“When is the funeral for Mr. Taber?” Mary asked, adroitly changing the subject.
“Tomorrow. They wanted to wait for his son to return from Bath. Lucien and I shall attend. He was a fine old gentleman, and it isn’t right that he should die this way. He never hurt a living soul.”
The door to the salon opened, and Sir Jeremy, with a fatigued-looking Caroline leaning heavily on his arm, entered the room. Sir Jeremy greeted the duchess and Lady Mary, while Caroline managed to smile valiantly, missing, in her self-absorption, the glances exchanged between the two sisters. She allowed her father to assist her in settling on the sofa, making an elaborate production out of getting comfortable and placing a fur rug across her lap.
“Comfy, my dear?” Sir Jeremy inquired solicitously as he refolded the fur rug for her. “I shall be right over here, my dear. I thought I would just rest my foot for a minute,” he told her, sounding almost apologetic as he limped across the room to a large, well-used Queen Anne chair and convenient footstool. He sank down with a deep sigh of relief as he eased his weight off the painful big toe of his left foot.
“You’ll not doze off, will you, Papa?” Caroline reminded him as she watched him rest his head against the soft cushion of the chair. She knew from past experience that he would most likely be asleep within minutes.
“Nonsense, my dear,” he mumbled, perking up as two footmen, in attendance to the butler, entered with a tea tray and a decanter of brandy. “Ah, Mason, you truly are a man in a thousand,” he stated approvingly as he eyed the crystal decanter.
“I took the liberty, Your Grace,” Mason explained deferentially, “of bringing some refreshment for Sir Jeremy and Miss Caroline, as well as a pot of fresh coffee for Your Grace and fresh tea for Lady Mary. I thought, perhaps a presumption, Your Grace, but that since His Grace is not returned, that Your Grace might wish to postpone luncheon, and, well…”
“A very good suggestion, Mason,” the duchess agreed. “And I think you should start with Sir Jeremy; he looks quite thirsty.”
“I always said that Lucien had the devil’s own luck when he found you, Sabrina,” Sir Jeremy stated sincerely, beaming approval as his snifter was filled with a good quantity of brandy.
Caroline selected from an assortment of cakes, tarts, and other sweets offered to her by a liveried footman, her attention diverted for the moment from her own problems while she satisfied an appetite undiminished by her brush with death.
The duchess signaled the butler away from Sarah, who was dozing peacefully in another wing chair near the fire, her lashes fluttering against her cheeks as she fought off sleep. Then, as if sensing the duchess’s eyes upon her, Sarah awoke with a start, glancing around her in confusion.
“Oh, dear. I beg your pardon,” she apologized, flustered and blushing as she realized she had been sleeping in their presence. “I just cannot stay awake, I seem to be constantly tired nowadays,” she said, looking stricken. Then she suddenly became aware that Sir Jeremy was in the other chair, gently snoring away the afternoon, oblivious to everything but his own private dreams.
“There, you see,” the duchess remarked with an affectionate smile for both Sarah and the sleeping Sir Jeremy, “you needn’t be in the least bit embarrassed.”
Sarah eased herself one way, then the other, trying unsuccessfully to make herself comfortable. She glanced up, catching Caroline’s unsympathetic eye, and forced herself to sit still, folding her arms almost protectively across her rounded middle.
Caroline loudly sniffed her disapproval of such a blatant display of so delicate a condition, then returned her attention to a further, rather prolonged inspection of a plate of dainty sweets.
“Do tell me again, Caroline,” the duchess began, her voice coldly impersonal, “about the gypsies you claim accosted you.”
Caroline choked on the sip of tea she’d just taken. Licking a dab of cream from the corner of her mouth, she glanced over at the imperious-looking duchess and began to feel definitely ill-at-ease under the penetrating violet stare.
“Oh, Your Grace, I do so hate to think about it,” she protested, her hands fluttering nervously. “I can actually feel myself growing faint.”
“To please me, Caroline, do think about it,” the duchess requested politely. To Caroline’s guilty conscience, however, it sounded more like an order for a confession, especially when coming in a voice that seemed suddenly tinged with steel.
