by Lucy Ashford
Lucas, his face bleak, did not contradict him.
Verena went to her room, praying she would not meet a soul until she could wash and change. Would they be able to see? Would they know, just by looking at her face, at her eyes?
She had spent the night in his bed. Allowed him such intimacy. She felt ashamed. She felt full of bewildering joy. She put her palms to her face in a vain attempt to cool her heated skin.
Why does he have to go? What is there in his life that is so urgent? Will he once more ask me to marry him when he returns, or will he realise he’s made a grave error and laugh about me, with his London friends?
Those Frenchmen—he knew about them all the time. And now Lucas had gone; she’d watched him from her window riding away towards the Chichester road; watched him till he was out of sight. Where was he going? Why wouldn’t he tell her more?
He had asked her to trust him. And this time, she would—for he had ensured that Wycherley was safe.
* * *
Soon, the usual clamour of the household took up her attention, and it was some time before she could get up to her room again and think of Lucas.
He and her father would perhaps have become great friends. Her heart lifting at the thought, she went to where she kept his letters locked away in a secret compartment of the dressing table. On that table stood the silver music box, which looked as if it was a little nearer the window than before.
Nonsense. She was imagining things.
She started, smiling, to look at the letters. Her father had written to her more than he did to anyone else, corresponding regularly while on his travels in Spain and Portugal before the war began. You would love it all, Verena! Some day I will bring you here, to see the cities, and the plains, and the high mountains!
The letters from his last journey of all were different. Written in the Portuguese dialect of his mother’s family, they were troubled, darker, for the shadow of war was engulfing the Peninsula. She thought again of the British army about to set off over the mountains towards Lisbon; her father would have known that terrain so well.
His last letters grew shorter, the notes folded many times. Damaged, torn even, during their uncertain journey to her. Several of them were inscribed with his rough-sketched maps, together with footnotes about distances and heights. One of the maps, drawn in more detail than usual, was labelled Busaco.
This was the final communication she’d received from him. And the last words were: The e-r of Sta-iffe. Do not trust him. He is our enemy.
She’d looked at those words, some of them half-obliterated, many times.
But now, her heart suddenly seemed to stop beating. She walked across her room, to hold the letter closer to the window. Her fingers started to shake.
She’d always assumed—believed—that her father was writing about the Earl of Stancliffe, with whom he’d argued so bitterly.
But now, she realised she could make out the letters more clearly in the bright morning light. And they spelled out not the earl of, but the heir of Stancliffe.
Lucas. Oh, dear God.
Verena stumbled blindly for a chair, and in doing so she sent the music box crashing to the ground. It fell open and the poignant melody of ‘My Soldier Love’ filled the room.
She snatched it up and slammed the lid shut, her mind reeling in the stunning silence. You fool, Verena. You utter fool.
‘You have failed again. You were mad to even try such a thing, Englishman. Yes, it appears our enemy has decided to pass this incident also off as an accident. But truly now he will be even more on the alert’.
In the grey morning light a confrontation was taking place less than half a mile away, down on the shingle beach at Ragg’s Cove, between three men who spoke in harsh, fractured English and Captain Martin Bryant.
‘You have blundered too!’ Martin fought back, attempting defiance. ‘You tried to kidnap the girl, although you swore to me that she would not be touched!’
For some moments the only sound was that of the rolling waves dragging at the shingle. Then Bryant saw the gleam of the pistol in the first man’s hand and he stepped backwards, sweat breaking out on his forehead.
‘Vraiment, she will not be harmed,’ murmured the man with the pistol, ‘if you get us the information we need. We want to see her father’s papers. His maps. Especially, we must have the diary that he kept of his travels in Portugal two years ago’.
Bryant muttered, ‘I’m not sure that she knows anything. I’m not sure that what you want even exists. I visited the old Earl, who’s half-mad and just rants that Sheldon swindled him; and at Wycherley I’ve been through Sheldon’s study quite thoroughly’.
