Chance the Winds of Fortune

by Laurie McBain

  “I am riding over to Stone House-on-the-Hill. That was where Rhea was headed—perhaps the old man can tell us something. Has Caroline said anything?” he asked.

  “No, she’s still sleeping,” Mary answered while the duchess stared at Lucien, a puzzled expression on her face.

  “I’d like to accompany you, Lucien,” the general offered, getting to his feet, his stiff leg forgotten as he contemplated getting into action.

  The duke smiled. “I thought you might, so I’ve had Butterick saddle your horse.” Then he tried to forestall what he knew was coming when he saw his wife rise hurriedly. “No, Sabrina. I don’t want you coming with us.”

  “Damn it, Lucien, I am,” Sabrina contradicted him. “Rhea is my daughter too, and I’ll not be left behind. I have a right to be with you,” she told him, looking at him squarely, a determined glint in her eyes.

  The duke grasped her shaking hands and held them against his chest for a moment. “I only wished to spare you, my dear. I do not know what we shall discover.”

  “I know, Lucien,” Sabrina answered softly, “but we have always shared everything. Don’t shut me out now.”

  “I want to go too, Father,” Francis said boldly.

  “Me too, sir,” Ewan volunteered. His offer was then echoed by both George and James.

  Richard had already stepped forward to stand just behind the duchess. He didn’t need to offer; they all knew he would not stay at Camareigh while the rest were out hunting for Rhea and the Earl of Rendale.

  Before any further offers could be made, the duke held up a silencing hand, which effectively halted the mass exodus. “I will not have the whole household racing around the countryside like madmen. I am touched by your willingness to help, but I think we should try and carry out this search in some kind of orderly fashion. If you agree, Terence,” the duke said, nodding deferentially to the general, “I think you are the best man to organize the search party.”

  “Thank you, Lucien. I shall try my damnedest to find her,” he said quietly. “What I suggest,” he began, his voice assuming the tone of one accustomed to command, “is that Francis and Ewan lead two search parties in different areas. Ewan, you take the east side of the lane: Francis, you take the west. That way we shall cover more ground. Also, I want you both to start at a designated point, then work north toward Stone House-on-the-Hill. That way we will know precisely what ground has been effectively searched, and we’ll have closed a circle around the area in which Rhea was traveling. Does that meet with your approval, Lucien?” the general asked, unwilling to usurp the duke’s authority in his own home.

  “It will be as you wish,” the duke replied, his eyes lingering on his wife. “If you insist upon accompanying us, Sabrina, then I want you to ride with me,” he told her, his voice leaving her no choice. “Richard?”

  Richard slipped his arm around his sister’s waist. “I’ll ride with you, thanks. Sarah?” he added, turning to look at his wife. “You will be all right?”

  “I would have it no other way, Richard. And don’t worry,” she said with an encouraging smile, “I shan’t have your heir while you are gone.”

  “What about me—us?” Robin amended as Stuart nudged him, eagerly pressing closer. “I want to help look for Rhea.”

  “I would prefer that you stayed here at Camareigh, Son,” the duke replied, his tone of voice telling Robin that his request had been denied.

  “But—”

  “No buts about it, Robin. Someone should be here with Aunt Mary and Sarah. What if we received news about Rhea? Who would be here to send word to us?” As the duke reasoned with his disappointed son, he noted with sympathy the trembling lip that Robin was fighting to control. He placed a gentle hand beneath his son’s chin, and raising his face upward, looked him directly in the eye. “I shall be counting on you, Son, to see that all is well here at Camareigh.”

  “Yes, sir,” Robin replied huskily. “I’ll watch out for Aunt Mary and Sarah. You can trust me, Father.”

  “I have no doubt about that, Robin,” he said, ruffling his son’s dark curls. Then he glanced around at the determined faces surrounding him. “Very well, then let us delay no longer.”

