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?”
Jack Vespa had been quite aware of and faintly amused by his great-uncle’s intense scrutiny, and could guess what had gone through the mind of this honest and upright gentleman. He knew that there had been no love lost between the Vespa and Wansdyke branches of the family, but he was also aware of Sir Reginald Wansdyke’s fierce pride, and he replied cautiously, “I wish I had, sir. There are business affairs to be settled, and other matters on which I have a most urgent need to consult with her.”
‘So that’s it,’ thought Sir Reginald. Slightly disappointed, he said, “If it’s a matter of your inheritance, I can likely advise you.”
“I have a generous inheritance from Grandfather Wansdyke, sir. And Alabaster Royal.”
‘That dismal hole!’ thought Sir Reginald. “True. But in view of—er, everything, I expect you won’t want to continue living down there. You’ve the Richmond property, and the London house is entailed. Certainly the title will come to you, once—er, that is to say, after— In due time.”
Vespa nerved himself and took the plunge. “Then you think I’ve a right to them, sir?”
Sir Reginald gave him a sharp look. “Why the deuce would you not have a right to them? John—I know this quarry business must have been a frightful experience, and I’d not distress you by referring to it, but—are you of the opinion that your father is still alive?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I asked about my mother. I’m a grown man, sir, and not blind. I’m aware my parents’ marriage was not happy.”
“Hmm,” grunted Sir Reginald, uneasily. “I think it is not for me to comment on such matters. You must talk to your mama, though I’d have thought this was scarce the time to rake over old coals.”
“Nor can I do so, since my mother is now in South America.”
Lady Faith’s flight from the gossip mill was a sore topic with her conservatively minded uncle, and he growled, “Worst thing she could have done! Kendrick had his faults, no denying, but running away don’t solve anything.” He caught himself up and said testily, “The thing to do, my boy, is to put it all behind you. Your health is much improved already. You can stay peacefully in that lovely house on the river till your mama comes home again, and if you’re in need of the ‘ready’ meanwhile, I’m very sure your father’s man of business—Skelton, or some such name as I recall—can oblige you.”
“Felton, sir. But—”
“No ‘buts,’ dear lad. If there’s any difficulty along those lines, you just let me know, and we’ll come at the root of it.”
“Well, there is a problem, Uncle. It concerns something Sir Kendrick told me just before—” Vespa paused, one hand clenching. “Before the tunnel—business. It has to do with the early days of their marriage and a friend of my mother’s.”
“Hmm. I didn’t know all Faith’s friends, of course. Still don’t. Rather a silly lot of females, if you was to ask me.”
“This was a gentleman, sir.”
“A gentleman?” Sir Reginald’s smile faded. “Now what the devil could your mother’s friends, be they male or female, have to do with your drawing against your inheritance?”
“A great deal, sir. In fact, according to Sir Kendrick, any Vespa inheritance is not—mine.”
Sir Reginald’s face turned very red. Staring at his grand-nephew he demanded hoarsely, “What a’God’s name are you babbling at, boy? Your father was mighty high-in-the-instep, but—”
“Was he, sir? That’s what I’m trying to find out, you see. Did you know him?”
“What the deuce…? Of course I knew him!” Sir Reginald stood and faced the younger man in consternation. “My poor fellow! You’re ill! It’s that head wound you took at Vitoria, I don’t doubt. You shall overnight here. Tomorrow, I’ll refresh your memory about your father. You may ask whatever you wish, and—”
Standing also, Vespa said gently, “I have only one question, Uncle Reginald. Who is my father?”
Sir Reginald drew a deep breath and fought his temper. “Now—now, John, I can see you are not yourself. But this is all very … improper. If someone has been filling your head with rubbish, I wish you will name the lamebrain.”
“Do you know, Uncle, I wish with all my heart that I could believe it was rubbish. Unhappily, I have no choice but to think he told me the absolute truth.”
“Who—who did?” gulped Sir Reginald.
“Sir Kendrick Vespa.”
“WHAT? Your—your own father?”
Vespa gave a wry shrug. “Evidently not. Sir Kendrick said that years ago, when my mother discovered he had set up a mistress, she took a lover to spite him. And that I’m the—the result of her … affaire.”
His face purpling, Sir Reginald snorted, “If ever— If ever I heard of such disgraceful twaddle! I can’t credit it that—that even Kendrick Vespa would—would have deliberately said such a wicked thing! Be so good as to tell me, nephew—when did he kindly impart all this claptrap?”
“While we were down in the tunnel at the old quarry, sir.”
“Indeed. This would have been before you were shot, then.”
“Yes, sir. Just before he shot me.”
Sir Reginald dropped his glass.