‘You told us. That you’d got inside the house with a key you’d purloined, and made it look like a burglary. Clever. And yet you found—nothing. Be careful, my friend. It was you, after all, who promised us these items in return for your freedom, a year ago’. The three men were moving in closer.
Martin Bryant faced them with squared shoulders. ‘At least my shot last night means that Conistone is laid up again, useless!’
‘Ah. Your bullet caught him then, mon ami?’
Martin flushed. ‘Not exactly. But I heard that valet of his telling a servant this morning that Conistone stumbled last night and re-opened his wound—an accident no doubt caused by the shock of my bullet flying so close!’
‘In that case,’ said the first Frenchman silkily, ‘why has he just gone riding off along the road, to the devil knows where?’
‘What?’ Martin Bryant’s face was quite white. ‘I swear I don’t know! I honestly thought he was bedridden…’
‘We have let him go—for now. He has powerful friends. But you must try to do better, Captain Bryant. There is so little time left. Do you understand?’ The Frenchman moved closer to Martin, his pistol raised threateningly now. ‘To where does he go? And on what business? What has Lord Conistone found that you could not?’
Chapter Thirteen
Three weeks later—Jersey, Channel Isles
A magnificent private party was being hosted by the Comtesse de Brouet in her mansion overlooking the sea at St Helier. Amongst her glittering guests were other French royalists who had similarly taken refuge here, as well as an assortment of handsome British army officers and several English travellers on business they preferred to keep to themselves. Jersey was British territory, but only a few miles from France; in this time of war, nobody asked too many questions.
Candlelight shone in the beautifully furnished salons, and a string orchestra filled the evening air with sweet melodies. The widowed Comtesse de Brouet was only in her thirties and had several suitors, but she had her eye on a tall, dark-haired Englishman who went by the name of Mr Patterson.
He was engaged in the wine trade, she’d been told, and had been in St Helier for a week now. Waiting for someone, he said.
Disappointingly, instead of joining the dancing, the rather delicious-looking Mr Patterson was at present outside on the terrace, leaning against the balustrade, watching the moonlight on the sea. It was August, and the night air was pleasantly warm, but even so, such a waste.
The Comtesse went sweeping out to him in her gown of draped white satin embroidered with gold thread, and declared, ‘My dear Monsieur Patterson, do not brood alone, pray!’ She tapped her feathered fan flirtatiously against his broad shoulder. ‘Are none of our St Helier beauties to your liking?’
Lucas Conistone, for it was he, answered as required, with a bow and in equally fluent French, ‘Since you have declared your intention to remain single, I fear not, Comtesse!’
‘Dancing is not the same as marriage, monsieur,’ she said, coyly smiling up at the handsome, powerfully built Englishman. ‘Will you promise to partner me in the cotillion before supper?’
‘I would be honoured’. But when she nodded, satisfied, and returned inside, Lucas turned back to gaze at the harbour below. The summer seas just lately had been rough, but today had been calmer, and Lucas had tonight seen se
veral British navy vessels drop anchor in the bay. Tonight. Come on, man. Make it tonight.
‘Mr Patterson?’
Lucas spun round to see a waiter addressing him.
‘There’s an officer in here, sir, looking for you…’
Lucas hurried inside. There, eye-catching even in this crowded salon, was a familiar figure clad in the dashing blue jacket and white breeches of the Light Dragoons, who came straight over to him.
‘Got your message, Lucas, almost the minute I got into harbour,’ grinned Alec Stewart. He looked around appreciatively. ‘You’ve chosen a mighty fine place for our rendezvous this time’.
Lucas was already leading the way to the balcony again. ‘Apart from the occupational hazard of man-hungry French comtesses, yes. Come out here. We’ll be more private’.
Alec seized two glasses and the almost-full bottle from the waiter’s tray, and jauntily followed his friend out to the table and two chairs set in the shadows beyond the doorway. ‘Man-hungry French comtesses,’ he breathed. ‘My God, after over a week on board ship, that sounds good…’
‘Tell me the news before you let yourself fall prey to one’.
