The Return of Lord Conistone (24 page)

She sat down, her heart thudding sickeningly. ‘So people really are after his papers’.

‘His diary of the year before last, to be precise,’ cut in Martin. ‘And I’ll ask you again—has Conistone pestered you for this diary? I warn you, Conistone will sacrifice anyone, and anything, to get it! You must tell me where that diary is; it is bringing you into incredible danger!’

She jumped to her feet again. ‘If I was in danger because of that diary, then so was Lucas! He tried to protect me! He was shot at, twice!’

‘Perhaps,’ said Martin silkily, ‘they were trying to silence him. He’s not making a very good job of things, after all’.

‘They?’

‘His French comrades’.

The room was spinning around her. Martin had hinted at this weeks ago; she had taken no heed. ‘Captain Bryant, you’re not saying—that Lucas is working for the French?’

‘Who else would he work for, after he left the army in such disgrace?’

Her hand went to her throat. ‘But—why?’

‘Not for money, certainly,’ said Martin bitterly. ‘He has no need of
that
. But—he won’t have forgotten the insults that flew around after he left the army. He’s a coward, Verena. And this betrayal of an entire campaign is the horribly twisted revenge of an extremely clever man whose life has gone utterly wrong. You’d have thought Lucas Conistone had everything, wouldn’t you? Money, looks, title. But beneath it all he’s bitter as hell and full of hatred. I guess that he’s promised to take your father’s diary to the French in Portugal—indeed, I’ve been told he’s on his way there now. Thank God he hasn’t found it’.

But he had
. The nausea rose in her throat till she could barely stand. ‘You say—he’s on his way to Portugal? ‘

‘He’s set off for Portsmouth, yes’.

With the diary.

She said tightly, ‘If you really believe that he is a traitor, why not report it?’

He shrugged. ‘He has powerful friends, so I need proof, Verena, extremely good proof. And if I challenged him alone I’d be a dead man. But—perhaps I should not be telling you all this!’ He walked over to the window, then swung round to face her again, his face quite desperate. ‘After all—you’ve as good as sold yourself to him, haven’t you?’

Had he heard about the secret betrothal?
Her night with him on the island? The colour burned in her cheeks. ‘Martin, I’ve sold myself to no one! That is an abominable lie!’

‘Is it? Is it?’ He spread out his hands, palms upwards. ‘Everyone knows that he’s lavishing money on your family—
why?
Verena, I love you! I can’t offer you what Lucas can. But I can offer you a loyal and a brave heart!’

Suddenly he whirled round to face the door, hearing what Verena did. The sound of heavy footsteps outside, and the familiar whistling of ‘The British Grenadiers’.

She hurried to the door. ‘Bentinck! What are you doing in this part of the house?’

Bentinck had stayed, on Lucas’s precise instructions. She had known better than to argue. ‘Looking for you, ma’am,’ he said. ‘Some parcels ‘ave just arrived by carrier; fabric for curtains and other such fancy things, I b’lieve. Will you come and sign for them? The carrier’s out in the yard’.

‘Yes. I’ll make my own way there’. Still he didn’t move. She said sharply, ‘Well? What are you waiting here for?’

‘To make sure everything’s all right, ma’am. That’s all’.

He was Lucas’s spy. And she’d had enough of him.
‘I can manage perfectly well without you, Bentinck, I assure you!’

For a moment Bentinck looked inclined to stand his ground. ‘Lord Conistone, he said—’

She ushered him out into the hallway, shutting the door on Captain Bryant. ‘Bentinck,’ she announced, ‘I’m leaving Wycherley later today, to join my mother and sisters in London. You will leave also. And definitely—most definitely—not in my company! You’ve no need at all to fear for my safety—I’ll be far better chaperoned in London than I am here, I assure you!’

‘Even so—’

‘If I don’t see you leaving this house within the hour, Bentinck, I will have you arrested for trespass. Is that clear?’

He bowed his head. ‘Quite clear, ma’am’. His face was wooden. ‘Would you put that in writing, ma’am, for his lordship?’

