“Oh, don’t mind Lucien,” the duchess told her, correctly interpreting her sister-in-law’s blushes, “he’s played the expectant father far too many times not to understand what we go through. In fact,” the duchess continued, her eyes exchanging a special, shared memory with the duke, “Lucien helped to deliver Francis, so he knows better than most men what childbearing is all about. I was a bit headstrong in my youth,” she explained, sending the duke a quelling glance when he said something beneath his breath at her offhand remark. “I was not expecting Francis for another month, or so I’d thought. I had been visiting my sister, when on the journey home, in the middle of a thunderstorm, no less,” the duchess said, her eyes now sparkling with the memory, “Francis joined us. I’m not sure who was more surprised,” she said with an engaging laugh, “Lucien, Francis, me, or the coachman when he heard Francis’s lusty cry. I’m afraid poor Richard thought I was going to die.”
Sarah’s mouth dropped open. “Richard was there?” she asked in amazement, realizing there was far more to her rather intellectual husband than she had ever imagined. “I knew that he had lived with you here at Camareigh after your marriage, and that your parents are both dead,” Sarah said. She knew now that she had never before quite suspected the deep bond between Richard and his sister, as well as the bond between Richard and the duke.
“Our mother died a few days after Richard was born, and we were raised for many years in Scotland, by our mother’s father. Our own father wanted nothing to do with us. When Grandfather died,” the duchess explained, “we came to England and lived at Verrick House, where, oddly enough, we had all been born. When I married Lucien, Richard came with me. I’m not sure Lucien had counted on that,” the duchess commented with a smile that only her husband understood.
“I would have had it no other way, for indeed,” the duke said conversationally, “’twas Richard’s actions that instigated a reconciliation between us. We have had our differences in the past, Sarah. And there was a time, long, long ago, when I thought I had lost Sabrina,” the duke confided. “These Verricks are independent and stubborn people, Sarah. In fact, they are a bit eccentric, but I’ve never once regretted marrying into the family,” he told her.
The duke’s casual use of her name warmed Sarah and began to make her feel accepted at Camareigh. She knew this was important if she was to make a success of her marriage, for Camareigh had been Richard’s home, and he worshipped the duke and duchess. She had wanted so very badly to be accepted by his family, and indeed, had desperately feared being rejected by them. For she was only the daughter of an impecunious army officer, who had managed, despite himself, to die bravely in battle, and as a last, dying gesture, had left his only child a ward of his commanding officer, General Sir Terence Fletcher, brother-in-law to the Duchess of Camareigh.
It had been while living at Green Willows, the country estate of Sir Terence and Lady Mary, that Sarah Pargeter had met Richard Verrick, Marquis of Wrainton and younger brother of Lady Mary and the duchess. With his thick red hair, he resembled Lady Mary rather than the dark-haired duchess, and his quiet demeanor and gold-rimmed spectacles made the impression seem well founded—at least until Richard Verrick was moved by amusement, anger, or passion. Then he resembled the duchess, his blue eyes flashing a fire and spirit equal to his sister’s.
Sarah glanced around the very elegant private drawing room of the Dominick family, and she could not help but compare the fine, plaster ceiling with its birds in flight and scrolled corners, the blue and gold flock wallpaper and ornately framed pictures, the silk-covered sofas and chairs, crystal chandeliers, and damask curtains, to the shabby rooms she had lived in while traveling the Continent with her father. Their hand-to-mouth existence fluctuated with his wins and losses in card games in every gaming hall, from Vienna to London to Paris. She had never thought to find herself having tea with a duke and duchess, and in a room such as this; nor had she thought that one day she herself would be a marchioness.
Long ago, she had given up hope of making a successful marriage, for she knew she was no raving beauty, with her ordinary brown hair and brown eyes. And all she’d had as a dowry were her father’s staggering debts—his legacy to her upon his death. Sarah sighed, for her father may not have been a good father by accepted standards, but he had loved her, that she knew, and he had tried to do his best for her. He could rest easy, she thought, for she had married well, far better, in fact, than either of them had ever hoped for, and also, she had married for love.
