“You promised, Rhea, not to tattle,” Stuart reminded his cousin, not caring for that glint in her eye.
“Very well, but you tell Robin that I’m on to him,” Rhea warned as they started to dart past her. “And stay out of the garden if you know what’s good for you,” she called as they disappeared, feet flying, down the gallery. Then Rhea Claire wondered what mishaps would befall Camareigh before the picnic was over and the younger members of the household were safely between the covers of their respective beds.
* * *
Lady Mary Fletcher was sitting quietly beneath the cool shade of a fine old chestnut, its spreading branches protecting her from the bright sun shining down from a cloudless blue sky. Her fingers moved mechanically with needle and thread across the linen material she was embroidering, but her thoughts were elsewhere as she stared across the smooth lawns of Camareigh to the magnificent house in the distance. She knew she would never quite get over her first glimpse of the Duke of Camareigh’s home. Its splendor and elegance, its great history, was enough to awe a person into silence. However, she had never envied her sister living in such a place, and in such a grand style. Her own home, Green Willows, was a comfortable house, with a modicum of servants, just enough to keep the estate running smoothly and to see to the family’s needs. But Camareigh, thought Lady Mary with a disbelieving shake of her red head, was almost deserving of homage.
She had often wondered how Sabrina had managed so smoothly over the years the responsibilities of being the Duchess of Camareigh. No, Lady Mary smiled, retracting her thought, Sabrina was strong and very determined, and when she set her mind on something, she always succeeded. If it hadn’t been for Sabrina all of those years ago… How many now? Twenty, no, closer to twenty-five it was, when they had fled Scotland and the bloodshed of Culloden and arrived at Verrick House, the small Elizabethan manor that was their birthplace. But at that time it had held no memories for the three children fresh from the Highlands. They’d had a difficult time even keeping food on the table then, Lady Mary remembered, glancing over at the tables set up on the smooth lawn, their linen-covered surfaces cluttered with succulent dishes of every description, while several wine coolers and crystal bowls of punch were filled to capacity to satisfy the thirsty. Mary could still remember another time when… No, she would not think of those days, for they were of the past, and should be long forgotten. But it was hard not to think about one’s memories, and of late, because she had been troubled by her thoughts, it seemed to Mary that the past was more vivid than ever before.
The sound of laughter drew Lady Mary’s gentle gray eyes toward a group of young men playing croquet in the distance. Ewan, her eldest son, and his two brothers, George and James, along with their cousin Francis, were all there. With their coats thrown into a disorderly pile on the grass, and their shirtsleeves rolled up around their elbows, the cousins, all of a similar age, were hard to distinguish from one another.
Lady Mary’s gaze sought out her husband’s familiar figure as he came across the gentle slope of lawn, his stride slow but even as he kept pace with the duke. They were deeply engrossed in conversation, and Lady Mary could well imagine what it was about, for the rumor of war seemed to be constantly raising its ugly head nowadays. Lady Mary was relieved to see that Terence’s old wound wasn’t bothering him, but then on a warm day like this, it seldom did. It was only during the long winter months, when the cold penetrated deep, that his war wound painfully stiffened his leg, causing him a great deal of silent suffering. Terence was not one to complain or easily accept sympathy. But that had never stopped her from seeing that he’d been comfortable, Lady Mary remembered, the glint in her usually soft gray eyes reminiscent of the look the general had to face often.
Mary sighed, knowing she shouldn’t let it upset her still, but she knew she had never quite gotten over Terence’s rejoining his regiment. They had enjoyed so many peaceful and contented years at Green Willows that she’d never imagined in her wildest of dreams that Terence would agree, after he’d been asked by his friends and former fellow officers, to rejoin his troops fighting on the Continent. She supposed it had been at the back of his mind all along, but that out of love and consideration for her and the child she carried in her womb, he had not seriously contemplated it until a delegation of officers had landed on their doorstep and pleaded with him to come back to his men. She had thought she would never be able to forgive him for abandoning her and their children, even though she had realized that for Terence it would have been not only dishonorable, but cowardly as well to reject his men’s desperate plea. Terence was not a bloodthirsty man; in fact, he was a very compassionate man, but he was a soldier, and had been for most of his adult life. He enjoyed playing the country squire, but when the call to arms was sounded, it was hard for him not to respond, especially when men he had known and served with were being slaughtered on the field of battle. But as soon as she’d seen him come limping home, his wound still raw, she’d forgotten all of her resentment and channeled all her efforts into nursing Terence back to health. He had been promoted to general, received numerous medals for valor, and had even been knighted for his service to king and country. But none of that had mattered to her, for all she had prayed for had been Terence’s safe return to Green Willows. And if indeed there was to be another war, what with this talk of rebellion brewing in the colonies, then she was thankful that Terence was finally too old to rejoin his regiment this time.
