The Riddle of the Lost Lover (14 page)

The bray of a voice cut through Vespa's confusion. The arrogant dandy he'd been obliged to knock down yesterday stamped into the room. The handsome features were not flushed this morning; the hazel eyes were clear and they were of the same unusual shade as his own. Stunned, he thought, ‘Jupiter! This impudent lout may be my half-brother!'

“You caught cold at that the last time you tried it, Keith,” he said.

“Captain Vespa has brought a message for his lordship, Mr. Duncan,” murmured Barnard.

‘Duncan Keith,' thought Vespa. ‘A Scots name if ever I heard one!'

“Then it should have been left at the kitchen door! Did you not tell him my father is off at his stupid wanderings, again? There's no excuse for having allowed him … into…” Keith, who had been staring at Vespa, broke off and turned his frowning gaze to the portrait. “What'd you say your name was?”

“It is Vespa. Where may I find his lordship?”

“Vespa … I've heard that name before.…” Comprehension brought a shout of laughter. “By God, but I have! All London is buzzing with it! What's to do, Captain? Do you seek to escape your disgraced name by claiming kinship with us? So far as I'm aware we've no Vespas on our family tree.” His grin became a leer. “Not—ah, legitimately, that is! So don't fancy to fill your pockets at my father's expense, or—”

His sudden leap to the rear was much too slow. Vespa's hand was fast-gripped in his cravat, his narrowed eyes blazed into Keith's alarmed face as he said gratingly, “What gentleman in his right mind would have the least desire to claim kinship with a slug like you? I came with—”

Choking for breath, and unable to tear free from that steel grip, Keith kicked out in desperation, his foot smashing against Vespa's injured leg. Vespa swore in anguish, but despite his injuries he was in far better physical condition than Keith, who obviously drank too much and whose athletic pursuits were probably limited to Mayfair saunters and an occasional afternoon ride in the park. With a lithe sway, Vespa eluded another kick and brought his boot heel down hard on Keith's toe. Keith howled and doubled up, and Vespa shoved him violently, sending him hurtling across the room to crash into a sideboard, the impact causing a fine Limoges fruit dish to shatter on the floor.

Gripping his throbbing leg, Vespa said, “I'm sorry about the dish, Barnard.”

“Damn your … eyes! You'll meet me for this!” gasped Keith, making no attempt to rise.

“I've more important things to do,” said Vespa contemptuously.

Barnard said, “I think you're hurt, sir.”

“He'll be more … than hurt when … I'm done with him,” raged Keith. “Come and help me up, curse you! You work for
me,
if you remember!”

“No, do not, Barnard,” said Vespa. “If you help that creature stand, I'll just have to knock him down again.” Ignoring Keith's profane response, he went on, “I
must
find Lord Kincraig! I don't mean to endanger your position in this house, but, if you can help me—”

Keith dragged himself to a sitting position and said with a breathless laugh, “Tell him, Barnard! Oh, by all … by all means tell him where my illustrious sire may be … found! With luck this … silly clod will go seeking him!”

The butler looked from his employer's enraged heir to the slim young soldier. The resemblance was undeniable. He thought ‘if only…' and smothering a regretful sigh, he said in his quiet way, “Lord Kincraig is at the moment believed to be—in France, sir.”

“
France?
But—”

“But we're at war with France,” jeered Keith. “And you are likely thinking no … no sane Briton would attempt to enter enemy territory. Quite correct! But—but you don't seek a sane man, Vespa. My sire is a lunatic who hunts a
rug,
of all things! A rug that was destroyed a millennium since! He's the laughingstock of Europe. But, with luck, old Boney will get him!” He glared at the frowning butler. “I'll be master here then, Barnard. Bear it in mind, if you want to keep your situation! Now—ring for my man, blast you, and kick this slippery bastard off the premises! I've a splendid five-bore duck gun I'd be happy to use on a mushrooming fortune-hunter. You'd best see how fast you can run, Vespa!”

“By all means stand up,” invited Vespa coldly. “I'll wait.”

Keith's jaws rippled as though he ground his teeth. He snarled, “You heard me, Barnard! And tell Wickes to fetch my new Manton.”

Barnard bowed and tugged at an embroidered bell-pull.