Pale with fury, she hurried to the study, scribbled a note and thrust it at him.

‘Thank you, ma’am, obliged, I’m sure!’ And he walked slowly away.

Drawing her hand wearily across her eyes, Verena went back to Martin Bryant.

‘You must go,’ she said icily. She held the door open and he picked up his hat, still hesitating.

‘Conistone is more than a coward, Verena. He’s a damned traitor! I’ll carry on doing what I can, to find proof of it. But for God’s sake have nothing more to do with him, and if you
do
find this diary of your father’s, let me know, will you? Believe me, I’ll make very sure that Lord Wellington gets it!’

He left, hurrying out to where his horse was tethered.

Verena went to sign for the curtain fabrics; then, as the carrier’s cart rumbled off, she simply stood there, alone.

Had Lucas really gone to the extremity of
seducing
her to get her father’s diary? Did Lucas truly intend to deliver it to the French, as Martin Bryant said? She pressed her hands to her temples.

Perhaps Lucas had taken it because it was dangerous for her, Verena, to have in her possession! After all, he
must
care for her! He had asked her twice, now, to marry him.

Hope was crushed by a new and dire thought. Marriage would prevent her testifying against him if he was accused of treason. For no wife could give evidence against her husband in court.

She felt sick to her stomach. But she had to be strong. She had to get the diary back. She had to confront Lucas with what she knew, and get him to tell her the truth.

But could she really face the truth?

She went inside to change her clothes. From her window she saw Bentinck riding away. She sat there, in the utter stillness, her mind conjuring up a thousand scenarios, her heart shattering into a thousand pieces. Then she prepared to leave Wycherley herself—and not for London.

6:00 p.m.—Portsmouth

T
he din of sailors’ shouts and women crying farewells to loved ones filled the crowded quayside. Verena gazed around at all the vessels, all the people, in Portsmouth’s bustling harbour. She’d ridden here alone, as quickly as she could.

She had to find Lucas before he sailed for Portugal and get the diary back.

Would he be on a naval ship? Or would he be taking an ordinary passage on one of the many small vessels that carried troops and ammunition out to Lisbon for the British army?

‘He’s a coward,’ Martin had said scornfully. ‘And this betrayal is the revenge of a man whose life has gone utterly wrong’.

Still so hard to believe.…

Squaring her slender shoulders, she pushed her way along the harbour, asking the same question again and again, ‘Is there a ship sailing for Lisbon tonight? ‘

Often her request was greeted with raucous laughter. ‘Going there yourself, are you, darling? Got a man in the army? Or has some randy buck got you in trouble and is doing his best to run away from you?’

People clearly wondered what she, a young, respectably dressed lady, was doing here on her own. Most of the women here on this crowded dockside were from the town, come to say tearful goodbyes to the sailors, or the scarlet-jacketed infantry bound for the Peninsula. And there were, of course, the whores. A giggling group of them paraded past her now, the skirts of their tawdry gowns blowing in the strong sea breeze, their faces painted, their bosoms outthrust.

And as dusk gathered, even Verena’s indomitable spirit was starting to falter.
Perhaps he’s already sailed. Perhaps Martin was wrong and he’s leaving from one of the other ports. I am an utter fool
. She would have to ride home again, to Wycherley. It would take a while for her to be missed, because of course Bentinck had left, and she’d explained to Cook that she was visiting a friend and might stay overnight. She’d also left a sealed note for Pippa. Just in case.

She had to confront Lucas and get the diary back. Her father never gave up, and neither would she. Her fingers fastened instinctively round the small package she had in her pocket, of her father’s letters to her. She’d brought them as a talisman, to inspire her with the courage her father had always told her she possessed.

Stubbornly she continued to push her way through the crowds, asking and asking if any ships were due to leave for Lisbon.

And suddenly, she got an answer. A man in a shabby tricorne hat, with the wind-roughened complexion of a seafarer, listened to her with interest. ‘There’s the
Goldfinch
,
m’dear. Sailing as soon as the tide turns’. He pointed along the quayside to where a down-at-heel brig was being loaded with provisions. ‘Got someone to say goodbye to, have you?’ He grinned. ‘A lover’s farewell?’

