Again, the reddened eyes were lit with rage. "I'm not drunk, d-damn you!"

"Go home!" shouted a youthful voice from the edge of the crowd, and other voices were raised: "You ain't welcome here, Mr. Keith!"

"Go back to the 'big smoke'!"

"Maybe we should show 'un the way, mates!"

"Aye! At the tail of a cart!"

'Mr. Keith' glared at them, but it was clear their antagonism was growing. He swung into the saddle and wheeled his mount so hard that Vespa was almost caught by the chestnut's plunging head. With a snarled threat to 'have the law on the l-lot of you yokels,' the ill-tempered dandy spurred to a gallop and beat an inglorious retreat.

Vespa, however, found himself surrounded by now-beaming faces. He was patted on the back, informed that "We took ye for Mr. Keith's friend, sir!" and was borne into the White Horse Inn very much the conquering hero.

The tap was a cheerful place, mellow with age, and ringing with talk and laughter. Vespa's limp was not mentioned again, but his tidy victory over the evidently much disliked Mr. Keith was a cause for celebration. A tankard of ale was pressed into his hand, and he was begged to reveal his identity.

Before he could respond, a deep voice shouted, "Jack Vespa! As I live and breathe!"

A bronzed young giant with unruly red hair, a black patch over one eye and a broad grin pushed his way through the throng, and swept Vespa into a crushing hug.

"Calloway!" gasped Vespa. "Let be, you old warhorse before my ribs are powder! I thought you were dead! What the deuce are you doing up here?"

Lieutenant Sean Calloway, late of the 71st Highlanders, roared a laugh that rattled the casements. "Farming, Captain, sir! And if it's any consolation, I was sure you were dead!" In response to shouts of enquiry, he turned to the gathering and introduced "Captain Jack Vespa, who was an aide-de-camp to Lord Wellington."

Vespa's intent to remain incognito was foiled, but he could scarcely blame this old friend, and he reacted smilingly to the admiring and awed exclamations and the inevitable questions of the company until Calloway broke in to ask, "What the deuce have you done to have caused such a fuss in this quiet corner of England?"

"Cap'n knocked down that there Keith gent, Mr. Calloway, sir," supplied a very wizened little old man. "Wanted doin' for ages'n ages. Cap'n done it. Tidy. Eh, lads?"

During the chorus of agreement Vespa gathered that 'Young Mr. Keith' was 'proper high-in-the-instep,' that he had 'too much Lun'on in his ways,' and ordered folk about 'like we was dirt under his feet.'

Calloway laughed. "If that ain't just like you, Jack! Always up to your neck in some kind of imbroglio! Come over here and sit down, I want to know what you've been about since Vitoria. I got my come-uppance at that little rumpus, as you see."

"Yes. It must be a beastly nuisance for you."

"Oh, well. I'm alive, which is more than you could say for a lot of my poor fellows. Or for that fine brother of yours, eh? You must miss him."

Vespa stared rather fixedly at his tankard, then said quietly, "Very much. We're the lucky ones, Sean, even if you don't see quite as well nowadays, and I don't run quite as fast."

They adjourned to an inglenook by the blazing fire and for a little while enjoyed mutual recollections of their army days and the comrades they'd served beside. The local people relived and chuckled over the morning's encounter, the name 'Keith' being bandied about frequently. Vespa asked at length, "Who is this fellow who's made himself so unwelcome here?"

"Be dashed if I know. I'm fairly new to the county. My mama inherited a small farm here and has been good enough to hand it over to me. She thought I'd soon tire of it, I suspect, but I'm not a Town beau, and country life suits me. I did hear that Keith has a boat moored somewhere along the coast. Don't know if it's truth, but if it is he likely runs tubs or such-like and passes through here en route back to London. He's no local, that's certain."

"Know most of the locals, do you?"

"Most." The solitary blue eye slanted at Vespa shrewdly. "Why?"

"I'm trying to locate a gentleman. I understand he has an estate in the county, but the devil's in it that I don't know his name." Calloway stared, and he added, "It's a commission my mother sent me just before she sailed for South America. Unfortunately, her letter was rain-damaged and all I have is a most urgent message for the old fellow. I feel I have to try to deliver it, but I've little to go on."

"Gad! Your best chance, surely, would be to contact some of the local squires, or the clergy."

"It would, of course. But-well, to say truth, Sean, the matter's of a rather delicate nature, and..." Vespa shrugged.

"Ah. Family business, eh? Well, I wish I could give you an assist. Have you no other description at all?"

"Only that he also owns a castle in Scotland."

