The Return of Lord Conistone (30 page)

‘No!’ she protested. ‘No, you don’t understand! You
need
me, Lucas, to interpret these maps!’

‘I can read Portuguese’.

‘But the notes he’s written on them are in the old dialect that my father learned from his mother, Lucia—look, do you see?’ She pointed her finger at the page. ‘He has written everything down: where the old tunnels are, in relation to the ridge and the convent; their width, their height, and where they lead to, back within the hillside. I can understand, I know the dialect, he taught it to me, but do
you?’

‘No,’ said Lucas simply. ‘I don’t’.

A
nd so it was that Verena ended up combing the mountainside at night, with Lucas and the sappers, and with two gunners-in-chief also, searching for the mine entrances by the light of the moon.

Alec was with them all the time. His face was racked with tiredness, but his optimism never failed. She felt hot with shame when she remembered how she had branded him a wastrel and a rake.

Some of the tunnels marked on the map had been hopelessly blocked by falls of shale, and would require hours of digging, hours they couldn’t spare. But others were more easily accessible, and Lucas ordered men to swiftly clear these of fallen stones and undergrowth. Then the cannon were heaved in by the gunners, and some of the army’s most expert riflemen, all done as swiftly, as silently as possible. The passage of the big guns was muffled by the armfuls of heather thrown under their wheels; the men were ordered to communicate quietly, in case French scouts were already moving up the valley in advance of their army. The soldiers were supplied with ammunition, food and water
for twenty-four hours. Then the furze bushes were pulled across to conceal the entrances.

As they climbed back up to the camp, Verena, white with tiredness yet determined not to rest, saw Wellington talking to his commanders. She gazed, rapt, at this famous general, who with his gift for leadership and his tactical genius was slowly turning the tide of the war. He was not tall, but his figure, distinctive in his grey cloak and cocked hat, commanded respect wherever he went.

‘We need to take the French utterly by surprise tomorrow,’ she heard him warning his commanders. ‘We must inflict as much damage as possible on their guns and supply wagons, so we’ve got a head start in what is, I fear, going to be a most damnably hellish race for the safety of Lisbon—’

Then suddenly Lord Wellington broke off. He’d spotted Verena, who stood between Lucas and Bentinck.

She shrank back.
What if he knew about her father?

But if anything his face grew less harsh. ‘So you, young lady, are the saviour who brought us this valuable knowledge, are you?’ he said in a gentler voice. ‘You have done well, ma’am. Exceedingly well’.

That, as Bentinck told her later, was praise indeed. Lucas was smiling down at her and nodding. She hoped he was thinking, as she was,
This, at least, has gone some way towards righting my father’s wrong.

Lucas persuaded her to take some sleep before her journey, and obediently she wrapped herself up in blankets near the embers of the fire. She slept, though he stayed awake. Alert.

* * *

At the first light of dawn, as the pennants of the approaching French glinted sporadically two miles away
through the thin valley mist, he said to her, ‘Now, Verena, you leave. Understood? No arguments’.

‘But, Lucas—’ She could hear the steady thud of the enemy’s drums. Her heart constricted in fear for the lives of all these men. For him.

He kissed her softly. A caress, a promise, made by his lips brushing hers, his arms enfolding her, his harsh, unshaven cheek pressed with the utmost gentleness against her delicate skin. ‘I will see you down in Coimbra’. A smile softened his features. ‘From there we will travel home. Together’.

* * *

With the ominous drums of the advancing French still echoing in her ears, with the same stubborn mule to ride sidesaddle on, she and Bentinck made the journey south to Coimbra, only a few miles away.

By the time they got there, she was weary and saddlesore. Her heart tightened with apprehension when she realised that Coimbra was in a state of sheer panic. Its Portuguese inhabitants were convinced, in spite of everything the small British force there could do, that Wellington’s army was about to be defeated, and that the French monsters would be on them at any minute, to massacre them in revenge for siding with the British.

Peasants from the stony hillsides, lost children, nuns from rural convents, Portuguese gentlemen and their wives—all had crowded into Coimbra, loudly clamouring for protection. Bentinck, somehow—a miracle worker, she was beginning to believe—managed to find her a small room in a little backstreet hotel where several respectable English travellers were staying.

* * *

Verena found it impossible to do nothing except sit there and wait; so she offered herself as a translator to the
commander of the British troops, helping to interpret the news brought in by the various Portuguese scouts; while Bentinck, his expression by now one of weary resignation, acted as her unofficial chaperon. And thus she—and he—were amongst the first to hear the report of the battle to be known as Busaco. Fast riders galloped into Coimbra late that day. The huge French army under Massena had marched up the valley alongside the long, steep ridge and straight into the trap. Massena’s men did not understand where so much gunfire was coming from, or how such a small English army could pin them down.

‘The hillside itself has opened to shelter the English!’ the French were heard to cry in disbelief. They had been forced to flee in disarray. The British had managed to capture some of their vital supply wagons and were already on the march; heading first to Coimbra, and after that, Lisbon.

Bentinck was grinning from ear to ear. ‘That’ll show ‘em!’ He even gave Verena a little hug.

Verena breathed, ‘So the French are defeated?’

Bentinck hesitated. ‘Not exactly. There’s still far more of them, and they’ll be after the British just as soon as they’ve got over their fright and pulled themselves together. But Lord Wellington, he knows what he’s doing, he’ll get to Lisbon before them! And—’ his face brightened ‘—Lord Conistone will be here in no time, you’ll see! He’ll be lookin’ forward to a good meal and a hot bath. And somewhat pleasanter company than wot ‘e’s been getting lately!’

