The Riddle of the Lost Lover (41 page)

Consuela wailed, “Oh, my heavens!”

She was staring to the east. He turned his head slowly, and saw a coach and four and two outriders on dapple greys bearing down on them. Monteil! Pox on the wretch! But if that was Monteil, then who was behind? More
cuirassiers,
perhaps? At all events, he thought wearily, there was nowhere to turn now, but into the water. Could the cart-horses swim? That thought struck him as hilarious and he chuckled foolishly.

Consuela was pulling up the team.

He said feebly, “No, love. No—we mustn't give up yet.”

Pierre shrieked, “Papa! Papa!”

Clinging to the side, Vespa managed to look back again. The coach and the escorting riders approaching from the north looked murderous. Small wonder, if it was de Coligny. And he had given the poor fellow his word of honour that in seeking Lord Kincraig he did nothing against France. Nothing against France … Except to provide Lord Wellington with part of the means to continue the war! His word of honour … “Oh, Gad!” he muttered.

“What did you say, my dear?” asked Consuela.

“Nothing that—makes sense. Pierre, get down, lad. Hurry to your father. And—God speed!”

The boy looked at him, suddenly tearful. To Vespa's astonishment, his hand was seized and kissed. Then Pierre was in the road and running back to the slowing coach of the chevalier.

The military troop was less than a mile to the south.

Monteil's carriage was bearing down from the east.

De Coligny was behind them.

‘A touch ticklish,' thought Vespa.

Consuela had managed to whip up the team and they were charging straight towards the soldiers. Bless her brave heart. He tried, not very successfully, to encourage her. Monteil's coach became a blur that seemed to swerve suddenly. Consuela was crying out. She needed him! He pulled himself together and took back the leathers and in a burst of strength, cracked the whip over the horses' heads. The waggon seemed to fly. Those French troopers had best get out of the way, by God, for he was going right through their centre!

There was a lot of shouting and noise.

The troopers were scattering in all directions.

Consuela was screaming.

Lord Kincraig was cheering.

Someone howled, “He's done it!”

If he had done it, he could go to sleep.

Grateful, he sighed and his head sank onto Consuela's shoulder. He wondered vaguely if they had crossed into Spain.

It seemed to him that he heard shots.

*   *   *

The man who stood at the window was young, and a colonel. The window was round, and the floor was moving up and down. So this must be a ship. How he came to be aboard ship, and why he was in bed at what appeared to be late afternoon, Vespa could not imagine, but he had a vague sense of having made a horrible bumblebroth of something. After two attempts that were inaudible, he managed to ask, “Am I under arrest, sir?”

The man at the porthole turned and approached the bed.

“Oh,” said Vespa. “It's you.”

“It's me.” Colonel the Honourable Hastings Adair sat on the end of the bunk, his handsome face grave. “How do you feel?”

“Puzzled. How long have I been here?”

“Two days. We had a rendezvous to keep before we turned for home.”

Vespa knit his brows, trying to sort it all out.

The young colonel asked, “What's the last thing you remember before you dozed off?”

Dozed off…? Was that what he'd done? Not during an action, surely? Lord! He said slowly, “I seem to recollect a road, and— Great heavens!” He started up and found it such an effort that he lay back again, panting. “My father! Broderick and Manderville! And—Consuela! What—what…?”

Adair sighed. “I was afraid you'd remember Consuela.”

“Hasty, you villain! You're teasing the poor fellow!” Broderick came in, clean and shaved and with a neat bandage around his head.

“I'll point out,” said Adair, “that I am a colonel, and despite that romantical bandage, you, Broderick, are a lowly lieutenant!”

“An alive lieutenant!” exclaimed Vespa, greatly relieved as Broderick came to grip his hand. “Toby, is my father—”

“He's not quite as alive as this impertinent cloth-head,” said Adair. “But he's going on very well and should be up and about within a week, so the ship's apothecary tells us.”

Broderick said mournfully, “Poor old Manderville is in a bad way.”

“Oh, blast the luck! It was the pneumonia, then?”

