The Riddle of the Lost Lover (18 page)

“Indeed you are not,” she declared, stroking his thick hair comfortingly. “But you must have some help. You're much too young to fight him all alone.”

He said staunchly, “No I'm not. I'm—er, twelve!”

He looked more like eight. His coat was well-cut, his shirt gleamingly white. Lurid as it was, his tale might very well be truth. She said, “I'll help you if I can. But—would you be brave enough to help me first?”

“'Course I would. Come on. I'll take you to my cabin, and I'll get you something to eat.” He looked at her skirts dubiously. “You'll have to climb up the ladder. Can you?”

Consuela assured him she could, and followed as he went up the rungs with the nimble ease of childhood. At the top, he pushed back the hatchway with much huffing and puffing, and peeped out.

Consuela smelled sea air, cold and fresh, and heard voices, flapping sails and ropes and the thud of the bow slicing through the waves.

The boy turned his head. “What does your nasty man look like? There's a great big fellow hanging over the rail in the stern. I thought he was a pirate, but he can't be, 'cause he's seasick. My uncle says he's Chinese.”

“Is there a very tall man with him?”

“No. But there was when we came aboard. He was all black and white. I 'spect he's in his cabin. Do you want to try it now? I'll help you.”

Consuela nodded, and clambered up eagerly. There were several men on the deck, but they were farther forward and not looking her way. She held up her hands and the boy steadied her until she stood beside him looking forlornly at a great expanse of dark tumbling waves.

“Quick, now,” he said, and guided her through an open door into a narrow passageway lit by two hanging lanterns. He flung open another door and announced, “This is our cabin.”

Willy-nilly, Consuela was pulled inside. The cabin was large and surprisingly comfortable, with two bunk beds against the walls, a washstand with soap and towels, and a small writing desk. There was no other occupant, but some large portmanteaux were stacked behind the door, and there were shaving articles on the washstand.

She turned to question the boy and was momentarily struck to silence as for the first time she saw him clearly. He was the most beautiful child she had ever seen, with deeply lashed green eyes, auburn curls burnished in the lamplight, a pale and clear skin and finely etched features. She thought, ‘Paige must have looked like this when he was a boy.'

“I'll go and see if I can get you something to eat.” He opened the door, stuck his head back in and said warningly, “You best be quick 'fore my uncle comes. He's very wicked. Especially with ladies. There's a commode under the washstand.”

Consuela's face flamed.

The boy shrieked with laughter and slammed the door.

*   *   *

“Oh, but that was just delicious!” With a contented sigh, Consuela set the empty plate aside and dabbed the napkin at her lips. She had been completing her hurried toilette when the door had swung open and the boy had returned carrying a tray of cold chicken, a hard-boiled egg, several slices of buttered bread, two large servings of crumb cake and a mug of lukewarm chocolate. Enraptured, she had at once proceeded to enjoy this feast which she'd told her youthful benefactor was ‘fit for a king.'

He had helped her dispose of the crumb cake, and while she ate had told her more of himself. His name was Pierre de Coligny. He was an only child and his life had evidently been a lonely one. At his birth his British-born Mama had extracted a promise from her husband that her son would be educated in England. He was seven years old when both parents perished in a fire and he was placed in the care of his uncle. That heartless individual had been only too willing to pack his unwanted charge off to school in England. Pierre had hoped to find friends there, but instead had been subjected to the endless beatings of the seniors, and the ridicule of the younger boys.

“Poor child,” said Consuela sympathetically. “What a horrid time you have had, to be sure. But at least now you are going back to your own country.”

“If ever I reach there alive,” he sighed.

She put down the mug of chocolate and stood, shaking out her skirts. “I mean to make sure of that!”

“Where are you going?”

“To report this business to our captain.” She clung to the end of a bunk as the vessel slid down a wave.

He stared at her. “Do you not feel sick? After eating all that, I would think you'd be green.”

“Oh, no. I'm a good sailor. My father used to take me with him when he went fishing. Sometimes, it was very rough. Shall you be all right while I am gone?”

