Chance the Winds of Fortune

by Laurie McBain

  “I suspect that we shall next receive a demand for money. What other reason could there be for kidnapping our daughter? We shall have to ransom her back, Rina. And you know I would forfeit Camareigh to have her safely returned to us,” Lucien said softly. But the glow in his eyes remained as he contemplated his revenge against those who had dared to take what was his. And anyone who knew the Duke of Camareigh would know he would make no idle threats. Someday he would savor his revenge, and even if it were not tomorrow or even next week, the day of reckoning would come.

  Lucien became aware of his two sons standing quietly in front of the door. Robin’s face was wet with tears, and he was trying to muffle his sobs by burying his head in Francis’s shoulder. Holding his arm comfortingly over his brother’s narrow shoulders, Francis met his father’s eyes, and the duke made the startling discovery that his son had grown into a man. They did not have to exchange a word without both of them knowing that they were promising each other to retrieve that which had been stolen from them.

  Sabrina, Duchess of Camareigh, stared out on the drenched landscape that stretched off into distant gardens and meadowlands. This was Camareigh, her home. She glanced back into the room, her gaze lingering on Lucien and her children. These were her loved ones, her family. And yet, out there, somewhere beyond her reach and the comfort of her arms, was her daughter. Out there was her sweet and gentle Rhea Claire, who was, perhaps at this very moment, feeling terror and despair. She was probably cold and hungry, bewildered and alone, while she, the duchess thought with growing self-disgust, sat here in safety before a warm fire, with her family around her. With an agonized groan at her own helplessness, Sabrina buried her face against Andrew’s soft, golden head, not daring to speculate further on the fate of her firstborn, Rhea Claire.

  * * *

  Under the fall of darkness, the merchantman London Lady received her last passenger before preparing to cast off her mooring lines and set sail for the colonies. There was no one standing on the docks to see this lone passenger on board, or to wish that person a safe journey and a quick return. The passenger was bundled aboard with as much fanfare as a cask of wine, the only accompaniment to this rather clandestine activity being the indistinct sounds of voices raised in song and laughter drifting from a nearby tavern. The accommodation for the last passenger to board the London Lady was a dark, damp corner in steerage that reeked of an incredible array of odors, the most predominant of which was a blend of bilge water, tar, and paint. But there was another scent that permeated the ship. It was one that was far stronger, and one that could almost be felt. It was the smell of fear.

  Five

  Times go by turns, and chances change by course.

  From foul to fair, from better hap to worse.

  —Robert Southwell

  Dancing against the white plasterwork ceiling and Pompeian red walls of the library was the shadowy reflection of golden flames. A longcase clock, its cherry wood glowing warmly, ticked away the minutes with brass hands that inched across its expressionless face with monotonous regularity. An Oriental carpet spilled across the highly waxed surface of the hardwood floor; its splash of color was echoed in the sapphire-blue velvet hangings of the tall windows and in the rich crimson damask of a William and Mary easy chair placed before the hearth.

  A branch, bare of leaf, scratched against the windowpanes with a shower of raindrops. It drew the attention of the man who was sitting in the chair before the fireplace, with his booted feet propped against a brass andiron. A big orange tabby slept peacefully in his lap. The man shifted to a more comfortable position, wincing slightly as he disturbed the painful mending of his cracked ribs.

  Dante Leighton’s pale gray eyes narrowed as they sought out the gauge in the barometer hanging on the wall in its elaborate mahogany and tulipwood case. But he didn’t need to see that the pressure had fallen to know that a storm was unleashing itself over Charles Town. He could see the flash of lightning in the prematurely dark afternoon sky, and he heard the rumble of thunder, to which the crystal chandelier above his head tinkled in sympathy.

  Dante took a deep swallow of brandy, hoping it would help ease the dull ache in his ribs, as well as hasten the endless hours of inactivity he’d been forced to endure since his accident. He glanced over at the walnut gaming table with its four silver candlesticks positioned in each corner, the tall candles standing ready to be lighted as soon as darkness enfolded the room. By the time the last card was dealt, the candles burned down and replaced many times over, Kirby would long since have drawn back the heavy hangings and allowed the first light of dawn to steal in. It was certainly one way of making the most of his convalescence, Dante thought with a slight smile, remembering how well his luck at cards had been of late, much to the disgruntled mutterings of his guests.