“Yes. He's through the worst of it, apparently. But—” Broderick winked “—poor sailor, you know.”

Vespa grinned, then said apprehensively, “Does Wellington know what happened?”

“He does.” Adair said with a sober look. “He's going to demand an explanation, Captain, of why you disobeyed orders, and—”

“What orders? I never received any orders!”

“—and why you blithely gave away one hundred
louis!
”

“That ain't fair,” exclaimed Broderick. “Against all odds he got the rest of the loot through!”

“I—did?” said Vespa hopefully. “But—how on earth—”

Someone was knocking at the door. Adair sprang up and opened it, then bowed, and Consuela hurried in.

“Oh!” she cried in delight. “He's awake! And you didn't call me!”

Broderick pulled a chair beside the bunk and she flashed him a smile as she ran to occupy it and take the hand that Vespa tried, and failed, to reach out. Nursing it to her cheek, she asked, “How are you today, dearest Captain Jack?”

“I feel very well,” he answered, smiling at her adoringly. “Except—I cannot understand why I am still so pulled.”

“You great clunch,” said Broderick. “You drove all night without tightening the bandage round that cut on your arm. It's a wonder you ain't bled white!” He settled onto the side of the bunk and went on: “There are some very interesting studies being undertaken on blood. For instance, did you know that the body of the average male contains about five litres of the stuff? And that although a fellow can lose a considerable amount without turning up his toes, at a certain point he will go into shock—which is likely what happened to you only you were too dense to—”

“Go away,” murmured Vespa not taking his eyes from Consuela's radiant face.

“Well, of all the—”

Adair took Broderick by the collar. “This way, Lieutenant,” he said firmly, propelling him to the door.

“If that ain't the outside of—”

“The outside of Captain Vespa's cabin,” said Adair, and closed the door behind them.

“Alone at last,” sighed Vespa. “Now, if I only had the strength…”

Consuela pointed out, “I am very strong.”

“And I swore an oath not to try and fix my interest—”

“Whereas,” she murmured, leaning closer, “I am very interested, and I have sworn no oaths.…”

After a delightful interlude he asked dreamily, “Did we really get the gold through?”

“No.
You
got it through, dearest!”

“Never! Paige and Toby helped, my father was superb and you—you were a real heroine, my signorina! How you hung onto the reins with those precious little hands while I was totally useless—”

“How you kept going for as long as you did was a miracle, my poor darling. And when you broke the ranks of that troop…” She chuckled. “There was no stopping the team. What an uproar!”

“I can guess. And if I know Frenchmen—”

“They weren't French, Jack.”

He stared at her, bewildered.

Tidying her hair, Consuela said, “They were British dragoons.”

“British?”
he gasped. “A troop—of
our
dragoons—in
Brittany?
You're roasting me!”

“No such thing. The captain of the warship had been told to rendezvous with us between Lorient and Quiberon and that we would signal by lantern—which we did not know, of course. He tacked about offshore, waiting, then sent an intelligence agent in to try and trace us.”

“The poor fellow we found killed at that abandoned farm?”

“No. But the intelligence officer had met that gentleman and told him where we could meet the ship. You'll recall that he had managed to draw an arrow in the dirt, pointing to the southwest. When we didn't keep the rendezvous, Hasty Adair, who was aboard the warship, demanded that a troop be landed.”

“Good Lord! They'd come to help and I charged—”

“Right through them, dearest.”

He groaned. “When am I to be shot? Were any of the poor fellows hurt?”

“Only their pride. But they've forgiven you. In fact, they seem quite proud of their encounter with the Flying Captain!”

He looked at her amused face uneasily. “What a thing to do—after they'd taken such a chance for our sake. I wonder they didn't have to fight every inch of the way!”

“Yes. It was a desperate venture, but Lord Wellington had said nothing was to be left undone that might get the waggon through. I suppose nobody expected a troop of British dragoons to be there. Luckily, we met up with them fairly soon, and the warship changed course and sailed back to us.”

“But—I distinctly recall seeing a great lagoon—with ships that you said were islands.”

