The Riddle of Alabaster Royal Read online

  The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Other Novels by Patricia Veryan

  Copyright

  For Nancy Eads,

  who has given so much time,

  effort and enthusiasm to

  being the President of my

  Fan Club

  1

  Spain

  June 1813

  Desperate to find shelter from the hail of shot, Captain Jack Vespa crawled on doggedly. Even if he still had the strength to call for help, it would have been pointless; the French cannonade drowned out all lesser voices. He was finding it increasingly difficult to see now, and when his groping left hand slid over an edge, for a heart-stopping moment he thought he was going to plunge down the high crag above the river Zadorra.

  “Hey! A new arrival, my Tobias!” The voice that came through a lull in the uproar was strained but undeniably British.

  Another voice said an unsteady, “Ain’t wearing red or green. I say—this shell hole is under British occu-occupation, Monsieur, so you’d best surren—”

  “Don’t be a dolt, Toby. It’s a blue coat! We’re visited by a mighty Staff Officer, no less!”

  “Oh, egad! One of his lordship’s famous ‘Family’!”

  A shell screamed overhead.

  “Best not hang about, sir,” urged the first voice. “Come on in.”

  Vespa lowered himself cautiously, then rolled and for a minute or two lay still, pain causing him to curse faintly. The cannonade resumed but seemed less ear-splitting. Hands were touching him; something was wiping his face and he could focus again. A youthful, smoke-blackened countenance, framed by curling light brown hair, bent over him. “Lieutenant Tobias Broderick, sir. Forty-fifth.”

  Vespa blinked at him stupidly. “You’re Third Division. What the hell … are you doing up here?”

  Broderick bent lower so as to hear the gasped-out words. He clutched his side painfully, but roared, “Old Picton properly got his nose out of joint when his lordship sent word we were to support the Seventh. So we charged like the devil at the French centre. My poor hack was hit and bolted, and I—er—rather tumbled in here.”

  “I see. Who’s that?”

  “Oh, yes. I’m binding him up. Musket ball’s smashed his shoulder and broken his collar-bone by the looks of it. I’ll help you first, sir. You’re all blood. Can you see?”

  “Not well enough to see your friend, but … finish with him. I’ll do.”

  Watching this member of the select few chosen by Wellington as his personal aides, Broderick thought it more probable that he would die. He started to crawl back to his first patient, then remembered, and half-turned to shout with a quivering grin, “You likely know him, sir. Lieutenant Manderville.”

  ‘Manderville?’ thought Vespa. It must be some other Manderville. The tattered casualty lying huddled in a rain-swept shell hole atop a Spanish crag couldn’t possibly be…? Reality melted away.

  He opened his eyes and started up, swearing. Broderick was wrapping a torn piece of shirt tightly around his leg. Catching his breath, he lay back. “Sorry. Good of you, Broderick. Is—is the bone severed?”

  “No, sir. But your leg’s pretty damned riddled. I’ll get to your arm in a minute. What happened to your head?”

  He’d been returning from delivering a despatch from Lord Wellington to Colonel Cadogan when a shell had killed his horse under him and sent him hurtling against a boulder, rendering him senseless. “I dismounted on it,” he said wryly. He heard a faint laugh. “You wouldn’t be Paige Manderville?” he enquired, peering mistily.

  “The debonair Dandy of Mayfair,” said Broderick, with a gallant attempt at a chuckle.

  “The devil!” exclaimed Vespa.

  “I think I resent that. Sir,” complained Manderville.

  “I was reacting to—to Broderick’s—efforts,” gasped Vespa. “Do I mistake it, or is the cannonade fading? Are you badly mauled, Lieutenant? Can you shin up there and have a look?”

  “Horse rolled on me, sir,” said Broderick. “Think he snapped a couple of ribs. Or something. I’ll make a try at it.”

  Manderville drawled, “You’d best tie up the Captain’s arm first, Toby, before he’s bled white.”

  Broderick investigated. “A piece of shell-casing, by the look of it. I think I can—” He gave a tentative tug.

  Vespa shouted an anguished “No!”

