The Riddle of the Lost Lover (3 page)

“What did she expect? The Omberleigh was his mistress for ten years at least, and few gentlemen keep a fancy piece for that long.
My
sympathies are with…”

“…
poor
Lady Vespa! She knew about the Omberleigh woman, of course, but to then discover the
others!
My dear! And now…”

“… is it truth that The Stokely was betrothed to his own
son?
If
ever
I heard of so shocking…”

“… and that he was involved with the Widow Stokely even while poor Sherborne was
still alive!
Can you credit…”

Having at this point reached an especially fruitful source, Mrs. Fortram drew Hubert to a halt close to one of the sofas set about the fringes of the dining room.

Mrs. Anne Hersh, seated beside her friend Lady Grey, arranged her sharp features into what she supposed to be a look of piety and said with a sigh as deep as it was insincere, “Now Captain John Vespa is the one
I
sympathize with. First his brother, and now his father gone, and his mama flaunting off to the other side of the world!”

Not to be outdone, Lady Grey moaned softly. “How
alone
he must feel, poor boy. And there is no bride in the offing, as I recall.”

“If there were,
you
would surely know of it! You always are so well-informed!”

Lady Grey smiled patronizingly. “Thank you, my love. One does not care to
gossip,
you understand. But when one is well acquainted—well, how can one refrain from … hearing things?”

“Exactly! So now,
do
tell me,
whatever
do you think of this latest ghastly
on-dit?
”

Her ladyship, who had been in the midlands visiting her mama-in-law, knew of no ‘latest ghastly
on-dit
' and tried in vain to hide her chagrin.

Gertrude Fortram was also chagrined, for she could not quite catch the whispered confidence when Mrs. Hersh spread the good word.

Accustomed as she was to London's gossip mills, Lady Grey uttered a shocked squeal and dropped her fan. “
Another
one?”

“And a foreigner, no less! The hints are that she is very beautiful, in an exotic uncivilized sort of way. At least, that's what—” Mrs. Hersh stopped speaking, and turned around.

Mrs. Fortram returned Anne Hersh's haughty stare with an unrepentant display of brown teeth, then tugged imperatively on Hubert's arm and they resumed their enlightening stroll.

The orchestra was striking up for a country dance and the guests started to drift towards the ballroom.

“What now, ma'am?” asked Hubert, as intrigued by what they had gleaned as was his mother.

“Over there,” hissed Mrs. Fortram. “Manderville. If anyone knows who was Kendrick Vespa's ‘other one,' that impudent young rascal does. Come on!”

“If he does know, he won't tell you,” warned Hubert. “He's one of Jack Vespa's best friends.”

“Then we won't ask him, you flat,” snarled his doting parent. “Come—
on!
”

*   *   *

“It was the most horrid party I ever attended!” Miss Consuela Carlotta Angelica Jones twitched her cloak tighter about her small and shapely self and snuggled against the squabs of the carriage. “I wonder the musicians even bothered to play; the only reason people came was to gabble and gossip and giggle about the Vespas!” She was a little flushed, her blue eyes reflected her irritation and she pushed back a straying curl impatiently.

Seated opposite her, Paige Manderville reflected that although she could not be judged a beauty, Miss Consuela Jones was very pretty. Her disposition was sunny, her heart warm and her loyalties deep and unwavering. If she was also unconventionally frank, inclined to act on impulse (sometimes disastrously), and had a quick-flaring temper, those were qualities he found charming, so that he envied Jack Vespa, who was in love with her, and to whom she was devoted. He said an amused, “You look like an irritated little pouter pigeon, m'dear. I'll own it's as well Jack was not present this evening, but considering the party was so ‘horrid,' you did not want for dance partners. Indeed, had Jack and your gallant Colonel both been present, they'd have had small chance of writing their names on your dance card.”

Even in the dim light thrown by the carriage lamps it was clear that those who named Manderville one of London's most handsome bachelors were justified, but Miss Jones viewed his dark good looks without rapture. “If by my ‘gallant Colonel' you refer to Hastings Adair,” she snapped, “you give me too much credit, Paige!”

