The Riddle of the Lost Lover (7 page)

“Humph. Well, perhaps they—”

“Besides which, Jack Vespa's sire provided the grist for a scandalous rumour mill. And to add to all this, another slippery customer has oozed onto the scene. A rogue we've been after for years, and never managed to so much as detain for questioning!”

Rickaby frowned. “I didn't hear about that. Only Vespa's report that there was a second attack.”

“Just so. A second attack involving a tall man with a foreign accent and a giant for a servant who tossed Adair about like—”

“Oh—egad,” gasped the surgeon. “You're never thinking it was—”

“Imre Monteil. The very shady Swiss munitions maker. And his monstrous Chinese henchman.”

“Be dashed,” muttered Rickaby. “If only half the tales one hears about that pair are truth…”

“I'll tell you one thing, coz,” said Blaine after a brooding pause. “If Imre Monteil has a finger in the pie, it's a rich pie! A very rich pie indeed!”

3

“I suppose I need not ask if the rain it still drips?” Lady Francesca lifted her eyes from the
Morning Post
to direct a mournful glance at Consuela who knelt in the window-seat, gazing down into the busy street. Her grand-daughter confirming her supposition in a rather abstracted fashion, my lady sighed. “A wretched climate has this small island.”

“Then only think how fortunate we are,” said Consuela, “to be comfortable in this lovely hotel instead of outside in the cold and wet.”

Refusing to feel fortunate, my lady sighed again. “How I miss my sunny Italy. Can you wonder that I yearn to take you back where you belongings?”

“And where would that be, Grandmama? In the middle of the English Channel, perhaps? The Italian side of me facing to the south, and the British side to the north?”

“Do not be flippant,
signorina!
Your blood is of a royal Italian House and is warm, and your temper it blows hot, in the Latin manner! As for your British side—”

Consuela turned and smiled at her. “My British side loves this funny old island, dearest. As it loved my adored and so very talented English Papa. And you know perfectly well that I mean to wed an English gentleman, so—”

“An English gentleman who does not even know his real name,” snorted Lady Francesca. “No, do not send me dagger glances, miss! I know you are fond of Captain Jack Vespa, but—”

“Much more than fond, Grandmama! He is the bravest, kindest, most truly honourable gentleman I—”

“You will not interrupt, if you please,” interrupted my lady, rattling the newspaper at her granddaughter. “For him to try and his interest fix with you, this it is not proper.”

For some days Consuela had sensed that her diminutive grandmother was pondering something, and guessing what that something was, she knew this would be a serious talk. She left the window-seat, therefore, and came with her light dancing step to sink onto the footstool before Lady Francesca's chair, the pale pink velvet gown rippling about her. “He did not exactly declare himself, you know,” she pointed out meekly. “It was more of a ‘testing the waters,' Toby said. A ‘supposing this,' or a ‘supposing that,' and if such and such chanced, might I then consider him.” She smiled tenderly. “Poor boy. He was very careful not to make me feel that we had plighted our troth, so that I could be free if other gentlemen offered.”

“
If
other gentlemen offer? Of course they will offer! At the ball last night the beaux were fluttering around, and you have already today receiving two charming bouquets, is it not? Nor dismiss from your mind that very handsome young colonel.”

“Colonel Adair is back in France with Lord Wellington. I doubt we shall see him again until the war is ended.” Despite this assertion, Consuela knew she must be careful; she was sure her Grandmother really liked Jack, but if she set her mind against him, it would be disastrous. She said airily, “Besides, you may be
à l'aise,
dear
Nonna.
Romance, so they say, is capricious, and a lady seldom marries her first love.”

Lady Francesca shook one finger under her granddaughter's small nose and said perversely, “This it is the talk of a flirt,
signorina,
and ladies who flirt have the reputations and sometimes end with nothing more!”

“What about gentlemen who flirt? John Vespa loved another lady once—”

“
Si.
Long ago. But you know very well he has eyes now only for you. And it is unkind in extremity to tease the young man.”