  * * *

  When the group of riders from Camareigh entered the yard of Stone House-on-the-Hill, all was quiet. From the chimney on the east side of the farmhouse a trail of blue smoke was rising slowly into the chill autumn air. There seemed to be nothing amiss in the farmyard. The big double doors to the barn were wide open, and fresh droppings of cow manure were strewn across the yard, giving evidence that someone had just recently led the cows out to pasture. In the distance they could hear distinctive lowing sounds from the grazing cows.

  Butterick quickly dismounted and assisted the duchess from her mount before either His Grace or Lord Wrainton could lend a hand. Her horse was a big chestnut stallion that he’d always thought unsuitable for a woman, especially the petite duchess; she’d hear nothing against the horse, though, and to this day she’d yet to suffer a fall. Butterick sometimes had the feeling that the duchess would far prefer riding astride the brute rather than sidesaddle, but that, of course, was ridiculous and completely unheard of.

  “Everything seems normal enough,” Richard commented, glancing around.

  “What seems to be, and what is, my lord,” Butterick stated knowledgeably, “are often two different things altogether. Always look beneath the surface, I do. That’s where the truth is hiding.”

  For a second Richard gazed at the horse trainer in amazed silence. “Incredible,” he murmured. “Shall I see if anyone’s at home?”

  “Most likely ’twill have gone with the cows—” Butterick paused, a smile lighting his face. “Aye, there I told ye so.”

  As they stood silent in the farmyard, the clear notes of a young girl’s voice raised in song could be heard coming ever closer from the near pasture:

  It was in and about the Martinmas time,

  When the green leaves weer a falling,

  That Sir John Graeme, in the West Country,

  Fell in love with Barbara Allan.

  He sent his man down through the town,

  To the place where she was dwelling:

  “O haste and come to my master dear,

  Gin ye be Barbara Allan.”

  O hooly, hoo—

  “—ooh!” The girl’s voice rose into a squeal of fright as she rounded the house and came face-to-face with the five riders and horses crowding close in the yard. Another squeal followed close on the heels of the first one, but this time it was one of awed surprise as she recognized the Duke and Duchess of Camareigh. She quickly bobbed a curtsy, then remembered her skirts, which she’d tied up round her waist for trudging through muddy fields. And her pattens were indeed coated with thick, black mud. Blushing with embarrassment, she hurriedly brushed down her skirts and hid her petticoats from curious view, thereby maintaining her modesty.

  “Yer Graces,” she gulped, her eyes round with wonder.

  “This is young Janey Taber, the elder Mr. Taber’s great-great-granddaughter.” Butterick introduced her, recognizing the young girl who could not have been more than thirteen. “That’s right, ain’t it, young Janey?”

  “No, sir, Mr. Butterick,” she answered shyly. “I’m his great-great-great-granddaughter. He’s mighty old, Mr. Taber is,” she reminded him.

  “Janey,” the duchess said with a warm smile, “we are here to see your great-grandfather. Is he hereabouts? Perhaps inside?”

  But Janey shook her mop of tousled, tow-colored curls. “Oh, no, Yer Grace, he was out of t’house early this morn. He’s a ramblin’ sort of fellow. Never sits still, he doesn’t.”

  “Do you know where he has gone? We would like to speak with him. He was supposed to meet Lady Rhea Claire, the daughter of the duke and duchess, Janey,” Butterick tried to explain.

  “D
on’t know nothin’ about that, sir. And I haven’t even seen the old man this morn. He left the house afore I was even up. Didn’t see him none last night, either,” she admitted sheepishly. “Fell asleep by t’fire, I did. Takin’ care of them pups he had in the kitchen. Lady Rhea Claire brought them to me grandfather, didn’t she? Oh, but she’s a pretty one, her,” she added dreamily.

  Butterick coughed, a look of irritation flashing across his face. “Now, Janey, we haven’t time for that kind of non—”

  But the duke held up a hand to silence him. “Janey, we’d like to speak to your grandfather. It is very important. Do you have any idea where he might have gone?” he asked her gently.

  “No—no,” she answered faintly, mesmerized by the scar cutting across the duke’s cheek. “He’s most likely to wander halfway t’other side of the valley, if the feeling takes him.”

