The Riddle of the Lost Lover

by Patricia Veryan

  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.”

  At this point Manning returned with a laden tray. Lady Francesca poured coffee and when the maid had gone asked shrewdly, “What are you believing, Captain?”

  Vespa accepted a slice of seed cake, and replied, “That Colonel Adair is most definitely back in England. I didn’t imagine our violent encounters. Nor do I think my activities are his major concern.”

  Consuela said, “But he warned you to stop your search. So, surely, whatever he’s about must be in some way linked to what you—we—are doing.”

  “Shall you stop—as the colonel he demand?” asked Lady Francesca.

  “By George, but I won’t! I did what I could for Adair and met a brick wall. I’m not on active service now, and barring a straight command from his lordship, I’ll keep on.”

  Consuela nodded. “What about Sir Kendrick’s man of business? Might he be able to help?”

  “Very likely. But Felton’s slippery as an eel. Every time I call at his offices he is very much ‘out.’ It’s clear he doesn’t want to see me, and if I did trap him he would likely talk in meaningless circles as those lawyer fellows love to do, so I see no point in wasting my time on him. Toby and Paige have gone off to Bow Street to try and see Adair. I mean to drive down to Richmond and see if any letters have arrived from my mother.”

  “Good.” Consuela slipped a biscuit to the hopeful Corporal. “We have plans for this afternoon also, Jack. Grandmama and me.”

  He looked at her uncertainly. “You have both been so very good, but—”

  “I know. We must not run into danger. You told me that once before.”

  “Yes, I did.” His eyes darkened at the memory. “And had you paid me heed you might not have nigh got yourself killed!”

  “Don’t go into the boughs. Nonna and I mean to—”

  “She calls me Nonna when she is trying to turn me up sweetly,” interrupted Lady Francesca looking far from sweet.

  In a stage whisper Consuela told Vespa, “It is merely the Italian version of Grandmama, and I use it because it pleases her. How unkind I should be not to want to please my dear little duchess!”

  “You are a conniving minx!” declared Lady Francesca, but she could not keep the twinkle from her eye, and Consuela laughed, and went on: “We mean to do nothing more dangerous than to visit the biggest gossip in the southland. But, I had hoped…” She glanced rather wistfully at the window.

  He said, “You had hoped to see more of London, instead of which you’re spending all your time trying to help me.”

  Lady Francesca said, “You gave up a great deal more than time when you helped us, Captain Jack.”

  He smiled at her gratefully. “If you don’t mean to call on your gossip till this afternoon, may I now take you both for a drive?”

  “In the rain?” Lady Francesca shook her head. “For me, this is not!”

  Consuela’s blue eyes glowed. “Oh, I should so like to see some more of the city, dearest Grandmama. May I please go?”

  “I’ll take great care of her, ma’am,” Vespa pleaded.

  “It is unwise, this,” said the duchess meeting his eyes sternly. “There must be no talkings of troths and promisings, you understand? No interest fixings. I will have your word, Captain.”

  He gave her his word, and said that he was in no position to make such ‘talkings,’ but his heart sank and he was reminded once again that even if he found his sire to be a most unexceptionable gentleman, his hopes of winning his lady were slim at best.

  * * *

  The dreary weather had kept many people from venturing outside but for Consuela it might have been a summer’s day. She had chosen to wear a claret-coloured cloak and hood over a pale pink woollen gown and she came, or so thought Vespa, like a ray of sunlight into the coach. She had seen the more famous of the city’s landmarks, and informed him that although she loved to watch the ships on the river, and thought the various parks beautiful, it was a pity more trees had not been planted along the streets. “It is such a sea of bricks and cobblestones. But it is a very exciting place to be, do you not think? All the shops and theatres, and the carriages, and so many people!”

  “Less than usual today, because of the rain no doubt, which makes it easier for our coachman to get about.”

  “Papa used to say that in England if we wait for the rain to stop, we’ll never go anywhere. But only look, it is stopping! How nice of the Weather Angel to bring the sun out for us! Oh, Jack!” She reached out impulsively and touched his arm. “Do look at that lady! What a remarkable bonnet! Are those the new colours? They seem awfully bright.”

  With difficulty he tore his gaze from the little hand resting so confidingly on his sleeve. The lady in question was indeed clad in bright colours and the umbrella shielding the feathers of her bonnet constituted a distinct hazard to other pedestrians. “A trifle too bright for propriety,” he said with a twinkle.

  Consuela gave him a questioning look, then chuckled. “Oh. I see. Well, you found a lovely coach for us, and you are behaving with great propriety, Captain Vespa.”

  The smile left his eyes. His ‘propriety’ was a constant frustration. To have this time with her; to see her vivacity and enthusiasm was delight. To long so to tell her of his love and know he must not, was torment. Her bright glance was fixed on his face. He said, “It was very good of the duchess to allow me to s
teal you away. She cannot be easy, knowing I— I mean— Oh, Jupiter!”