Consuela asked demurely, “Then you think I should accept if he really makes me an offer?”

“No! And—no! A most strong
no!
You will accept him only in despite of my strict disapproval, child.”

Startled by such vehemence, Consuela searched the old lady's face and found there a stern resolve. She said in dismay, “But—but, you are most fond of Jack!”

“
Si.
This it is truth.”

“And when Sir Kendrick shot him you helped nurse him and grieved for his sake, and now we are helping him seek out his real father. Although,” she added, forgetting her earlier caution, “I care not a jot whether his father turns out to be a well-born gentleman, or—”

“Or—what, Miss Rattlepate? A highwayman? A footpad? A murderer? Do you care not the jot if your children have inherit the consumptive habit? Or madness? Or the disease that brings sightlessness? What is in the blood will out!”

Consuela was silent. Then she muttered, “As if Lady Faith would have chosen such a one for her lover.”

“Ha! Look who she chose for her husband! A pretty monster!”

“True. But her parents chose him, not she. Besides, can one really tell? Sir Kendrick Vespa was to all outward appearances a fine example of aristocracy: handsome and clever and elegant. And inside he was a cheat and a murderer several times over! An honest coal-heaver would have been a better choice for a husband!”

“This also is so. However, one is born to a certain station in life,
bambina,
and no matter what people may say, this it will never change. Was we all to become the coal-heavers there still would be the strongest among the heavers, or the one who sells the most coal would become the Aristocrat among Coal-Heavers and gradually he would pull away from the common herd. It is the way of the world. You loved your papa. Do you thinking he would countenance a marriage between Consuela Carlotta Angelica Jones, of the royal house of Ottavio, and a young English captain who has a haunted and decaying old country estate and expectations of the smallest?” Lady Francesca flung up one hand, silencing Consuela's attempt to comment. “I know what you will say. He was, and I admit this, a gallant and brave soldier. But he also is either the son of the wicked Sir Kendrick Vespa—who was directly responsible for your own father's death—”

“You
know
he is not Sir Kendrick's son,” interposed Consuela fierily. “That evil man almost killed Jack as well as my Papa, and—”

“In the which case,” overrode the old lady with a daunting frown, “your Captain Jack is the
natural child
of a mystery man about whom we know nothings at all.”

“But we
will,
dearest! You and I and dear Toby and Paige, we all are trying to help Jack find the gentleman.”

“And if we succeed, how then is it? Your fine captain is too fond of his Mama to shame her by refusing to any longer bear her name.”

“Y-yes. Perhaps. But—but if we find that his real father is a fine and honourable man, then you can at least be easy and know what his—his background is.”

“And Jack still will be no less of a bastard who will accept neither the Vespa fortune nor the title!”

“Grandmama!”
Her cheeks pink with anger, Consuela sprang to her feet.

“Signorina!”
Lady Francesca stood also and drew herself up to her full fifty-seven inches. In her stockinged feet Consuela was four inches taller, but her grandmother's head was thrown back regally, her fine dark eyes could still flash fire, and in that moment she seemed to tower over the girl.

“You will be quiet and pay me heed,” she commanded, her voice harsh. “I am knowing of the great service Captain Jack Vespa made us in proving your Papa's murder. I am knowing of the fact that his life he risked and almost lost in saving yours. We are beholden. It is for this reasons I have allowing you to come to London with me, and that I will help him in his quest. He is a good man,
si.
But when
all
the facts are whispered about Town, as soon they must be, he will be a very much disgraced man.
Your
line it is proud.
Your
prospects they are most fine. I would be a poor
nonna
if I allowed you to be shamed by marriage to a man whose only hope for holding up of his head is to leave the country!”

“Oh!” Wrath rendered Consuela almost speechless, and to add to her mental turmoil was the awareness that the old lady loved her and wanted only the best for her. “H-how
can
you speak of him so?” she spluttered. “He is—is one of the most popular young men in London!
Everybody
likes him and has only good to say of him!”