  The duke sighed, not wanting to meet his wife’s questioning glance. “Have you, perchance, seen Lady Rhea Claire this morning? Or the Earl of Rendale?”

  “No, sir, that I haven’t. I’ve been busy, I have though,” she explained, sensing that her answer had disappointed these important people. “Milked the cows and herded them out to pasture. The three of them took their own sweet time, the stubborn beasties. I’ve still got me baking and churning t’do. Worse still, the hens been off their layin’. Reckon ’tis all of this rain we been havin’ and—”

  “Lucien! Richard!” called Terence Fletcher from the barn. While they were talking with Janey Taber, the general had wandered off and searched the yard for any recent sign of activity—horses’ hoofs, footsteps, or whatever might seem out of the ordinary.

  The duchess eyed her brother-in-law with growing concern as she hurried to his side, for his expression, which often seemed grim, was grimmer now than any she had seen in years.

  “What is amiss, Terence?” she demanded as she halted beside him, her eyes already straining to see past him into the dark barn.

  “Keep the girl out here,” he advised, meeting Lucien’s eyes meaningfully. “Sabrina, I’d stay out here, if I were you,” he added. But his request was futile. She sidestepped him and marched inside, then waited impatiently for him to follow.

  Lucien shrugged his shoulders, for he was well used to his wife’s stubbornness, and followed her. The general and a curious Butterick came close behind him, and an openmouthed Janey was left standing by herself in the doorway.

  “Over here,” Terence directed them, pointing to a dark corner of the barn. “It’s the old man. He’s dead,” he told them, moving aside for them to view the scene.

  The elder Mr. Taber was lying stiffly in the straw, his arms outstretched as if he’d tried to catch himself as he’d fallen. On the back of his silvery head was a dark patch of congealed blood.

  “The poor man,” Sabrina murmured sadly.

  “It looks as if he tripped and hit his head against the corner of the table,” Terence commented, noticing the blood smeared against the wood.

  “’Tis a pity. He was a good man, Lucien,” Sabrina said, thinking of his many kindnesses to unfortunate animals, and how he’d unselfishly shared his healing gifts. “He had gotten rather enfeebled of late, though.”

  “He was an old man, Sabrina,” Lucien said softly. He had been fond of the old gent, and for as long as he could remember the elder Mr. Taber had been a living legend around Camareigh. “We shall miss him.”

  “Aye, Your Grace,” Butterick said sharply, his face flushed with growing anger. “He was a good man, a fine old gentleman, and there was no cause on this earth for him to die like this.”

  Terence looked with surprise at the grumbling Butterick. “What are you talking about, man?”

  “’Tisn’t a natural death, this. The old man was murdered, that’s what I mean,” Butterick replied firmly, setting his jaw as if preparing for battle.

  “Good God, man! Do you know what you’re saying?” roared the general.

  “Aye,” Butterick replied calmly, refusing to be intimidated by the general’s military demeanor. “And I’ll tell ye somethin’ else, although I reckon you’d have noticed it soon enough, General, if you’d been of a suspicious nature like meself.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The elder Mr. Taber, here, has been dead since last night.” He spoke this startling news quietly. “So I’m thinkin’ that them stiff fingers didn’t write no note to Lady Rhea Claire,” he said, and this horrifying conclusion sliced through the heavy silence like the blade of an ax.

  The duchess continued to stare with fascinated horror at the harmless old man’s body. “I-I don’t understand. Why should anyone wish to murder him? My God, Lucien!” she cried out. “He was close to a hundred years old! What harm could a gentle old man like Mr. Taber do to someone?”

  “What I do not understand,” Terence said worriedly, “is what the connection is between the old man’s death and whatever has happened to Rhea Claire and the Earl of Rendale. And who, for God’s sake, wrote that damned note?”

  Butterick glanced up from where he was kneeling beside the body. “He’s scrawled something here in the dirt,” he said. He looked satisfied that he’d ferreted out a clue, even if it was indecipherable.

  “A bird?” Terence Fletcher exclaimed in disbelief, staring over Butterick’s shoulder at the scratchings in the hard-packed dirt.