  “What do you mean, Captain Jack?”

  Her eyes were so soft, so glowing. Her hand was still on his arm. It was as much as he could do to refrain from seizing and kissing those soft pink fingers, but a gentleman did not break his given word. He wrenched his head away and said hoarsely, “Here—here we are at Cornhill already. You will have a fine view now, Consuela.”

  It was as well he did not see her tender smile. She said, “Yes, indeed! What is that tower? And why is it called Cornhill?”

  “The tower is the Royal Exchange, and Cornhill is so named because it was at one time the site of a corn market.” He drew her attention to the famous Tower of St. Michael and the numerous graceful church spires that could be seen. She was interested in everything, especially the fine shops, and the modern architecture of the large houses, and asked if this was a newer area of the city.

  “Not really, but much of this section was destroyed during the Great Fire, and the new buildings were marked improvements over the old.” He bent his head and leaned towards her side window to point out a fine lantern suspended from a sign that advertised the Manufacture of Writing Desks and Morrocco Dressing Cases. “Now we are turning onto Lombard Street,” he added, and straightening found his lips scant inches from her chin. He drew back with a gasp. The voice of temptation hissed, ‘Fool! This might well be your last chance to be alone with her, don’t waste it!’ He fought to shut out that all too persuasive voice, but it crept into his mind once more. Where would be the harm in simply begging her to wait? How could there be shame in at least holding her close, just for a little while? ‘No one will see you in the coach.’

  The struggle for control was won, but he could not keep the yearning from his eyes, and seeing it, and the way his hand trembled, Consuela repented and turned away. “Aha,” she said gaily. “Lombard? Now there is an Italian name, no? Does some great family live here?”

  Watching the velvety curve of her cheek, the way the light glistened on her dusky curls, he murmured, “What…? Oh! Er, well, yes the Lombards were a great banking or money-lending family, long ago.”

  “Really? Then Grandmama will probably know them and may wish to pay a call.”

  “I rather doubt it. I’m afraid they were a rascally lot, Consuela, and did so much mischief that Queen Elizabeth sent them packing.”

  At once bristling, she said tartly, “From what I have learned of that lady, she made a habit of sending people packing! With or without their heads!”

  “You prefer to believe the poor Lombards were pure as the driven snow, do you? Why? Are they kin to you?”

  “I don’t know.…” A new thought banished her irritation, and she clapped her hands. “But—oh, that would be very helpful, would it not? Then Grandmama couldn’t very well—” She bit her lip and cut the words off.

  “You mean it would be a case of the pot not being able to call the kettle black, I think. As if I would allow my own disgrace to touch you, little signorina.”

  “You are not disgraced!” she declared, her eyes sparkling with anger. “Your war record alone proves you an honourable gentleman! Why should you suffer for what he did? You are not of his blood!”

  Such fierce defensiveness warmed his heart. He said, “I mean to prove that, just as fast as I can. To which end, Miss Jones,” he tugged on the check-string, “I must take you home to the duchess, and get started to Richmond.”

  Consuela asked, “Must you drive all the way down there? Surely Thornhill can go and collect any letters that wait for you?”

  “He’s a fine valet, I grant you, but he has only worked for me a short while. Our butler, Rennett, has been at Richmond since I was a small boy, and there are questions that … well, that only I can ask him.”

  “Ooh!” breathed Consuela her eyes very wide. “What a very good notion, Jack. The servants know everything!”

  * * *

  “So good of Consuela to accompany my niece to the lending library.” The sofa occupied by Mrs. Monica Hughes-Dering creaked protestingly as she turned to select another sweetmeat from the box beside her. “I would gladly have gone with Minerva,” she lied, nudging away the golden spaniel that had settled itself on her foot. “But my constitution is frail, you know, and I cannot like wintry weather. How fortunate that you should have chosen today to call upon me, Duchess. My little London house is close to everything, but I declare none of my friends will venture out in the rain, and I was like to die from boredom till you came. Now, with the girls gone, we can enjoy a comfortable cose.”

  The ‘little London house’ was a luxurious mansion located off Dover Street, and was considered by most people much too large to be occupied by one person. However, it had been for many years a Mecca for the ton and after her spouse had gone to his reward, the widow had chosen to remain. When she was not receiving her friends, she relied for companionship upon her numerous pets and, to a lesser degree, on whichever indigent relation she could bully into living under her roof. It was a rare afternoon that the elegant drawing room was not crowded with callers come to pay homage to the grande dame, and Lady Francesca counted herself fortunate to have found her quarry comparatively alone.