In this, however, she was mistaken. The maid, who at that moment was admitting Captain John Vespa to the suite, neither liked nor admired him, and what she had to say of him to her intimates was far from good. Violet Manning, whose life was not unpleasant, might grumble, as was the fashion, about her ‘fussy' employers, but she was also proud of them. She lost no opportunity to point out that although the Duchess of Ottavio was a foreign lady, she was highly born; that Mr. Preston Jones had been among the greatest of Britain's artists; and that his daughter, Miss Consuela, might have had an Italian Mama, but there was royal blood in her veins, and she could look as high as she pleased for a husband.

To Manning it was little short of tragic that her mistress must instead smile upon Captain Vespa. Miss Consuela was perhaps just a bit short of being judged beautiful, and she could get very cross very quick, but she was pretty and full of life and charm, and she had a lovely body. Captain Vespa had a scar down one temple, and he limped. People said he was a fine athlete before he became a soldier. He was not a fine athlete now. Worse, he was evidently touched in his upper works, for why in the world would a sane man refuse his rightful title?

She took Captain Vespa's hat and cloak and scanned without admiration the ally who trotted in after him. Another example of poor judgment. The captain could have adopted his father's bloodhounds; to have such creatures as Solomon and Barrister at his heels might have lent him a bit of interest and dignity. But—no! The great hounds had gone to live in the country with Lieutenant Manderville's father, and the captain was accompanied as always by ‘Corporal,' a small dog with long greyish-brown hair and no consequence whatever. It was all of a piece, thought Manning resentfully, and opened the drawing room door to announce, “Captain Vespa, my lady.”

Vespa sensed the tension in the air when he entered the drawing room. Lady Francesca looked vexed, and Consuela hurried to stand at the window and surreptitiously dab a handkerchief at her eyes.

“Good morning, ladies,” he said as he crossed to kiss the hand of the little duchess.

“You are late,” she scolded, tapping his cheek with her fan. “We have expecting you an hour since.”

“And Paige did not come as he promised,” said Consuela, gaining control of herself and turning to face Vespa.

He bowed and, meeting the ardent smile that was then levelled at her, she wondered how Grandmama could be anything but charmed by the hazel eyes so intriguingly flecked with gold, or the strong chin and sensitive mouth, and the way the thick hair—She gave a shocked gasp and flew to touch the gash above his eyebrow. “What now? You are hurt again! I vow I cannot let you out of my sight for one moment but you are into trouble! Tell me!”

“
Che orrore!
” Lady Francesca threw up her hands. “Have you none of the manners, Signorina Consuela? Ring the bell! First, we offer Captain Jack coffee and the politenesses.
Then,
he may tell us his tales!”

Consuela's ‘politenesses' extended to ringing the bell, but her impatience could scarcely be contained, and the moment Manning had gone off to gather refreshments Vespa was commanded to tell them about his evening's activities. It was not an easy task, for he was interrupted frequently, but when he named the victim of the street attack both ladies were startled into silence. They did not recover their vocal powers until he described his interview at the Horse Guards, whereupon the duchess unleashed a flood of Italian during which her small hands were flourished about wildly and expressions such as
stupidita!
and
pazzia!
were so scornfully uttered as to leave little doubt of their meaning.

Unaccustomedly mute, Consuela at length said a puzzled, “But why would they lie about it? And why would Colonel Adair have behaved in such a strange fashion? Jack—you're
quite
sure it was him?”

“Quite sure. Though both Major Blaine and my army surgeon did their best to convince me I'm wits to let.”

Consuela asked sharply, “Why should your doctor have been there?”

“That's what Broderick wanted to know. It seems Captain Rickaby is cousin to the major. Perhaps it was pure coincidence that he chanced to be there.” He said with a wry smile, “I try, you see, not to let my imagination run riot.”

“Well, I think it all most odd. And your surgeon claimed to have seen Hasty— I mean, Colonel Adair, in a hospital in Spain only three days ago?”

“Yes.” Very aware of the quick correction, Vespa said, “Not that I believe a word of it.”