Giggling voices, crying out to be pushed higher and higher, caught Lady Mary’s attention. She glanced over to where the younger children were playing on swings tied to the heavier branches of the trees, their dangling legs sweeping high and low as they took turns pushing each other into the heavens.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” the duchess commented lazily, her eyes following Mary’s around the lawns. “I wish we could spend every single afternoon out here under the trees,” she added dreamily, smoothing a fair curl from the forehead of her sleeping daughter, who lay curled up on her lap.
Lady Mary smiled. “You always have wished for the impossible, and yet”—she paused thoughtfully—“you do seem to have your wishes granted sooner or later.” Lady Mary glanced down at Sabrina’s sleepy-eyed son, whose golden head was dropping against the duchess’s lap as he finally dozed off. Mary grinned and touched his soft cheek. “These two must have come as quite a surprise to Lucien.”
“It shouldn’t have. ’Twas his doing,” the duchess replied with an impish twinkle in her eye that reminded her sister of that little rascal Robin.
“There was a time,” Lady Mary continued, “when I thought Rhea Claire might be your only child. She certainly has grown into a lovely young woman. I always did think, and still do in fact, that she was the most exquisite baby I’ve ever seen. I see much of you in her, Rina, especially in her eyes. But with that gold hair she is Lucien’s daughter.”
“Lucien says he is relieved she did not inherit my quick temper. Although I do wonder,” the duchess added, “if it is not better, perhaps, to rid yourself of your anger quickly, rather than let it simmer and build until it boils over. That is what happens to Lucien, and then there is all hell to pay. Rhea is like Lucien. She seems very indolent, even docile, but her anger will be simmering underneath. She will have been carefully thinking out her revenge, or her cutting sarcasms, and then she will strike back, leaving you quite stunned by the experience.”
“Are you and Lucien going to allow a match between Rhea Claire and the Earl of Rendale?” Lady Mary asked curiously, a shadow of something flickering across her face.
The duchess smiled at the thought. “I know Rhea is of marrying age, but she still seems so young. And as far as we are concerned, there is no hurry for her to wed. Also, I am not sure we totally approve of the earl.”
Lady Mary smiled now. “I doubt whether any man will ever be totally acceptable to you and Lucien. Wesley Lawton, however, does seem to be a nice enough young man,”
she added, her gaze traveling to the young couple in question as they strolled along the lakeshore with Richard and his wife. “Things have worked out nicely for Richard. I do like Sarah.”
“Yes, so do I,” the duchess agreed. “I am pleased that he brought her home to Camareigh for the birth of their first child. We will make sure that nothing goes wrong. Indeed, nothing would dare to go wrong with Rawley overseeing the birth. Sometimes I swear she knows more about healing than most doctors, and yet, except for a year in London, she has spent her whole life working at Camareigh as a maid, and claims, quite vehemently too, that she has no higher aspirations than living and dying right where she was born. She says she belongs here, and nowhere else. She’s quite fond of Richard, especially that red hair. She’ll see that nothing endangers the life of his wife or his firstborn.
“I do miss Richard,” the duchess confessed. “But he does seem to love living in Scotland, and it is, after all, his heritage. Grandfather would have been pleased, I think. Although I suspect he’d think Richard a bit too English now. But as to Rhea,” the duchess continued, changing the subject, her eyes narrowed in thought as she watched her daughter and the besotted Earl of Rendale, “there is still plenty of time. Actually, we have had numerous offers for her hand in marriage, but the gentlemen have either been dirt-poor and hoping to acquire an easy fortune, or aging libertines finally wanting to settle down before it’s too late, or genuinely love-struck young bucks reciting poetry, which, believe me, can become quite tedious. So far we have had little trouble rejecting their proposals, for Rhea has wanted nothing to do with any of them. However, I do think that Lucien strikes terror into the hearts of most of them, for there is nothing worse than a reformed rake as a father.”
