“By Jove! How splendid! Then you’re no green boy. Still, it was likely a shock for you, as well. Egad, but there’s so much I want to know! Firstly, how and when did you find out that Sir Kendrick is not your father; and why in Hades wasn’t I told of your existence?”
“I believe Mama was frightened into keeping silent, sir.”
Kincraig frowned darkly, “Yes. He’d do that, the proud bas—” He bit his lip and cut the words short. “I’m sorry. You are likely fond of him.”
Vespa said quietly, “I loved him. He’s dead, my lord.”
“Great heavens!” Staring in stupefaction, Kincraig gasped, “Kendrick Vespa? Dead? Recently?”
“Very, sir. And suddenly.”
“But he was always the picture of—Did some public-spirited citizen call him out, or—What on earth—No! Never say it was an accident? Your dear mama was not—”
“My mother was abroad when—when it happened. We wrote to advise her of my—of Sir Kendrick’s death.”
Bewildered, but trying to take it all in, Lord Kincraig said, “Yet you’re not in mourning, and you’re—Good God! Where are my wits gone? Do you realize what will happen if you’re unmasked as a British officer? You can’t go jauntering about France in time of war! Why are you here?”
Vespa said with a slow smile, “I might ask you the same, sir.”
“My carpets! Oh, egad! I must see to them!” Distracted, his lordship sprang up and hurried from the tent, Vespa following.
Kincraig stopped, turned back, and asked rather shyly, “May I request an embrace? A man don’t gain a fine young son every day, you know.”
Vespa’s heart gave a joyful leap and he returned a crushing hug. His eyes rather dim, he asked brokenly, “Then—you don’t mind, sir?”
“Mind!” Kincraig leaned back and searched his face. “My dear boy! I cannot tell you how—how proud— Oh, Jupiter, the back is open!” He ran to the waggon and Vespa helped pull the double rear doors closed. The waggon was even larger than he’d at first realized, and sturdily built, with a wooden roof and sides so that it resembled an outsize caravan with overhanging eaves. There were many rolls of carpet inside, all neatly disposed, but that would, he realized, constitute quite a weight.
Kincraig said with a proud smile that the waggon had been built to his own design. “I have to keep the rain out, you know. And if I find many treasures on one expedition, the load can get extremely heavy. You see my team over there?” He gestured to where four big cart-horses were loosely picketed and munching contentedly at the contents of their nose-bags. “Strengthy beasts, and there are times—But never mind that. John—may I call you John?”
Sir Kendrick had called him John. He said, “By all means, sir. But I’m Jack to most of my friends.” His friends! Dismayed, he exclaimed, “Oh, Jupiter! I’ve left my coach and my—er, people fast asleep! Forgive, but I must—”
Kincraig looked over his shoulder and said inexplicably, “I think you had best let me deal with this, my boy.”
Gaston de Coligny’s coach was moving cautiously down the slope, escorted on either side by a rider, each of whom was astride a dapple-grey horse. Manderville was flushed and tight-lipped. From the window, Consuela’s eyes flashed an unmistakable warning. ‘Damn!’ thought Vespa. This was the same pair who had been questioning the people in the caravans and whom the free-trader had spoken of. Seen more closely, they looked grim and dangerous. Certainly they knew their trade, for they’d lost no time in coming up with him. He pulled a low-trailing branch aside and stepped forward as they rode up side by side.
“Good day,” called Lord Kincraig. “What have you brought me, my friends?”
“This!” A wolfish-looking individual with a profusion of bushy greying hair reached behind him and dragged Pierre forward.
The boy was white-faced, his eyes big with fright. He said quaveringly, “I did not do anything naughty, Monsieur Jacques.”
“But—no,” confirmed the intruder, regarding Kincraig with a broad grin. “So you will want him back. He is your grandson, eh?”
Kincraig said in bewilderment, “He was with the children who come for their sweetmeats, but I do not know the little fellow. Perhaps, he is the lady’s child?”
The wolfish man shrugged. “You evade. It is of no importance. We will see your waggon now, Monsieur Collector.”
