The Riddle of the Lost Lover

by Patricia Veryan

  “And you’re fond of his lordship.”

  Barnard flushed. “I’ve been in the family’s service most of my life. Lord Kincraig is a fine gentleman. He worries for young Mr. Keith. I promised that in his absence I’d try to preserve both the estate and—”

  A tall footman hurried toward them and eyed Barnard questioningly.

  “He’s in the drawing room,” said the butler. “He wants Wickes.”

  The footman nodded and looked at Vespa, curiosity coming into his eyes.

  “At once!” snapped Barnard.

  The footman fled.

  As they walked on Vespa said, “You’ve done very well with the house and grounds, at least.”

  Barnard smiled. “Thank you, sir. My efforts in the other direction were doomed, I’m afraid. The damage was done years ago.”

  “Indulgence?” asked Vespa, as they started down the stairs.

  “A beautiful but unscrupulous woman, sir. Lady Kincraig trapped his lordship into marriage even after he’d told her he was devoted to—someone else. I collect she thought she could change him. When she found she couldn’t, she chose to think herself ill-used. She was a woman of violent and brooding temperament. Her vengeance was to make her husband’s life a hell on earth, and to turn their son against his father.”

  Surprised by such confidences, Vespa said, “You use the past tense. I take it Lord Kincraig is a widower?”

  “Her ladyship was killed in a riding accident two years ago. There had been a particularly acrimonious quarrel. The lady demanded that they return to their home in Scotland. Lord Kincraig had some business to attend to, and would not agree. He urged her to go without him, but there was no reasoning with her when she was in one of her furies. At length he told her he was sailing for Italy that night. She insisted on accompanying him. He refused, and in spite of her threat to shoot him if he attempted to leave her, he drove out. Lady Kincraig followed, still wearing her dinner gown and slippers, and riding her favourite horse: a high-strung animal. There was summer lightning that night. The horse bolted and the lady was thrown.” Barnard pursed his lips. “She was killed instantly. Mr. Duncan blamed his father.”

  They had reached the lower floor and as they entered the servants’ hall Vespa said, “One would think that Lord Kincraig might have stayed with his son.”

  “He did, for a while. Mr. Duncan tormented and vexed him in every possible way until his lordship forbade him this house, set him up in a London flat and gave him a most generous allowance.”

  “But when Kincraig is away, the charming heir returns?”

  “Just so, sir. His lordship knows. In spite of everything he still has affection for the young man, and I think he worries that having his mother’s excitable nature, her son will meet a similar fate. He’s wild enough, certainly.”

  Vespa leaned back against the long table. “Duncan Keith is not a pleasant fellow to work for, eh?”

  “No, sir. But I promised his lordship. Even if I had not, I’ve an ailing mother, and Lord Kincraig pays me very well, and allows her to live on the estate.”

  “I see.” Vespa said thoughtfully, “You don’t impress me as the man to betray your employer’s secrets, Barnard. Why do you tell me all this?”

  The butler met his eyes steadily. “The resemblance is so strong, sir. I don’t pretend to know how, but—of a certainty you are in some way connected to this family.”

  “You must have some idea what is that connection.”

  “It is presumptuous in me to—to dare hazard a guess, Captain, but—” Barnard flushed darkly and stammered, “But—forgive, sir. I—er, I do know that his lordship, who is a very gentle person, had an—an almost ungovernable hatred of—of one particular gentleman.”

  “Sir Kendrick Vespa.”

  “Yes, Captain. But—I never heard— I mean, her ladyship was half crazed with jealousy. If she’d ever so much as suspected—”

  A distant voice howled, “My gun, you idiot! And fast!”

  Barnard said, “You must go, sir!”

  “Never worry. He’d not dare shoot down an unarmed man.”

  “There are four other menservants in the house. And he has her blood. After one or two glasses of cognac, there’s nothing he wouldn’t dare!”

  He was pale. Clearly, he believed what he said.

  Vespa swore. “I must have some answers! Can we meet? After your work is finished tonight, perhaps?”

  “It will be late, and brief, I’m afraid, Captain. But unless Mr. Keith decides to leave for Scotland today, I’ll try to slip out. Where will I find you?”