* * *
“You may believe I am upset!” Pacing to and fro at the foot of his wife’s bed, Sir Reginald flung one arm in the air to emphasize his vexation and declared untruthfully, “I’m sorry if I woke you, m’dear. Your candles were still burning, so I thought—”
“Yes. I was reading.” Lady Paula drew her bed-jacket closer about her ample figure and sat higher against the pillows. “John is adept at concealing his feelings, but I sensed he was troubled, so I waited up for you.”
Sir Reginald gave an explosive snort. “Troubled, you say? He ain’t troubled, my lady! What he is—he’s daft! Ripe for Bedlam! I vow if he weren’t family, I’d have called in the Runners and had him taken away under strong restraint!”
“Good gracious! Now, my love, I trust you have considered that John is bound to be distressed at this time, and we should—Oh, pray do not stamp up and down, you’
ll wake the house. Have a glass of wine, it will settle your nerves.”
Muttering ferociously, Sir Reginald did not argue with this sensible suggestion, but filled a glass from the decanter that was always left on the sideboard for him. He sat on the dressing-table bench and sipped the port, only to spring up again and say explosively, “When I think what a fine fellow he was before he went off to Spain! And now—whatever wits the poor lad has left are so full of maggots—”
“Yes, yes, Reginald, but you’re spilling your wine. Sit here on the bed, dear, and try to compose yourself.” Her spouse obeying with marked reluctance, she asked gently, “Whatever has John done to so discompose you?”
“Gone stark, raving mad,” growled her husband not mincing words. “Have I not said it? The first looby in the family! Egad! I tell you, my lady, if that boy goes about London Town spreading the balderdash he hurled in my face tonight, our name will be—will be so tarnished we’re like to never make a recover!”
This declaration alarmed Lady Paula. She said uneasily, “If it is balderdash, dear sir, how shall it tarnish us?”
Sir Reginald ran a hand through his already wildly dishevelled grey locks and groaned. “It’s all so damned ridiculous. But with the rumours that are abroad…” His thick eyebrows bristled. He snarled, “Confound it! I always knew Kendrick Vespa was a potentially dirty dish!”
“Aha,” said his patient lady. “So poor Sir Kendrick is at the root of the problem. I wonder why that does not surprise me. Now, my love, I beg you to tell me. From the beginning.”
Her life’s companion snorted and fumed, but in rather erratic fashion did as she asked. He was interrupted several times by her shocked gasps, and by the time he finished she had become very pale. When she did not comment, he demanded, “Did ever you hear so much fustian? Nobody will believe the stupid tale!”
His wife said nothing.
Sir Reginald watched her from the corners of his eyes. “You surely do not, Paula?”
By now very frightened, she evaded in a trembling voice, “Sir Kendrick was involved in some wicked plot connected with Alabaster Royal, and Jack found out about it?”
“That’s what the boy claims, yes.”
“Did he give you any information about the plot?”
“Your grand-nephew was not at liberty, he said, to go into details. Convenient, eh?”
“Did he imply then—that the authorities are handling the matter?”
“He mentioned— Dammitall! He says he’s under—under orders!”
“The—Horse Guards? Oh, my heavens!”
“And—don’t fly into the boughs—Wellington!”
Lady Paula appropriated her husband’s glass and took a healthy swallow. She spluttered and coughed, but managed to say breathlessly, “I want you to be … honest with me, Reginald. If there is … any chance of this dreadful business being … published … in the newspapers … I must be prepared.”
“Have I not said that it’s all so much poppycock? Only consider, my lady. Was there ever a more proud and haughty creature than Kendrick Vespa? Can you suppose a fellow so puffed up in his own conceit would have accepted another man’s by-blow as his own all these years? Fed and clothed and educated—”
“It is exactly what Kendrick would have done,” moaned Lady Paula. “Especially if he knew who the man was. You know as well as I that there are many fine families among the ton with children born ‘on the wrong side of the blanket,’ as they say, yet who are acknowledged as legitimate purely to avoid scandal.”
Sir Reginald glared at her and said without much force, “It’s all fustian I tell you! The boy’s ill. Mentally deranged from his wounds, and should be clapped up. For Lord’s sake do not let that imagination of yours start running wild!”
Gripping her hands tightly, Lady Paula took a quivering breath, and as if he had not spoken, murmured, “What a vicious thing for Kendrick to have done! Much worse than having shot down the boy who loved him so. But I suppose it was quite logical for him to have hated John all these years.” She smiled wanly into her husband’s dark scowl, and nodded. “Oh, yes, I believe it, my dear. It all falls into place, do you see? Why Kendrick was so seldom at home. Why Faith was so neglected. And now, of course, I see the resemblance, so that I can only marvel I didn’t comprehend long ago … John was so very unlike either Kendrick or Sherry.”