  Aghast, Broderick recoiled. “No. I think I won’t.” He moved in a sideways crawl to the edge of their shelter and returned to announce that there was “the devil of a fight round Arinez Hill. I fancy his lordship means to chase King Joseph all the way back to Paris.”

  He completed his first aid, then settled himself between the other casualties, looking from one to the other anxiously.

  Manderville said with a sigh, “I don’t imagine either of you has a canteen?”

  They hadn’t, but the wish had been in all their minds.

  “Open your mouth,” panted Vespa. “You might … catch some rain.”

  “I might, sir. Except that it’s stopped raining.”

  “Never mind,” said Broderick. “We’ll have help here in a trice, I don’t doubt.”

  His optimism proved unfounded. The action that was to be known as the Battle of Vitoria raged on, and the three young officers lay in their damp and chilly sanctuary hour after weary hour. They endured their misery in silence, until Vespa, his mind wandering, muttered, “The crocuses will be in bloom.”

  Broderick argued wearily, “Can’t say that, sir. It’s cro-ci, not -ses.”

  “No, it ain’t,” said Manderville. “Lay you a pony it’s -ses.”

  With difficulty Broderick reached Manderville’s outstretched left hand. “You’re on! Will you be a witness, sir?”

  Vespa gathered his wits and said, “Let’s forget rank for a while, shall we? What are you wagering on?”

  The other men exchanged a quick glance.

  Broderick said, “You were talking about flowers, Cap— Jove! We don’t know your name.”

  “It’s Vespa.”

  “Jack Vespa?” Manderville dragged himself to one elbow. “Aren’t you the fellow who hauled Tim Van Lindsay out of the Esla last month?”

  “Tim’s a clumsy fellow.” Vespa shifted painfully. “Always falling down something, or—or into something. Was I really talking about flowers?”

  “You were,” confirmed Manderville. “Like to garden, do you? I’ve seen your Richmond house from the river. Beautiful grounds. Do you mean to live there when we get home?”

  It was an effort to talk, but Vespa knew it was as well to try and keep their minds off things. He said, “No. I’ve inherited an estate in … Dorsetshire. Never have visited the old place. I rather fancy country life. My … my father won’t like it, I fear, but…”

  Manderville w
aited, but the sentence went unfinished. “Sir Kendrick don’t approve of me, I fear.” He grinned irrepressibly. “Jealous, probably. He’s quite a Non-Pareil.”

  Vespa’s dulled eyes brightened. “Yes. He is.”

  “Sir Kendrick Vespa!” Broderick exclaimed. “Now I know who you are! Jove! I’d never have taken you for his son!”

  Vespa could not keep back a laugh, and then had to smother a groan. “I don’t have his … good looks, is … is that what you say?”

  “If he does, it’s because he’s a clumsy clod,” grumbled Manderville. “My nurse came from a hamlet called Pudding Park in Dorsetshire. Anywhere near your place?”

  “No. Alabaster Royal’s farther north.”

  The name struck another chord with Broderick. “Alabaster Royal,” he muttered frowningly. “I’ve heard something about it. Can’t remember what. Except that it wasn’t good.”

  Manderville gave a moan of exasperation. “And there goes the other foot into his mouth!”

  “Please…” whispered Vespa. “Don’t make me laugh!… Tell me—Broderick, what you mean to do when … when we get home.”

  “I shall go back to Oxford. Lead the exalted existence of a don amid minds equal to my own.”

  Manderville gave a crow of derision.

  Vespa peered at the young lieutenant curiously. “You must have done very well at school.”

  “Oh, he knows everything,” said Manderville, cradling his hurt arm tenderly. “Except how to come in out of the rain!”

  Before Broderick could retaliate, Vespa asked, “What about you? Certainly, you have the pick of London’s Fairs at your feet.”

  “Of course. I’ve also a comfortable fortune, thank heaven, so I can take my time about selecting a lady worthy of becoming Mrs. Paige Manderville.”

  “I am going to be sick,” announced Broderick. “Vespa, how can you listen to such— Vespa?” He leant closer and scanned the captain apprehensively.

  “Is he gone, poor devil?” asked Manderville.