“Ah,” exclaimed Kincraig, rubbing his hands happily. “You are interested in rugs, is that the case? Come, then! I will show you my harvest! It is always a joy to meet an aficionado. But—these beauties they are not for sale, you understand.”
He trotted towards the waggon. The two intruders exchanged a slightly perplexed glance.
Pierre struggled and demanded to be put down at once.
“Quiet, scrap,” said the leader, and as the boy kicked and wriggled, he added a harsh, “Stop your squirming, or I’ll—”
“Ow!” howled Pierre. “Capitaine Jacques…!”
Vespa released the branch he still held. It flailed out with a great scattering of raindrops. The dapple greys took the brunt of it and reared with shrill neighs of fright. The man who held the boy fought against being unseated, and Pierre jumped clear. Vespa ran to snatch up Kincraig’s rifle. The intruders regained control of their mounts to find themselves staring down a long barrel held in a pair of very steady hands.
Pierre ran to clutch Vespa’s coat. “These are very bad people,” he cried vehemently. “They are rough with Monsieur Manderville, and they frighten your lady!”
Vespa darted a glance at Consuela.
“I am not hurt,” she called. “But they struck Paige and took his pistol.”
“Which I will now have back,” said Manderville.
“Come and take it,” jeered the second man. His face was a mass of pimples and he was shorter and more stockily built than his companion, but looked just as ruthless.
“You will do well to shoot them first, Capitaine Jacques,” advised Pierre.
“An excellent notion,” said Vespa, taking aim and drawing back the trigger.
Perhaps judging others by his own standards, the wolfish individual cried, “What a bloodthirsty villain! All we wanted was to see the flying carpet.”
“A desire we share,” said Kincraig with a sigh. “Alas it eludes me, but I have several very fine specimens I will be glad to show you.”
His finger steady on the trigger, Vespa said, “If all you wanted was to see this gentleman’s carpets there would have been no need to bully my friends and the child. I should warn you that my hand is tiring. And when it tires my fingers tend to cramp. Drop your weapons.”
They both glared at him murderously. He allowed the rifle to jerk slightly. With lightning speed two horse pistols thudded to the ground, followed by Manderville’s pocket pistol. This smaller weapon had a hair trigger, and the impact caused it to fire. The shot set the horses rearing and squealing and the ball ruffled Vespa’s hair, startling him into losing his aim.
Thinking him wounded, Consuela screamed.
Pierre gave a piercing howl.
The two intruders seized the moment and departed at a gallop.
Consuela threw open the carriage door and flew to Vespa’s side.
Manderville jumped down from the box and began to gather the weapons.
Pierre demonstrated the benefits of a British classical education by leaping up the slope after the departing ruffians and screaming, “Good riddance to bad rubbish!”
Seemingly bewildered by the sight of a pretty young lady embracing his newly acquired son, Lord Kincraig looked from one to the other, and shook his head. “What a pity,” he remarked despondently. “What a pity.”
Manderville sniffed, and asked stuffily, “Your pardon, sir?”
Kincraig gave him his gentle smile. “Those two gentlemen,” he murmured. “I think they really were interested in my carpets.”
Vespa said quietly, “My lord, may I present Miss Consuela Jones: the lady I hope to make my wife.”
�
��Good gracious,” exclaimed Kincraig, as Consuela curtsied before him. “Do you say you are travelling together, but not married? What a pretty creature you are, my dear. Your parents must be very broad-minded, but I’m afraid you’ll find me rather old-fashioned.”
Consuela blushed.
With an edge of steel to his voice, Vespa introduced Manderville, and said, “There is so much for us to discuss, my lord. But our first concern must be to find a safer campsite. Unless I mistake it those two rogues work for an ugly customer named Imre Monteil. I don’t know what he wants of you, but he’s ruthless and persistent.”
“Oh, yes. Monteil. I know of him. A greedy gentleman who collects art works whether or not people wish to sell them. He’d travel to the ends of the earth for a fragment of the Spring Carpet of Khusraw. I can’t let him have it, you know. Such a sad waste of his time. But—I suppose it gives him something to do.” Nodding to himself, he trotted back into the tent.
