The Riddle of the Lost Lover

by Patricia Veryan

  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?”

  It was no more than he had expected, but his hopes plummetted. London had been seething with rumour this past week. The Society columns had named no names, but even the most naive of their readers must guess who was the ‘late lamented diplomatist’ they pilloried.

  “… It has been learned that this once greatly admired gentleman had intended to abandon his wife…”

  “… the inamorata who was young enough to be (and almost had become!) his daughter…”

  “… the sudden and violent demise of a famous and hitherto much respected gentleman of diplomacy…”

  “… One can scarce wonder that the late Sir K——— V——’s faithful wife fled the country, or that his son, Captain J—— V——, a popular young officer of impeccable reputation, has not yet gone into mourning.…”

  And all this when they knew only a few of the true facts. If the whole should ever be revealed…! Vespa pushed that fearsome prospect away and ushered the duchess to the most comfortable fireside chair while Manderville drew up another for Consuela.

  Stroking Corporal, Lady Francesca said, “Thank you for your welcome, small dog. Although you are not the one I expected would be here to receive me.”

  “Lord Kincraig is a little delayed.” Vespa darted a pleading glance at his friend, and Manderville drifted from the room. “My apologies,” Vespa went on, “but he will be here directly. Had you a—er, very cold ride, ma’am?”

  “We will dispense with a discussion of the weather, if you please.”

  He bowed and stood before her silently, as if in tribunal.

  At her most formidable, the duchess said, “I hope I need not tell you, Captain Jack, that I have much admire you. It would have been exceeding easy on this latest escapade of my naughty granddaughter for you to force my hand. This, you have not doing, which is the reason I am here today. You brought her home safe, and nobody is knowing she is running about Brittany with you, so her reputation is still contact!”

  Consuela said, “Yes, but—”

  The duchess quelled her with a glance. “Even so,” she resumed, “the gossip mongers they gabble and twitter all over London Town about Sir Kendrick’s wickednesses. I know, I know,” she said cutting off his attempt to speak. “For this you are not to be blamed, and you are not his son. But London thinks you are. Your name, every day it drags lower in the dust, Captain Jack, and my little meadowlark is of a proud and, er—” She paused, and murmured to Consuela, “Senza macchia?”

  “Unblemished,” supplied Consuela, looking mutinous.

  “Si. An unhenriched royal house. It is with real regret, my dear Jack, that—”

  “My deepest apologies for being tardy.” Lord Blair Kincraig came briskly into the room, and paused on the threshold.

  It was an entry Thornhill could not have bettered for dramatic effect, and there was a momentary hush.

  His lordship was a vision of the sort of sartorial splendour that might be attempted when attending a great function at Carlton House, or some other London palace, but was seldom seen in the country. In formal evening dress, his black coat hugged his shoulders to perfection; his waistcoat was faultless; peerlessly tied, his neckcloth gleamed no less brightly than the snow on the lawns; and knee breeches and silk stockings displayed his shapely legs to advantage. Jewelled Orders flashed on his breast, and a great emerald glowed on one hand.

  Awed, Vespa performed the introductions.

  Kincraig bowed over the bony little claw the duchess extended, and with exquisite grace occupied the chair nearest her. “I must tell you, ma’am,” he said, smiling into her cold eyes, “that I am a great admirer of your granddaughter.”

  “Under the circumstances which were then, I find that remarkable,” she said tartly.

  “But—no. She is a very brave girl. Were it not for her, we none of us would be sitting here today.”

  “I could wish, sir,” said the duchess, leaning forward. “That we were not!”

  Thornhill relieved this awkward moment by leading a small procession into the room. Two housemaids, one struggling with a uniform that was at least two sizes too large, and the other wearing an eye patch, carried laden trays. Tea was poured and passed around, and little cakes and pastries were offered.

  When the servants left, Vespa tried again. “My lady, I may have small cause for pride in the man I believed to be my father. Lord Kincraig, however, is willing to acknowledge me.”

