashed a flood of profanity at someone named Lieven who was evidently a dolt and a clumsy block.

The newcomer panted in French, “A thousand pardons, Monsieur Monteil! It is that I am told to rush, and do not expect to find you here. Ah, but you have suffered a mishap with one of your hacks?”

“A shoe it is lost, merely. The animal is now at the village smithy. When you feel so inclined no doubt you will give me your message.”

“Your pardon, monsieur. It is that the Big Bertrand has word of him!”

Monteil snapped, “Where? When?”

“He was seen in Belgium some time since, and again last week, near Rennes.”

“Ah! How persistent he is!” Monteil's soft laugh held a chilling edge of gloating. “A long way for an Englishman to travel alone on French soil. And dangerous in the extreme. It were a kindness for us to assist him. Especially if he has found his flying carpet.”

Consuela's heart gave a jump of excitement. Then these nasty creatures
were
looking for Lord Kincraig, just as Jack had suspected!

She heard a rumble of sound that might have been amusement, and then the growling voice of the coachman:

“Fog thick very far way, Lieven?”

“No, Ti Chiu. A mile or so to the south it is still clear.”

Monteil said, “Then I shall ride on to the coast and find a boat.” He issued crisp instructions as to the disposition of the various horses, there was the chink of coins, and he said, “
Adieu.
With luck, we shall sail tonight.”

With luck, thought Consuela, her heart beating very fast, she would now slip out of this coach and run home to tell Jack his quarry was in Rennes and that the sinister Monsieur Monteil and his terrible Chiu coachman were hard after him. Why that should be so was baffling. Horrid as he might be, this Monteil did not sound like an idiot. And who but an idiot would really believe in such mythical objects as flying carpets? Unless … Might they suppose the eccentric Lord Kincraig had actually found a piece of the ancient and legendary carpet—what had Toby called it? The Spring Carpet of … Poonah or was it Basrah?

Someone was riding away. Monsieur Monteil, no doubt. She peeped from the window, then jerked back with a shocked gasp. Only a few feet away the messenger named Lieven had dismounted and was unbuckling his saddle girths. He was a stoop-shouldered individual with a lined face that was set into a sour expression, and he grumbled that it was very well for ‘Monsieur' to commandeer his horse for the carriage. “Much he cares that it is cold and damp and I've to trudge all the way to the village in these riding boots!”

The carriage lurched. Consuela saw Ti Chiu's bulk approaching. She crept to the left side and reached for the door. This would be her best chance, before they finished poling up Lieven's horse and while they were both on the right side of the coach. The latch was very stiff. Struggling, she gave a yelp of fright as something touched her elbow.

She whipped around. Corporal had jumped onto the seat and now panted at her sociably. “Little beast,” she whispered. “You frightened me half to death! No, do not dare bark! Were it not for you, we wouldn't be in this terrible pickle!” She glanced at the far window apprehensively. The two men were beyond her range of vision, but she could hear them: Lieven grumbling, and the mighty coachman offering an occasional unsympathetic grunt.

She turned back to the door handle again. Hurry! She must hurry!

*   *   *

A breeze came up at about eight o'clock, strengthening to a wind that began to disperse the fog until, by nine, the evening was clear. It was very cold. A three-quarter moon sailed up the sky, threw shadows on the quiet village street and turned the river to a silver thread.

Slightly more than a mile to the east the manor of Alabaster Royal, bathed in its brilliance, seemed almost a fairy-tale castle, its twin conical-topped towers standing guard majestically on either side of the entrance. Several of the windows glowed with amber candlelight, including three on the upper floor, for Vespa meant to retire early so as to be ready to leave at sunrise. He was at the moment seated at his desk, writing a note to Consuela. Manderville had stayed on at the cottage, accepting the duchess' challenge to a game of chess. Lady Francesca had refused to reprieve her granddaughter, saying it would do her good to stay quiet in her bedchamber and let her temper cool. Nor had Corporal appeared; Consuela was fond of the little dog, and had probably kept it with her for company.