Calloway scratched his red head and frowned thoughtfully. "A castle in Scotland ... hmm. Now what did I hear about...? I know! It was my great-aunt! You don't know the lady, I think. Gad, what a chatterbox! Kindest heart in the world, mind you, but-Well, at all events, she was rattling on to my father about an old friend whom she and my great-uncle used to visit at one time. She was enormously impressed by his estate, which is up near the Cambridgeshire border. Delightful place, to hear her tell it, and with a superb rose garden. There was some sort of family trouble years ago, and the gentleman sort of dropped out of sight. Sounds to me as if he's short of a sheet. Hardly ever in England. I'm sure my aunt said he has a place in Scotland, but whether it's a castle or not, I couldn't tell you."

Jubilant, Vespa exclaimed, "It sounds very promising, Sean! Why do you say he's short of a sheet?"

"Well, it seems he don't spend much time in Scotland, either. Two jolly fine homes, and what must he do but waste his life flitting about the world searching for a mythical rug or some crazy thing. Poor old fellow must be in his dotage, or-"

"That's him!" cried Vespa, giving his friend a clap on the back that rattled his teeth. "You've found him for me, bless your clever old red nob! Do you recall his name? Or the name of his estate? Is he a Scot, d'you think?"

Calloway pushed him away and said with mock indignation, "Easy, you madman! I'm a feeble invalid yet! Devil if I know whether he's a Scot, though my great-aunt is, and I'd think she would have mentioned it if he were. Name's-um ... Cragburn or Kincarry-something like that. Don't remember what his estate's called, but oddly enough the name of the carpet he's after stuck in my mind. It's called the Khusraw. Some Eastern fairy tale, probably. I say, is this your dog? What a nice little chap, but he looks hungry. Don't you ever feed him, you flint-heart?"

Vespa laughed. "I suppose you're hinting me to buy you lunch?"

"I suppose I am."

Vespa did; in fact he bought lunch for everyone in the tap.

A drop of rain fell coldly on her nose. Consuela halted and looked up. The clouds were pulling together now, the occasional glimpses of sunlight becoming less frequent. She had left the cottage to escape her grandmother. A large bunch of hot-house roses had been delivered to the duchess this morning; a gift ordered before his departure by Colonel Adair. Not one to let the grass grow under his feet was Hasty Adair, and knew which side his bread was buttered on. Predictably, the old lady had gone into raptures, singing the colonel's praises and envying the "lucky girl" who would become his bride, until Consuela had been driven to retaliate. A heated Italianate argument had ensued, and refusing the company of her maid, who suffered loudly from corns, Consuela had ventured alone into the chilly early afternoon.

When she'd reached the Widow Davis' Grocery/Post-Office in Gallery-on-Tang there were three letters and a parcel for the duchess and two letters for herself. The widow loved to talk and had told her that Captain Vespa had quite a pile of correspondence waiting to be picked up by his steward, Hezekiah Strickley. One of the captain's letters, she imparted, was from G. L. Manderville, Esq. "That'll be Lieutenant Manderville's father, I do expect, Miss. Likely telling the captain how poor Sir Kendrick's dogs are going on in their new home. And there's another letter, very important it looks too. From the Horse Guards. Do you know when the captain will come home again, Miss Consuela? Such a fine gentleman, and I'm sure we're all sorry for the terrible happenings out at the quarry..."

She had launched into a lengthy monologue, during which Consuela chose some wools for a shawl she was embroidering for her grandmother's birthday. Mrs. Blackham, the constable's tall lady, had come in with her booming voice and a long shopping list, and tucking her purchases and the mail into her basket, Consuela had managed to escape. Outside, she'd walked on, thinking wistfully of how she had first met Jack and of their desperate efforts to uncover the truth of her father's death. She was too lost in thought to notice that her steps had turned instinctively towards the old manor, and when the raindrop interrupted her musings she was mildly surprised to find herself far past the village and on the Alabaster Royal estate road.

She wandered along slowly, taking note of how much Jack had done to improve the property. The once pot-holed lane was now a quite respectable road; the grasses of the wide park, that had been a mass of weeds, were smoothly scythed, the yew trees that lined the drivepath neatly trimmed, the overgrown rose garden weeded and pruned. Her gaze went past the little humpbacked bridge over the stream, to the manor itself. Alabaster Royal. Long, two-storied, its entrance flanked by the twin round conical-topped towers that lent it an aura of strength and invincibility. The exterior was bright with new paint, the mullioned windows clean and sparkling even under the greying skies. 'Dear old house,' she mused, and with the thought heard hoofbeats on the road behind her.

