The Riddle of the Lost Lover (2 page)

“Your pardon, sir?”

“No need to wrap it in clean linen, Colonel. It has been spread about that Sir Kendrick Vespa was swept away by an underground flood when he and his son surprised some ruffians in the quarry. I can see as far through a brick wall as the next man.” Taking up the letter once more, Wellington said, “We must make very sure the tale dies here, is all.”

Colonel Adair paused, then said reluctantly, “I'm afraid—it er, doesn't, though, my lord.”

The stern lips tightened. “Why did I guess you were going to say that?” Tossing down the letter, Wellington leaned back in his chair. “Very well. Don't hide your teeth.”

“As I piece it together, sir, things came to a head in the quarry. John went down there to test his suspicions, and his father offered his aid. The other plotters arrived and John learned the whole ugly business, and that the mastermind was his own father. Or—the gentleman he thought was his father.”

The dark head jerked up. “He—
thought…?
”

Adair nodded. “Sir Kendrick, it seems, had for four and twenty years accepted another man's child as his own. He was never faithful to his wife, as all London knows. Apparently, Lady Faith Vespa was so wounded when he set up a mistress only a year after their marriage that she gathered a court of her own.” He shrugged expressively.

“And John Vespa was a child of her—indiscretion?” Grinning broadly, his lordship drove a hand against the table. “I'll be damned! Now that I think on it, John's colouring is fair, and Sherborne was as dark as Sir Kendrick. Come now, Adair. Do you say the man didn't
know
he'd been cuckolded?”

“Oh, he knew all right, and was enraged. But his pride wouldn't let him admit it publicly. He's not the first, sir, to accept a bastard as his own to protect the family name.”

“No, by Jove. And he concealed it well, appearing to be the proud father. The boy gave him plenty of cause for pride, of course. When did John find out the truth of his parentage?”

“In the tunnel. Sir Kendrick showed his true colours and told John very explicitly how he had loathed and despised him all these years.”

“By heaven but that was a wretched thing to do! The poor lad must have been shattered. Small wonder he retaliated!”

“He was not responsible for Sir Kendrick's death. Another man claimed that privilege after John had been shot down.”

Wellington shook his head broodingly. “What a tragedy! Greed, and a woman—a deadly combination. I'm glad my fine aide survived. How is he, Adair?”

“Going along remarkably well, sir. Under the circumstances. And full of determination. They all are.”

“Determination about what? Who?”

“His friends. Lieutenants Paige Manderville and Tobias Broderick. They were all sent home after Vitoria, and they're united in trying to help him in his quest.”

“
Good Lord above!
” roared the Field Marshal. “
Will
you have done with all this roundaboutation!
What
—quest?”

“To find his real father, my lord. John had hoped to be married, you see, but cannot approach the lady without a name—or without at least knowing his parentage. He refuses to use the Vespa title or to accept the fortune or the properties. The only thing that keeps him from revealing the whole ugly story is his loyalty to his mother.”

“He had
best
not reveal the whole!” Wellington sprang up and began to pace about the room. “We don't need a scandal like that breaking over our heads while we've Bonaparte to deal with! The men in government who took Kendrick Vespa's bribes will be punished. But quietly, mind! And there must be not a
whisper
of our plans for a secondary arsenal!” He halted, head bowed and brows fixed in a frown. “By Jupiter, but I'd like to give young Vespa a hand. Does anyone know who was Lady Faith's side-door lover?”

“Yes, my lord. It explains to an extent why Sir Kendrick harboured such a hatred for John. Lady Faith gave her husband back his own—and more. She chose his most bitter enemy for her lover. And John grew up to resemble the man. Most people assumed that the boy took after the Wansdykes, his mother's family. But you may be sure Sir Kendrick was all too aware of the truth, and reminded of it each time he looked at John.”

“Well? Well? Never back and fill! Who was the fellow?”

Adair leaned to take up the letter from the Prime Minister. “Perhaps you should read this, sir.”

With a snarl of irritation, Wellington broke the seal. His eyes ran rapidly down the page. When he looked up, he was pale. “I cannot
credit
it! Of all the men in the world…!”