  “I saw a fine stand of oaks up near the road. I’ll bring a closed carriage and wait there. Quickly, now, is there a painting of Lord Blair Kincraig I can see? Perhaps a miniature I might take with me?”

  “Regrettably, no, sir. There was a fine portrait of his lordship, but Lady Kincraig destroyed it in one of her tantrums and he refused ever to sit for another.”

  “Blast! Is there some feature that would help me recognize him?”

  “Not any one feature, Captain, but you’ve only to look in the mirror and imagine a few lines, and some grey hair at your temples.” The butler’s eyes brightened; he asked hopefully, “Do you really mean to try and find him?”

  “Possibly. He is in—er, in full possession of his faculties?”

  “Oh, most certainly. A trifle eccentric, perhaps, but a highly intelligent gentleman. His interest in rugs and carpets, especially antique rugs, is of long standing.”

  “But why would a man of intelligence allow the rumour to be spread that he’s searching for a flying carpet? That’s so nonsensical!”

  Barnard glanced uneasily at the door. “I couldn’t say, sir. Except that his lordship has ever been a rather solitary man, and not one to care about the opinions of others.”

  “Is it true that he ventures into France on his expeditions?”

  “He travels all over Europe and the Near East. And always alone. He’s had some very desperate encounters, I know. It worries me excessively. His life has not been happy, and sometimes I fear…” The butler looked troubled and left the sentence unfinished. “I believe he has no set route. He goes wherever he hears of some interesting specimen. I’m sorry, but there is nothing more I can—”

  “Barnard? Where in Hades are you got to?”

  The enraged howl was closer and spurred the butler into hurrying from the room, turning back at the door to whisper an impassioned plea that Vespa leave Lambent Grove at once.

  Seething with frustration, Vespa yearned to wait and face down the terrible-tempered heir. But it would result in a turn-up at the very least. Common sense whispered that he was not at the top of his form, and with several menservants to back Keith, he’d likely get himself soundly trounced. Reluctantly, he abandoned the prospect of such delicious but foolish heroics. He would see Barnard tonight, and learn as much as possible about the elusive Carpet Collector. He fought against becoming overconfident, but with the help of his friends he had learned so much. ‘Consuela, my darling girl,’ he thought, ‘we may yet stand at the altar together!’

  Outside, the elderly gatekeeper was leading the grey horse up and down the drivepath. He accepted the coins Vespa handed him, and relayed the information that the captain’s dog had run off and that a gentleman was in the lane, throwing his toy for him.

  An unseasonable sun was shining and the air was less chill. Corporal pranced gaily to meet his master. Manderville drew back, throwing up one arm protectively. “Do not strike me! Ah! I am reprieved! How much nicer you look with that dazzling grin, Captain, sir! You must have realized why I didn’t tell you about your odd relations.”

  “Chawbacon! They may be odd, but you’re right. There can be no doubt but that my father was Lord Blair Kincraig!”

  “One look at Duncan Keith should have told me that, but I didn’t realize till today why I thought I’d met the fellow somewhere.” Manderville mounted up. “I hope you appreciated my tact in not accompanying you. He�
�s the roué I had to knock down after I left Stowmarket. He don’t much like me.”

  Vespa’s smile was rather grim. “I’m afraid I didn’t impress him, either!”

  * * *

  Lady Francesca Ottavio’s ‘cottage’ was actually a large house set back from the lane amid venerable old trees and pleasant gardens. It was located a short distance north of Gallery-on-Tang, the Dorsetshire village that had once been part of the estate John Vespa had inherited from his maternal grandparents. The village was a delightful sight even under the gloomy skies of a December afternoon, and when Vespa had ridden along its single street he’d been welcomed with such warmth and affection that it had been some time before he could decently break away. Now, he was alone with the little ‘duchess’ in her comfortable drawing room, his nerves taut as he awaited her reaction to the news he’d brought.

  She looked very small and frail in the great fireside chair, but he knew better than to judge her anything but formidable. She wrung her claw-like hands absently, and gazed at Corporal who lay on the rug.

  “Why do you allow that he plays with that silly doll?” she demanded. “Is not the proper toy for a boy dog.”