Hezekiah Strickley was probably exercising some of Jack's horses, she decided, but on turning, saw that it was not the rather cantankerous steward. Instead, a luxurious coach drawn by four magnificent matched bays pulled up beside her. The coachman was one of the biggest men she had ever seen; not fat, but with a great spread of muscular shoulders and powerful hands that stretched the seams of his gauntlets. His hat was pulled low over his face, and his head was downbent, concealing his features. A window was lowered. An elegant gentleman with dead-white skin and lank black hair, leaned to smile at her.

"Good afternoon, my pretty," he said in a purring and slightly accented voice. "Have you far to go? There will be rain soon, I think."

Consuela thought indignantly, 'My pretty? How dare you address me so?' She was about to respond to his presumption when two things occurred to her. Firstly, that there was something about this man and his strange coachman that made her uneasy; and, secondly, that her windblown hair and the basket she carried, in addition to the fact that she was unaccompanied, had undoubtedly caused the creature to think she was a village lass. For no reason she could have explained, she bobbed a curtsy. "Good aft'noon, sir. I've just to go as far as the manor, if y'please."

"Then it is that you are a local girl," he said, with a flash of very white teeth, "and can be of assistance to me."

Consuela wondered if this was a French spy. Beginning to enjoy herself, she asked demurely, "How, milor'?"

He swung the door wide, and she drew back as he trod down the step. Goodness, but he was tall.

"There is not the need for alarm," he said. "It is that I have heard Sir John Vespa he seeks a friend of mine. I may be of help to him in this. Do you know if he is at home?"

She blinked at him. "Your friend, sir?"

"No, child. Sir John."

"I don't know, sir."

"But surely, if you are going to the manor you must know whether he is there."

"Oh, I know that, sir. There isn't no Sir John there. Just Captain Vespa, sir."

The black eyes widened a little. "Do you say he does not use his title?"

She wrinkled her brow and said with bovine density, "Most folks calls him Captain Jack, milor', be that what ye means?"

It seemed to her that suspicion came into those deep eyes. Perhaps she had overdone her little imposture. From the corner of her eye she saw the coachman turn and glance at her. It was a brief glance, but enough to show her a face the like of which she'd never seen. The complexion was sallow, the eyes narrow slits sunk into features that might have been carven from stone.

The tall man's hand reached out, a shilling on the palm. "This is what you want, eh? And, me, I am only glad to pay you for a simple answer, pretty child. I will speak slow for you. Is-Captain-Vespa-at-home?"

"Oh. No, sir. He bean't."

"Ah. We progress. Would you know where he can be found, little cabbage? He will be most pleased to hear what I will say."

Consuela hesitated. Perhaps this odd individual did have news that would help Jack in his quest. Perhaps she could help by telling him that Jack was in Suffolk. And yet-the manor was no more than a half-mile distant. Surely the most natural course would be for the coach to simply drive to the front door. "I did hear summat," she murmured. "The groom said where the master goed. I think ... he said Caernarvon-or were it? Car-summat."

"In Wales?" he exclaimed.

"Be it, sir? No! Cardiff! That's it! Can I have me shilling now?"

He muttered, "Cardiff. I wonder..." then tossed the shilling.

Consuela caught it, and like a striking snake his hand flashed out to close around her wrist. "Such a dainty hand," he purred. "One might think it never had scrubbed a floor or milked the cow."

The coachman slanted another piercing glance at her. Consuela was suddenly quite frightened, and she started when she heard another vehicle approaching.

"Miss Consuela! Oh, Miss Consuela!" Violet Manning was perched on the seat of the Widow Davis' delivery cart. "Here you are! The duchess is fairly beside herself, and desires you to come home at once!"

Consuela jerked her hand free.

Anger glinted in the eyes of the tall man. His lips smiled, but it was a mirthless smile that made her forget her vexation with Manning. He said, "I think you have the little game with me. Is it not so, miss? I do not care to be made sport of. And I cannot but wonder why you should be so devious. Perhaps, next time we meet, this I shall discover."

"Perhaps you will not then be so impertinent as to address me as 'your pretty,'" she riposted haughtily.

A frown, a curt inclination of the head. With a swirl of his dark cloak and a shout to his coachman, he was inside the coach. The door slammed, the team swung in a wide turn and raced away.

The slow-witted youth who now made deliveries for Mrs. Davis said haltingly, "Dicky-Boy don't like that there genelman."

Manning, who had been temporarily bereft of speech, cried, "Goodness gracious me, Miss Consuela! Whatever were you thinking of to talk with such dreadful people? That coachman made me go gooseflesh all over!"

"He is Chinese, I think," said Consuela, still gazing after the rapidly disappearing coach. "I wonder what they really wanted with Captain Vespa."