“What stuff!” roared Sir Reginald, springing to his feet. “John takes after our side of the family! The fine Saxon side of his heritage! Whereas Kendrick gave his Norman characteristics to Sherborne! I might have known that, womanlike, you’d fasten onto such a melodramatic explanation! Well, I don’t believe it! Not a word!” He began to pace up and down once more, carrying his glass and growling to himself, while Lady Paula stared into space and thought her thoughts and was silent. Checking abruptly, he demanded, “Who was it, then? Since you think you know.”
She looked at him steadily. “Don’t you remember? When Sherry was two years old and Kendrick was flirting with so many of the beauties of the day, and Faith began to form her own court? Think back, Reginald! She was very lovely then, and of all the men who adored her, who was the one Kendrick most hated? The man Faith should have wed, you used to say. The man she would have chosen for her lover. The perfect way to thoroughly humiliate her husband and give him back his own.”
“My … dear … God!” Sir Reginald’s eyes had become very wide. He collapsed onto the side of the bed as if his legs had melted under him. “I wonder Kendrick did not strangle her!”
His wife nodded. “You see the resemblance now.”
“Yes. Jupiter! How could we all have been so blind?”
There was a brief silence, broken when Sir Reginald started and exclaimed, “Deuce take it, Paula! We’re in a fine bumble-broth! John wants to marry Francesca Ottavio’s granddaughter. Kendrick was instrumental in the murder of the girl’s father, and the old lady knows the whole story. The whole story!”
“Oh, how dreadful! Then John must be equally unacceptable to her as Kendrick’s heir, or as a man with no name. Lady Francesca will never permit the marriage. Indeed, I’m surprised he’d approach the girl, under the circumstances.”
“He can’t fix his interest, of course. But he thinks she cares for him, and he is determined to at least discover his real father’s identity. Can’t blame the poor lad, but … I hope you’ll not be so unwise as to, er…”
“As to tell him?” Lady Paula sighed and shook her head sadly. “If I had a grain of compassion, I would. But—no, dear. If he’s to learn that home truth, it must be from his mama; not from his great aunt.”
Sir Reginald gave a sigh of relief. “Faith’s off flibbertigibbeting around South America. I doubt she’ll ever come back. And if she does, she’ll never tell him. The very thought of more scandal would keep her silly mouth shut! I only pray that whatever roguery Kendrick was about don’t become public knowledge.”
“I wonder whatever it could have been? How dreadful to have real wickedness in our family! If the Horse Guards and Lord Wellington are involved…” Tearful, Lady Paula reached out both hands. “Oh, Reginald, I could not bear to be shunned by Society!”
“Now then, m’dear,” he soothed, holding her hands firmly. “No need to make a Cheltenham tragedy of the business! We may never know the true facts, and if John does say aught of it, folks will surely set it down to the poor lad’s cracked brainbox. If there was some really shocking dealing, the authorities may be as anxious as we are to sweep it all under the rug. Whatever the case we must keep silent, Paula. Our niece did marry a Vespa, so our honour is involved. For the sake of the family name you must keep your tongue between your teeth and admit nothing—to anyone! You promise?”
Sir Reginald’s lady nodded and on a smothered sob gave her promise.
2
It had stopped raining when Captain Vespa left Wansdyke House. The night air was very cold and bracing and a half-moon imparted a soft radiance as it broke through shredding clouds. It was not far
to his club, and although the Battle of Vitoria had left him with a marked limp, he chafed against inaction. Thanks to his more recent brush with death there had been little chance for exercise these past few weeks and he stepped out briskly, waving on the jervey who slowed his hackney coach and peered at him hopefully.
Lady Francesca did not keep very late hours, but it was doubtful that she would leave the ball before midnight. With luck, Manderville would escort the ladies back to Claridges and then join him at the Madrigal Club. With more luck, between them they’d have learned something of his mother’s erstwhile admirers.
Few people were about on this rainy late evening, but when he turned onto St. James’s he had to jump back to avoid being run down by a coach racing around the corner, the coachman very obviously the worse for drink. He shouted a protest and was answered by a flourished whip and a muddled response seemingly having to do with Christmas. Muttering indignantly, he walked on, his thoughts turning to the unhappy interview with his great-uncle. Lord, but Sir Reginald had been furious. For a while it had seemed likely that the poor old fellow would suffer an apoplexy. He should have anticipated such a reaction, but he’d counted on the fact that neither Sir Reginald, nor Great-Aunt Paula had been fond of his—of Sir Kendrick. He’d sometimes suspected, in fact, that they thoroughly disliked him. Obviously, he had underestimated their dread of scandal. He smiled a twisted smile. What a multitude of sins was hidden behind the fear of sullying a Family Name. Sir Reginald had all but threatened to have him put away if he dared pursue his enquiries. His jaw tightened. He was fond of the old gentleman and had no wish to upset him. Nor had he the slightest intention of giving up his search.
The Riddle of the Lost Lover Page 3