The Riddle of the Lost Lover

by Patricia Veryan

  “Yes, because you are a man,” she said, rounding on him. “And men are great awkward creatures who clump around in—in china-shops and are blind to everything under their noses—unless it is a woman’s bosom!”

  With a grin, Manderville said, “Very well, I’ll stay here with you, petit coquin that you are. Likely my unease is nonsensical and old Jack is going along splendidly.” He looked down, but watched her from under his long lashes as he added, “Lord knows, he’s faced enough dangers in his life and managed to survive.”

  Consuela had been preparing to deny that she was a ‘little monkey,’ but at this she was all contrition and, seizing his arm, demanded, “But you said you have the feeling he needs you. If that is so, we must leave this place at once!”

  He shook his head and said reluctantly that he had promised Jack to stay with her and be sure she was safe. “He would never forgive me if I took you into danger, so if you will persist in accompanying me, then I cannot go, do you see?”

  She did not see, and when he resisted all her arguments with unyielding determination she flew into a rage and left him. Climbing the stairs to her cold bedchamber, she paused on the half-landing and gazed miserably out of the tall narrow window. It was as grey outside as it was in here, and the leaden skies gave promise of rain to come. Her beloved was out there somewhere, facing who knew what perils, while she fussed and grumbled like a spoiled child about—about trifles, and thus prevented Paige from going to help him.

  She sighed. It was all her doing. Jack had not wanted to come here, nor had Paige. She was the one who’d insisted that Lord Kincraig was in Rennes and who had deliberately missed the return voyage of the Saucy Maid.

  Even so, Madame de Coligny was not a kind person. Contrary, as usual, Conscience whispered that a lady more gently natured than herself would likely have been able to deal with the horrid—with Madame. The fault lay with Consuela Jones, and her wretched temper. When would she ever learn to hide anger behind honeyed words and glittering smiles? Her beloved Papa, striving always to teach her to be more in control of her emotions, had said lovingly but with regret that her nature was volatile.

  She’d once asked Jack if he thought her volatile, and he had answered that she had plenty of spirit which would help her over life’s rough spots. Darling Jack. She squared her sagging shoulders. Well, she would not let him down this time. She would be meek and humble and behave politely and properly so that Paige could leave her here, and—

  Her resolve interrupted by soft laughter, she looked up. The chevalier and his wife were walking slowly towards the top of the stairs. Madame, looking—one had to admit—ravishingly lovely in a pale pink gown of the soft wool called cashmere, was saying that she was sure that Pierre was happily occupied.

  “But he particularly asked that I go for a walk with him,” argued the chevalier, looking troubled. “I’d forgot the curé and Mayor Dubois are to call, and I must be here to discuss the rot in the church roof. Would you object to taking the boy out, my dear?”

  Consuela gave an inward chuckle and could not resist waiting to hear the answer before revealing her presence.

  “But how should I object, Gaston?” trilled Thérèse. “It is merely that I have so much to do today. I shall find someone to take him, I promise you. Perhaps Captain Vespa’s woman can make herself useful.”

  Captain—Vespa’s—woman? Consuela gave such a snort of rage that she wondered flames did not issue from her nostrils.

  The chevalier’s glance shifted to her. He looked aghast and his face reddened as he stammered helplessly, “Ah—Mademoiselle! I—er, we were just—er, wondering if—er—”

  “Yes.” Consuela’s brand-new resolution shattered to un-mourned fragments. She said with her sweetest smile, “I would be overjoyed to repay Madame for her—kindnesses—although I know such deeds are rewarded in heaven. But, fond as I am of Pierre, for he is the very dearest child, surely he would value his mama’s company over that of a comparative stranger.”

  “Very true,” said the chevalier, blind to the glare his wife slanted at their guest. “And I have the ideal solution. You can surely spare a quarter of an hour, Thérèse, and if Miss Jones will be so kind as to keep you company, you can get to know one another.”

  “Oh, that would be lovely, sir,” gushed Consuela.

  She could all but hear the beauty’s teeth grinding, but Madame Thérèse controlled her annoyance and said nobly that she would by all means spare a half hour for the boy’s sake.