  “Say ‘proud’ to acknowledge you, rather,” said his lordship warmly. “Forgive if I become vulgar, but I am a rich man, Lady Francesca. I will be happy to have my man of affairs lay my son’s expectations before you and discuss the matter of a dowry, if you give your sanction to the match.”

  “Easy said! But under what name would my granddaughter leave the altar? London is fairly rocked by the scandal Kendrick Vespa have left behind.”

  “It is my wish and my intention to adopt Jack. Legally. He can be wed under the name John Wansdyke Keith.”

  “San Pietro aid me!” The old lady gave a crow of mirthless laughter. “A fine mare’s nest that would stirring up!”

  Vespa put in quietly, “No, sir. I thank you, but I cannot change my name without shaming my mother, and that I will never do.”

  “My dear boy,” said his lordship. “People will only have to see us side by side and our tale will be told.”

  “Just so,” agreed Lady Francesca. “And there will be more of the horrid scandals! No! I will not have my granddaughter tainted by murders and treasonings!

  Consuela looked frightened, and said in desperation, “Nonna—I love him! I owe him my life! Have you no gratitude for—”

  “Child, child,” said the duchess, distressed, “I know what I am owing to our fine Captain Jack. But can you not see that I must be guided by what your sainted mama would wish? Would your fine English father be proud if I permit that you carry the name of a murdering philanderer, who—”

  Corporal was barking, voices were in the hall and, belatedly, Vespa realized that Manderville stood in the doorway beckoning him frenziedly. He sprang to his feet, then stood gazing in astonishment at the latest arrival.

  Clad in a magnificent robe of black satin with an overskirt of black lace, a black lace cap on her luxuriant lig
ht brown hair and stark horror in her big blue eyes, Faith, Lady Vespa, tripped into the room.

  “Jack! What on earth—? How can you be entertaining at such a time? And—heavens!—why are you not in mourning?”

  Recovering his wits, Vespa hurried to take her hand and drop a kiss on her cheek. “Mama! How glad I am to see you! When did you come home? Had I known you were on the way— Oh, Gad! Forgive me! I must present you! The Duchess of Ottavio, Miss Consuela Jones and Lord … Blair…” His words trailed off.

  Lady Faith had bobbed a curtsey to the duchess and nodded in obvious perplexity at Consuela, but it was clear that the final introduction was not required. As if mesmerized, she stared at Lord Kincraig, and he, equally affected, gazed at her.

  She whispered disbelievingly, “Blair…? Oh, Blair, is it really you?”

  In a voice ineffably tender, his lordship said, “Yes. It’s me, my dear.”

  A soft blush crept into her pale cheeks. Watching her, Vespa thought that never in his life had he seen her look so radiant.

  The Duchess of Ottavio regarded the little tableau thoughtfully. “Bless you, my dear San Pietro,” she said with a sudden beaming grin, “I do believe you have sent us the answer!”

  Epilogue

  The February morning was very bright but bitterly cold, giving Vespa the excuse to keep his lady’s hand tucked very tightly in his arm as they walked across the frosty meadow together, a small and happy dog frolicking along more or less with them. When they came to a spreading old oak tree, Vespa pulled Consuela even closer.

  “Jack Vespa!” she said primly, when she could say anything at all. “That was naughty, beside which it is the third time you’ve kissed me this morning!”

  “I have to make up for lost time, you see.”

  “And outside! In full view of—of…” she glanced around the deserted meadow.

  “Of Corporal? He likes it when I kiss my future wife. Sweetheart, you didn’t answer me. Shall you mind living down here at Alabaster after we’re married?”

  “Oh, no. I love the old place. But—I must confess, your house on the river is very beautiful.”

  His face became closed. “My mother’s house.”

  “Yes, but your mama will be Lady Kincraig next year, and living up at Lambent Grove or in Scotland much of the time. She won’t need the Richmond house.”

  “Then I’ll close it.”

  “And what about that very nice butler who tried so hard to help you when you were searching for clues to your real papa? I suppose he will be cast carelessly into the street to starve?”