“Yes, I can see how Lucien might seem a trifle intimidating, especially if one’s conscience is not clear. When Maggie and Anna are of age,” Lady Mary stated with certainty, “I’m sure Terence will play the general to the hilt. I’m certain he shall have half of their suitors signing up for duty just to please him, as well as to escape his eagle eye,” she added with a good-natured laugh, her eyes lingering on her husband before they moved on to gaze at the rippling waters of the lake.
As quickly as a cloud passing across the sun, Lady Mary Fletcher’s smile faded, and her eyes became darkened by unseen thoughts. Flashes of strange and familiar faces, bizarre surroundings and hazy incidents swirled through her mind with dizzying speed.
“What is wrong?” the duchess asked in concern, noticing the strange expression on Mary’s usually serene face. “What is amiss? Aren’t you feeling well? Perhaps a sip of wine would…” But the duchess never finished her suggestion. A sudden thought had struck her, and she felt a cold chill spread through her. “You’ve had a vision, haven’t you, Mary? That is what brought you to Camareigh a day early, isn’t it?” she demanded in a hollow-sounding voice.
Lady Mary turned slowly to face her sister, for she had lived too long with the curse of second sight not to fully understand the implications of her visions. Nor could she, or would she, lie to Sabrina about it—Sabrina, of all people, had the right to know the truth.
“Yes, Rina,” Mary answered quietly, confirming her sister’s worst fears, “I’ve had a vision.”
“God, it has been so long since you’ve experienced one. I’d almost forgotten about them,” said the duchess, more to herself than to Mary, her brow troubled with her thoughts.
“I know,” Mary replied sadly. “I, too, had hoped to be spared any more of these damned visions.” Her voice was uncharacteristically harsh.
A single teardrop was clinging to her lashes as her darkening gray eyes met her sister’s anxious glance. “Life has been so idyllic. Too much so, I suspect. If only I could tell you, Rina, exactly what it is that I fear,” she said almost apologetically, her hands clenched into tight fists. “I feel so helpless. I always have. This damned sight only gives me fears. I sometimes think I would rather have something terrible happen, without the prior knowledge, than to know it is coming, to sit here expecting it, but be unable to do anything to stop it.” A sob caught in her throat. “Do you realize that a hundred years ago I would have been burned at the stake as a witch, because of the knowledge I possess?”
“Oh, Mary, dear, sweet Mary,” Sabrina breathed. “If I could help you, I would. If I could blind you to this tormenting inner sight, I would burn it out of you, but you know it is beyond our control. ’Twas meant to be, Mary,” Sabrina said softly, trying to comfort her sister. “Think of the times you have helped us, Mary. Of the times you saved Richard, and me, from certain death. Perhaps, with this warning you will be able to avert something terrible from happening. Now please, dear,” she coaxed, holding Mary’s cold hand in hers, “tell me what you have seen. Share it with me.”
“’Tis water, Rina,” Mary began, her voice husky with tears. “I can see deep water, no, dark water. Dark water rippling around me. I can almost smell the stench rising from it. I feel befouled by it, as if it is going to suck me under. It is so black, so horrible!” Mary cried, burying her face in her clasped hands. “It is so cold around me. And there is such unbridled terror, and yes, death,” she said in a whisper. “I can see something gold, shining like a star in the depths below. And above”—her voice was cracking under the strain—“I see dragons. Oh, God help me! You must think me crazed, Rina, to be seeing dragons. They’re laughing and snarling, and they’re dangerous. I keep seeing these horrible red and green dragons. They seem to be haunting me. And sometimes I feel like reaching out to them; at other times I feel myself drawing back in terror. I’m so confused, Rina!”