  De Coligny dropped a kiss on her cheek and told her she was all consideration. “If you two lovely creatures will wait just a minute I’ll call for wraps for you both.”

  “Foolish one,” purred his wife, secure in her warm gown. “You know I am so healthy I never feel the cold. But we had best provide a cloak for you, Miss Jones. Your nose is quite red, poor dear. It looks as if you might be catching poor Monsieur Manderville’s cold.”

  Consuela allowed that remark to hang on the air all by itself. Surely the chevalier was not so besotted as to miss his wife’s spiteful barb, but even if he was that dense she had scored so gratifyingly that she was willing to allow Madame her petty hit.

  “Papa said he would go with me,” grumbled Pierre, when they walked out onto the front steps.

  “I am going with you,” snapped Madame, finding that the wind was far more chill than she had anticipated. “Can you never be satisfied?”

  “All right,” he said. “So long as Miss Jones comes, too.”

  They set out, following the drivepath, the boy between them. The few remarks Madame uttered were tinged with malice. Away from the constraints imposed by the presence of the gentlemen, Consuela entered the verbal duel, wording her responses in such a way that Pierre would be unaware of the invisible swords that engaged over his head. Soon, he saw a friend in the field and went racing off. Madame Thérèse, whose teeth were chattering, gave a relieved exclamation when a large coach came trundling up the drivepath. She waved to the occupants to stop. This was misunderstood. An elderly gentleman returned her wave, and shouted admiringly that she was the kind maman to play with her son on such a day, and the coach went on.

  “Imbecile,” muttered Madame under her breath. A moment later it began to drizzle, and she declared with relief that they must go back. “It is raining. Pierre! Come here at once. You must not get wet and take a chill.”

  “This is not rain. It is but drizzle,” he called, chasing after his friend’s dog. “You go back, Maman. Miss Jones doesn’t want to go in yet, do you, Miss Jones? Come and meet Henri’s dog!”

  “I would love to meet Henri’s dog,” said Consuela, pulling the warm wrap closer about her.

  Madame cried angrily, “No! Do you not hear me? I wish to go back!”

  “Then by all means you should do so,” said Consuela. “I promised the chevalier I would walk with Pierre, and English ladies never break a promise.” Pleased with this fallacious sally and ignoring a stamp and a shrill demand that they both come ‘at once,’ she hurried across the field and gathered up a stick to throw for the playful sheepdog.

  Furious, Madame Thérèse hesitated, then followed them, her commands that they return drowned by the barking of the dog, the happy squeals of the boys and Consuela’s laughter.

  Five minutes later the drizzle abruptly changed to a downpour and everyone ran for shelter. The field became a sea of mud. Madame’s wails were interspersed with expletives that ladies seldom uttered in public, and Pierre began to giggle uncontrollably.

  As they reached the château, the front door was thrown wide, and the chevalier, accompanied by Manderville, the curé and several distinguished-looking gentlemen hurried outside opening umbrellas.

  “My poor drowned ones,” exclaimed de Coligny.

  “I am drenched!” wailed his wife.

  “We came back quicker than we went,” laughed Consuela, dashing rain from her eyes.

  “Wheee!” screamed Pierre at the top of his lungs. “Look at Maman’s legs!”r />
  Every eye flashed to Thérèse. The charming cashmere gown had succumbed to the assault of rainwater. The hem had shrunk to mid-calf length. It was painfully evident that not only had Madame very skinny legs, but her feet were far from dainty.

  The curé uttered a muffled snort, threw a hand across his mouth, then hurriedly closed his eyes.

  One of the gentlemen let out a quickly stifled guffaw.

  Pierre screamed, “What big feet you have, Maman!”

  Consuela’s besetting sin got the best of her and she squealed with mirth.

  Madame de Coligny had seldom known humiliation. Aware that she looked both ridiculous and disgraceful, she was shocked and embarrassed, but to be laughed at rendered her livid with fury. In a lightning reaction she snarled, “Revolting brat!” boxed Pierre’s ears, then turned her wrath on Consuela. “You wicked little trollop—this was your doing!” she screeched. “Sharing my husband’s cabin like any woman of the streets! Coming here with your lover! You are as shameless as—”

  “You forget yourself, Madame de Coligny!” said the chevalier in a voice of ice.

