The Return of Lord Conistone. Lucy Ashford
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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 everywhere. She even saw, through the crowds, one bold, shabbily dressed fellow with spiky black hair pulling out the drawers of an old walnut cabinet and bending to peer into the empty recesses. Really! Indignation welling again, she started pushing through the crowds towards him, but was distracted anew by the sight of a couple of porters going by with a delicate inlaid table. ‘No!’ she blurted out. ‘My father’s chess table—’
Her brother-in-law David Parker, who owned a farm that adjoined the coast road to Framlington, was quickly at her side. He’d been helping all day, and now she clutched at his arm. ‘David, we cannot let that go!’
‘We have to sell as much as possible before the bailiffs move in, I’m afraid, Verena. And it has been sold for the asking price,’ David said gravely.
The man who was buying the table—a dealer—broke in. ‘Which is more than you’ll get for this pair of Chinese vases just here!’ He was picking one up, to weigh it casually in his hand. ‘No more Chinese than I am, I’d say!’ He turned to David. ‘I’ll give you a guinea for the pair on top of the three guineas for the table, and that’s being generous’.
David hesitated, glanced at Verena, then nodded. The dealer hurried off to gather more booty.
Verena bit her lip. I won’t cry. When I heard about Lucas, I vowed that I would never, ever cry again.
Once the contents were sold, the house would have to go too. Mr Mayhew, the family’s attorney, had told her that. Kind Mr Mayhew was here now, collecting payments at a desk by the door and issuing receipts. Earlier he’d taken Verena aside and said, ‘You do realise, don’t you, Miss Sheldon, that there is actually a potential buyer for the whole estate?’
‘The Earl. Yes’. Her voice, miraculously, was steady. ‘And I had rather it went to anyone else!’
Mr Mayhew had glanced at her over his spectacles and sighed. ‘Very well. Very well…. But take my advice, my dear Miss Sheldon, and don’t make this harder than it needs to be. No need for you to attend the dispersal sale; your brother-in-law Mr Parker and I will manage the business perfectly well, I do assure you’.
But Verena believed that someone had to represent their family! Her one sensible sister, Pippa, married to David, was at home looking after their twin baby boys. Verena’s other sisters, Deb and Isobel, were up in their bedrooms, and both of them, like their mother Lady Frances, were loudly lamenting the collapse of their family fortunes—about as useful as leaking buckets, the three of them.
Lady Frances had tackled Verena before the sale began. ‘Verena, there will be gentlemen here this afternoon! Some of them with prospects!’ She’d glanced waspishly at Verena’s day gown of brown cambric, its only adornment the tiny mother-of-pearl buttons running firmly up the bodice to her throat. ‘Now, I know that your looks bear no comparison to Deb’s or darling Izzy’s—but if you do insist on being present,