“So they are.” She stroked his cheek gently. “And you are talking too much and must rest now. Is your arm very painful?”

“A little stiff merely, I thank you. But how could a warship put into a lagoon?”

“It didn't, my love. The water was shallow when the tide went out. We drove across to one of the islands and two longboats came with a landing party, and all the gold was loaded, and rowed out to the ship. We left the poor waggon and the cart-horses behind.”

“The French did nothing while all this was going on?”

“Hasty thought that at first they were taken by surprise. Then there seems to have been a panic—the local people thought Wellington had broken through Marshal Soult's lines and was invading.”

Vespa laughed. “What—with one troop? But I was sure I heard shots.”

“You did. The chevalier restored order and rallied the people, then led an attack on our little island. He really was magnificent, Jack, and I'm very sure he will be given a medal or some sort of honour.”

“Still, he didn't prevail.”

“No, thank the Lord. And we were safely away before those fierce
cuirassiers
came charging to help him. Now, go to sleep.”

He yawned drowsily. “Then Wellington will have his funds. And my father is a fine brave gentleman … Consuela—my beloved one … your Grandmama won't deny me now … do you think?”

But before she could answer, he was contentedly asleep.

*   *   *

It had been snowing all day. The village of Gallery-on-Tang looked like an artist's depiction of Christmastime, with smoke curling from the chimneys, thatched roofs buried under a white mantle and people bustling about the slippery street, bundled in their winter cloaks and scarves, exchanging cheery greetings.

Some two miles east of the village the ancient manor house at Alabaster Royal also wore winter white, and lights from many windows painted amber glows on the snowy lawns. The steward, Hezekiah Strickley, and Harper, the groom, were busily at work in the stables; rotund Chef Henri sang uproariously in his kitchen; Mr. Thornhill, the statuesque butler, issued a constant stream of orders; Peg, the stout head housemaid, trotted about happily, picking up the various items she dropped along the way, and encouraging her rather ill-assorted retinue of assistants to make haste because “all the rest of 'em is coming today!”

In the great drawing room Captain John Wansdyke Vespa paced restlessly, glancing often to the front windows, and running a nervous finger around the neckcloth that Thornhill had adjusted with, it would seem, an eye to strangling him. At his heels Corporal trotted patiently, and Manderville, strolling in from the stairs, observed that the little dog must have walked miles this last hour. “By George, but you look impressive, Jack. Regimentals, eh? Jolly good touch.”

Vespa turned to face him. “I'd hoped they might help my cause a little. The ladies love a uniform, you know. Is my father coming down?”

“Said he'd be at your side in time to welcome— But I think he won't. Someone's arrived.”

“Oh, Lord!” moaned Vespa, paling. “Paige, do you think the duchess still will have none of me?”

Manderville pursed his lips. “Hmm. Well, she might very well, of course.” And thinking that the old lady would be short of a sheet to even consider rejecting his gallant friend, he thought also of the scandal that seemed to grow more lurid every day and had so tarnished the name of Vespa. Stifling a sigh, he added: “Best to be prepared, dear boy.”

The doors were thrown open. Thornhill announced in his great dramatic voice, “The Duchess of Ottavio. Miss Consuela Jones.”

Vespa's eyes flashed to his beloved. She wore a gown of white velvet trimmed with pink embroidered flowers, and a silver fillet was threaded through her dusky curls. He thought she looked virginal and adorable, but there was worry in her blue eyes and his heart sank as he bowed before her grandmother.

The diminutive Lady Francesca, regal in dark red brocade with gold piping around the high-standing collar and down the front openings, and an undergown of gold silk, allowed him her hand to kiss. “It is taking the unfair advantage to wear that uniform munificent,” she said, tapping him on the wrist with her fan, and passing on to Manderville. “I see by your so impudent grin that I have said something not right, Lieutenant Paige. But I will forgive you because it is agreeable that you will not die, after all.”

Under cover of Manderville's laugh, Vespa whispered, “Has she made up her mind?”

Consuela murmured, “Have you seen the newspapers?”