The Riddle of the Lost Lover (5 page)

“Now then, m'dear,” he soothed, holding her hands firmly. “No need to make a Cheltenham tragedy of the business! We may never know the true facts, and if John does say aught of it, folks will surely set it down to the poor lad's cracked brainbox. If there was some really shocking dealing, the authorities may be as anxious as we are to sweep it all under the rug. Whatever the case
we
must keep silent, Paula. Our niece
did
marry a Vespa, so our honour is involved. For the sake of the family name you
must
keep your tongue between your teeth and admit
nothing
—to
anyone!
You promise?”

Sir Reginald's lady nodded and on a smothered sob gave her promise.

2

It had stopped raining when Captain Vespa left Wansdyke House. The night air was very cold and bracing and a half-moon imparted a soft radiance as it broke through shredding clouds. It was not far to his club, and although the Battle of Vitoria had left him with a marked limp, he chafed against inaction. Thanks to his more recent brush with death there had been little chance for exercise these past few weeks and he stepped out briskly, waving on the jervey who slowed his hackney coach and peered at him hopefully.

Lady Francesca did not keep very late hours, but it was doubtful that she would leave the ball before midnight. With luck, Manderville would escort the ladies back to Claridges and then join him at the Madrigal Club. With more luck, between them they'd have learned
something
of his mother's erstwhile admirers.

Few people were about on this rainy late evening, but when he turned onto St. James's he had to jump back to avoid being run down by a coach racing around the corner, the coachman very obviously the worse for drink. He shouted a protest and was answered by a flourished whip and a muddled response seemingly having to do with Christmas. Muttering indignantly, he walked on, his thoughts turning to the unhappy interview with his great-uncle. Lord, but Sir Reginald had been furious. For a while it had seemed likely that the poor old fellow would suffer an apoplexy. He should have anticipated such a reaction, but he'd counted on the fact that neither Sir Reginald, nor Great-Aunt Paula had been fond of his—of Sir Kendrick. He'd sometimes suspected, in fact, that they thoroughly disliked him. Obviously, he had underestimated their dread of scandal. He smiled a twisted smile. What a multitude of sins was hidden behind the fear of sullying a Family Name. Sir Reginald had all but threatened to have him put away if he dared pursue his enquiries. His jaw tightened. He was fond of the old gentleman and had no wish to upset him. Nor had he the slightest intention of giving up his search.

His introspection was broken as a link boy came running to offer to light his way. Between the moonlight, the occasional flicker of an oil street lamp and the flambeaux that still blazed outside some great houses, he had no need for the lad's services and sent him off with a groat clutched in one grubby fist, and a jubilant outpouring of wishes that ‘milor' be blessed with health and good luck ever'n ever.

Amused, Vespa thought that his health was certainly much improved, and as to good luck—he had plenty of that, for there were loyal friends eager to help in his quest: his former comrades in arms, Toby Broderick and Paige Manderville; his Dorsetshire neighbours, the Italian ‘Duchess of Ottavio,' and most importantly, her half-English granddaughter, little Consuela Carlotta Angelica Jones, the lady who gave meaning to his life and without whose vibrant presence there would be no life.

If all went well and he discovered that his real sire had been an honourable gentleman … Surely Mama would have chosen no less? But even if that were so, he must face the fact that he was illegitimate. The awareness still shocked him, and the hand on his cane clenched tight. All his life he'd believed himself to be the scion of a fine old family. He'd been proud of his name and lineage and especially proud of the brilliant diplomatist he'd thought was his father. He would have been enraged had anyone dared suggest that Sir Kendrick Vespa was a conscienceless villain who had suffered no qualm of conscience in destroying those who stood in the way of his schemes. At least three innocents had paid the supreme penalty for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. And when he himself had unwittingly interfered in Sir Kendrick's plans—

He closed his eyes briefly, fighting the grief that persisted against all logic, and was such a fierce pain. It was over. When Sir Reginald had been swept away by the flood that had raced through the quarry at Alabaster Royal, his schemes had died with him. Consuela and Manderville and Toby Broderick, and even Lady Francesca, had each tried in their own way to help him surmount the tragedy. They each had said with great kindness that there was a time to put the past behind; to refuse to think about it; to firmly dismiss it from his mind. Excellent and well-meant advice. The trouble was, it was easier said than done.