  His wife turned to him, her face twisted with passion. The onlookers stood in shocked silence. With an enraged sob, she pushed through them and ran into the house.

  11

  Vespa’s attempt to elude his pursuers had evidently been successful; unhappily, it also resulted in a considerable loss of time. He turned Bruine to the west and rode as fast as he dared, seeing no one until he came upon a solitary cottage and then a track that led past a farm. Soon, the track was crossed by footpaths; a group of women carrying baskets stopped chattering and stared at him as he passed. They probably knew he was a stranger to the neighbourhood. He touched his hat to them politely, and they subsided into giggles. A man driving a dog cart pulled up and waved his arms violently. Vespa tensed. The man began to shout dire warnings of the dangers lurking on the road ahead. Monsieur must have his knife sharpened and he could give a good low rate—a pittance merely—for so vital a service. Amused, Vespa shook his head and rode on, followed for some distance by howled offers to render scissors, daggers, swords, bayonets or cutlasses razor sharp.

  The track widened, more travellers appeared, most passing with scarcely a glance. Vespa slouched in the saddle and kept his head down. There were scatterings of houses now, and the track was replaced by a quite respectable road. Carts and riders were more frequent and soon he glimpsed the sparkle of a river, and beyond it a cluster of spires and towers. Rennes! At last! The old city seemed to be thriving and, at least from this distance, showed no sign of the disastrous seven-day fire that had gutted its centre in 1720.

  His nerves tightened when a troop of cuirassiers clattered towards him, their steel helmets and breastplates gleaming. He drew aside with his fellow travellers to make way.

  It seemed that every eye in that troop was fixed on him; that every soldier must hear the thundering of his heart as the youthful officer in the lead threw up his arm and the troop came to a halt.

  The officer stabbed a finger at Vespa. “You. Come here.”

  The onlookers stared in silence.

  Vespa rode forward reluctantly.

  “Dismount, and take off your hat.”

  Had they realized he was British? If they had, was there any way out of this? He could seize this arrogant young bully and use him as a shield. If he had to resort to that his chances wouldn’t be very good, but—

  “Did you hear me?”

  The roar could have been heard in Rennes, thought Vespa. He swung from the saddle and snatched off his hat with a subservient bow.

  The officer said jeeringly, “Let’s have a look at you.”

  A corporal grabbed Vespa’s chin and jerked his head up, then jumped back as he met the sudden glare in the hazel eyes. “This one is dangerous, sir,” he exclaimed.

  The officer rode back and scanned Vespa appraisingly. “Age?”

  “Five and twenty, sir.”

  Glances were exchanged among the onlookers.

  The officer tapped Vespa on the shoulder with his riding whip. “Perhaps you can explain why you are not in uniform.”

  “I was, if you please, sir,” said Vespa in as humble a voice as he could summon. “I served as sergent with General d’Erlon’s forces at the Battle of Vitoria and was wounded when we tried to keep the village of Margarita. They sent me home because—”

  The officer’s eyes had widened. The French defeat at Vitoria was still large in the public mind, and he interrupted peremptorily, “I believe not one word of it! You look well enough to me! Where are these wounds that keep you from military service with the rest of France’s patriots?”

  “My head, sir. And my shoulder—here. And my leg.”

  It was ordered that Vespa’s shoulder be bared. The officer looked at that scar and the other that ran down his temple. “We will see the leg,” he snapped. “All of it. Roll down your breeches.”

  Incredulous, Vespa glanced around at the spectators. “Here—sir? But—there are ladies.”

  “He’s shy,” jeered the corporal. The military men all laughed. The spectators did not laugh. Many of these Bretons had sons and husbands who had been forced into the army, and French soldiers were not popular here. Reminded of this, the officer’s grin became a scowl. He barked out orders and his men dismounted and stood around Vespa, providing a human screen. Embarrassed and furious, Vespa struggled with his temper, but complied. The officer bent and inspected the scars that spread from calf to thigh. He glanced up at Vespa’s grim face, and stood straight. “Mon Dieu!” he muttered in awe. “Were those all bullet wounds?”

  There was fear in his eyes now, and Vespa thought, ‘He’s never been in an action.’ He answered, “Grape shot, sir.”