“Since Toby and I are both lowly lieutenants and Jack a mere captain, whom else should I—”

“Jack is not
merely
a captain, but was one of Lord Wellington's personal aides, which makes him very special indeed! Furthermore, how could he possibly attend a ball when he is—or is supposed to be—in mourning for his—his father. Horrid, wicked creature that he was!”

The diminutive Francesca, self-styled ‘duchess of Ottavio,' who was the third occupant of the luxurious coach, yawned, and demanded, “Well—and well? What have you expect, my meadowlark? Jack was shot, so people they sympathize. But now, he is recovered, and does he go into blacks? He does not! Does he use the title that is now legally his? No! Will he stay in the Vespa mansion in Town? No! Has he once set his feets into his great house at Richmond? No again!”

“You
know
why Jack refuses to use the title and the Vespa properties,” said Consuela defensively.

“Oh,
si. I
know.
You
know. Lieutenant Paige and Tobias Broderick, they know. But does the
ton
know?”

Manderville inserted quietly, “Can't very well tell 'em, can he, ma'am? Not without disgracing his mama.”

“So what does your
ton?
” demanded the old lady. “It seethe. It revel! It is
contissimo!
Rumour, she spread her feathers and fly like—like the tempest about this old town! I will speak of the silliness that
I
was hearing at this very silly ball. One—that Sir Kendrick Vespa is not killed in that quarry at all, but has run off to some secret paradise with his beautiful Indian lady. Two—that Lady Faith Vespa did not go out to South America to visit her cousins, but that Sir Kendrick strangled her. And, three—she is buried somewhere—”

“In the quarry at Alabaster Royal, no doubt,” put in Manderville derisively. “Which is what Jack and Sir Kendrick were occupied with down there when they were attacked. Burying the poor lady.”

“Exactly so.”

Consuela gave a squeak of rage. “No! Surely,
Nonna,
they did not say such things!”

“I heard much the same sort of slanderous nonsense,” drawled Manderville. “Only in even more lurid detail. Is it so much worse than the truth?”

Consuela frowned broodingly at the window. “They don't know the truth. So they make up things!”

“They've learned enough to discover that Sir Kendrick Vespa, the pattern-card of a British diplomatist, was at the least a womanizing rascal. He has betrayed the Code. They won't soon forgive him.”

“Me,” flared Consuela fiercely, “I shall
never
forgive him! For what he did to my beloved Papa, and to Jack, who loved him, he should have been taken and hanged by the neck till he was thoroughly dead! Dead without question! Nor need you pretend you did not despise him as much as I.”

“True,” admitted Manderville. “I'd enjoy to have called out the bas—er, to have had the gentleman in the sights of my pistol.”

Lady Francesca said, “All of this it tells us nothing in the matters, saving that no one of us has learned anything of what our Captain Jack hopes to discover. I myself have try many careful ways. I did the giggle and gabble with the most spiteful of the
ton
cats, and could learn nothing of the
affaires
of Lady Faith Vespa. That woman with the long nose, Gertrude Fortram, has learn that we are the neighbours to Captain Jack's Dorset lands, so she come and smile and coil around me like a dried-up serpent, as if I am not awareness that she have much despise for me. And why must you laugh so much, Lieutenant Paige? Have I perhaps lie in my tooth?”

“Certainly not,” said Manderville unsteadily. “But your expressions, dear ma'am, are so delicious. Do tell us if this—this ‘dried up serpent' of a lady was of any help at all.”

Mollified, Lady Francesca said that Mrs. Fortram had been of no use save to confide that in her younger days Lady Faith Vespa was believed to have had ‘some interesting liaisons.' She sighed. “Which we already have know. But the naming of these ‘liaisons' gentlemen I cannot come at.”

Manderville chuckled. “Phineas Bodwin managed to imply that he'd been Lady Faith's lover at one time.”

“Pah!” said Consuela. “That one—he would say anything to be interesting! Oh, but it is all so discouraging! We try and try, and learn nothing. I had so hoped we might have some news to cheer Jack!”

Lady Francesca squeezed her hand comfortingly. “So had we all, my little one. And we will do this, I know it.”

“The problem is,” said Manderville, “It's a—um, delicate matter. Begging your pardon, ladies, but one can't very well go smack up to a likely prospect and say, ‘How de do? We've just found out that Jack Vespa is a bastard. Might you be the fellow who really fathered him?'”