  Now, surrounded by five dogs of varying origins, all anxiously watching the path of the sweetmeat, Lady Francesca also watched in fascination as it disappeared into the tiny slit of a mouth. If this tyrant of the ton was ‘frail’ she gave no sign of it. Always, she had been a large woman, but it was some years since they last had met and Lady Francesca was genuinely aghast to note that the dowager had more than doubled in girth. An initial suggestion that they share the sofa was a piece of empty rhetoric, for not even a small child could have squeezed in beside her. The chins that had once been double had quadrupled, neckline and waistline blended into one great bulk, and the eyes were small black beads, almost hidden by the swell of the rouged cheeks.

  They were shrewd eyes, none the less, and, aware of this, Lady Francesca accepted the mumbled offer of a sweetmeat and stifled her yearning to enumerate the various means by which one might put off flesh.

  Their ‘comfortable close,’ frequently interrupted by loving exchanges between Mrs. Hughes-Dering and her unruly pets, commenced with polite enquiries as to old friends and family members. There was a small disaster when a Pekinese jumped into the box of sweetmeats, precipitating a battle royal for the scattered pieces, but once a neat maid had provided another box the ‘cose’ resumed. The frightful morals of today’s youth provided an entertaining topic, then Lady Francesca skillfully initiated a discussion of the terrible discomforts of travel, and ‘chanced’ to mention that she had come to town under the escort of a young officer. “I fancy you know of him, dear Signora Monica, for you know everybodys who is anybodys. Captain John Vespa?”

  The beady eyes glittered with interest. “Jack Vespa? But of course I know him. Do you say he is in town already? Poor boy. Such a dreadful thing when members of the aristocracy can be attacked and murdered by these dreadful revolutionary ruffians, for that’s what they must have been, I am very sure. I suppose Jack will be sailing off to South America to fetch his mother home, eh?”

  “This it would surprise me not at all. Only am I surprised the lady she have run off like that. Why do you suppose her to doing such things?”

  Mrs. Hughes-Dering paused for another assault on the sweetmeat box. “Far be it from me, dear Francesca,” she said, fending off the persistently optimistic spaniel. “Far be it from me to pay heed to the gabble-mongers. You know how unkind they can be. But—one must face facts. Once a widgeon, always a widgeon!” She lowered her voice and added confidingly, “To be honest, Duchess, I often wondered how Sir Kendrick could abide the foolish creature.”

  “Si. This I heard. But he was a handsome man, and they say Lady Faith is a lovely woman. Perhaps she was a credit to him?”

  Around the sweetmeat her friend uttered a disparaging snort. “If he thought so, he hid it well! More than a li
ttle bit of a rascal with the ladies was Kendrick Vespa.”

  “Ah, but this, it is sad. The poor wife abandoned in the country alone and unwanted.”

  The dowager roared, “Here, lads!” and hurled two sweetmeats to the far end of the room.

  Lady Francesca gave a gasp as a greyhound leapt across her knees. There was a cacophony of barking, scrambling claws, yelps, growls and more warfare. Nobody’s fool, the golden spaniel sprang instead onto his owner’s lap, or what might be assumed to be her lap. Mrs. Hughes-Dering caught him as he slithered down the slope. “Mummy’s little rogue,” she cooed, kissing him fondly, and then bellowed, “Elise!”

  The maid hurried in, waving biscuits. The canine contingent followed their Pied Piper as though they’d not been fed for several days, even the spaniel abandoning his mistress. “Are they not the dearest creatures?” gushed Mrs. Hughes-Dering. “But they do love Mummy’s treats, and I mustn’t let myself spoil the little pets. Now—what were we saying?”

  “Lady Vespa. Such a sad fate. I feeling for her.” The duchess raised her brows enquiringly. “Unless…?”

  Mrs. Hughes-Dering giggled. “Oh, yes. There were some of those!”

  “Is so? How much of a secret this was, for never did I hear of it. Do you say there was more than one—ah—”

  “Side-door lover? Indeed there was, not that many knew of it.”

  “But you did, clever one!” Pulling her chair closer, Lady Francesca said avidly, “Living as we do in the country, I never hear such stories of romance. Do tell me—ah, but I am silly and these happenings of so long ago you will be forgetting, or perhaps you did not know who were these side-door peoples.”

  It was a challenge no dedicated gossip could refuse. Mrs. Monica Hughes-Dering sat straighter and said, “I never forget the affaires of the ton! Now, let me see.…”

  4

  The gracious house that sprawled along the banks of the Thames near Richmond had been quiet for weeks but today it hummed with activity. The butler, Obadiah Rennett, had set maids to bustling about with dusters and towels, and bed linen; the fireboy had awoken a fine blaze on the drawing room hearth and was now preparing another in Captain Vespa’s bedchamber (Mr. Rennett having been advised that the captain would not move into the suite his late father had occupied); the chef sang happily in his kitchen; and everyone’s spirits were lifted because at last the young master had come home.