  Dante rested his head against the soft cushion, thinking of another run of luck that had turned disastrous and imperiled the Sea Dragon and her crew. It had been one of those chance occurrences, for he’d sailed the Sea Dragon countless times between Charles Town and the Indies with never so much as a broken hogshead of molasses or a spilled goblet of wine. And yet this time out, just south of Savannah, a squall had caught the Sea Dragon while under press of canvas and nearly laid her on her beam ends. With her rigging snapped and sails split and one of her masts gone by the board, the Sea Dragon had managed to make port just ahead of another storm blowing out of the straits. Dante remembered the last leg of the journey as one full of pain, for when the mast had broken off, the wild swing of a luff tackle had caught him broadside and sent him flying to the quarterdeck like so much flotsam. Actually, he had been quite fortunate in suffering only a few cracked ribs and a twisted ankle, since the hook on the end of the tackle could well have taken his head off.

  Several of the crew as well had received injuries, including a broken arm suffered by Barnaby Clark, the quartermaster, who’d been on duty at the wheel when the squall had struck. The sudden spinning of the wheel had slammed one of the handles against his arm, snapping the bone cleanly in two. Seumus Fitzsimmons had been knocked unconscious by a broken-off piece of spar falling to the deck, although his mates swore that the spar had broken after it had hit that thick-skulled head of his. And much to his embarrassment, in light of the other more serious injuries, Alastair Marlowe had sustained a broken little finger.

  While they were recuperating, the Sea Dragon had been lying in dock, where she was refitted with a new mast, rigging, and spars. Within the month she would once again be seaworthy; then the captain and crew of the Sea Dragon would be Indies-bound with a fair wind filling her sails.

  Dante thought of the ill-fated wind that had chanced across his path, and wondered if it portended a change in his fortunes. In his own mind, his injuries had been something of a mixed blessing, since his convalescence gave him a legitimate excuse for declining most of the invitations he had been inundated with of late. This surge in his popularity had coincided with the return from London of a certain young woman, whose unbridled tongue had regaled half of Charles Town with her adventures abroad, as well as the information she’d ferreted out about Captain Dante Leighton, better known to past acquaintances in London as the Marquis of Jacqobi. Strange it was, or was it, how a title could enhance one’s image in the eyes of others. And yet, Dante thought with a cynical twist to his lips, he was still the same man, who only months earlier had been considered slightly disreputable by the good townspeople. Certainly, he had not been considered respectable enough even to nod good afternoon to the chaste daughters of those fine folk of Charles Town.

  He far preferred his former reputation, since much to his displeasure he now found himself prey to every husband-hunting wench in Charles Town, not to mention their aspiring and less-than-subtle mamas. He was beginning to feel that it would be far safer for him to walk unarmed into a pirates’ den than into a drawing room full of prospective in-laws all competing for him. Never before had he heard so many
libelous remarks about supposedly upstanding members of society. It seemed to him that he was always hearing someone’s good name being sneered upon and blackened. And it was not only the steely-eyed glances from the would-be mothers-in-law that caused him qualms; Dante could also see the proud papas sizing him up as they speculated about how much influence he had at Court and just how profitable and beneficial a son-in-law he might make.

  And despite his polite refusals to the invitations that continued to arrive—he was trying to lead people to believe that his recovery necessitated peace and quiet—he now found himself under siege by oversolicitous, gift-bearing hopefuls, who were determined not to be outmaneuvered. But Dante swore that if he had to sample one more homemade remedy and sure-cure, or one more sticky sweet baked especially for him, he would not be held accountable for his actions. And a short, bandy-legged steward would be one of the first to feel the brunt of his anger for having allowed those simpering misses past the front door in the first place.

  There were some, momentarily maddened, who envied him his unique position, for if he wished to do so, Dante knew he could have taken to wife any available, or perhaps unavailable, woman in Charles Town. His speculations were tinged with amusement, not vanity, since he realized, more so than anyone else did, that had the Marquis of Jacqobi been Alastair Marlowe, Houston Kirby, or even Longacres, the Sea Dragon’s coxswain, the situation would not have altered. For it was the title that had sent a fluttering into the hearts of the unmarried ladies of Charles Town.