Vespa stood there, gazing down at this sullen and spoilt man, and thinking of the gallant half-brother he had loved and lost.

“If you please, sir,” murmured Barnard.

“He wants thrashing,” said Vespa thoughtfully.

“You'd not dare,” blustered Keith.

“For my sake,” pleaded Barnard
sotto voce.
“This way, Captain.”

Reluctantly, Vespa accompanied him across the saloon, and offered his card. “I've likely done you a poor turn today. If Mr. Keith's hopes materialize, or if you decide on a change of scene, you must call on me.”

The butler thanked him and pocketed the card. “I'd fancied a change of scene long since, Captain. But—his lordship is fond of this house.”

“And you're fond of his lordship.”

Barnard flushed. “I've been in the family's service most of my life. Lord Kincraig is a fine gentleman. He worries for young Mr. Keith. I promised that in his absence I'd try to preserve both the estate and—”

A tall footman hurried toward them and eyed Barnard questioningly.

“He's in the drawing room,” said the butler. “He wants Wickes.”

The footman nodded and looked at Vespa, curiosity coming into his eyes.

“At once!” snapped Barnard.

The footman fled.

As they walked on Vespa said, “You've done very well with the house and grounds, at least.”

Barnard smiled. “Thank you, sir. My efforts in the other direction were doomed, I'm afraid. The damage was done years ago.”

“Indulgence?” asked Vespa, as they started down the stairs.

“A beautiful but unscrupulous woman, sir. Lady Kincraig trapped his lordship into marriage even after he'd told her he was devoted to—someone else. I collect she thought she could change him. When she found she couldn't, she chose to think herself ill-used. She was a woman of violent and brooding temperament. Her vengeance was to make her husband's life a hell on earth, and to turn their son against his father.”

Surprised by such confidences, Vespa said, “You use the past tense. I take it Lord Kincraig is a widower?”

“Her ladyship was killed in a riding accident two years ago. There had been a particularly acrimonious quarrel. The lady demanded that they return to their home in Scotland. Lord Kincraig had some business to attend to, and would not agree. He urged her to go without him, but there was no reasoning with her when she was in one of her furies. At length he told her he was sailing for Italy that night. She insisted on accompanying him. He refused, and in spite of her threat to shoot him if he attempted to leave her, he drove out. Lady Kincraig followed, still wearing her dinner gown and slippers, and riding her favourite horse: a high-strung animal. There was summer lightning that night. The horse bolted and the lady was thrown.” Barnard pursed his lips. “She was killed instantly. Mr. Duncan blamed his father.”

They had reached the lower floor and as they entered the servants' hall Vespa said, “One would think that Lord Kincraig might have stayed with his son.”

“He did, for a while. Mr. Duncan tormented and vexed him in every possible way until his lordship forbade him this house, set him up in a London flat and gave him a most generous allowance.”

“But when Kincraig is away, the charming heir returns?”

“Just so, sir. His lordship knows. In spite of everything he still has affection for the young man, and I think he worries that having his mother's excitable nature, her son will meet a similar fate. He's wild enough, certainly.”

Vespa leaned back against the long table. “Duncan Keith is not a pleasant fellow to work for, eh?”

“No, sir. But I promised his lordship. Even if I had not, I've an ailing mother, and Lord Kincraig pays me very well, and allows her to live on the estate.”

“I see.” Vespa said thoughtfully, “You don't impress me as the man to betray your employer's secrets, Barnard. Why do you tell me all this?”

The butler met his eyes steadily. “The resemblance is so strong, sir. I don't pretend to know how, but—of a certainty you are in some way connected to this family.”

“You must have some idea what is that connection.”

“It is presumptuous in me to—to dare hazard a guess, Captain, but—” Barnard flushed darkly and stammered, “But—forgive, sir. I—er, I do know that his lordship, who is a very gentle person, had an—an almost ungovernable hatred of—of one particular gentleman.”

“Sir Kendrick Vespa.”

“Yes, Captain. But—I never heard— I mean, her ladyship was half crazed with jealousy. If she'd ever so much as suspected—”

A distant voice howled, “My
gun,
you idiot! And fast!”

Barnard said, “You must go, sir!”

“Never worry. He'd not dare shoot down an unarmed man.”