He shuddered, chilled by more than the icy wind as he crossed Piccadilly. He was greeted by two friendly but unknown young exquisites who, between hiccups, invited him to join them in the chorus of “She Was Only a Fishmonger's Daughter.” Short of engaging in fisticuffs, his attempts to escape proved unavailing. His nature was not quarrelsome and it was clear that, however intoxicated, they meant no harm. Bowing to the inevitable he obliged, but stressed that he could not stay for encores. In the event, he was not asked for an encore. His new acquaintances were, in fact, quite ungrateful, and he left them, ignoring their hilarity over his vocal efforts. Grandmama Wansdyke, he thought indignantly, had always enjoyed to hear him sing. Toby Broderick had once been so uncouth as to comment that the lady must have been tone-deaf, but—

From the alley beside him came sounds of desperate conflict. The moonlight did not penetrate far between the tall buildings, but his eyes were keen. Three against one. Thieves, no doubt. “Hey!” he shouted, and gripping his cane firmly, limped into the fray.

It was short but sharp. Almost at once he realized that here were no ordinary footpads. There were no shouts; no curses. The three, armed with short cudgels, fought in a silent co-operation that spoke of experience. He had fully expected that with his arrival and his shouts for the Watch, the rogues would run for it. They did not. Their victim groaned and sagged to his knees. One sturdy bully bent over the fallen man, the other two plunged at Vespa. He countered a flashing cudgel with his cane, then swung it in a sideways swipe across the third man's ribs that evened the odds. A ham-like fist whipped at his face, and he ducked then brought his famous right into violent collision with a craggy jaw. His ears rang to the resultant howl of anguish. The first bully turned from their victim and joined the fight. Vespa flung himself to the side, but only partially avoided the cudgel that blurred at his eyes.

Through an instant of blinding pain he heard someone yell, “Here's the … Watch! Stand, you miserable … varmints!” The voice was unsteady but vaguely familiar.

He was being assisted to his feet, and he gasped breathlessly, “Are they gone?”

“Thanks to you, Captain, sir, they are. Oh, dear. I lied to the … poor clods. Our reinforcements ain't the Watch after all.”

Vespa wiped blood from his eyebrow and saw two gentlemen weaving towards them, clinging to each other while peering at him blearily.

“Be damned,” said one of the new arrivals thickly. “It's the—hic—poor chap who—who can't—hic—sing.”

“Sho 'tis, dear boy,” confirmed his friend. “Can—can fight, though. Jolly—jolly goo' show, shir. 'F I shay sho m'shelf.”

“And you've my thanks, gentlemen,” said Vespa. “You were—a good substitute for the Watch.”

“Even if they can't see straight,” murmured the man at his side. “Come on, Vespa. It's starting to drizzle again.”

Vespa looked at him sharply. “I thought it was you! What the deuce are you doing here, and out of uniform?”

Colonel the Honourable Hastings Adair drew him away. “Not now. Those louts may return with more of their kind. Come!”

They hobbled on together, investigating their various hurts, and followed by the strains of the shockingly ribald third verse of “She Was Only a Fishmonger's Daughter.”

“Going the wrong way,” pointed out Vespa, halting. “I'm bound for the Madrigal.”

Adair held a grisly handkerchief to his nose and from behind it urged him on. “I'm not. Now that I've found you. I thank you for your help, though.”

Standing firm, Vespa scanned the colonel in the light of a flambeaux and noted glumly that, despite a darkening bruise across one cheekbone, a bloody nose, and a graze beside his mouth, and although civilian dress lacked the dash of his military scarlet, the dark-haired young officer was all too well-qualified a suitor for Consuela's hand. “Sold out, have you?” he enquired sardonically.

“You know better.” Investigating, Adair muttered, “Gad, but I believe those varmints have loosened one of my teeth. Well, never mind that. For Lord's sake, will you move? I can't lounge about under this light.”