Goodbye, and so much more!
She gave a coy smile. ‘Indeed, I have a great deal to say to this particular gentleman! Can you tell me, sir, where I will find the
Goldfinch’s
captain?’

He tipped his dirty hat. ‘Right before you. Captain Jed Brooks at your service—
ma’am
. And who are you so eager to see?’

She hesitated. She did not like the look of Captain Brooks. She glanced at the
Goldfinch
—would Lucas really travel on such an untidy wreck of a ship?

If what you dread is true, then this is exactly the kind of vessel he would choose.

She said, ‘His name is Conistone. Lucas Conistone…’

He looked down a grubby list he’d pulled from his pocket. ‘We’re carrying marines in case of trouble from the Frenchies and a few business gents from England; we’ve a Wilkins, a Patterson. But Conistone? No. No one of that name’.

‘My thanks,’ she said quickly to Captain Jed Brooks. ‘I’ll try elsewhere’.

He touched his hat, regarding her lasciviously a moment longer. ‘Good luck with your quest, missy! And I only hope your man appreciates the trouble you’ve gone to, to say farewell to him!’ He went off chuckling, pushing his way through the crowds on the wharf to his ship.

At a distance, Verena watched as Captain Brooks swaggered up the gangplank. The
Goldfinch
was heaving with activity. Sailors were swarming up the rigging. Deckhands, swearing lustily, were hauling supplies on board. A troop of
twenty marines were lined up on the foc’sle deck, watching the crowds on the harbourside and whistling at the girls.

She was just about to turn and leave when she glimpsed a figure on the deck of the
Goldfinch
. Almost instantly he was hidden again, by the soldiers crowding the guard rail, and she gasped in disappointment. But she was so sure she had recognised the proud bearing, the aristocratic features, the slightly overlong black hair that singled out Lord Lucas Conistone!

She hurried up the gangplank, pushing her way past the busy sailors. She had seen him near the bridge. But now there was no sign. She must have been mistaken. Slowly she made her way back towards the gangplank.

Then suddenly two of the sailors barred her way. Two pairs of tattooed, brawny arms pinioned her. She could smell their sweat. ‘Women below deck!’ One of them grinned.

She tried to throw them off. ‘Take your hands off me!’

‘You’d prefer one of the army lads to us, would you, darling? Never fear, you’ll get your pick of them all soon enough, my lovely!’

She kicked and struggled. She shouted for help. But they almost lifted her along the deck and thrust her down a hatchway into a large but airless space below the ship’s foredeck, that was lit by a single filthy lantern hanging from an overhead beam. Some coarsely dressed women were already huddled in the far corner, playing cards and swigging gin. She caught her breath.
Oh, no.…

She turned desperately to the sailor who still grasped her arm. ‘You must listen to me. This is a mistake’.

He eyed her with appreciation. ‘Your mistake then, not ours, sweetheart,’ he shrugged. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll be nine, ten days a-sailin’ to Lisbon, dependin’ on the weather. Long enough to get used to having the time of your life!’

He climbed back up the ladder like a monkey, and the hatch slammed down. The other women turned to gaze at her. Their faces were bright with rouge, their clothes gaudy and revealing. ‘Evenin’!’ called out one of them as she dealt a pack of cards. ‘Come to join us in a game of rummy, darlin’, have yer? Or are you too bloody stuck-up? ‘

She could hear the straining of timber, the rasping of windlasses up above as the ship started to move. Dear God, this was a shipful of whores. Camp followers. Being sent to supply the men of Wellington’s army with—a necessary comfort, as it was explained in polite circles. She ran back to the ladder and banged desperately on the hatch. ‘I’ve no intention of sailing on this ship. I demand to speak to the Captain. You must let me out!’

Her voice faded. Up on the deck, she could hear men roaring orders. The ship juddered and strained as the wind caught her rigging and the waves embraced her creaking hull.