  He chuckled. “You mean Rennett. I suspect many gentlemen would try to lure him into much more exalted houses than Richmond if he chose to leave me. But, d’you know I think I’ll see if he wants to come down here. Thorny really prefers to valet, and I don’t think he’ll object if Renett takes over the tasks of butler. There, does that satisfy you, future Mrs. John—” He hesitated.

  “Mrs. John Wansdyke Keith,” she finished merrily. “Oh, Jack, I do like that name. And I love your kind papa! Only … it would be nice if we could spend a little time in Town each year. During the Season, you know.”

  He tilted up her chin and kissed her again, then with his lips brushing hers, murmured, “You would hate the Season.”

  “But Nonna would love it. And she has been so good, Jack, keeping in the country with me all these years. And I would like to shop—and shop—and shop! I never have really visited all the Town bazaars and warehouses.”

  “Heaven help me! I’ll be ruined!”

  “Within a week,” she agreed. “Oh, look, here comes Paige, and riding his precious Trouble at the gallop.”

  Vespa sighed. “Now what?”

  “I bring news,” called Manderville, flourishing a letter. “The great man has sent you a communiqué!”

  “Wellington?” Vespa took the letter and broke the seal apprehensively.

  “Likely means to have you shot on a charge of donating one hundred louis to the enemy,” said Manderville, but also looking concerned. “Jove! Have you read it already?”

  Vespa said with a grin, “It’s not lengthy,” and showed the letter to Consuela.

  She laughed and handed it up to Manderville, who read aloud, “‘Well done!’ Is that all? I suppose it constitutes rare eloquence, coming from old Nosey!”

  Feeling as if he’d been given a medal, Vespa said, “The allied army is advancing again. He must be in high fettle. I wonder he could spare the time even for so short a note.”

  “He finds time if he is really moved.” Manderville said, “Speaking of moving—you’ve received a gift, old lad. Best come up to the house and see.”

  Always excited by a present, Consuela exclaimed, “Oh, how lovely! Hurry, Jack!”

  “Who sent it,” asked Vespa. “Do you know?”

  Manderville said airily, “Oh, yes,” and with a grin sent Trouble cantering back to the Manor.

  He was outside the barn, and taunted them for being such a pair of slowtops when they walked up the drive. “Stay there! I’ll bring out your gift. It’s from poor old de Coligny.”

  Startled, Vespa exclaimed, “Stay back, my love! It’s likely a mine!”

  Manderville laughed and, returning, said, “I rather doubt that.”

  Vespa stared. A soft muzzle pushed against his ear and an affectionate whicker sounded. He reached up to caress the firm neck. “Bruine!” he said, deeply touched. “Oh, how very good of him! Is there a letter—or a message?”

  “A message, only. A rascally fellow brought the mare up from Willy Leggett’s Saucy Maid. He was to tell you that Gaston de Coligny is grateful because you took such good care of his son. And that when the war is over he will come and knock you down!”

  Vespa laughed. “Nor would I blame him, poor fellow!”

  He patted the mare and told her she was a very welcome enemy agent.

  Then, holding his lady’s hand tightly, he walked up the steps and into the great house that was his birthright, and that they would share through all the shining years to come.

  ALSO BY PATRICIA VERYAN

  The Riddle of Alabaster Royal

  Lanterns

  The Mandarin of Mayfair

  Never Doubt I Love

  A Shadow’s Bliss

  Ask Me No Questions

  Had We Never Loved

  Time’s Fool

  Logic of the Heart

  The Dedicated Villain

  Cherished Enemy

  Love Alters Not

  Give All to Love

  The Tyrant

  Journey to Enchantment

  Practice to Deceive

  Sanguinet’s Crown

  The Wagered Widow

  The Noblest Frailty

  Married Past Redemption

  Feather Castles

  Some Brief Folly

  Nanette

  Mistress of Willowvale

  Love’s Duet

  The Lord and the Gypsy

  THE RIDDLE OF THE LOST LOVER. Copyright © 1998 by Patricia Veryan. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  eBooks may be purchased for business or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department by writing to MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.

  First Edition: November 1998

  eISBN 9781466884328

  First eBook edition: September 2014

 

 

 
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