  “I bought it for Molly Hawes, but he found it, and—”

  “You mean he stole it. You should have beaten him.”

  He said meekly, “I thought I’d leave that to you, ma’am.”

  She gave him a sharp look and seeing the twinkle in his eyes, advised him that he need not think to bring her around his thumb with his flirty ways, adding, “Consuela you have telling all these things?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Why? It might have won you the advantages.”

  “And had I told her without your approval I’d have been dealt a thundering scold—and deserved it, eh, my lady?”

  She smiled suddenly, and patted his knee. “You are the honourable gentleman, and with honour you play the game. What do you mean to do?”

  “Are you satisfied with my— I mean, would you think me more acceptable if Lord Kincraig is my father?”

  “Acceptable, is it? Ha!” She threw up her hands and demanded, “What is this choosings you now offer me? My great-grandsons they must have fine men in the family to look up to. And what shall they look up to in either a grandpapa who was a murderous black-hearted villain; or an aristocrat with the bent brain, the mad wife and the half-mad son, and who wastes the life the Good God give him by roaming about seeking flying carpets! Le gioia e della vita!”

  Vespa reddened. “I believe that remark had to do with joy, my lady?”

  “Si.” She said in a gentler tone, “And me I am being the cynical, which is rude. Very well, you say you love my little Consuela. If I leave this decision in your hands, you would now with happiness make the offer for her—yes?”

  He frowned, then said resignedly, “No. Had I been able to question the Lambent Grove butler privately, as I’d hoped, I might have sufficient information, but Duncan Keith took a sudden whim to leave for Scotland that very afternoon. So I still lack many of the answers I need. I must find Lord Kincraig, and see for myself what kind of man he is, and whether he will acknowledge me.”

  “Ah! This is good and I know you would doing it. Now—you really think he is in France?”

  “I think that is where I must commence my search.”

  She gave a derisive snort. “Madness! What have the handsome tailor’s delight he say to this?”

  “Manderville? Oh, he’s dead set against it. Says I could never hope to find his lordship. But we traced him to Suffolk, in spite of all the gloom-merchants.” His jaw set. He said a vehement, “I’ll find him!”

  “Jack!” Consuela hurried into the room, her eyes alight, and hands outstretched to him. She still wore her cloak, and the wind had tumbled her curls and brought roses into her cheeks.

  Vespa’s heart gave its customary lurch, and he sprang up and took her cold little hands eagerly.

  “Oh, but I did not know you had come home,” she cried, searching his face. “You must stay to dinner, must he not, Grandmama? Is Paige here also? What news have you?”

  “Sit down and your gabbling stop,” commanded the duchess testily. “And you may sit next to my granddaughter, Captain, if you will be propriety.”

  Consuela allowed Vespa to take her cloak. Briefly, his strong hands tightened on her shoulders. She looked up, her sparkling eyes meeting his ardent ones.

  Lady Francesca snapped, “No fondlings, no fondlings!”

  They sat dutifully on the sofa, side by side and a little distance apart.

  “I am so anxious to know,” said Consuela eagerly. “What have you discovered, Jack?”

  He glanced at Lady Francesca.

  “He has lost Lieutenant Paige, who have gone wandering off about his own businesses,” imparted the duchess. “And he have find this man he thinks may be his sire. Who is mad.”

  “Oh, never say so!” Aghast, Consuela gripped her hands tightly. “Are you sure? Who is he? Where is he? Have you met him, Jack?”

  “He is Lord Blair Kincraig, and I haven’t met him—yet. But—”

  “How can he be meeting him when this lordling is gone to France? Which proves he is mad.”

  Dismayed, Consuela said, “To France? What on earth…?”

  Vespa smiled at her. “He is, I believe, eccentric. Nothing more.”

  “Hah!” said Lady Francesca. “Only that he hunts two carpets, bambina. One that fly like the bird; and the other made of jewels that was cut up more than a thousand years since! Eccentric, you say? Hah!”

  Intrigued, Consuela demanded the whole story and listened raptly while Vespa told her of the Spring Carpet of Khusraw, and of his visit to Lambent Grove. “Good gracious,” she said, when he came to the end of his account. “Lord Kincraig does sound a—a rather odd gentleman. Whatever do you mean to do now?”