They left the flambeaux behind. Lowering his voice, Vespa said, “I thought you'd gone back to France. Did Wellington send you to sniff around?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“You said you'd tell him the full story of what happened at Alabaster Royal.”

“So I did. He was most concerned. He spoke highly of you and sent you this letter.…” Adair groped in his pockets. “Be damned! Those dirty bastards made off with it!”

Vespa would have prized the letter. “It was kind of the General to write his condolences.”

“Field Marshal now, don't forget! And he wrote more than condolences. He wants something of you.”

There was a note in the colonel's voice that triggered warning flags in Vespa's mind. He said warily, “For instance?”

“Stop poking your nose into—past history.”

“Devil take it!” Vespa halted again. “I've a perfect right to make enquiries about personal matters. Wouldn't you, were you in my shoes?”

Adair hesitated, then said evasively, “You're stirring up more than you know, Captain.”

“What difference does it make? The whole story will come out sooner or later. You can't stifle that kind of—of—”

“Treachery? I'm sorry, but there's really no kinder word, is there? And it
must
be stifled! There'll be no more of it in the newspapers, I promise you. Now why look so astounded? Forgive, but your late father—”

“Which one?”

Adair swore under his breath, then hailed a slow-moving hackney coach. The jervey grinned in triumph, and Vespa saw that it was the same coach he had refused earlier. Adair called an order to “Just drive,” adding a curt, “Get in.”

“Why?”

“Because it's freezing and we can talk in here without getting soaked. Don't be so blasted stubborn. I'll remind you that I outrank you, Captain!”

Vespa bit back an unflattering comment and climbed reluctantly into the coach.

“I'll remind
you,
sir,” he said, when Adair had lowered himself painfully onto the seat beside him, “that I am not at the moment on active service.”

“Really? And do you feel that entitles you to undermine the security of this nation? Or do you consider your personal affairs more important than King and Country?” Adair gripped Vespa's arm, and looking into his startled face, said in a kinder tone, “Through no fault of your own you've had a wretched year, and I'll own that had you not taken a hand just now, I'd be in a very sticky mess at this moment. I know you must wish me at Jericho, on more counts than one. Please believe that I don't like this. But I've no choice.”

Frowning, Vespa settled back against the lumpy cushions and waited.

The Colonel said softly, “Sir Kendrick Vespa almost succeeded in selling the Alabaster Royal estates to the Government as the site of a proposed secondary Arsenal. He was perfectly aware that large sections of the property were undermined by extensive tunnelling, and that it would be dangerous to locate an arsenal on such unstable ground, so—”

“Thank you, Colonel, sir,” interrupted Vespa, pale with anger. “Did you really feel it necessary to rub my nose in my family disgrace? I promise you, I'm sufficiently aware of it!”

“Damn your eyes! We know you almost lost your life when you refused to do as he wished. No—don't say it! You don't want my sympathy. But what
I
want—what
his lordship
wants—is that you look farther than your personal tragedy. Despite his cunning and his ruthless disregard of human life, none of it would have been possible had Sir Kendrick not first purchased the—ah—cooperation of several highly placed gentlemen at Whitehall.”

Vespa gave a disgusted snort. “What you mean is that rich and powerful men took bribes to look the other way! Good Lord above! Do you say that Wellington wants me to also ‘look the other way?'”

“He wants you to consider that we are in a state of war,
Captain.
At least half the people of this island believe a French invasion to be imminent. Many men behind the scenes of power struggle desperately to prevent a panic. Were it to become public knowledge that so respected a diplomatist as your late father was corrupt; that some of our leading citizens exchanged their integrity for gold—”

“It would seem to me,” said Vespa hotly, “that the public has a right to know the truth about great men who abuse power! They
should
be exposed and held up to shame and to punishment!”

“The punishment will come, I assure you. But the shame would spread to some very famous families. Including your own.”

After a short silence, Vespa muttered, “I don't know what is—my own, sir.”

“You're splitting hairs. I know you're in the deuce of a fix. But you've your mother to consider still, and her side of your family. Speaking of which—how does Sir Reginald Wansdyke view the matter?”