  “Not far from it, I’m afraid. Likely he’s got a concussion. That’s a beast of a head wound.”

  “It’ll scar him for life, to say the least of it. Pity. He’s a good man from what I’ve heard.” With a sigh, Manderville closed his eyes.

  “Paige?” Dismayed, Broderick called, “For Lord’s sake, don’t you go and die, too!”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Manderville weakly. “Toby, do you really know something about that inheritance of his—Arabesque something?”

  “Alabaster Royal.” Broderick hesitated, then muttered, “If only half of what they say about the estate is truth, it’s no place for the faint-hearted.”

  “Well, if only half of what I’ve heard about—about Jack Vespa is truth, faint-hearted’s what he’s not! Even in his present state, poor fella. Can’t help but be sorry for Sir Kendrick. Sherborne, the elder son, was—was the bright hope of the family. He fell at Badajoz last year, as I recall. Splendid fellow. Almost as good-looking as I am.”

  Broderick’s scornful retort was cut off by a shout from the cliff path. A moment later, a dragoon sergeant beamed down at them and howled exuberantly, “Here we are, Captain! Praise God, we’ve found you!”

  “All th-three of us,” said Manderville.

  “He won’t like it,” whispered Vespa, his mind far away. “He’ll think … I’m ripe for Bedlam.…”

  England

  September 1813

  “You’re stark, raving mad!” Tall, trim, and at fifty still strikingly handsome, Sir Kendrick Vespa was flushed, and the fine dark eyes so much admired by London’s ladies were wide with consternation. Gazing at the drawn features of his younger son, he gestured as if grasping at invisible straws, causing the two great bloodhounds that lay on either side of his chair to sit up as one and eye him anxiously. “Those damned Frenchies have done more than reduce you to—to a physical cripple,” he sputtered. “They’ve made swill of what was left of your brains!”

  The young captain’s hand tightened on the papers he held, but he said calmly, “Very likely, sir. But you have to admit, I won. I didn’t come home from Spain in a box. You owe me a pony.”

  Sir Kendrick grunted, rose from behind the desk and crossed the sun-splashed study escorted by the hounds who waited as he unlocked an armoire chest and took out a cash box. “Aye, well, I’m glad enough to be paying this,” he grumbled as he counted out the twenty-five pounds. “But there’d have been no need had you not felt obliged to go haring off after Sherborne. Compounding folly with folly. It’s not bad enough that my first-born must lie buried somewhere in Spanish soil. I came perilously near to losing you as well!” He dropped the bank notes into his son’s lap and leant back against the desk, frowning down at him.

  The baronet not only loved animals but seemed to possess the ability to awaken an answering affection in any canine he encountered. His bloodhounds, Solomon and Barrister, were seldom far from his side, and today was no exception. They took up their flanking positions and watched the younger man, so that when Jack glanced up it appeared to him that three pairs of eyes were regarding him sternly. He slipped the notes into his purse and pushed away the hurt that accompanied any mention of Sherry—the brother so loved; so missed. “Oh, I don’t think it was ever that desperate, sir,” he said. “I can still ride, and—”

  “And limp like an old man! And do not be telling me that gouge down your temple adds to your appeal, ’cause it don’t! You never were a beauty, John!”

  “Lord, no. Sherry had all the looks.” Striving for a lighter note, he managed a grin. “I got the brains.”

  Sir Kendrick was not to be diverted. “Oh, did you? One would never guess it! To move into that desolate, draughty old pile is scarce an indication of mental acuity. You’ve a home here and another in Town that most young fellows would be proud of. If you don’t choose to share my company—”

  “How can you say that, sir? You know I’ve always felt … I mean—I could not be more grateful and—and proud to be your son, but—”

  “But not sufficiently grateful to allow that I keep you by me for a spell! John, you must know how I—we’ve worried, your mother and I. You did but now get out of hospital. Old Rickaby warned us that you’ll be subject to extremely violent headaches, and perhaps hallucinations, for months to come. It is the height of folly to choose this of all times to go off and live miles from anywhere. You are ill, boy! You need rest and care. You’ll get both at Richmond.”

