The Return of Lord Conistone. Lucy Ashford

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      Lucas gestured to his men to sit again as he recognised the small, sinewy figure coming straight for him. ‘Como vai, Miguel?’ he said softly in fluent Portuguese. ‘I hear you have news’.

      The man called Miguel grasped his hand, his dark head barely up to Lucas’s powerful shoulder, and said in the accent of the Portuguese mountain people, ‘News, yes, meu amigo. The body of the Englishman has been found at last’.

      After nearly a year and a half of searching. ‘Where?’

      ‘He must have been swept downstream by the flood waters of the River Vouga. His body was trapped under rocks, and rotted in the water as the months went by—a suitable end, nao? And—this was found on him’. Miguel handed Lucas a small package; something saved, miraculously, from the water by the oilskin in which it was tightly wrapped.

      Swiftly Lucas tore the package open.

      A compact, leather-bound journal. And the first entry was dated—September 1808.

      No. He wanted to shout his protest across the mountains. No. Where was the old one, the previous one?

      He flicked through it—two, three pages only, of hurried notes. The rest was blank. A blow indeed.

      Wild Jack, I have followed you to hell and back for this.

      Curtly he held out silver coins to the man Miguel. ‘Where is the body now?’

      ‘We buried what was left of it, Inglês. For the spies of Napoleon Bonaparte are on the trail’. He looked up at Lucas slyly. ‘And they offer our people rewards also’.

      Lucas clenched his teeth. ‘And what exactly have your people told them, Miguel?’

      The man gave a crooked smile. ‘Why, we babbled of treasure. The old, old legend of gold buried somewhere in the steep hills high above Coimbra. Isn’t that, after all, what the English traveller you call Wild Jack died for?’

      Let the French believe that, thought Lucas swiftly. Let the Portuguese, like Miguel, believe it. He was scanning the diary’s sparse contents: ramblings of a sea voyage from England, of a swift ascent into the mountains. The writings of a man knowing he was being pursued, and that the end was near.…

      Already he was turning to his waiting men. ‘Get your things together. We’re heading homewards’. They moved instantly to roll up their thin blankets and tie them to their packs.

      But the man Miguel pointed suddenly at the blood that stained Lucas’s shirt, all too visible where his long coat had fallen open. ‘You have been wounded, Inglês. Stay with us in the mountains for one night at least! We have food we can share’. Miguel’s black eyes gleamed mischievously. ‘And our girls—pretty girls, eh?—will be only too happy to make a man as handsome as you forget the perils of war!’

      ‘Obrigado, meu amigo, but it’s nothing’. Grimly Lucas pulled at his coat to hide the bloodstain.

      ‘An ambush?’

      ‘Of sorts. We had a run in with some French outriders on our way up here’.

      ‘Did they live to tell the tale?’

      Lucas was already turning to go, but he swung round one last time. ‘What do you think?’

      Miguel grinned. ‘They did not. You’ll be back soon with the key to the treasure, Inglês?’

      ‘I hope so,’ Lucas breathed. ‘For if others get it first, we are lost indeed’.

      So Lucas Conistone and his companions set off down the barren slope, each of them as lithe and hard-muscled as any of the Portuguese who herded goats on the sparse spring grass of these high mountains. Lucas’s men were intent on their route, sometimes cursing softly under their breath at the difficulty of the terrain.

      But their leader was thinking of another time. Another place.

      Of the Hampshire countryside in early autumn. Of the English sun, warming a flower-scented garden whose acres of lawns swept down to the cliff’s edge, where the azure sea gleamed far below. Of a time when he’d thought he’d found love, and a purpose to his life.

      But then the vision was gone, the dream over. And he was back in this foreign land, clambering down a treacherous path in the knife-sharp night air, with an almost impossible task facing him.

      He was remembering, too, the last words spoken by a man about to die. Look after her for me, will you, Lucas? Tell her I did it for Wycherley. For all of them.… For God’s sake, look after Verena.

       Chapter One

       Early July 1810—Wycherley, Hampshire

      ‘They are ruined, you know,’ whispered the malicious female voice, ‘quite ruined! But, my dears, what can you expect, with four daughters and a father who was hardly ever here?’

      Verena Sheldon froze, hidden from the three gossiping old busybodies by an ornate lacquered screen to which she was tying a label. ‘Three guineas,’ the label read. ‘Or nearest offer’.

      Like everything else in Wycherley’s great hall, it was for sale. Like everything else—herself and her family included, it seemed—it was up for inspection, assessment and—condemnation.

      During all this hot July day, neighbours, dealers from Chichester, and local businessmen with their wives and families had rolled up Wycherley’s long drive in carriages or on horseback. Some had also brought servants with open drays ready to cart their purchases away. Every hour Verena had seen the precious memories of her past and all her hopes for the future slipping away.

      She put her hands to her burning cheeks as the vicious whispering went on.

      ‘Such a foolish woman, that Lady Frances,’ continued the rancid female voice. ‘And the way she’s brought up all those daughters of hers, with such airs and graces! Why, my dears—’ a cackling sound followed ‘—to think that only a short while ago her ladyship was boasting that her eldest was being courted by the Earl of Stancliffe’s heir! One would laugh, if it weren’t all so pitiable! Oh…’.

      She trailed off as Verena Sheldon marched out from her place of unintended concealment, her amber-coloured eyes flashing fire.

      ‘Good afternoon, ladies!’ She squarely faced the Chichester tabbies. ‘Do you know, I somehow expected you would be here! Mrs Marsham, how did your daughter’s London Season go? Plenty of suitors—well, of course—and she’s engaged to….? Oh, I see, no one suitable yet, well, never mind…. Do, pray, enjoy the rest of your spying—I’m sorry, buying!’

      The gossiping trio went off rather hastily, muttering. But everyone else continued to prowl round the hall, poking and prodding at the furniture, paintings and ornaments that had all been an integral part of Wycherley, her beloved home.

      Verena found to her dismay that a great lump had risen in her throat. The vultures were СКАЧАТЬ