  “What would you suppose?” interposed the Duchess. “Our Captain John Vespa he follow this mad father to France, which it show the madness he has inhibited!”

  “Inherited, dearest,” corrected Consuela. “And, of course you cannot even think of going, Jack.”

  Her proprietary air warmed his heart. He said, “I must, but—”

  “We will not hold the hands,” warned the duchess.

  Sighing, Vespa snatched his hand back. “My apologies. And I must go, Consuela. Heaven only knows how long it may be before he returns to England.”

  “I had sooner you wait than have you go to France and be shot as a spy!”

  “Very right, and we will speak no more of foolishnesses,” agreed Lady Francesca. “Now, Consuela has something to tell us, that she keep the big secret. Speak up, meadowlark.”

  Consuela said eagerly, “Oh, yes. I have wanted to tell you, Jack. I met an—er, admirer yesterday, who—”

  Vespa stiffened. “Has that confounded colonel been slithering around you again?”

  “Languages!” shrilled the duchess, clapping her hands over her ears.

  Vespa apologized for his lapse, and Consuela said with a trace of annoyance, “La, sir, do you fancy I have but the one admirer?”

  Hastings Adair was the rival Vespa most feared and his wrath cooled a little. “I can visualize regular armies of ’em,” he acknowledged. “Nor could I blame the poor fellows.”

  “Why ‘poor’? Perhaps you think their choice is ill-considered? I’ll have you know—”

  “Come down from the boughs, Signorina Consuela Carlotta Angelica Jones! Tell me about this latest of your beaux.”

  She was always amused when he reeled off her complete name, but although she smiled, there was a look at the back of her eyes that disturbed him. His unease grew while she told of the strange man who had questioned her on the estate road, and at the end a cold fear gripped him.

  Horrified, the duchess exclaimed, “Foolish, foolish child! You should have tell me this at once! Do you knowing these mens, Captain Jack?”

  He frowned. “I hope I don’t, but you’ll remember I spoke of the
very powerful fellow who tossed Hastings Adair about when we were attacked in Town. Toby thinks their descriptions would fit a fanatical Swiss art collector named Monteil. He has a very large Chinese servant, and a decidedly ugly reputation.”

  “If this it is so, then these are very dangerous peoples,” said the duchess, wringing her hands agitatedly. “And now they make the threats on my meadowlark? Dio ce ni scampi e liberi!”

  “That means ‘God forbid,’ Jack,” translated Consuela.

  “Amen,” he said fervently. “But our prayers would not be necessary had you not seen fit to tease them.”

  Consuela had been eager to share what she had found out, and she gave a gesture of exasperation. “Oh! Is that the thanks I get? If it is not typical of a man to never give a lady credit where it is due! It does not occur to you that I was all alone when they came up behind me, and yet—”

  “My God, but it occurs to me! You will persist in—”

  “—and yet I managed to convince them I was a villager and—”

  “If you had Manning with you, child, there would not have been the need to convince them of anythings,” put in the old lady, her eyes glinting with a mixture of alarm and vexation. “Ah, San Pietro!”

  “Saint Peter was likely helping me, Donna, for I’d almost succeeded in sending them off in the wrong direction. If that silly Manning had not come wailing up and spoilt everything—”

  The picture of what might have happened if Manning had not come, made Vespa break out in a cold sweat. “You might have got your pretty neck wrung!” he said harshly. “I’ll not have you taking such chances, Miss Independence! It is as unwise as it is improper for—”

  “You will not?” She sprang up in a flame. “What right have you to censure me, John Wansdyke Vespa? We are not betrothed—nor ever like to be if this is how you bully and browbeat a lady!”

  His own cheeks flushed, Vespa stood and faced her. “A lady does not wander unescorted about the countryside, inviting the attentions of any womanizing makebait who chances her way, as—”

  “In—inviting? Oooh! How—”

  “—as I’ve told you before, ma’am. No! Be still! It is one thing, and a very dear thing, for you to want to help, but quite another to deliberately make mock of a man who you admit alarmed you.”