  Jack avoided his eyes. It was ironic really. All his life he’d been in awe of this splendid gentleman. He’d pitied other boys because their fathers were dull and ordinary and fell far short of Sir Kendrick, the very model of what a British diplomatist should be. He’d said as much once to Sherry, who had laughed and argued teasingly, “Silly gudgeon! How are you qualified to judge? You scarcely know the guv’nor.” It was true that Sir Kendrick’s duties kept him away from Richmond for much of the year, but absence had not dimmed Jack’s affection. As a boy he had dreamt of performing some deed of valour that would win the approval of his idol; saving him from a runaway coach, perhaps, or leaping between him and a would-be assassin, or plunging into a raging torrent and dragging him safely to shore. And now he must refuse one of the few requests ever made of him. Nor could he put his reasons into words. He knew only that he could not endure this house. Not yet. And the London mansion would be as bad.

  In Spain he’d been too busy to have much time for reflection, but here, everywhere he looked brought memories of his brother: some childish prank, or youthful endeavour, or one of their furious battles that had so quickly dissolved in laughter. He could hear an echo of that laughter still; see the blaze of mischief in those magnificent near-black eyes. Sherry … tall and graceful and as darkly handsome as their famous sire. So different from himself, with his average height and nondescript light brown hair and hazel eyes. Sherry, who should have been the one to inherit the title. Sherry, a careless scamp and hothead, who hadn’t given a button f
or rank or property; whose quick wits and endearing smile could extricate him from the most flagrant violations of academic, civic or paternal authority, and behind whose merry insouciance had dwelt the warmest heart and the deepest loyalty any brother could wish for. Given time, he would have mellowed and acquitted himself with dignity, as a Vespa must. But the time had been denied. Afire with patriotic zeal, he had rushed off to join his hero, Lord Wellington, and his precious young life had been snuffed out during the terrible third siege of Badajoz. Sherry …

  As if sensing his distress, Solomon padded over and pushed a cold nose under his hand, and Jack stroked the great head absently.

  “I see that it is too much to ask,” said Sir Kendrick, irritated by the long pause. “Well, if you’re too damned high-in-the-instep to dwell under my roof, you can at least stay in Town. Take up residence in that scruffy club of yours. No need to retreat to the wilderness and lick your wounds!”

  Bristling, Jack stood, and leaning heavily on his cane, said, “I do not care to reside in Town, sir. Either at the Madrigal or under any roof! As for retreating—” He broke off and took a deep breath. “I think I’d best do so, Papa, before I say something I’ll be sorry for!”

  The steel in voice and eyes was unfamiliar. The thin, scarred face was grimly set. Disconcerted, Sir Kendrick stared at this unfamiliar stranger, then said with his brilliant smile, “Longing to give me a set-down, are you, my boy? Well, and I deserve one. I shouldn’t have said that. I ask your pardon. Now say I’m forgiven, and sit down, do.”

  Jack’s stiff shoulders relaxed. He sat down again, his answering grin banishing the resentment from his face. “Of course I forgive you, sir. And I respect your opinions. But you’ll not change my mind.”

  “Just remember that I tried.” Sir Kendrick pulled Solomon’s ear and was obliged to repeat the caress for Barrister. He murmured, “I—er, don’t suppose a certain Miss Warrington could have anything to do with your decision?”

  Again, Jack tensed. Like any healthy young man, he enjoyed feminine companionship. During his undergraduate days he’d entered the ‘petticoat line’ and for several months had been favoured with the affections of a vivacious little opera dancer. But while finding a seat at a musicale one evening, he’d accidentally stepped on someone’s toe, and turning to apologize, had looked into the loveliest face he’d ever seen. From that moment, Miss Marietta Warrington had been the lady of his dreams. Mama had not approved of his choice, and Sherry, himself as good as betrothed, had teased that there were so many ‘fish in the sea’ and it would be years before Jack must confine himself to only one. His devotion had not faded, however, and the passing years had served only to deepen his love. He’d lost Marietta, and he had accepted that sad fact. He said quietly, “So Mama told you of my hopes in that direction.”