It was a place of mangrove swamps and mosquitoes, of unforgiving reefs and shifting shoals. It would become a deadly adversary if it fought to keep its watery hold on the sunken Spanish galleon. But a fight it would have, Dante promised as he continued to stare challengingly at the untamed shore.
“Lay the course, Mr. Clarke. We’re homeward bound. At least for now,” Dante added to himself as the Sea Dragon sailed through the Florida Straits, her bowsprit swinging toward the Carolinas.
*Until the year 1783, Charleston, South Carolina, was known as Charles Town.
Two
There is something in the wind.
—Shakespeare
England—Summer 1769
The great house of Camareigh had been built on a knoll with a commanding view of the surrounding English countryside. Constructed of honey-colored stone mined from a local quarry, its golden-hued walls gave off a soft radiance, like a lambent flame. Early in the seventeenth century, on the crumbling ruins of the medieval house that had stood there since the middle of the fourteenth century, the first stone of the foundation of Camareigh had been laid. Stately and proud in its grandeur, the main block of the house was flanked by wings running east and west, with two towers standing sentinel at both intersecting points. Two rows of tall, broad windows pierced both floors and opened the house to sunlight. The central portico was approached by a wide avenue lined with magnificent chestnuts and carefully planted groves of copper beech, maple, and birch. In the fall Camareigh was a study in autumnal glory, but now it was summer, and bluebells covered the parkland, which sloped gently down to the sylvan lake. On the far side, protected by ancient cedars, the medieval chapel still stood. Wild irises and daffodils blossomed in the woodland, their petals dappled with raindrops from the sudden shower that had disturbed the pastoral quietness of the valley.
It was a peaceful valley, and Camareigh and the ancestral lands of the Dominicks had weathered well the passage of over six hundred years. Its history was not a gentle one, however, nor a bloodless one. The first Dominick to set foot on English soil had come in the eleventh century, with William the Bastard and his army of conquerors from Normandy. In payment for his service to Duke William, soon to be crowned king of all England, Roger Dominick de Camaré, a knight of chivalrous conduct, was awarded the lands of a defeated Saxon lord.
Through the centuries the fortunes of the Dominick heirs continued to prosper, culminating with Francis Dominick, the ninth Earl of Carylstone, being made Duke of Camareigh for his service to his king, Henry V, in the Hundred Years’ War. But during the Wars of the Roses, when the great houses of York and Lancaster battled for the throne of England, the Dominick fortunes fluctuated while the warring factions jockeyed for power and position. But destruction was not to be the destiny of the Dominicks at this time, and, with peace reigning supreme in the kingdom under the House of Tudor, Camareigh soon flowered again in the Golden Age of Elizabeth I. But with light comes darkness, and when the Civil War bloodied the fields and meadowlands of the English countryside, the fifth Duke of Camareigh was captured in battle while he fought for his king, Charles I, against the followers of Oliver Cromwell. With the ancestral home and estates confiscated by the Roundheads and her husband beheaded for his crimes, the Duchess of Camareigh and her young son fled to Holland with other Royalist families. Soon, Charles I would be publicly beheaded outside Whitehall Palace, and his son and heir, Charles II, would be in exile in Europe after an abortive attempt to overthrow the Protectorate and its lord protector, Oliver Cromwell. For the Royalists, many of whom were fortunate to have escaped with their lives, the long, ensuing years of exile were spent grieving over their dead, their diminished wealth, and their trampled heritage.
By the time of the Restoration, when Parliament had restored the monarchy and Charles II had returned triumphant to his homeland, the young Duke of Camareigh had become a man. He now returned to England with his king, and a wealthy French wife, who helped restore the family coffers and regain Camareigh from its Roundhead usurper.
That had been over a century ago. A hundred years of peaceful existence, of the pains and joys of everyday living, had mellowed the stone walls of Camareigh. It was a house filled with happiness and the sounds of laughter. No echoes of its past tragedies haunted its halls, and certainly not on this day in 1769.
“Eeeeeaaah!” A terrible scream split the serenity of the rose garden, where yellow and gold blossoms scented the warm afternoon, and bees robbed nectar from the lilies bordering the stone path.