Adair watched him gravely through a brief silence.

Wellington folded the letter again and stared at it blankly. “I've a real sympathy for John Vespa,” he muttered, as if to himself. “He's a fine young fellow and was a splendid officer.” He looked up from under his brows and said with grim intensity, “A deuced ugly mess you bring me, Colonel.”

Apprehensive, Adair said, “Yes. I apologize, sir.”

The great soldier grunted and dealt the barometer a sharp rap.

Adair's apprehensions were justified.

“You shall have to tidy it up,” said Field Marshal Lord Wellington.

1

London.

“Disgusting!” Jerking aside the heavy draperies that shielded her drawing-room windows, Mrs. Fortram scowled down into the rainy darkness and said in her elderly and irritable voice, “Here's
another
of 'em rattling up the street to shatter our quiet! Look at 'em, Hubert! Confounded idiots! There ought to be a law against routs and balls and musicales and falderals being carried on in this peaceful and refined neighbourhood!”

“Mmm,” said her son, savouring another sip of his port.

For all her apparent frailty, Gertrude Fortram was not easily diverted from a Cause. Choosing to forget the many occasions on which her own parties and balls had disrupted the neighbourhood peace, she went on fiercely, “Cluttering up the streets at all hours of the night! Keeping honest folk from their rest! You'd think people could find better ways to amuse themselves than to put on clothes that belong more to midsummer than a cold wintry night, and drive halfway across Town to answer the summons of Esther Wolff, as if she were one of the almighty
ton
leaders! Which she is not, and so I've told her!”

Receiving only a sympathetic grunt in reply, the old lady continued, “It's not as if we were at the height of the Season. I'd thought London thin of company, in point of fact, but— Heavens! If ever I saw such a crush! Much good those special constables do! Lud, only look at how the carriages are obliged to wait in line! One might suppose Wellington himself was among the guests!”

Mr. Fortram settled his portly self more comfortably in his deep chair, stretched his slippered feet closer to the warm hearth, and turned the page of
The Times.
“In that case I would have accepted the invitation, Mama,” he murmured, drowsily content. “I can only be glad that—”

He glanced up, startled, as his words were cut off by a shriek.

“That wretched
cat!
” shrilled his mother. “The fur will fly now!”

His curiosity aroused at last, Hubert puffed and huffed, extricated himself from the chair and crossed to the window. “Who? Oh, Gad! The Hersh dragon! I thought she was in Bath.”

“As she should be at this time of year. And— Look there! Lucinda Carden, and on Ted Ridgley's arm! Who's next? Ah, that horrid Phineas Bodwin escorting … I cannot recognize her, but she looks a trollop, which surprises me not at all.”

“Gathering of the gabble-mongers,” sneered Hubert. “I wonder whom they mean to flay tonight.”

“Sir Kendrick Vespa, of course!”

Shocked, he protested, “Jupiter, ma'am! They can't flay poor Sir Kendrick. Dead, y'know.”

“No, I don't know! Nobody knows for sure. And his son's not gone into mourning, I heard.”

“What, is Jack Vespa in Town, again? Gad, but that was a fast recover. Last word I had was that he was at death's door.”

Mrs. Fortram turned her attention from the window and eyed her son with rare interest. “Well, he's not there now, and I'm glad of it, for I like the boy. What else have you heard? The gabsters who usually know everything are suddenly like so many stuffed owls. Why all the secrecy?”

“Be dashed if I know. Paige Manderville was in White's yesterday, and all he'd say was that Jack and Sir Kendrick surprised some rogues hiding in an old quarry on Jack's Dorsetshire property, and—”

“And that Captain Jack was shot down and his father pushed into some sort of underground flood. Outrageous! Despicable! Dastardly! But that was weeks ago, and despite all the flurry at Bow Street and Whitehall, with Runners and Special Constables and dragoons galloping about hither and yon, what have they accomplished? Have the culprits been arrested? No! What mischief were they about down in that old quarry? No one knows—or will admit to knowing! Why is Bow Street mum, and the newspapers scarce mention the business? That's what
I'd
like to know!”