She was beginning to hope that the impediments which had continually hindered their love were almost overcome. She held to her heart the knowledge that Lucas had forgiven her, firstly for doubting him, and secondly for her father’s treachery.
‘That was none of your doing, Verena!’
Lucas had reminded her forcefully. She hurried back to the little
hotel and her first floor bedchamber, a sanctuary from the pandemonium of the city’s streets.

Now all she had to do was wait. And soon afterwards she heard horses. Heard the servants running outside, calling, ‘English. English soldiers are here…’

Lucas?
Her heart began to thump.

She checked herself briefly in the looking-glass. The gown she’d bought in Oporto had been worn to shreds by her travelling, so she’d managed to purchase a new dress in one of Coimbra’s almost-empty shops. The shade of emerald green, vividly adorned with embroidery, suited her colouring well, and the shopkeeper had pulled out, from under the counter, a lovely gold shawl. ‘Take it,
minha senhora!
It matches your golden eyes; you will look beautiful tonight for
o seu marido
, your husband, yes?’

Tonight. Surely before they left for home, as he’d promised, he would spend tonight with her, here! She would bathe the dust and dirt from his body and rub oils into his aching muscles. Would kiss away his bruises, until he forgot the battle in the flame of mutual passion.

Verena, you are becoming little better than a whore!
she rebuked herself. But she was smiling as she whispered the words. She felt her own body respond with tumultuous desires at the thought of his need for her. She would answer and return her lover’s passion a hundredfold.

She could hear voices—Englishmen’s voices—outside. Bentinck would have found him, told him she was here. With a secret smile, she went tiptoeing out on to her balcony that overlooked a tiled and paved courtyard full of scented flowers, where fountains played. And her heart leaped, because Lucas was indeed there.

He looked travel-worn. His long coat and boots were covered with dust; his thick black hair curled roughly past his collar. But even so he looked so handsome, so desirable,
that her heart raced almost painfully with longing. And she was glad to see that Alec was safely there also. She was about to call out to them, to tell them she was here—but then she paused, frowning. Something was wrong.

They should have been relaxed, joyful even, for Lord Wellington had gained a crucial victory. But Lucas looked sombre. Even—angry. Alec was remonstrating with him, gesticulating in his usual flamboyant manner.

‘In God’s name, Lucas, haven’t you told her
everything
yet?’ Alec was exclaiming. ‘About the whole damnable business?’

They were talking about her. Verena.

Lucas was saying tightly, ‘I told her as much as she needed to know, Alec. That her father wanted to sell information to the French. I don’t see that she needs to know any more. I’ll go and speak to her soon, but first I’ve got dispatches for the commander here’.

‘See the commander by all means,’ declared Alec. ‘But when you come back—you must tell her it all! And I’ll tell you why! Because some day someone else will tell her, you idiot! That it was actually
you
who pursued her father through the mountains, thinking he had that damned diary. Pursued him to his death!’

If she hadn’t been leaning against the balustrade of the balcony, she would have fallen. Her whole body started to tremble.

Oh, dear God
. The old Earl’s words rang like a funeral bell in her head. ‘They killed your father for what he knew…’

* * *

Somehow she got back into the coolness of her room and pressed her hands to her face. Lucas was a secret agent. A spy. His task had been to pursue her father and get that diary from him before he could sell it to the enemy. That,
she already knew. But what she
hadn’t
realised was that then—then, of course, Lucas’s final duty would be to kill him.

Lucas’s grandfather had the diary, all the time. But Lucas had not known that as he chased after the traitor Jack Sheldon.

Dizzily she remembered hearing the news of her father’s death.
Fell into a raging mountain river
…
Was swept away downstream…
. The news had been a terrible shock, but not as great as the one she felt rocking her heart and soul at this moment. She dragged breath after breath into her lungs, as if just to exist was an effort.

‘Your father loved you,’ Lucas had said to her on board the
Goldfinch
. ‘Always remember that. To the end, he loved you’.

How could Lucas have known that, unless he was
actually there?

The enormity of it crushed her soul.

No wonder Bentinck had warned her not to use her full name as they’d climbed up to the army at Busaco. Not only would Lucas’s comrades know Jack Sheldon was a spy, they’d also know that Lucas had killed her father in retribution.

Even if it was a righteous execution, she could not live with Lucas, day after day, and wonder,
Was my father afraid? Did he plead with Lucas for his life?

Her stomach clenched until she felt nauseous. Now, at last, she understood all of Lucas’s hesitancy, his reluctance to declare himself fully. Although he loved her—yes, she believed that now, and the knowledge was cruel indeed—he must have known, as Alec had just so brutally pointed out to him, that some day, she was bound to find out.

She could not marry the man who had killed her father.
Oh, Verena. This is going to take all your courage.

Gathering up her few possessions, she made fresh plans and set her face to a new life. Without Lucas.

It had been such a beautiful, impossible dream.

* * *

It took the impatient Lucas Conistone much longer than he’d thought to give his report to the British commander of the small force here in Coimbra, then make his way back to the hotel—only to learn that Verena had gone.

Bentinck defended himself hotly. ‘One moment she was here in the hotel, milord, happy as a lark ‘cos the battle’s been won. Next—she’s upped and vanished!’

‘She can’t have vanished. She must be here, somewhere!’ Lucas paced the hotel room in a state of mounting rage and dread.

Not fair, he reminded himself bleakly, to round on Bentinck. Even Bentinck couldn’t be with her every minute of the day. Alec hovered anxiously in the background as Lucas demanded,
‘When
did she go, Bentinck? You must at least know that roughly!’

Bentinck pursed his lips. ‘Must’ve been around the time you and Captain Stewart arrived, or near enough, milord’.

‘So we just missed her. Damn it all! Find her, will you? There are all kinds of ruffians around.
Find her!’