The couple engaged in earnest conversation beside the water lily–covered pond was startled into momentary silence by the bloodcurdling sound. Only moments before, they had made an idyllic scene of young love. The soft brim of the girl’s silk slouch hat had presented an enticing view to the young man of her flawless profile. He had also seen how one soft golden curl dangled on her ivory shoulder. Her gown of light blue silk damask was trimmed in Chantilly lace at the flounced sleeves and wide bodice, and was opened in front to reveal a pale rose petticoat, lavishly embroidered. The lovely picture she made was no less colorful than the woven basket of assorted cut flowers that she carried over her arm. Her young gentleman friend fit well into the scene as he stood tall beside her in his nicely cut coat of Superfine, the cinnamon cloth edged in gold trim, his waistcoat and breeches embroidered with gold thread.
But beneath his neatly powdered wig, his handsome face mirrored only horror now as he stared at the lilac hedge, which was quivering violently. “Good God! What the devil is that?” he demanded incredulously as a fat, piebald pony with a young boy astride plowed through the hedge in a flurry of flying hooves and branches.
“What th—! Watch out there! I sa—” he began, only to be abruptly halted in the middle of a word when the shaggy shoulder of the sturdy little Shetland pony struck him a blow, catapulting the gentleman aside as it sped past, with its laughing rider still clinging to its flowing mane.
Wesley Lawton, Earl of Rendale, staggered from the pond, his fine coat dripping cold water and a tenacious lily pad wrapped around his silk-stockinged calf. His expression was at first comically disbelieving, but his face quickly became suffused with anger as he heard the incredible sound of laughter coming from his companion.
Lady Rhea Claire Dominick stood safely back from the water, her shoulders shaking with unbridled mirth. She knew better than to insult him further by offering assistance. Poor Wesley, he was really quite livid, Rhea Claire thought, biting her lip to contain her laughter.
“Rhea Claire, how dare you laugh. If I could get my hands on that little devil, I-I’d wring his blasted neck!” the much-affronted earl expostulated as he stepped carefully from the slippery lily pond. Then he stood facing her as he shook his leg, trying to free it from the clinging lily pad. “Damned impertinence, beggin’ your pardon. A switch oughta be taken to that young man’s breeches,” he complained, then added with a tightening of his lips, “and I would appreciate it, Rhea Claire, if you would stop that infernal laughter.”
“Oh, Wesley,” Rhea Claire said breathlessly, her laughter almost escaping her, “you do look so ridiculous standing there shaking your leg like a drenched rabbit. Forgive me, but I can’t help but laugh.”
“I do not find this in the least bit amus—”
“Lord Robin! Lord Robin, ye get yeself back here this instant. Right this instant! I’m a-tellin’ ye fer the first and last time, Lord Robin,” yelled the head gardener as he charged through the broken hedge, his fist raised impotently. Then he nearly tipped over, coming to a sudden standstill, his mouth gaping open as he stared around at the destruction of his glorious gardens. His eyes widened perceptibly when they finally caught sight of the muddied, bedraggled figure of the Earl of Rendale.
“Lord help us,” he muttered, doffing his cap. Then his gaze traveled on to the young beauty standing next to the fuming earl, and the grizzled gardener’s lips quivered briefly when he heard her
muffled laughter. “Pardon me, Lady Rhea, but did ye happen to see which way young Lord Robin was headed in?”
Rhea Claire pointed toward the trampled border of the path. “I’m sorry, Saunders, but I’m afraid it is only too evident.”
Saunders nodded, a long-suffering look crossing his weathered features. “Aye, m’lady, I was afeared he was headed in the direction of me prized Gilly flowers, and Her Grace’s favorite at that. Oh, Lordie, but there’s going to be heads a-rollin’ for this day’s work,” he prophesied as he started to take his leave. “I don’t know what’s to be happening, for I knows His Grace is going to be madder’n hell, and Her Grace, bless her, will most likely take the side of young Lord Robin. Lord help us,” he repeated beneath his breath again and again as he made his way along the path of destruction like a hound on the scent.
“Impertinent fellow,” Lord Rendale remarked. “I’d not have him speaking so disrespectfully of the duke and duchess in my presence if I were you, Rhea Claire. The man oughta be taught his proper place,” he added peevishly, glancing down at his ruined breeches.