Vespa and Consuela looked at each other. She said staunchly, “We cannot blame him for misjudging us, Jack. Anyone would think the same. I’m sure he will understand when you explain everything.”
Manderville asked, “How much have you told him? He must have noted your resemblance, surely? Does he admit your, er—relationship?”
“He was very kind,” said Vespa, his chin high. “And seemed delighted to acknowledge me.”
“Ah. Well, that’s a step in the right direction.” Manderville added dubiously, “I suppose. Well, don’t glare at me like that. You were warned that he’s—ah, eccentric.” He chuckled. “He’s that, all right.”
“Damn you,” said Vespa. “Come and help me pole up his horses.”
* * *
Whatever Lord Kincraig’s mental shortcomings, he knew the countryside. At dusk they were snugly settled into a wooded hollow having the benefits of a shallow stream with a level but stony bed along which the horses and vehicles passed without leaving telltale tracks. Vespa had brought up the rear of their little cavalcade and had stayed for twenty minutes on the highest ground, alert for signs of pursuit. He was lured to the campsite by the smell of bacon frying and found Consuela busily cooking over a small fire, and Manderville and Kincraig settling the horses for the night.
Pierre fell asleep when he finished his supper. Consuela could scarcely keep her eyes open and Vespa carried the boy and walked beside her to Kincraig’s tent, which had been assigned to them. Pierre mumbled sleepily when he was laid down on the pile of rugs that was his makeshift bed for the night.
Vespa turned to draw Consuela into a long-awaited hug. She snuggled close and with his hand on the back of her curls and her soft shapeliness pressed against him, he yearned with every fibre of his being to kiss her. It would not be dishonourable now—would it? He’d publicly stated that she was his betrothed; she had as publicly confirmed it. Besides, if word got out that she had travelled unchaperoned in his company, the duchess would likely demand that they marry. But the word might not get out, and it would be a shabby trick to take advantage of a possibility, before the fact as it were. The inescapable truth was that he’d given his word to the old lady. To break it would not be the act of a gentleman, and to break it while her grand-daughter was far from home and under his protection would most definitely be dishonourable. Sighing, he forced himself to draw back.
“I think Pierre had better not be undressed. Just his coat and boots. We may have to move again.” He looked uneasily at the camp bed with its rough blankets. “This is Turkish treatment for you, Consuela. Will you be warm enough? Shall you be able to sleep?”
She assured him she could sleep through an earthquake, but despite her indomitable smile she looked very tired. He stroked her cheek. “You’ve been so good through all this, poor sweet.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “I really think my dear Papa would not be ashamed of me.” She caught his hand then, and said urgently, “Jack, I’m so glad you’ve found your father. But he seems very set in his ways. Will you be able to persuade him to come home now? Grandmama will want to meet him.”
“You may be very sure that I mean to try.” He pressed her fingers to his lips, and in response to her indignant look, he pointed out, “I gave your Grandmama my word not to try and fix my interest. And even if I had not, I’ve no wish to trap you into matrimony, little meadowlark.”
She said with a sigh, “Sometimes, I wish you had not such a high sense of honour, Captain Jack.” And knew that not for the world would she change him.
13
Outside, Lord Kincraig was still sitting by the fire, but Manderville had said his goodnights and taken his cold and his blankets to his assigned ‘bed’ in the coach.
“You must be worn to a shade, my boy,” said his lordship kindly. “Are you sure you’re not too tired to talk tonight?”
Vespa assured him that he was not at all tired. “I’ve waited a long time for this moment, sir.”
“In that case, we will not delay it.” Kincraig gestured to a nearby crate. “Pull up one of our elegant ‘chairs’ and we’ll try to discover each other.”