Intelligence reports when he reached London from Hampshire had informed Lucas Conistone that Alec Stewart was making his way to England from Lisbon on board a ship that was due to call in at St Helier for supplies, so Lucas had set sail here himself and waited.
For Alec was not a wastrel, as was popularly supposed, but a vital messenger for Lord Wellington himself. Now Alec poured them both wine and his expression became graver. ‘Lord Wellington’s started his march towards Lisbon from the Spanish border, Lucas. But the bad news is that the French, I’m afraid, are after him, in almost double the numbers’.
For Lucas, the sounds of music and laughter seemed suddenly to recede, and he was picturing, in all its brutal vividness, Wellington’s army on the march. The thousands of footsore soldiers with their heavy packs; the gun-carriages; the vital ammunition and supplies borne on mules and lumbering bullock carts, which were the only transport fit for what rough Portuguese roads existed. And the huge French army in pursuit.
‘A gamble,’ Lucas said softly. ‘A brave but almighty gamble’.
‘Exactly. Lord Wellington gave me a message for you. He urgently needs more maps—detailed maps—of the wild and difficult terrain he’s about to cross. He’s sent out his own scouts, of course, but you and I are both aware of one man who knew that territory like no other’.
‘Wild Jack Sheldon,’ nodded Lucas. ‘Alec, I’ve found—these’. He pushed across the maps Bentinck had found at Wycherley.
Alec scanned the maps eagerly. ‘Congratulations. These are good. More than good. But—no sign of that diary? The one you’d suspected Sheldon left at Wycherley before setting off on his last journey?’
‘I couldn’t find it, Alec. I couldn’t damn well find it…’ Lucas raked his hand through his hair. ‘I’ve left Bentinck still looking. But unfortunately, I suspect I’m not the only one searching’.
Alec started. ‘You mean—the French have got wind of it?’
‘You and I know Wild Jack had begun to talk, for money. So it was, I’m afraid, inevitable’. And Lucas told Alec quickly about the attack on Verena above Ragg’s Cove, of the bullet through his window. ‘I’ve been shot at twice,’ he grimaced. ‘At least on the battlefield you know roughly which direction the bullets are coming from’.
Alec listened, his expression serious. ‘Haven’t you sometimes regretted leaving the army, Lucas? You could have stayed in uniform and still done intelligence work, as many of us do!’
‘I thought about it, God knows. But Wellington asked me specifically if I would operate as a civilian. I’m a useful source as to what’s going on in London, amongst the politicians and the foreign diplomats there. And, Alec—’ Lucas’s face suddenly darkened ‘—after what happened with Verena’s father, I got used, I suppose, to leading a double life. But God help me, sometimes I just long for a straightforward battle’. He knocked back the last of his wine and looked around. ‘Perhaps we’d better either join the ladies, or throw away a fistful of guineas in the gaming room, before people start to wonder what we’re up to. After all—’ he raised an eyebrow cynically ‘—both you and I have reputations to keep up’.
Alec grinned wickedly. ‘Of course’. Then he was serious again. ‘Lucas, my ship’s going on to Portsmouth, but I’ll leave my dispatches with you and find a vessel to take me back to Portugal, tonight if the tide’s right, so I can get these to his lordship, as soon as possible…’ He was searching through the maps again. ‘One more thing. Have you ever come across anything about a place called Busaco?’
‘No. Is it important?’
‘It could be, yes. It’s a nine-mile rocky ridge, just before the mountains drop down to Portugal’s coastal plain, and Wellington is planning to draw the French up there after him. It will take him six to seven weeks to get there. Look out for anything about it, will you? He’ll need any advantage he can get’.
Busaco. Busaco .…‘Of course’.
Lucas was starting to get up, but Alec asked almost abruptly, ‘Does Verena have any idea yet, Lucas? About her father?’
Lucas’s expression was taut. ‘No. She still sees him as a hero. That’s how I want it to stay’.
Alec started to protest. ‘You’re being more than unfair on yourself, Lucas! Why the devil should you have to bear all this, when the fellow was—’
‘Alec?’