“And where is Richard?” the duchess asked now as she pulled the bell for the butler. “He did promise to be here for tea. No,” she commanded suddenly, holding up a slender, bejeweled hand before Sarah could answer, “do not tell me. He is in the Library, yes?”
Sarah nodded. “How did you know?”
“Where else would he be? He swears that he comes here to visit me, but I honestly suspect it is to spend his time in Lucien’s library. We’ve added a whole new wall since Richard was last here, so I shouldn’t be surprised if we shan’t see him for days, the ungrateful wretch,” the duchess said, allowing her voice to carry just as the door opened to admit a lanky young man, who strode purposefully into the room.
“I do not know how, or why, you put up with her,” the duchess’s younger brother complained, overhearing her comments just as he had been intended to. “Such defamation of character, and before a man’s wife,” Richard Verrick complained, glancing mockingly at his sister before placing a kiss on his wife’s flushed cheek. “I swear Rina’s tongue gets sharper with age. I always understood people were supposed to mellow with age.”
But when Richard saw the quick retort quivering on his sister’s lips, he spread out his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Pax?” he asked coaxingly as he approached the duchess and kissed her cheek. Then he dropped down on the opposite sofa beside his wife. “I suspect I’ve been outmaneuvered again, and she has me just where she wants me. I don’t know how it is that I managed to marry Sarah without Her Grace’s assistance.”
“Do you actually think you did not?” the duke inquired, a mocking look in his heavy-lidded eyes as they lingered on his wife. “If I remember correctly, Sabrina corresponded almost daily with Mary while you were visiting Green Willows,” the duke informed Richard and Sarah, to their astonishment. Then a grin of amused satisfaction warmed his lean face as he met Sabrina’s startled gaze. “Now, if you will forgive me, I’ve a small errand to see to,” he excused himself. “And do not despair, my sweet, for I promise I shall not be too hard on Robin. Indeed, how could I, when he looks just like you?”
The duchess gave an audible sigh of relief, for Lucien could be quite a stern parent at times. “He will settle down, Lucien. He’s just excited; after all, Mary and the children will be here tomorrow, and then Robin will have plenty of companions to play with,” she said to reassure her doubtful-looking husband.
“That is precisely why I want a word with him now,” Lucien replied, shaking his head as he walked to the door. It opened just as he reached it, and his elder son and daughter hurried in, followed almost immediately by a loaded down tea tray.
“Poor Rendale, he’ll never escape their pranks now that Robin will have accomplices,” he predicted as he paused in the doorway, his narrowed gaze resting briefly on his two children. “I trust you will help keep an eye on your brother, for if there is any trouble, you will bear the brunt of my displeasure,” he warned, disregarding their groans of protest as he left the room.
“Father! That isn’t fair!” Francis called after his retreating back. “If Robin knew we were supposed to keep him out of trouble, he’d just get into more,” he complained, frowning with concentration as he selected a plate full of sweets from the tray.
“And what was that dire warning about?” Richard demanded of his niece and nephew, swiping the rich, cream-filled cake that Francis’s hand had been hovering over. Then his chuckles of appreciation filled the
room as Rhea Claire recounted the afternoon’s incident, Francis’s uncharitable remarks making the earl look more ridiculous than ever.
“I did warn you, my dear,” Richard told his wife, “about marrying into this madhouse. And I believe Lucien is well justified in his concern for the earl’s safety, for Mary, despite her gentle appearance and manner, is usually the center of the storm,” he joked, selecting another sticky-looking confection.
The duchess sipped her tea, her eyes traveling around the room and lingering every so often on a laughing face. She spied her forgotten embroidery and smiled thoughtfully; she knew that Mary would most likely be more than pleased to complete it, for she had inherited their late aunt Margaret’s expertise with needle and thread. Dear Aunt Margaret, who had never quite known where she was, or even what year it was, Sabrina remembered, her smile turning sad. Yet Aunt Margaret could sew a line of delicate stitches straighter and neater than any royal seamstress. Ah, well, it would be good to see Mary and her family again, the duchess thought in anticipation while she poured fresh tea into the cups being held out to her expectantly.