Their ‘discoveries’ were at first superficial, both reluctant to put the more harrowing events of their lives into words. Kincraig spoke of his home in Suffolk and his Scottish castle, of which he appeared extremely fond. He was very ready to laugh at some recountings of the youthful exploits of Jack and Sherborne. Soon, however, the conversation turned down a path Vespa dreaded to follow. Despite his denial, he was very tired, but it occurred to him that for all his eccentricities, his lordship possessed a remarkably keen mind. He wanted to know the details of the final tragedy in the quarry at Alabaster Royal. Vespa took refuge in evasions, but it was no use. Always, however gently, Lord Kincraig brought him back to the subject, and at length he capitulated. He kept a tight rein on his emotions, but his brief account and the clipped restrained words painted a clearer picture than he guessed. Kincraig, who had pushed for the truth, had suspected fraud and skullduggery; he had not expected brutality and murder. He saw the sheen of perspiration on the grim young face and for a moment was too horrified to comment.
Vespa slanted a glance at him and said haltingly, “You likely think me a blind fool, but Sir Kendrick was a consummate actor. All those years, and I had not the slightest suspicion that he wasn’t really my father. We didn’t see him often at Richmond, but when he was there he could scarcely have been more kind—to both of us, although everyone knew he favoured Sherry.”
Recovering his voice, Kincraig asked, “You did not resent that fact?”
“Was I jealous? Oh, yes. Of course. But … well, you’d have to have known my brother—I expect I should now call him my half-brother. Sherry was such a—a splendid fellow. We were—very attached.”
The rain had stopped and the clouds had drifted away. The air was cold and clear, and the moon had come up, throwing its soft radiance over the hills and dappling the ground with the shadows of the trees. Lord Kincraig stood and wandered to where he could watch the horses still cropping at the grass. Seeing none of the pastoral scene, he said in a voice that trembled slightly, “I can scarce credit that even such a one as Kendrick Vespa could have shot you down so callously. It was because he hated me, I’ve no doubt.”
“Not entirely, sir. Quite unintentionally I had discovered his scheme. I didn’t know it was his at the time. But I did know I couldn’t allow it to go on, and so—well, I stood between him and a great deal of money.”
“So you implied. But you don’t say how he expected to make such a fortune.”
“No.” A pause, and Vespa said, “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss that.”
Kincraig swung around. “Good God! Do you say you’ve been ordered not to speak of it? Then it must be a matter of national security! Is Lady Faith aware of all this?”
“She knew nothing of it. But if she has received the letter my great-uncle sent off she may be on her way home, and I must be there when she arrives. And now, my lord, it occurs to me that you’ve very adr
oitly fished out a great deal of my life history, but have told me very little of yours. Fair play, you know.”
His mind still on the appalling events this newly found son had survived, Kincraig hesitated, then sat down again and said with a forced smile, “I’ve told you most of it. You know that I loved your beautiful mother, and that my own marriage was disastrous. I suppose it was my unhappy home life that drove me to plunge deeper into research concerning my hobby. Eventually, my fascination with rugs and carpets induced me to spend much of the year seeking out rare specimens.”
Vespa said carefully, “But you’re not really hoping to find a—er, flying carpet, are you, sir?”
“That would be a find, to be sure!” Kincraig chuckled. “No, Jack. But it’s a useful ploy. When I began my wanderings the news got about that a rich collector was searching for fine rugs. I was besieged by would-be sellers bringing me everything from small mats to very large carpets, and most at ridiculously inflated prices. Since I’ve spread the rumour that the rich collector is seeking a flying carpet, most of the opportunists have decided I am demented and they certainly have no such item to offer. Thus, I am less overwhelmed with merchandise that is useless to me.”
“What about the Spring Carpet of Khusraw? Is that why you continue your search?”
Gazing into the flames, his lordship said dreamily, “Who knows? As I recall it was Robert Herrick who wrote: ‘Attempt the end, and never stand to doubt. Nothing’s so hard but search will find it out.’”
“You certainly seem to have found many fine specimens. The waggon cannot take much more weight, I’d think. You must be ready to go home.”
“Home. A beautiful word, Jack.”
“And you’ve a beautiful home, sir. Yes, I’ve seen Lambent Grove. I went there seeking you.”
“Did you now.” Kincraig turned his head and looked at him thoughtfully. “You likely found the place closed up, which is a pity. It’s a nice house.”
The Riddle of the Lost Lover Page 23