Caroline coughed and sent a beseeching glance to her father, but Sir Jeremy continued to snore away peacefully.
“Well…it was quite awful, actually,” Caroline began, her eyes glued to the lace ruffle she was fiddling with. “They…they were vicious-looking…and…talked in a strange tongue. Oh, and their clothes, well,” Caroline said, laughing uncomfortably as she met the duchess’s doubting glance, “well, they were almost beyond description.”
“Yes, I can imagine that might be hard to describe,” the duchess murmured. “Please, continue.”
Caroline bit her lip. “They…they… Yes! They had a dancing bear! It was quite horrible! I thought for certain they would turn it loose on me. In fact, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if it didn’t attack poor Wesley. He was so brave in defending me, oh, and Rhea Claire too. It growled so horribly. I should think it hadn’t been fed in days and days. You know how they mistreat animals. Yes,” Caroline continued, her tongue beginning to loosen as she embroidered her story, “I’m sure it was starved. Quite mad, in fact, with a bloodlust. Oh, ’twas horrible, just horrible, Your Grace!” she cried, tears rolling down her face, for she was doing a good job of frightening herself with her own make-believe. “Oh, poor, poor Wesley,” Caroline wailed, sniffing noisily, “if only I could see his dear face again. I would—” At that moment there was a commotion outside the doors to the salon, and Caroline glanced up as they opened. Then she let out a bloodcurdling scream that brought Sir Jeremy out of his chair like a bolt of lightning, his brandy splashing down his breeches as he stared incredulously at his daughter, who was beginning to keel forward in a dead faint.
“Good God! What the devil is going on here?” he demanded, turning to see who had had such a startling effect on his daughter. “Lud! I don’t… It cannot be… Good God!” he said, his voice coming out as little better than a squeak as he stared with fascinated horror at the unbelievable sight of the Earl of Rendale swaying dizzily in the doorway of the gold and white drawing room, with a group of flustered footmen hovering just behind him.
Not many people would have recognized the Earl of Rendale, who had always prided himself on his immaculate and impeccable appearance and deportment. He stood there now, looking like a man who has been to hell and back: how he could possibly still be alive was a tale yet to be told. Wesley Lawton’s coat and breeches were torn and ripped beyond repair; they were also stained with a mixture of mud and blood. One of his white stockings was hanging in shreds around his bootless foot, while the other boot was so scuffed and splattered with grime that it would take a week of hard elbow grease to make it presentable again. The earl’s handsome face was bruised and scratched and caked with dried blood. He’d long ago lost his wig, and his own brownish locks were hanging limply around his face and neck.
“Wesley?” the duchess said softly as she moved silently toward the dazed earl. “Wesley, ’tis Sabrina, Duchess of Camareigh.”
Wesley Lawton’s glazed eyes moved sluggishly toward the approaching figure, but he couldn’t make it out through his blurred vision. He could make out several other figures in the room, as well as hear a scuffling of feet behind him. Well, he thought with a grim smile, he would soon take care of these malcontents.
“Damn impertinence!” he yelled, his words echoing that terrible day when he had faced the barrel of a pistol. Now, before anyone could anticipate his move, the Earl of Rendale pulled his pistol from his coat pocket and waved it wildly about.
“Sabrina! Don’t move!�
� Sir Jeremy warned, unable to make a move himself as he held his daughter’s slumped body and purposely placed himself in front of Lady Sarah’s chair, keeping her out of the line of fire.
“Rina, don’t, please!” Mary was echoing Sir Jeremy’s request as the duchess continued to move slowly closer to the crazed, weaving Earl of Rendale. “He is out of his mind. He doesn’t know you! Rina!” she screamed as the pistol was aimed at her sister.