The boy stammered uneasily, “Suppose—he comes back?”

“Hide. Once I've told the captain about that wicked man, he'll never dare touch you, and if—” She paused, it occurring to her that the captain might be surprised to hear such a tale from a lady who had no ticket and was really no more than a stowaway on his vessel. Her heart jumped when somebody jerked at the door handle.

“Here he comes!” cried Pierre shrilly.

Consuela gave a gasp, looked around desperately for some kind of weapon, and snatched up a silver-handled umbrella.

The door burst open. A tall, handsome gentleman came in, taking off his hat and ducking his auburn head as he stepped over the threshold. His fine eyes widened as they fell upon Consuela, umbrella raised threateningly.

“Qui êtes-vous, Madamoiselle?”
he demanded with a frown.

“Do not dare attack this child!” cried Consuela, swinging the umbrella higher.

Pierre screamed, “Papa!”

“What?” gasped Consuela.

The boy raced to throw himself into the newcomer's arms, shouting in French, “I found her hiding in the hold, Papa! She made me bring her here and buy her food! She is an English spy!”

8

Dawn crept in while the men were still searching. They were all tired and cold, but there was no thought of giving up hope. Vespa was scouring the wilderness area lying between his land and the preserves of Lord Alperson. He was hoarse from calling Consuela's name, and tormented by fears that grew ever more terrifying as hour after hour passed without a trace of her. Plunging into dense shrubs and copses had made riding impractical, and he'd been on his feet for most of the night, a lantern held high, his red-rimmed eyes narrowed, his ears straining to hear the faintest answer to his calls. Weariness and despair were ignored as was the steadily worsening pain in his leg. He refused Manderville's pleas that he rest, as the other men had been obliged to do. When his friend persisted, warning that he would surely collapse if he didn't at least sit down for five minutes, he swore at him, and strove on, driven by his overwhelming need to find her.

Little Signorina Consuela had come unbidden into his house, rearranged his life, and taken possession of his heart so gradually that he'd not realized for a time how much she had come to mean to him. She was not his first love; yet in a sense she was, because his love for her was so deep, so right, so much a part of him that he knew he had never really loved before. Certainly, he had never known a lady like her. He smiled yearningly, seeing in his mind's eye her sparkling blue eyes, the soft and often unruly curls, the lovely mouth that could be so wilful and proud, or so tender, the rich curves of her beautiful body. Consuela Carlotta Angelica Jones. Hot-tempered, impulsive, irrepressibly mischievous, prone to act in an outrageous fashion—and a perfect little darling, who he knew beyond question fully returned his devotion. If he lost her now … “Dear God!” he whispered. “Please … Please!”

As if in answer, Manderville came running, shouting his name excitedly, and flourishing something.

“Jack! See what we've found! See here!”

Vespa's hand shook as he took the ragged little doll. “Where?” he demanded.

“It was lying on the estate road.”

“Show me!”

Together, they ran across the wilderness and through the park.

Vespa panted, “Have—have you had time to search the area where you found it?”

Also breathless, Manderville said, “I didn't find it. Your ex-Navy tar did. Sharp eyes has Harper, to have seen it with all this mist about. They'd started to search both sides of the road when I came to find you.”

The light was brighter by the time they reached the spot where Harper waited. The bow-legged little man touched his brow and said eagerly, “Hezekiah's gorn over to that there spinney to have a look, but I knowed you'd want me to stay here, sir. Pure luck it was that I stepped on it. Lying right here, it were. The dog musta been here recent, 'cause I see him carrying it yesterday.”

Vespa slapped him on the back. “Good man!” He bent to peer at the ground. “There's been a coach here.”

Manderville wheezed, “So there has … by Jove! And a heavy one at that.”

“Stood here for some time, sir,” said Harper. “A four-in-hand, I reckon.”

“Someone rode off this way, alone.” Manderville pointed towards the village.

Vespa said, “Yes. But the coach drove … south.”

He felt icy cold and as he stood straight the world tilted and he reeled drunkenly. For a moment he lost touch with things. He heard Manderville swear, and found his friend's arm tight around him and a flask held to his lips.