* * *
Rhea Claire’s bedchamber at Camareigh was decorated in shades of pale blue, yellow, and silver. The tall windows, overlooking the gardens along the south wing, were draped with hangings of pale blue and silver damask. A canopied bed with hangings in the same pattern sat snug in one corner, while a molded fireplace occupied the wall opposite. A small chaise longue, delicately curved and upholstered with soft down cushions of blue velvet, and several curved-back white armchairs, with pale yellow and silver-striped brocade cushions, filled in the space before the windows. A small writing table and chair were positioned at the end of the Aubusson carpet, but it was at the rosewood and gilt dressing table that Rhea Claire was sitting, the mirror reflecting burnished golden hair cascading down her back and over her shoulders as her mother’s personal maid brushed it into thick waves.
“And what gown will ye be wearin’ today, Lady Rhea Claire?” Canfield asked, expertly winding the long strands into heavy loops.
“I thought I’d wear my pale green brocade,” Rhea replied, handing Canfield a long length of green velvet ribbon and a bunch of artificial flowers to weave into the nearly completed and stylish coiffure that the maid prided herself on knowing how to create.
“I’d be most grieved, m’lady, to see ye soil that pretty gown at the picnic,” Canfield told her with a disapproving look on her thin face. Meanwhile, she eyed a stray curl that refused to stay in place.
“But that is not until tomorrow, Canfield,” Rhea told her, slipping a delicate, bow-shaped ring, set with diamonds and sapphires, onto her slender finger. It had been a gift to her from her parents on her seventeenth birthday.
“’Tis today,” Canfield corrected her as she marched over to the wardrobe; when she opened it, the colorful selection within was revealed. “Sir Terence and Lady Mary arrived late last night. Most odd, if ye be askin’ me, ’twas,” Canfield remarked with a sniff, not caring for anything that upset her carefully scheduled days.
Rhea Claire shrugged. “I think it is wonderful that they have already arrived. And I shall still wear my green brocade, Canfield,” Rhea informed her adamantly, for if given an inch Canfield would take a mile. “I am no child to be spilling cocoa down my dress.”
“Very well, m’lady, but I’m sure I don’t know what Her Grace will be sayin’,” Canfield capitulated, noticing the set of her young mistress’s delicately rounded chin. “This décolletage is far too low for a young lady your age. Told the seamstress, I did, but would she listen to me?” Canfield continued in a grievous tone, sniffing contemptuously at the likes of the London seamstress who’d been brought in to make Her Grace’s wardrobe, as well as her daughter’s. “No, she did not. Too busy rolling them bovine eyes of hers at His Grace and ogling Camareigh to sew a proper stitch, her. Hrrmph, told her, I did. But she soon found out, she did…”
Rhea Claire closed her mind to what would no doubt become one of Canfield’s never-ending monologues, for the woman seemed to have an opinion on everything that went on at Camareigh, or anywhere else for that matter. Rhea Claire hurried into her green brocade, breathing in deeply as Canfield tightened the laces on her corset before fastening the gown snugly around her waist. She frowned slightly as Canfield insisted, under threat of not letting her out of her room, on attaching a modesty piece to the top of the corset, which effectively hid any cleavage that might have attracted an appreciative male eye, or Her Grace’s eye, heaven forbid, thought a worried Canfield. But finally, Rhea was able to escape Canfield’s overzealous ministrations, leaving her contentedly tidying up the bedchamber.
In the Long Gallery, the narrow, corridor-like room that stretched nearly the length of the east front, Rhea Claire stopped before the family portrait completed just months ago. It hung last in the long line of family portraits commissioned by the Dominicks over the centuries, its ornate gold frame bright against the aged oak paneling of the walls. With a misty landscape in the background, the Dominick family was gathered around the base of a sturdy oak in the foreground. The Duke of Camareigh was leaning against the gnarled trunk, with his youngest son, Andrew, riding his upraised leg, which he was resting on a fallen log. Sitting farther down the makeshift bench, with Andrew’s twin sister Arden on her lap, was the Duchess of Camareigh, her primrose-colored, quilted petticoat a spot of brightness against the dominant greens of the painting. Rhea Claire glanced at her own painted face staring expressionlessly back at her from where she sat at her mother’s feet, her blue satin skirts spread out around her. Francis was positioned behind their mother’s shoulder, while Robin was squatting down in front, a pair of frisky-looking King Charles spaniels romping at his feet.