“Wesley. Wesley, ’tis Rhea Claire. Please don’t point the pistol at me, Wesley,” the duchess said entreatingly, her gentle voice soothing him and cooling his flushed skin. It reminded him of a summer’s day, when they’d been in the garden and Rhea Claire had looked so beautiful…
“Catch him!” the duchess cried as the earl began to fall unconscious to the floor. Then the footman had him, breaking his fall before he could injure himself further. “Oh, my God,” the duchess said, noticing for the first time the size of the bloodstain on the earl’s shirt front. She knelt beside him and felt his feverish cheek. “Send someone for the doctor and tell Rawley we shall need her immediately to see to the earl, for I fear that he may be dying,” the duchess said urgently. Immediately, the staff went into action, lifting the bloodied and barely breathing form of the Earl of Rendale. Carefully they carried him toward what might very well be his deathbed.
The Earl of Rendale’s life hung in the balance that night, and once or twice perhaps, Wesley Lawton took one step beyond the door of death. At the same time, though, he had the pride and tenaciousness of all the Lawtons, and the earl remained planted firmly in the world of the living, refusing to be done in by some common and coarse individual in a well-worn red velvet coat. Lawtons didn’t die at the hands of thieves and robbers, and thus the Earl of Rendale hung on, fighting for his life with a valiant effort that may not have been possible in a man less concerned with his own importance.
The Duchess of Camareigh awoke slowly from her troubled sleep. She had refused to go to bed until nearly dawn, when a rosy blush had tinted the eastern skies. Finally, though, she had succumbed to her tiredness and found a few hours of rest. But she was not rested, and now as she lay back against the plumped-up pillows of her bed, she reflected on the stunning arrival of the Earl of Rendale yesterday.
Lucien and Terence, along with Francis, Ewan, and Richard, had returned to Camareigh less than an hour after the earl’s dramatic appearance. It had not been surprising to her that they had found no trace of the gypsies Caroline had claimed to have seen. It had been a long and tiring ride through the cold rain, and since it had been completely unnecessary, the ride had been cruel indeed for the riders. Caroline had confessed, during a fit of hysteria upon reviving from her faint, that she had lied about the gypsies. The sight of the half-dead earl had sobered the spoiled young miss who realized, perhaps for the first time, how harmful and contemptible it had been for her to mislead them about the events of that afternoon. But about what actually had happened, she knew little.
Sir Jeremy was a deeply hurt and mortified man. For the first time in his life, he’d been rudely awakened to his daughter’s shortcomings. As soon as it was light, he was going to take a chagrined, subdued Caroline back to Winterhall, and the duchess would bet that Miss Caroline Winters would have a far more difficult parent to deal with in the future.
The duchess rested her head against the lacy-edged pillow, her black hair tumbling around her and spilling onto the silk coverlet. With her hair unbound and her shoulders slumped in defeat, there was a sad, vulnerable quality to her, which was what the duke saw when he entered the room, already dressed for whatever the day might bring.
“Rina,” he said softly. He placed the tray with the silver pot of hot chocolate and delicate china cups on the chest at the foot of the bed, then forgot it as he sat down next to her and took her into his arms.
“What are we going to do, Lucien?” she asked pathetically, her husky voice barely more than a whisper. “We’ve lost our daughter, and I am so afraid that we shall not get her back.”
“Don’t ever say that, Rina,” Lucien told her, shaking her slightly to force her to look up at him. “I promised you we would get her back, and we shall. Where I feel most helpless, my love, is in trying to ease your suffering,” he told her, pressing her face against his chest.
Sabrina smiled, rubbing her soft cheek against him. “You are here with me, and that is all that I need,” she said simply.
“I swear, Rina,” said Lucien against her fragrant hair, “that we will have our daughter back. I will not rest until I have the truth and Rhea Claire within my grasp,” he promised, sounding so convincing that Sabrina almost found herself believing his words.
* * *
It was past noon when the duke paused outside the nursery door, hesitating to enter as he heard laughing voices and giggling screams coming from inside. For just an instant, he thought about keeping this secret from Sabrina, but he knew that had he done so, she would never have forgiven him. Over the years they had shared their love, and now they must share their grief.