“I warned you, damme if I didn't!” fumed Manderville. “Prancing about for hours on that game leg! And still not fully recovered from the pistol ball you took in September! Who the hell d'you suppose you are? Goliath?”

Vespa said brokenly, “They've got her, Paige! God help her! That miserable bastard's … taken her!”

“Lor' luvvus!” exclaimed Harper. “Gypsies, you reckon? Never say so, guv!”

Manderville tightened his arm about the stricken man. His own face unwontedly grim, he said, “Not gypsies, Harper. And we can't be sure it was him, Jack. But I'll go after the coach at once, and you can—”

“No!” Vespa pulled himself together. He turned to Harper. “You've done splendidly, and I know you need some sleep, but I'll ask that you first ride into the village. Go to Young Tom at the smithy and find out if he shod any coach-horses yesterday, and if he did, everything he can tell you about their owner. Come back as quickly as you can, please.”

Harper nodded, and ran off to get his horse.

Manderville asked, “Do you mean to call off the search, now?”

Vespa shook his head. “I may very well be wrong, Paige.”

“Exactly. That's why you should stay here while I—”

Vespa stopped that offer with one flashing glance.

As they started towards the manor side by side, the sun came up, painting a roseate glow on small scattered clouds.

“I understand, dear old boy,” said Manderville kindly. “You mean to follow that coach yourself. I don't blame you, but have you thought this through? If you go haring off after Monteil, you'll lose Kincraig.”

Vespa rounded on him fiercely. “Do you suppose anything weighs more with me than to find the lady I love?”

“No, of course not. Don't eat me! But—but this is your best chance to catch him, and I can follow the coach as well as—”

“Have done! I'll come up with Lord Kincraig after I've found Consuela.”

“Be sensible, man! Look at yourself! You're properly wrung out. Most of us took a few minutes for a bowl of Peg's soup at least, but you haven't stopped once. Can't keep on like that. You'll fall over and lose the pair of 'em.”

Chafing at the delay, Vespa bowed to common sense. “Very well. We'll breakfast while we wait for Harper's report. Then you can go on up to Suffolk for me.”

“Devil a bit of it! I'm going
with
you! If it is Monteil and his Coachman Colossus, you'll need help.”

Vespa gripped his arm briefly. “Thanks, Paige. There's one thing in our favour—the ground is so damp that the coach left a clear trail. With luck, we'll be able to follow it far enough to have an idea of their eventual destination.” He scowled and muttered through gritted teeth, “Lord help that filthy swine if he's hurt her! I'll kill him!”

Watching that anguished face, Manderville did not doubt it.

*   *   *

Two hours later, Vespa's eyes searched the ground as he walked slowly back to where Manderville waited with the horses. “Confound that miserable bastard! He could have turned off half a mile back, or more!”

Manderville said, “They're heading for the coast, Jack.”

“Small doubt of that. He means to carry her into France. But—why? What can he possibly hope to achieve by—” Vespa interrupted himself, groaning a frustrated, “Why do I waste time with such nonsensical questions? Perhaps we should just make a dash for Weymouth. It's pretty much in line from here, and we could start our enquiries there, though I dread the waste of time … if…” The words trailed off. Initially they had followed a poor thoroughfare, potholed and muddied by the rains, and not much travelled. The latter condition had helped them in their enquiries and several farmhands and a gatekeeper had recognized their description of Monteil's coach. They'd come to a busy crossroads then, and a better-maintained road. With the increase in traffic both their sources of information and the wheel tracks had disappeared.

Plagued by indecision he gazed along the road ahead. From a distant hill a farm waggon was crawling towards them. He tensed. “Paige!”

“What? I don't see—”

With an imperative gesture Vespa said sharply, “Listen!”

Straining his ears Manderville could hear only bird calls and, faint with distance, a dog barking.

Vespa walked forward, his eyes beginning to brighten. “By God!” he half-whispered. “I think— Hey!” He began to run.

Leading Secrets, baffled, Manderville followed, and then he too saw the small shape bounding past the waggon.