  Sabrina leaned closer as she squatted down beside the body. “It looks like a pigeon,” she said wonderingly.

  “Aye, right ye are, Your Grace,” Butterick agreed. “But why the old man should draw a pigeon in his last breath of life, well,” Butterick said with a frustrated shake of his head, “I’m sure I don’t know.”

  The duchess rose on shaky legs and stumbled away from the body. She closed her eyes for a moment as she leaned her forehead against the wooden support of the stall. Then she felt Lucien’s arms close around her, and she allowed herself to be pressed against the familiar, comforting warmth of his chest.

  “Oh, Lucien,” she whispered, tears choking her voice. “What are we going to do? What has happened to our daughter?”

  Lucien turned her around in his arms and stared down into her wet eyes, feeling more helpless than he’d ever before felt in his life. “I promise you, Rina, by all that I hold dear, that I will find our daughter. This I swear to you with my life,” he vowed.

  * * *

  “’Ere, what d’ye mean ye saw me Tommy with some saucy wench in Cheapside?” a shrill voice demanded. “Lies, that’s what it is. Ye be sea green with jealousy ’cuz I got meself a man, and ye ain’t! Wish ye had Tommy yeself, ye do. Aye, that’s the trouble wif ye—what! ’Ere, there’s no call fer sayin’ such a thing, and about the dead too. Me mother was as fine a…” But the rest of the denial went unheard, the voices drifting away as the two women in conversation moved briskly along the slippery cobblestones, hurrying to reach their destination before the light, cold drizzle turned into a downpour.

  The man who’d been watching them was standing silently in the shadows and was wishing for a warm hearth and a mug of ale to take the chill away, but he knew almost for a certainty that that would be a long time coming this evening. Teddie Waltham hunched his shoulders, waiting for a group of boisterous sailors to pass; he knew that in their unrestrained mood anything or anyone unfortunate enough to cross their path was destined to end up in the gutter.

  Waltham glanced around very surreptitiously, shivering slightly as he moved from the safety of the shadows and made his way with easy assurance through the back alleys and twisting lanes of London. He figured that he and her ladyship had made London in record time, and ’twas only a pity that they could never make it public, for it’d be a tough time to beat. Aye, but it’d given him a good feeling to once again see and smell the city in which he’d been born and raised. They’d returned to the King’s Messenger, for ’twas a well-known place to certain people, and m
ost of them knew they could find Teddie Waltham on the premises. Then he’d spent the better part of a cold, rainy day going about London, searching out old friends, leaving word here and there, getting suspicious looks from friends of friends who wanted to know why he was looking for so-and-so… Well, now he wanted to make sure he received any messages coming back to him. And that was why he now found himself out in this inhospitable weather, for he had arranged to meet an acquaintance in about an hour’s time. His steps faltered briefly as he thought of his next interview, which was with a certain unfriendly party, but the jingle of coins in his pocket kept his steps heading in the right direction.

  He would have liked to stop off for a wee one at a coffeehouse he knew of just around the corner, but he thought better of it, for he needed a clear head to deal with her ladyship. He saw the dark bulk of her coach before he heard the snuffling of the horses, but he refused to allow himself to be intimidated by the upcoming confrontation and continued to shorten the distance between himself and the door that was already beginning to open for him.

  Waltham vaulted inside, the darkness swallowing him up as the door closed behind him.

  “Well?” Kate asked impatiently. The damp cold had seeped through her velvet cloak, bodice, skirts, and petticoats, and she was having a hard time controlling the chattering of her teeth, which she did not find at all amusing.

  “In an hour, m’lady,” Waltham told her uncommunicatively as he huddled in the corner. He sniffed the stuffy air curiously, his mouth tightening ominously. “Gave her another dose, did you?”

  “Astute, aren’t you?” Kate said from her corner of the coach. “She was waking up. Or did you want a screaming, hysterical female bringing the watchman poking his nose in here, or, even worse, a couple of them damned Bow Street Runners?” she asked him, leaving him little choice but to agree with her decision.