Lady Rhea Claire Dominick lifted a delicately arched eyebrow in a perfect imitation of her father. “Camareigh,” she began in a tone of cold hauteur, “is his home, Wesley. He was gardener here thirty years before I was even born. His grandfather was head gardener here, and his grandfather before him, and I suspect he knows more about my family than I shall ever learn. He happens to be a wonderful man—and loyal,” she added. “He would probably give his life for my mother, so I’ll not have you stand here criticizing him.”
“You are far too familiar with your servants,” Wesley retorted, grimacing as he wrung out his dripping cravat. “And I have noticed on occasion that you are too lenient with them, not to mention that mischievous brother of yours. If he were my brother, I’d have—”
“But he is not your brother, Wesley,” Rhea Claire interrupted him with growing impatience. “And thank goodness for that, for I dare say you’d crush him with your ponderous sense of humor.”
“Just because I do not find falling into a lily pond overly amusing, you accuse me of having no sense of humor. There is a time and place for everything, m’dear, and you would do well to develop a more appropriate sense of decorum,” Wesley advised stiffly, missing the glint in her eye as he squeezed water out of his sleeve.
“Indeed, sir,” Rhea Claire said mockingly, “then I should advise you to go and change, for ’tisn’t I who is standing here looking the fool.”
Lord Rendale’s lips thinned ominously under her sarcasm. “With no thanks to that brother of yours. And,” he added with rising indignation as he directed his full wrath at Lord Robin Dominick’s small head, “where on earth did he get that creature? It’s one of them damned Scots ponies, isn’t it? Barbaric place and people,” he muttered contemptuously.
“That creature, Wesley,” began Rhea Claire with a smile of anticipation for what she was about to say, “happens to be a gift from my uncle Richard. You do remember him? He lives in Scotland, on the ancestral estate of my great-grandfather, who”—she paused for effect—“happened to fall at Culloden while fighting for Bonnie Prince Charlie. We are part Scots, or had you forgotten that?” she asked sweetly, her eyes full of devilish amusement.
“Oh,” Lord Rendale said weakly, a flush of painful embarrassment staining his cheeks as he realized he’d committed an unforgivable faux pas. “Lady Rhea Claire, please, do forgive me. I shouldn’t have said what I did, i-it was truly unforgivable, but I had forgotten about your uncle, the marquis, and that he lived in Scotland. Although why he should wish to live in such a godforsaken place is beyond me. The place is so deso—” He broke off, flushing an even brighter hue of red. “Lud, but my cursed tongue, I could cut it out.”
“Yes, Wesley, I should advise you to do that before you dig your grave any deeper,” Rhea Claire said with an indulgent smile, for she was not one to stay mad at anyone for long, and Wesley was, after all, a rather harmless, if at times stuffy, gentleman.
“Uh, yes, well,” Lord Rendale began, his soggy spirits lifting when he caught the flash of a smile beneath the wide brim of her silk hat and knew he’d been forgiven. “No more shall be said of this unfortunate incident. I shall spare Lord Robin any further embarrassment, and,” he continued magnanimously, “I shall forgive you, m’dear, for laughing.”
“How very generous of you, Wesley,” Rhea Claire declared, struggling to keep her mouth from twitching as she waved him toward the house. Her smile broke free as she watched him trudging along, his progress hampered repeatedly by his stockings refusing to stay rolled up and, instead, curling around his ankles.
“You may come out now, my Robin Goodfellow,” Rhea Claire called softly into the shrubbery.
The branches in question trembled, then parted to reveal a curly black head and a heart-shaped face with huge, violet eyes framed by long, black lashes. The impish slant of those eyes belied the sweetly curving mouth, which had fooled many an unfortunate person incautious enough to have tweaked a cheek. But they had never fooled Rhea Claire, who was wise to her brother’s ways.
Lord Robin Dominick, now at the advanced age of ten, threw caution to the wind and stepped from hiding. Leaves clung to his blue velvet breeches, and what looked suspiciously like blackberry juice stained his white shirt front.
“I see you have been more than busy today,” Rhea Claire commented as she looked him over. “What happened to Saunders and Shoopiltee?” she asked while she rubbed a smudge of dirt from Robin’s cheek. “He was after your hide.”