With a grim tightness around his lips and his scar whitening across his cheek, the duke turned the knob and entered the room. He stood silent for a moment and watched as his wife scrambled across the floor with the twins. Her slim, silk-covered calves slid out from under ruffled petticoats as she tumbled to a halt, a fair-haired child under each arm.
Gradually, the duchess became aware of her husband standing so quietly just within the door. She grinned up at him, but when she saw his expression, her face lost its animation. As she met his eyes, she knew without a word having been spoken that something had happened.
“The earl—he’s dead?” she asked. It would not come as a surprise to her, since he had looked so feverish the last time she had sat with him. Then, when Lucien shook his head, she asked, “Sarah? Is she having her baby?”
“No,” he replied, wishing more than anything else in the world that he didn’t have to do what he was about to do. “A messenger arrived.”
“Rhea! You’ve received news about Rhea!” Sabrina cried, struggling to her feet, tugging impatiently at her skirts.
“Rina, my dear,” Lucien began, then didn’t know how to continue as he met her searching violet eyes. “I received a package. It was sent by persons unknown.”
At Lucien’s words, Sabrina hurried across the room, the twins following behind her on their chubby, unsteady legs. “Lucien! What is it? Tell me!”
Lucien led Sabrina to the window seat, and there, making no pretense at hiding the contents, he revealed what lay inside the small box.
Sabrina gave a choked cry as she slowly reached out and touched the long, golden curl, recognizing at once its distinctive shade. After all, how many times over the years had she admired the matching color of her own husband’s hair? How pleased she had been when Rhea Claire had been born with Lucien’s golden hair, she remembered now. With trembling fingers, she picked up the delicate ring shaped like a bow and encrusted with diamonds and sapphires.
“Do you remember how happy Rhea was when we gave her this ring for her birthday this year?” Sabrina said softly, her voice thick with tears. “She loves this ring so. Oh, dear God, what does this mean, Lucien? Why has someone taken our Rhea? Why are they tormenting us this way? Why? Why?” She cried, not hearing the door open as Robin and Francis entered the room. The boys paused uncertainly when they saw their weeping mother.
“There is more, my dearest,” Lucien told her, despising himself for having to hurt her even more deeply. “Perhaps it is meant as some kind of explanation, or, damn them, as a puzzle to be solved. But ’tis madness to me.”
Sabrina glanced up, her eyes full of luminous tears as she sniffed and tried to focus on the thin piece of parchment being held out in front of her. “Damn! I can’t see it, Lucien. You read it,” she pleaded, picking up Andrew and cuddling him to her breast.
Lucien stared at the paper f
or a moment before solemnly reciting the words scrawled untidily across the page:
“Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud;
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.
All men make faults.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Sabrina demanded in tearful incredulity. “What the hell is someone sending us poetry for?”
Lucien shook his head; his thumb moved along his scarred cheek while he continued to stare thoughtfully at the puzzling note. “I am not sure what it means. But then does anyone ever understand the mind of a madman?”
Sabrina looked stricken at his choice of words. “Oh, no. No, Lucien, not that. Please, please don’t let me believe that our daughter is in the hands of a lunatic!”
Lucien could have bitten off his tongue, but what else could he have said or done? Could he lie to Sabrina now that there was proof that someone had kidnapped their daughter? Would it not be hurting her far more cruelly to allow her to build up her hopes, only to have them crushed later on? But perhaps this was all part of the game that someone was playing with them.
Lucien’s eyes narrowed, masking the bright flare of hate and lust for revenge that was now burning steadily with his realization that they were being carefully manipulated by some unseen hand. He understood that their worries and fears, tears and hopes for their daughter were being stoked and fanned as if someone were adding fuel to a fire, perhaps with the hope that these violent emotions would consume and destroy them.
“What is it they want from us, Lucien?” Sabrina demanded.
Lucien bent down and picked up his daughter who was crawling around his booted legs. With gentle fingers he smoothed her golden curls into place, then placed a loving kiss on her small, retroussé nose. As her tiny hands played with his watch fob, Lucien looked across his daughter’s head and met Sabrina’s questioning eyes.
Chance the Winds of Fortune Page 22
