The Riddle of the Lost Lover by Patricia Veryan Page A

England.”
    â€œStill, it’s a help,” said Broderick. “We can go into Suffolk and enquire for a landed local gentleman who also owns a castle that may or may not be in the British Isles.”
    â€œOh, oh!” cried Consuela happily. “We are making progress! And if the castle chances to be somewhere in Britain: Wales, for instance, or Scotland, it would…” She stopped suddenly, her widening eyes flying to Vespa’s face.
    Lady Francesca demanded, “What is it? What is it? Never become mute and stiff like the stockfish! If you have thinking of somethings, speak up, Meadowlark!”
    Consuela moved hesitantly to stand before Vespa. He stood at once, and she touched his arm and murmured, “I am sorry to speak of that terrible time. I know you don’t like to think of it.”
    His nerves tightened into knots, but he put a hand over hers and said, “Do you mean when we were down in the quarry? It’s all right, Consuela. Tell me, please.”
    She closed her eyes for a second and could see again that dismal mine tunnel, and Sir Kendrick, pistol in hand, so cruelly taunting his son. She shivered, and looked up quickly. “He said,” she blurted out in a rush, “Sir Kendrick said something about your having a stubborn Scots streak in your make-up.”
    Vespa muttered, “‘Miserably dogged Scots streak’ were his words, as I recall.”
    â€œHe did say it?” Broderick asked intensely, “You’re sure?”
    With a travesty of a smile, Vespa said, “Do you suppose I could ever forget that moment?”
    â€œI have to admit he was right,” said Manderville. “No offence, dear boy, but you are stubborn, you know, and—”
    â€œVery true,” agreed Broderick. “Thing is—have you also—”
    â€œOr have the Wansydykes—” interrupted the duchess.
    â€œAny Scots on the family tree?” finished Consuela, breathless with excitement.
    Vespa stared from one expectant face to the next. “I know there are no Scots among the Vespa’s. I’m not … not sure—” He gave an exultant shout. “ No! I am sure! My grandfather, Sir Rupert Wansdyke, was a great one for tradition. Several times when Sherry and I were schoolboys he dragged us through the picture gallery in Wansdyke House and gave us a small lecture on each ancestor. We thought it deadly dull. But I remember that he said they all were of Saxon heritage, most having been born and bred in the Southland, and that not until his daughter—my mother—married a man of Norman origins had anyone from so far afield been brought into the family!” Jubilant, he seized Consuela and swung her around. “Clever, clever one! You’ve found the best clue of all! My father must have been a Scot!” He gave her a smacking kiss on the cheek. “Thank you! Thank you!”
    Lady Francesca screamed and pounded him with her little fists, demanding that he ‘unhand’ her granddaughter at once, and when he did so, threw her arms around him and collected a kiss of her own.
    Manderville and Broderick came to clap him on the back and share his triumph.
    Broderick said enthusiastically, “Your puzzle is as good as solved, old fellow! We’ll go up to Suffolk at once, and if we can’t track down a gentleman who owns an estate somewhere in the county, besides having a castle in Scotland—why, I’m a Dutchman!”
    â€œThis, it is so?” asked the duchess, misunderstanding, but beaming at him. “And I am the Italian, and my Consuela is a bit of this and a bit of that, and Jack may be half of a Scot.” She turned to Manderville. “You, dear Lieutenant Paige, it looks like is the only true Englishman of us all!”
    He laughed. “And my many greats-Grandpapa ran afoul of Charles of Anjou in 1257 and had to leave Marseilles or lose his head, so I’m likely as