  The officer had lost some of his colour. He stared at the scars and whistled softly, then as if recalling his wits, he said briskly, “Yes. Well, I am pleased that you are a true patriot who has served France. You may make yourself respectable.”

  Vespa fastened his breeches.

  A sudden salute was offered.

  Without another word the soldiers mounted up and the troop rode on looking stern and formidable, bound no doubt for their regiment and the war zone.

  Several of the spectators grinned and nodded at Vespa. An older man spat in the direction of the cuirassiers.

  Vespa could breathe again. It had been uncomfortably close, but another hurdle had been crossed successfully. His resentment faded and he chuckled to himself, wondering what that pompous young ass would do if he discovered he’d named a British captain ‘a true patriot who had served France.’ Still, he could almost feel sorry for the boy. He’d seen several of that type—all starch and bluster until the first cannonball screamed past, and then as liable to turn and run from the field as to be capable of following orders.

  His next challenge came soon afterwards when some caravans approached with two men on dapple-grey horses riding alongside. They moved from one caravan to another and were clearly questioning the occupants. Taking no chances, Vespa turned aside into a patch of woodland, and kept to the trees while staying parallel with the road.

  The two men with the caravans were not part of the group he’d tricked into following a false eastward trail; none of those three had ridden dapple greys. Perhaps he was getting jumpy and the caravan pair had no least interest in the affairs of Jack Vespa. On the other hand, he was sure that the solitary rider on the black horse was following him. Why, was another mystery, but at least the fellow kept his distance and did not seem murderously inclined.

  If all six were after him—again, why? Had word gone out that he sought the Crazy Carpet Collector? And even if that were the case, why would so many savage but presumably relatively sane people pursue a confused old gentleman? Unless they were witless they must know the poor fellow would never find his ‘flying carpet.’ And there was Imre Monteil who was very far from witless. For the Swiss to track Lord Kincraig with such determination could only mean that he wa
s after something of value; perhaps there really was a fragment of the fabled Spring Carpet of Khusraw still in existence. Such a find would certainly be a treasure that greedy and unscrupulous ruffians would kill for. But it was so unlikely that— He was jolted back to awareness as Bruine stumbled.

  For the third time he’d been obliged to detour around impenetrable clumps of trees and undergrowth and now it seemed to be getting dark. He looked up and found that the sky was hidden by dense branches. It was the trees shutting out the light, not storm clouds as he’d supposed. He had been so lost in thought that he’d not paid sufficient attention to his route; as a consequence, he was completely surrounded by trees and there was no longer a sign of the road. It was the sort of lapse that would have provoked him into dealing any of his subordinates a sharp reprimand. Vexed and frustrated, he informed Bruine that she was being ridden by an idiot and reined her to the left, his sense of direction telling him he wasn’t far off his route. Instead of dwindling away, however, the trees and shrubs became ever more dense so that he was forced into more detours and had to acknowledge at last that this was no small patch of woodland, but a forest.

  Dismounting, he led the mare back the way they had come. They had left no tracks on the thick carpet of leaves and twigs and he saw nothing he recognized as having passed before. The trees met overhead in a dark canopy, and the quiet deepened to a hush that was oddly oppressive. That he should be delayed by this stupid predicament was infuriating, and he was bedevilled by the awareness that unless he found his way out soon, the rogues following might come up with Kincraig before he did. But with each passing moment the more the trees closed in, the more crushing became the quiet.

  He was greatly relieved to come suddenly upon a well-worn path. If people travelled this way he would have to risk asking for directions. Preparing to mount again, he saw Bruine’s ears perk up and she stood quite still, gazing ahead fixedly. Faint sounds drifted on the air … strange sounds; a low bubbling sort of moan, followed by a very soft and chilling ripple of laughter. He saw something from the corner of his eye and, looking up, beheld a pale shape that floated among the branches. The hair on the back of his neck began to lift. For most of his life he had scoffed at tales of the supernatural, but a recent and uncanny experience at his ancient manor house in Dorsetshire had defied all logic and forced him to revise his opinions. Even so, he drew the pistol from his coat pocket and walked forward boldly. “Come down here, else I shall fire,” he shouted.