The Riddle of the Lost Lover (29 page)

“Why? The really hard winter weather don't set in till after Christmas, and—”

“Very true,” interjected Consuela, leaning from the window. “But the terrible mistral can come down without warning, and with a howl like thunder. My dear
Nonna
told me her Mama used to say that one day the duchy would be blown clear across Italy and become a suburb of Padova.”

Pierre squeezed into the window beside her and declared that he had seen the mistral. “I was little then,” he boasted. “And the wind it picked me up and carried me off so that my uncle had to run for ten miles to catch me again!”

“What a rasper,” snorted Manderville, “But our options are clear. To turn east is unacceptable. To continue towards St. Just is to invite sure disaster, so it's a race for the chateau and the coast.”

“No!” shrilled Pierre. “I will
not
go back!”

“We are so close now,” pleaded Consuela. “One more day only, and we should come up with Lord Kincraig. It is our future we fight for. Please,
please,
dear Jack, do not give up.”

It was true that their every hope to marry depended upon his locating the elusive peer who might be his sire. If only he could in some way get Consuela and the boy to safety. To attempt to reach the Italian border was out of the question, as Paige knew very well. He'd likely only suggested such a ridiculous route because his cold was dulling his wits. As risky as it was to follow Kincraig they
were
close now; he could feel it. They'd risked so much—another day wouldn't make much difference, surely? If they didn't come up with Kincraig tomorrow, they would turn to the west and make a dash for the château.

Consuela's anxious eyes were fixed on his face. He said, “Very well. One more day. But one day only!”

She squeaked and clapped her hands, and Pierre shouted “Hurrah! I am still free!”

Manderville looked disgusted, but whipped up the horses. Vespa reined Bruine beside the carriage and they turned south on the road to St. Just.

The afternoon was well advanced and the chill wind carried a steady drizzle. It developed that Pierre was not the only ‘starved' member of the little group. When Vespa learned that in their haste to find him Paige and Consuela had not stopped to eat, he pulled into the yard of the first farmhouse they came to and was able to purchase a cold roasted chicken, the inevitable baguette—sliced and buttered—and a bag of black plums. Pierre ran into the big kitchen demanding to know if there was any cake, and the farm wife laughed and graciously added some bread pudding to their lunch.

She allowed them to eat in her warm kitchen and they were soon on their way again, Vespa riding escort, and constantly scanning the road ahead for any sign of a waggon and an elderly gentleman. They passed a group of the menhirs; the great standing stones that might well have been erected by the same ancient peoples who'd left them in Cornwall and Stonehenge. Vespa pulled back to draw Consuela's attention to the strange monoliths. She was fascinated, but Pierre hid his face against her, crying that the menhirs were well known to be evil men who'd been turned to stone for their wickedness, and that it was very bad luck to look upon them.

The miles slipped away and still Vespa saw no sign of a likely looking waggon. His heart stood still when a young officer in a showy blue uniform rode up and ordered them to pull off to the side. Obeying, but prepared to make a run for it, Vespa was able to breathe again as a troop of artillery clattered past escorting a gun-carriage. Readying for the next action, he thought, that would come in the spring if Wellington could muster the forces and supplies he needed. He grinned faintly, picturing the great man's impotent rage at all the rain.

They were allowed to move on then, encountering tinkers walking by the side of the road with great packs on their backs; ponderous rumbling wains; rickety donkey carts; a brightly painted caravan from which a very old woman leered at Manderville and screeched an offer to tell ‘the handsome young citizen's fortune'; a family evidently moving, their goods bundled and lashed to four mules, the husband leading the way and his lady walking beside the last mule, holding the hand of a small girl and keeping an eagle eye on a cradle perched precariously atop the overloaded animal's back.

Vespa's concerned gaze was on that cradle when the inevitable happened: The mule stumbled over a pothole in the road. The cradle slid, but on the far side of the lady, who let out a terrified screech as she made a fruitless grab for it. Vespa had already spurred Bruine. He caught the tumbling cradle in the nick of time, but it was all he could do to keep the infant from falling, and its howls were scarcely less piercing than those of its mama.

The husband ran back to snatch the cradle. The wife retrieved the baby and began to rock it and croon soothingly. Vespa said, “I think that is not a safe place for your infant, madame.”