Rhea Claire stayed before the painting a moment longer, then continued along the gallery, her steps slowing every so often as she paused before a familiar portrait. One of them was the painting of her great-grandmother, the late dowager duchess, who, according to her mother and father, had been a force to be reckoned with as she’d tried to manipulate all of those within her sphere of influence. Her Grace, Claire Lorraine Dominick, Duchess of Camareigh, and daughter of a French count, who had been born to rule the ducal estates with an imperious nod of an elegantly coiffed, regal head, had held the reins with a hand of iron. She had been quite a woman, Rhea Claire thought, leaning closer to get a better look at the three golden-haired children grouped around their grandmother’s chair. It was her father and his twin cousins. Grinning as she thought of her father as a little boy, Rhea moved on down the gallery, stopping before her favorite portrait, which was of an ancestor dressed in doublet and hose, a stiff ruff tucked beneath his bearded chin. He was certainly a handsome devil, Rhea thought, her smile changing slightly as she speculated on his unsavory reputation. The rumor was that he had been a privateer in the service of Queen Elizabeth I, and had added looted Spanish gold to the Dominick fortunes. Rhea Claire stared dreamily up at him, wondering what kind of man this adventurer ancestor of hers truly had been.
With an admonitory shake of her flower-crowned head, she hurried on, checking her gold pendant watch and thinking of her breakfast growing cold. As she neared the end of the Long Gallery, a door burst open and several giggling children sped inside. They halted mid-stride when they caught sight of her figure, but when they recognized her they continued, quickening their steps as they neared her.
“Rhea! Rhea!” a chorus of high, excited voices greeted her.
“Mornin’,” Rhea Claire responded, eyeing them curiously, for they had a decidedly guilty look about them, and she knew her cousins well enough to suspect something amiss. “And what do you have hidden behind your backs?” she demanded, trying to catch a quick glance.
“Secret!” cried out Margaret, the seven-year-old, then hid her mouth behind a grubby little hand.
“Maggie!” her brother warned, his gray eyes glinting beneath rusty-colored eyeb
rows.
“I’m not going to tell. You can’t get me to tell,” chanted John, the youngest.
“Come on,” Rhea Claire cajoled, holding out her hand and smiling down at them, “do tell, now. You know I can keep a secret.”
“She can, you know,” nine-year-old Anna declared with a grin, her admiration for her beautiful cousin evident on her freckled face.
“Well,” Stuart said, his expression comically serious as he hesitated, “I guess it will be all right, but you have to promise not to say a word. Promise?”
“Cross my heart,” Rhea Claire said solemnly, her eyes widening in surprise as four hands, palms up, were presented for her inspection. A warm cherry tart sat squarely in the middle of each.
“They’re for Robin,” John whispered conspiratorially, before he was nudged quiet by Stuart’s elbow.
“Lud! I don’t believe it,” Rhea Claire said with a laugh. “I should have known he would have a hand in this escapade. What is he up to now?” she speculated aloud.
“We each get a ride on Shoopiltee, in exchange for one cherry tart,” Maggie answered, her eyes glowing in anticipation.
“Why, that little brat,” Rhea said indignantly, knowing Robin had been forbidden any desserts yesterday in partial punishment for his misdeeds. “If Father finds out, Robin’ll get the whipping of his short life. That little devil! Making you pay to ride his pony. How did you wheedle these out of Mrs. Peacham? Nothing leaves the kitchens without her approval, or didn’t you receive it?” The foursome was now silent. “Hmmm, I thought as much. A diversion, no doubt, then a sleight of hand, was it?”
Chance the Winds of Fortune Page 6