The youth reiterated, "Dicky-Boy don't like him. Nor his master, neither. Cap'n Jack he wouldn't have no friend like that one."

"I almost thought the gentleman was threatening you, miss," wailed Manning. "I vow, 'tis all of a piece! Wherever Captain Vespa goes, trouble follows! It would be so much better if you-"

"If you were to say no more," snapped Consuela.

The lone pedlar had been amiable enough, especially after Vespa had purchased a small cloth doll from him. The Inn of the Black Lamb was 'just t'other side of the village,' he'd said, adding, "Can't miss it. Jest keep going straight, sir." The drifting mist was thickening to fog and reducing visibility so that it had become necessary to ride cautiously along the rutted lane, and Vespa was beginning to wonder if he'd missed the village altogether. Manderville, who had a more than nodding acquaintanceship with Newmarket, had suggested the inn, saying he'd once stayed there during racing season when all the better posting houses had been full, and that it boasted clean beds and a good cook.

"I wonder he could find the confounded place," muttered Vespa. "Of all the hidden-away-"

The grey horse shied suddenly as a lad darted across the lane. With consummate horsemanship, Vespa kept his seat. Ghostly cottages loomed into view. They had reached the village, at last. He whistled and Corporal raced up, tongue lolling, only to stop abruptly and growl at some menacing object on the ground. "Come on," called Vespa, and reined around.

The inn sign hung from a rail extended over the lane. Vespa turned the grey into the yard, and a groom ran to take the reins and scream "House, ho!" in a high falsetto that sent the grey into another shy. Vespa swore and dismounted as a door opened sending a flood of light gleaming across the damp cobblestones.

"Welcome, sir," called the host, a big bluff individual, his ruddy features wreathed in a grin. "Ye'll be my captain guest. I knows ye by yer dog. What've ye got there, you little terror? His toy, is it, sir?"

Vespa's downward glance revealed that Corporal had retrieved something he'd not realized he had lost. He said with a grin, "I must have dropped it. Give it here, you scavenger. That's for little Molly Hawes. Much need you have for a doll!"

Having been advised that his friends awaited him in the parlour, he arranged for Corporal to be fed, then was shown up the narrow winding stairs to his room. It was a tiny but spotless chamber under the eaves, so low-roofed that he had to bow his head when he approached the latticed casement.

A rosy-cheeked maid carried up a ewer of hot water, and a lad hurried in with his valise. In short order he washed, brushed his hair, changed his neckcloth and went downstairs, his spirits rising as he breathed the heady scent of preparations for dinner.

He found the parlour, and his friends stretched out in chairs flanking a roaring fire.

Broderick stood to greet him heartily. "Thought you'd never get here, old lad. What's to do? Any luck?"

Manderville waved a tankard, and yawned. "Too tired to get up, mon capitaine. My efforts in your behalf have left me with a blistered heel and an unquenchable thirst."

"And that's all," appended Broderick, pulling up another chair. "He didn't learn a thing."

"Indeed, I did," argued Manderville indignantly. "There's a jug of ale on the sideboard yonder. We saved some for you, Jack."

Vespa filled a tankard, carried it to the fire and sank into the chair. The flames warmed his feet, the ale warmed his inside, and the loyalty of these good friends warmed his spirit. He leaned back, stretching out his long legs. "No luck, eh, Paige?"

"Some. Toby thinks he's bested me, but I doubt it."

Broderick said, "I know damned well I've bested you! All you achieved was to pick a fight with some poor fellow."

"Did you, though?" exclaimed Vespa. "What about?"

Manderville shrugged. "Nothing, really. I'd given up on the Stowmarket area and ridden east. I was making my little enquiries, polite as you please, to the most fruitful sources-"

"Namely-housemaids, dairymaids, nursemaids and pretty maids all in a row," inserted Broderick.

"Which is known as mixing business with pleasure," said Manderville with a grin. "At all events, this stupid dolt took exception. Called me a nosy foreigner, if you can credit it! I punched his head for him, I can tell you."

Amused, Vespa said, "One of your 'pleasures' was his, eh? These country-folk regard anyone from outside the county as foreign, and guard their women-folk from such threats as city men and especially from soldiers like us. You're lucky your 'stupid dolt' didn't come after you with a pitchfork."

"The devil!" exclaimed Manderville. "You make me sound a conscienceless libertine! I'll have you know, Captain sir, that I didn't touch the wench! And besides, he was no countryman. A slippery roue, more like, and didn't deserve her." He paused, looking thoughtful.

"Paige thinks he knows the chap from somewhere," said Broderick.