The husband levelled an affronted glare at him, restored cradle and child to their precarious perch and ran back to his place at the head of the column.

As they passed with not one word from the family, Manderville said in French, “That'll teach you to be a knight errant, Captain, sir!”

“The baby might have been killed,” said Vespa indignantly. “What would you have done? Galloped over it, I daresay.”

“You're in no case to gallop over anything,
mon ami.
Your heroic deed did not benefit your trusty mare. She's favouring her left front leg.”

Vespa swore and dismounted at once. Pierre hung from the coach window and informed them that Miss Consuela was asleep. He also spoke without finesse of his own needs which were, it seemed, of an urgent nature. Vespa turned off the road and into a grove of poplars and evergreens. Pierre ran off, and Vespa and Manderville inspected Bruine's damaged leg. Fortunately this only amounted to a thrown shoe but, until she was reshod, she could not be ridden.

Vespa told her she was a good little lady, and unbuckled the saddle, depositing it in the boot. Pierre had left the carriage door open, and he peeped in at Consuela. She was fast asleep, her hood fallen back and an errant curl nestling against her sleep-flushed cheek. One hand lay, palm up, on the seat. How dear she was; how intrepid and resourceful and high-couraged. By Society's rigid standards she was an incorrigible minx, but how many ladies of the
ton
would have taken such risks to help him in this desperate search? How many would have so bravely endured the perils and hardships she had faced with never a whine or a whimper? Aching with love for her, yearning to take her into his arms, he kissed his forefinger and very lightly transferred the kiss to her soft little palm.

Behind him, Manderville sang hoarsely:

“‘When is the time a maid to kiss?

Tell me this, now tell me this.

'Tis when the drizzle turns to rain.

'Tis when Pierre's run off again.

Is—'”

Flushing hotly, Vespa whipped around. “The devil! Have you called him?”

“As you'd have heard were you not so entranced by—”

“Confound the boy! You'd better go and search for him.” Manderville sighed and turned away, but Vespa had seen the weariness in his face and the dark circles under his eyes. Catching his arm he said remorsefully, “I'm an insensitive clod, and you've a beast of a cold. I'll bring the young varmint back, it shouldn't take above a minute or two, then I'll drive and you can get some rest.”

His ‘minute or two' stretched to ten, at the end of which, fuming, he had searched through several thick clusters of fern and shrubs while his calls went unanswered. He was beginning to worry and he climbed to a high point to look about. As he approached the top he heard shouts and squeals, seemingly coming from the far side of this rise. Real alarm seized him. Pierre was the son of a chevalier of France; it was not beyond the realm of possibility that this time he really had been kidnapped! Impelled by visions of enormous ransom demands, a heartbroken father and his own failure to have protected the child, he began to run. At the top of the rise, he halted, and stood there motionless while the raindrops fell unnoticed on his bare head.

At the foot of the slope a large waggon of unusual design was drawn up under a wide-spreading tree, a tent pitched beside it. He could see the smoke of a campfire and he heard a man's deep laughter, but neither man nor fire were visible, for the waggon was surrounded by children. In an oddly remote fashion he wondered where they had all come from. They crowded in, squealing, jumping up and down with excitement, and waving small paper-wrapped objects triumphantly.

‘My God!' he thought. ‘Oh, my dear God!' Perversely, at the instant of success he was afraid; afraid of discovering that the Crazy Carpet Collector was indeed crazy; afraid of an infuriated denial or of being contemptuously rejected; afraid that—like Duncan Keith—Lord Kincraig might fancy him to be an opportunistic fortune-hunter, or despise him because his mother had married the man he loathed.

Pierre's shrill voice cut through his trance-like immobility. “Here he is, Capitaine Jacques! Here is the Crazy Carpet Person you search for!”

In the midst of the crowd a man stood straight and turned towards him. He said something, and the uproar faded and ceased. The boys and girls began to drift away, some scowling at Vespa resentfully, then running with the quick adaptiveness of childhood, shouting about the rain and home and supper.

The man by the waggon still stood there. A rifle was propped against the wheel beside him, and there was a guardedness in the way he watched the newcomer.