“As would we all, ma'am. It's a regular mystery, especially when you consider that Sir Kendrick Vespa is—was a distinguished diplomatist.”

“True.” Mrs. Fortram restored her attention to the window. “The thing is, they haven't found his body yet. Might never find it. Which will leave his surviving son properly in the suds, eh?”

“Mmm.” Putting up his quizzing glass, Mr. Fortram admired the points of a fine chestnut team now pulling up before the great house across the street, and murmured absently, “I wonder if his poor mama knows of her bereavement.”

“Poor mama, indeed! All Faith Vespa ever did was whine about Sir Kendrick's neglect of her. I doubt she'll grieve him, though she's missing a splendid opportunity to moan and wail and weep crocodile tears all over Town. I don't see how she could know of her widowhood, at all events. The silly widgeon ran off to some relations in South America, didn't she?”

Hubert pursed his lips and returned to his chair. “So they say. I for one cannot blame her. All that scandal about her husband's lightskirts. Terrible embarrassment for the lady.”

“Well, running away added grist to the gossip mills, which she'd know had she a particle of sense. Kendrick Vespa was too handsome, and that's always a danger. But had Lady Faith handled him properly … instead of which I'm of the opinion her complainings fairly drove the man to infidelity.”

Again reaching for
The Times,
Hubert murmured, “Now we don't know that for sure, Mama. And the Vespas, after all, rank among our most ancient and respected Houses.”

“The more reason for Sir Kendrick to have guarded his name against scandal! It's downright shocking that a fine old family could be thriving one day, and destroyed the next. That's what comes of—
Look!
Only look! The
Ottavio
woman! I haven't seen her for— Doesn't she live in Dorsetshire? I'll warrant
she
knows what went on down at Alabaster Regis—or whatever it's called.”

Joining his parent once more, Hubert put up his quizzing glass. “You're right, by Jove! I remember the little lady. French, ain't she? A duchess or some such thing.”

“Italian. She claims to be the duchess of Ottavio, but her husband died just before inheriting the title, and she is no more a duchess than am I! Whatever can have brought her back into Town, I wonder? Well, that bears off the palm! Lord, are you lumping back into your chair again? Come, Hubert! Up! Up! Rouse your lazy self! No use looking so hardly done by. The whole town's talking and with the gathering of gabblers across the way there's not a doubt in the world but that Sir Kendrick's escapades with the Stokely hussy will be the prime topic. I don't mean to miss it, and so I warn you! Change your dress. I'll be ready in half an hour!”

“But—mama,” wailed Hubert. “You said you didn't want to go out tonight. It's raining! And besides, you declined the invitation.”

“Well now I'm accepting! Half an hour, Hubert! Stir your stumps!”

*   *   *

Mr. Gaylord Wolff had instructed his architect to design a ballroom in the Grecian style, and the results of that talented gentleman's efforts were much admired in London Town. Despite the cold air outside and the abundance of marble inside, the impressive room was crowded and very warm, and when a quadrille ended many of the guests made their way to the cooler dining and reception rooms where an elegant supper was spread on long tables. Laden trays were borne off to adjacent ante-rooms whose smaller tables, chairs and sofas filled rapidly. The air hummed with polite chatter, aristocratic faces were variously sad or titillated, and on every tongue it seemed was the one name—Vespa.

Seldom had the
ton
enjoyed a more delicious scandal. Sir Kendrick Vespa had long been known to have a mistress in keeping, in addition to other ladies believed to have enjoyed his protection from time to time. What had not been known was that the much admired gentleman had lately enjoyed a secret
affaire de coeur
with Mrs. Esmeralda Stokely. The widow was lovely, but she was young enough to be his daughter, and, worse, had been on the brink of marrying his eldest son prior to the young soldier's tragic death in battle.

Mrs. Fortram and Hubert, having made their way to the supper rooms, gathered plates of delicacies and drifted unobtrusively from one group to another, their eagerly stretched ears gathering a choice harvest of gossip.

“… and not to speak ill of the dead, my dear Lady Vera, but to think that
lovely
man could have been so
devious!
”

“… poor Mrs. Omberleigh. She was never good
ton,
of course, but my heart bleeds for her.”