‘Yes?’
‘Do me a favour and stow it, will you?’
Alec hesitated. Then he nodded. ‘I wish you luck with her,’ he said quietly.
Lucas’s firm mouth twisted into a smile. ‘My thanks. Now, back to the fray. Smarten yourself up, dear fellow’.
Alec grinned. ‘Heiresses?’
‘Most definitely. You’ve no objection to a French one, have you?’
‘Not in the slightest,’ breathed Alec. ‘Lead on, my friend’.
As soon as they entered the drawing room, they were surrounded by a cluster of women, glittering in fine gowns and jewels. ‘Gentlemen!’ the Comtesse declared. ‘You are breaking our hearts! How can our two most handsome guests so neglect the ladies?’
Lucas smiled. ‘Comtesse’. And Alec’s eyes widened as they were approached by even more exiled beauties. Lucas honoured his promise to partner the Comtesse, who was charming and pretty.
But suddenly, in the middle of the set, he was struck by a hammer blow.
Busaco. Alec had confided that Lord Wellington was planning to face the French there, in six to seven weeks’ time. The name had seemed familiar, and now he remembered more. There were legends about Busaco. The steep hills there were said to have once contained mines, where, it was rumoured, explorers returning from the Americas centuries ago had hidden their gold. No treasure had ever been found; and the mine tunnels, if they ever existed, were lost beneath loose rocks and scrub. But—Wild Jack had explored that territory. And both Lucas’s grandfather and Verena had told Lucas recently that Jack Sheldon had boasted of finding something of great value.
Had he found those long-lost mines of Busaco? Did he write about them in his missing diary?
Lord Wellington desperately needed a victory at Busaco. It could hang on something as simple as that. Those tunnels could be used to hide cannon and marksmen, and to launch an attack from nowhere on the vastly superior French as they climbed up from the valley towards the waiting British.
Tomorrow he would sail back to England; he would say nothing to Alec yet, about the lost mines. He might be wrong. The damned mines might be just another wild goose chase, an unnecessary distraction.
Back to England, and Wycherley.
The Comtesse de Brouet was flirting with him, using all her wiles; she was wasting her time, because Lucas was remembering Verena. He remembered that last kiss. Remembered her hands, shyly but ardently pulling him closer; her lovely face, flushed with passion; her full breasts and long, silken l
egs as she twined herself around him, breathing his name, as she let herself submit to the meaning of love, and love’s ecstasy.
And he remembered, bitterly, that her father had been prepared to sell vital secrets to the enemy.
‘I wish you luck with her,’ Alec had said quietly.
And he thought now, with anguish, I am going to need a damned deal more than luck.
Chapter Fourteen
It was a hot September morning. Days of heavy rain had given way to sunshine and Verena was walking up to the village celebration on the Common with Izzy. Izzy was bursting with excitement, because that very afternoon she and Deb and Lady Frances were going at last to London.
They wanted Verena to go with them. She knew she should go with them.
But she held back, because. Because she still hoped Lucas would come back? But then what?
How could she ever ignore the warning her father had sent her?
Yes, Wycherley was safe. The compensation for the diverted stream that Lucas had told her the Earl owed her family had been settled, and the sum was beyond her expectations.
‘This is all quite proper and correct, Miss Sheldon!’ Mr Mayhew had assured her, kindly.
All of the Sheldon family’s outstanding bills had been paid off, together with the mortgage on the house. With proper investment, the estate, with its farms and tenancies, would be able to run at a profit again. The Sheldons would be able to buy new furniture, new gowns, even rent a modest London house for the forthcoming Season.
Lucas had ensured that the Earl paid them this money.
And Verena wished she could have flung it all back in Lucas Conistone’s face.
The heir of Stancliffe. Do not trust him. He is our enemy, her beloved father had written.
If she had read that warning earlier, what then?
She might not have been strong enough to refuse the sum that meant the saving of Wycherley, but she would have been strong enough to resist Lucas’s endearments, and his sweet caresses.