Consuela's giggle was drowned by Lady Francesca's squeal and her outraged declaration that Lieutenant Paige's language was ‘vulgar in the extreme!' She paused, and added, “But he speaks truth. I have the fearing we must tread on the eggs and it will be difficult.”

“But not impossible,” said Manderville. “And Jack's not downhearted. Only this morning he told Toby and me that he has every confidence he'll come at the truth. And with all of us to help—how can we fail?”

Consuela pounced forward and to his huge delight and her grandmother's pseudo-indignation, kissed him on the cheek. “You are a dear and good friend, Lieutenant Beau Manderville! Thank you for that! So—what do we do next?”

“All I have to do,” he said with a grin, “is think up more ways to win such lovely approval. No, seriously, Jack's likely with his great-uncle this very minute. The old boy should know all about his mama's—er, peccadilloes.”

Consuela said, “If he does find out something, Paige, you
will
come to Claridges and tell us the very first thing in the morning, please?”

“If I do, will I get another kiss?”

“You are of an impudence,” scolded Lady Francesca without heat. “But—
si.
You will win a kiss. From me, you rogue!”

He laughed. “Then I cannot fail!”

*   *   *

“Of course I knew your mother well, she was my niece, wasn't she? Watched the pretty creature from the moment she left the schoolroom. One of the most sought-after young damsels in all of London Town, she was.”

Sir Reginald Wansdyke refilled the two wine glasses and tried not to betray his impatience. He had always been noted more for his brusque and vigorous ways than for tact. His thick hair was grey now, but at five and sixty his complexion was bronzed, his back straight, and his shoulders as broad and unbowed as many a man twenty years his junior. He'd had a difficult day at the Exchange, a tiresome confrontation with his youngest granddaughter and the totally ineligible young rascal she wanted to wed, and a pleasant sojourn at his club had been spoiled by the arrival of Monsieur Imre Monteil. He'd never liked the Swiss, but not because of the man's jet black hair and eyes and ‘pastry-white skin,' as Lady Wansdyke described it. In his opinion appearances seldom counted for much. But Monteil was known to have made his fortune in munitions, and his obvious gloating over this drawn-out war with France was repellent, especially in view of the appalling casualties. He himself had lost Sherborne, one of his favourite grand-nephews, to the terrible third siege of Badajoz; and John had been so badly mangled at Vitoria that they might count themselves fortunate he had survived.

The reminder softened Sir Reginald's irritation that the young man had insisted upon awaiting his return instead of postponing his call until tomorrow. He went back to the leather chair in the panelled and pleasantly cluttered room that was his study and looked speculatively across the hearth at his grand-nephew.

John Wansdyke Vespa had inherited neither the impressive height nor the dramatically dark colouring that had so distinguished his father and brother. Indeed, he'd been quite cast into the shade by the handsome Sherborne. Of the brothers, John had been the athlete, and Sherry the dashing Town Beau. No more athletics for John, sad to say. Still, he looked better than when he'd first been brought home after the Battle of Vitoria, and no one could say he was plain. His hair might be an undistinguished light brown, but it had a tendency to curl that Lady Wansdyke said was very attractive. And if the eyes, which she declared to be ‘tawny' rather than hazel, lacked the sparkling jet that had made Sherborne's eyes so striking, they were clear and steady and could be warmed charmingly by a lurking smile. His features lacked the delicate carving that blessed most of the Vespas, but the mouth was firm and the chin strong. The scar down his left temple was less noticeable already, and his limp not as obvious. All in all, a fine-looking young fellow, thought Sir Reginald. And he'd certainly distinguished himself on the Peninsula.

Still, it was odd that having called at such an hour he seemed to want to discuss not the recent tragedy that had robbed him of his sire, but the early life of his mother. It was puzzling also that John, who had worshipped Sir Kendrick, had not yet gone into blacks. Very likely, Sir Reginald told himself, it was all too much for the poor lad. Perhaps he was trying to work his way around to speaking of the tragedy. Whatever the case, he was entitled to be handled gently. It was in a compassionate tone, therefore, that he said, “I presume you've notified my niece of your father's—er, death. Have you heard from her since she sailed?”