Robin sighed. “Shoopiltee got hungry, and I couldn’t get him to budge another step, and so Saunders caught up with us in the herb garden.” Robin laughed suddenly, remembering Lord Rendale. “He sure looked funny stalking off with his stockings rolling down around his ankles. I wonder what Father will say when he sees stuffy ol’ Rendale walk into the hall soaking wet?” he asked, giggling. “I bet Mason will be horrified at the sight of the earl. Maybe he’ll even make him enter by the servants’ entrance,” he speculated excitedly before dissolving into uncontrollable giggles.
Rhea Claire smothered her own laughter as she thought of Mason, their very proper butler. Robin was right, he would be horrified at the sight of the earl leaving puddles in his spotlessly polished entrance hall.
“If I were you, Robin, I’d be worrying more about what Father will be saying to you,” Rhea Claire warned him, thinking of the cold displeasure that could settle on the duke’s occasionally austere face. “He will be most displeased.”
Robin shrugged his narrow shoulders, remaining unconcerned. “No, he won’t. He doesn’t even like the earl. Heard him telling Mother the other day that the man was better suited to be the Earl of Duncedom than Rendale. Said he was a-a,” Robin said, pausing and frowning as he tried to remember the exact words, “pompous dunderhead!”
“Robin!” Rhea Claire said indignantly. “How dare you repeat such a thing,” she warned him, but they both knew it was a weak reprimand when a chuckle escaped from her tightly compressed lips. “You brat,” she said fondly, and rumpled his curls. “I don’t know why I put up with you. You are always in trouble of some kind, and those ears of yours, Master Jackanapes, will get you in over your head one of these fine days.”
“You’re not really going to marry the earl, are you, Rhea?” Robin asked. “I don’t think anyone really likes him. And I know that Father doesn’t at all.”
“Now that is enough, Robin,” Rhea told him seriously. “I have not decided yet. Besides, just because others do not care for him, why should that matter to me? I make my own decisions, and I happen to think that the earl needs a few friends. I suspect he is quite lonely.” Now Rhea Claire was defending him against her own thoughts of late about accepting the proposal she knew would be forthcoming from him. “I really don’t dislike Wesley. He’s quite a gentleman, and far more likable than all of those aging roués I met
in London. I could certainly do far worse.”
“Or far better, I suspect. But you don’t say love, and isn’t that what should be important, Rhea?” asked Francis Dominick, eldest son and heir of the Duke of Camareigh, as he stepped through the gaping hedge. “Lord, what a mess! Saunders is still muttering about all of this, not to mention old Mason, who’s in high dudgeon up at the house. What a ruckus. I don’t think Lord Rendale will ever be the same, although it probably did him a wonder of good to get knocked down a notch or two. Far too serious a fellow, your earl, Rhea,” Francis said, succinctly summing up his sister’s suitor.
“He is not my earl,” Rhea retorted, stung. She was a year older than her brother Francis, who, at sixteen, stood a good foot taller than she did.
“Well, he would certainly like to be,” Francis said, glancing around at the once peaceful garden.
“What happened up at the house, Francis?” Robin asked, unable to curb his curiosity any longer.
Francis turned a knowing blue-gray eye on his young brother. “I s’pose Father is out cutting a switch for your breeches, seeing how the earl let slip how he came to fall into the lily pond.”
“He told Father!” Robin squealed. “But he promised he would not tell, the tattler. I knew I was right in never having cared for the cut of his coat,” he added audaciously, stamping his foot in indignation.
Francis grinned. “Well, what did you expect him to say when he met our father in the hall? The earl looked as guilty as a common thief as he tried to sneak up the stairs. But Mason caught him, probably tipped off by one of the footmen. Father and I had been in the library, and were entering the hall when we stopped in amazement at the sight that greeted us on the Grand Staircase,” Francis told them with a laugh. “The earl was trying to escape a very solicitous Mason, who happened to have a tight hold on the earl’s arm and wasn’t about to let go. The earl was shooshing him quiet, while trying to shake him loose. The look on Lord Rendale’s face was unbelievable. I think he’d rather have come face-to-face with the devil himself than see Father standing there watching him.”
Chance the Winds of Fortune Page 4