“There are four other menservants in the house. And he has
her
blood. After one or two glasses of cognac, there's nothing he wouldn't dare!”

He was pale. Clearly, he believed what he said.

Vespa swore. “I
must
have some answers! Can we meet? After your work is finished tonight, perhaps?”

“It will be late, and brief, I'm afraid, Captain. But unless Mr. Keith decides to leave for Scotland today, I'll try to slip out. Where will I find you?”

“I saw a fine stand of oaks up near the road. I'll bring a closed carriage and wait there. Quickly, now, is there a painting of Lord Blair Kincraig I can see? Perhaps a miniature I might take with me?”

“Regrettably, no, sir. There was a fine portrait of his lordship, but Lady Kincraig destroyed it in one of her tantrums and he refused ever to sit for another.”

“Blast! Is there some feature that would help me recognize him?”

“Not any one feature, Captain, but you've only to look in the mirror and imagine a few lines, and some grey hair at your temples.” The butler's eyes brightened; he asked hopefully, “Do you really mean to try and find him?”

“Possibly. He
is
in—er, in full possession of his faculties?”

“Oh, most certainly. A trifle eccentric, perhaps, but a highly intelligent gentleman. His interest in rugs and carpets, especially antique rugs, is of long standing.”

“But why would a man of intelligence allow the rumour to be spread that he's searching for a
flying
carpet? That's so nonsensical!”

Barnard glanced uneasily at the door. “I couldn't say, sir. Except that his lordship has ever been a rather solitary man, and not one to care about the opinions of others.”

“Is it true that he ventures into France on his expeditions?”

“He travels all over Europe and the Near East. And always alone. He's had some very desperate encounters, I know. It worries me excessively. His life has not been happy, and sometimes I fear…” The butler looked troubled and left the sentence unfinished. “I believe he has no set route. He goes wherever he hears of some interesting specimen. I'm sorry, but there is
nothing more
I can—”

“
Barnard?
Where in
Hades
are you got to?”

The enraged howl was closer and spurred the butler into hurrying from the room, turning back at the door to whisper an impassioned plea that Vespa leave Lambent Grove at once.

Seething with frustration, Vespa yearned to wait and face down the terrible-tempered heir. But it would result in a turn-up at the very least. Common sense whispered that he was not at the top of his form, and with several menservants to back Keith, he'd likely get himself soundly trounced. Reluctantly, he abandoned the prospect of such delicious but foolish heroics. He would see Barnard tonight, and learn as much as possible about the elusive Carpet Collector. He fought against becoming overconfident, but with the help of his friends he had learned so much. ‘Consuela, my darling girl,' he thought, ‘we may yet stand at the altar together!'

Outside, the elderly gatekeeper was leading the grey horse up and down the drivepath. He accepted the coins Vespa handed him, and relayed the information that the captain's dog had run off and that a gentleman was in the lane, throwing his toy for him.

An unseasonable sun was shining and the air was less chill. Corporal pranced gaily to meet his master. Manderville drew back, throwing up one arm protectively. “Do not strike me! Ah! I am reprieved! How much nicer you look with that dazzling grin, Captain, sir! You must have realized why I didn't tell you about your odd relations.”

“Chawbacon! They may be odd, but you're right. There can be no doubt but that my father was Lord Blair Kincraig!”

“One look at Duncan Keith should have told me that, but I didn't realize till today why I thought I'd met the fellow somewhere.” Manderville mounted up. “I hope you appreciated my tact in not accompanying you. He's the roué I had to knock down after I left Stowmarket. He don't much like me.”

Vespa's smile was rather grim. “I'm afraid I didn't impress him, either!”

*   *   *

Lady Francesca Ottavio's ‘cottage' was actually a large house set back from the lane amid venerable old trees and pleasant gardens. It was located a short distance north of Gallery-on-Tang, the Dorsetshire village that had once been part of the estate John Vespa had inherited from his maternal grandparents. The village was a delightful sight even under the gloomy skies of a December afternoon, and when Vespa had ridden along its single street he'd been welcomed with such warmth and affection that it had been some time before he could decently break away. Now, he was alone with the little ‘duchess' in her comfortable drawing room, his nerves taut as he awaited her reaction to the news he'd brought.