Mary raised a ravaged face and stared out on the warm summer afternoon, taking deep breaths as she gulped for air. “You should hate me. Despise me for bringing such evil premonitions to Camareigh, but, Rina,” Mary said, reaching out to grasp Sabrina’s hand in a painful grip, “’tis your face I see full of grief. ’Tis your eyes I see full of such terror. How could I not tell you, warn you?” she pleaded.
Sabrina, Duchess of Camareigh, swallowed something painful that had lodged in her throat, her arm tightening instinctively around the innocent child sleeping peacefully in her lap. Her eyes scanned the horizon as if searching—but for what? What was out there waiting to strike? And what danger did it present, and for whom? Sabrina watched Lucien walk toward her across the lawn, Terence at his side, and she wanted so desperately to reach out to Lucien for comfort, for strength, but she couldn’t seem to move or even to cry out. Mary’s vision of terror had wrapped itself around her, paralyzing her as she stared helplessly at her loved ones, knowing that some tragedy was going to strike at the heart of Camareigh—and that all she could do was sit and wait and watch as ultimately the terror unfolded.
Three
The fire which seems extinguished often slumbers beneath the ashes.
—Pierre Corneille
Venice—Fall 1769
Beneath the Bridge of Sighs the dark waters of the Rio de Palazzo rippled in the wake of the black, shallow-hulled gondola sliding silently past. The lacy-patterned, rose and white marble arches and columns of the Doge’s Palace climbed like a wall of light out of the depths, while on the opposite side of the canal, as vivid in contrast as black is to white, stood the crouching form of the pozzi, the forbidding prison block that housed the less fortunate of Venice. Its ominous presence gave reason for the name of the Bridge of Sighs, for few who crossed over that covered bridge into the damp prison cells ever crossed back again into the light of freedom.
Sitting in solitary silence in the gondola was a figure swathed in the black of mourning, for the long, slender craft had just crossed St. Mark’s basin from the Church of San Giorgio Maggiore, where the grieving woman had said her last farewell to her loved one. With slow, even strokes of his oar the gondolier, perched high in the stern, sent the canal boat smoothly along the winding miles of narrow, back canals, which twisted into the heart of the city that
had once been the proud, shining jewel of the Adriatic. The great domes of St. Mark’s Basilica still glowed golden in the Italian sun, and many of the marble palaces of the once-powerful merchant-princes were still blessed and inhabited by the gilded few who could afford the expensive pleasures of their leisure hours. But there was a rot eating away at the city and her people, an ever-growing decadence of mind and spirit that ate away at the flesh of the body and was as destructive as the foul water lapping around the crumbling foundations of the buildings of Venice.
Through this spreading illness and adding to its darkness moved La Rosa Triste, The Sad Rose, one of the most infamous and sought-after courtesans of Venice. So named by the Venetians because she dressed in black and wore a single red rose in her hair, she was a figure of mystery—for no one had ever seen her face. In a city where the wearing of masks was not unusual, where aristocrat and peasant, highborn lady and whore, duke and gigolo could mix freely, without fearing the disclosure of a reputable identity, La Rosa Triste stood apart, her face and true name a secret even to her most ardent, and paying, admirers. But she was beautiful—a Madonna, some said—and all of Venice knew this to be true. For on one or two occasions, when attending a carnival or grand ball, La Rosa Triste had left behind her usual domino, the black mask that covered most of her face, and had instead donned an extraordinary mask. Half of her face, from forehead to chin, was covered by a black silk mask, while the other half of her face was left bare. Her classical features were said to be as innocently beautiful as those of an angel, and with her pale eyes and hair she stood out like a shining star in a midnight sky.
Why La Rosa Triste dressed in black and red roses, no one knew for certain, although some who were less kind and perhaps jealous of her popularity said that it was merely for show, to catch the eye. But others, who seemed to know, said it was because her family and true love had been murdered in a vendetta, and that now she was burying the last of her loved ones. Her grief, at least now, was very real, for her beloved brother, Le Principe Biondo, The Blond Prince, as he’d been fondly nicknamed by the wealthy, noble ladies he’d played the cicisbeo for, was dead. He had been found floating in the dirty waters of the canal, a stiletto embedded in his back.
Chance the Winds of Fortune Page 7