Pierre came leaping up the slope, waving a handful of sweetmeats. “See what I've got, Capitaine! He gave me—”

“Go back to the coach.” Vespa did not raise his voice, but the boy checked, gazing up into his stern face curiously. Then he ran off without a word of protest.

Kincraig called in fluent French, “Good day, monsieur. You have been seeking me? What may I do for you? Have you perchance a carpet to show me?”

Vespa limped down the slope. How did one open a conversation under such circumstances? ‘Oh, hello, sir. I think I may be one of your by-blows?' Or, ‘How d'ye do, my lord? Your bastard son has come to call?' He thought an irritated, ‘Idiot!' And drawing closer, realized there was no need for words.

He had expected to confront a much older man, but although Kincraig's fair hair was streaked with grey, his figure was trim, his chin had not sagged, and he looked to be only a year or so past fifty. The features were so similar to his own that it was indeed like looking into a mirror of the future. The cheekbones were slightly more finely etched, the mouth almost too sensitive. There were lines in the face that spoke of suffering, and although he smiled tentatively, deep in the eyes Vespa thought to glimpse a hint of sadness. And it was the eyes that sealed their resemblance; in shape and hue, even to the amber flecks, they were identical to his own. He saw that Kincraig was staring and had become very pale. He said in English, “Good afternoon, my lord.”

“Who…” croaked Kincraig, “who the—the deuce are you?”

“Until recently I thought I was John Wansdyke Vespa, but—” He sprang forward to support the man who sagged, white to the lips, against the waggon. “And I'm a sorry fool,” he added repentantly. “Let me get you out of the rain.”

He all but carried Kincraig to the tent and deposited him on a camp bed. Several crates had been piled on their sides to create a makeshift cupboard. Among the objects on the top ‘shelf' was a bottle of greenish liquid that he eyed uncertainly.

“Yes—please,” whispered Kincraig. “Medicine.”

Vespa took out the bottle and following his lordship's signalled instructions measured two inches into a mug and handed it over.

After a minute or two some colour returned to the waxen features, the eyes opened again, and Kincraig said more steadily, “That's better. My apologies, sir. Didn't mean to … to throw such a scare into you. A slight nuisance with my health, is all. If you will excuse my crude hospitality, there's … some fair cognac in the lower box. I'm afraid my folding chair will have to serve for a sofa.”

Vespa settled for both cognac and chair, and having occupied the second and sampled the first, he met Kincraig's searching gaze and said, “I'm so sorry. This has been a shock for you, and—”

“Never mind about that.” The baron made a gesture of impatience. “My God, but you've my father's eyes! And mine, of course. To say I'm astonished is a masterpiece of understatement, but there's nothing to be served by tippy-toeing around the issue. Your name and your face tell me all I need to know. The fact that you've come to me says you must know it also. Or—some of it?”

“Not much, sir. But—I think we are—er, related.”

“I'd say that is a certainty. Did Lady Faith send you? How is she, bless her heart? How did she know where I was?”

“My mother is well, but she's out of the country at the moment. She never breathed a word of the true state of—of the matter to me. When I learned that Sir Kendrick Vespa was not my father, I decided to try and find out who was. With Mama away, it—er, hasn't been easy.”

“I'll wager it hasn't! A tricky business for you, I've no doubt. And you likely judge me a proper rogue.” Kincraig waved a hand as Vespa attempted to reply. “No, don't answer. How could you think otherwise? I've no intention to try and wrap it up in clean linen, but I'd like you to know that I was deep in love with your beautiful mother and it was my dearest hope to make her my wife. After she married that— Well, I stayed away at first, of course. But poor Faith was neglected and so unhappy. We began to meet in secret, and I tried to cheer her.”

He sighed nostalgically, then went on: “Inevitably, it became an
affaire de coeur.
I won't say I'm sorry. We were as much in love as ever. We belonged together and should never have been separated. Sir Kendrick found out, eventually. I don't know what he said to Faith, but when I confronted him he refused to meet me in a duel—he has a horror of scandal, as I'm sure you know. He was icy cold, and—I'm sorry, but truth is truth—he warned that if I ever came near Faith again, she would suffer a fatal accident. He meant it. And I know he's capable of—”