  There were others, however, who thought that Dante Leighton’s fortunes had suffered more than just the ill luck of the Sea Dragon’s last voyage. For, as rumor had it, the Sea Dragon had been after sunken treasure. Apparently, or so certain people said, Dante Leighton had won a treasure map in a card game in St. Eustatius that showed the location of a sunken galleon. It had to be authentic, since the captain of the Sea Dragon was as steady as his ship, and some even said he was as cold-blooded as that mythical beast in whose honor he’d named his brigantine. Aye, if Captain Dante Leighton was after treasure, then the odds were that it was no wild goose chase. But this time the last laugh had been on the captain and crew of the Sea Dragon: The sunken treasure they’d hoped for had turned out to be no more than a few pieces of corroded silverware and some broken porcelain plates, a rusty astrolabe and a compass in a rotting box, as well as the abandoned cargo; the skeletonized remains of crates and barrels, their precious contents of exotic spices now claimed by the sea. Instead of finding a sunken treasure ship, with a cargo of pieces of eight, the crew of the Sea Dragon had discovered the wreck of a Dutch merchantman—and there was certainly no treasure to be found in her hold.

  The Sea Dragon had swaggered her bow at the fates once too often, said the old sailors sitting around on the docks. These were men who’d seen the sea, in all of her beauty and fury, snap a proud ship in two like a frail twig, and send her arrogant captain and irreverent crew to the bottom, where they were never heard from again.

  Dante smiled strangely as he recalled the rumors, repeated to him by Kirby and Alastair, which were floating around Charles Town concerning the fateful voyage of the Sea Dragon. Dante stared into the flames, a reflected light dancing in his pale gray eyes as he wondered what those sea dogs would say if they could read his mind now. Most likely, they would suspect the captain of the Sea Dragon of making a pact with the devil, he thought, with a smile of devilish satisfaction.

  “M’lord?” said the steward, standing beside his captain’s big chair. “We’ve a guest, m’lord,” he informed the preoccupied captain, and his contemptuous tone left Dante in little doubt that the person in question was not in Houston Kirby’s good graces.

  “Ah, m’lord,” Kirby said before Dante could ask his visitor’s name. “That cat’s going to have hair all over your fine breeches. ’Tis the devil to get off, that it is,” Kirby scolded, glaring at the complacent tabby, whose single green eye stared back at him lazily.

  “Our guest, Kirby?” Dante reminded the little steward. “I think you should show this—” But Dante got no further, for the doors of the study were flung wide as a jovial-looking man stormed the portals.

  “Captain Leighton! ’Tis good to see you up and about again. Caught sight of you riding that big stallion of yours along Tradd Street, and I says to meself, ‘You oughta pay Captain Leighton a visit.’ Not that you’ll be findin’ me astride one of them beasts. No, sir! Not Bertie Mackay. He’s no fool. Never catch him on horseback. Don’t see how you can do it,” commented the rival smuggler, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he stared at Dante. “But then, I says to meself, ‘Bertie, that Captain Leighton, he’s full of little surprises. More to that gent than meets the eye, there is. He’s a fine sea captain, I’ll give him that, for Bertie Mackay’s not a man to sell another man short. Now, not only is he a fine sailor, but he’s a fine horseman as well. And I’ve heard tell he’s a deadly shot, as well as being a daring swordsman.’ Reckon you’ve survived a few duels, eh, Captain?

  “Ah, my pardon,” Mackay apologized with exaggerated concern. “’Tisn’t proper, is it, to just be calling you captain? Aye, should be m’lord, eh?” he corrected himself, with a chuckle growing into a deep belly laugh that rolled across the room in his wake. “Bless me, but you certainly knocked ol’ Bertie Mackay on his beam ends, you did. Fancy that, the captain of the Sea Dragon being a marquis. Nearly put me off spirits, it did. But,” he added, wagging his finger, “not quite, and since I’ve a mighty thirst right now and a bit of talking to be doing…” hinted the smuggler-captain of the Annie Jeanne none too subtly, while he eyed the snifter of brandy being held negligently in his host’s hand.

  “By all means, Captain Mackay,” Dante invited, gesturing casually to a chair beyond the warmth of the fire. “Please join me in a brandy. Kirby, a drink for the captain of the Annie Jeanne,” he ordered, ignoring the small steward’s rude snort.

  “Mighty hospitable of you, Captain,” Mackay said with a broad grin. Then he easily hauled the spindle-legged chair closer to the fire and lowered his considerable bulk into it. As he did so, the chair’s delicate frame gave a protesting squeak.

  With a pleased expression on his rotund face, Mackay glanced at Dante Leighton, only to have his smile fade slightly when he heard the low growling noises coming from the big tomcat curled in Dante’s lap. “Surly creature. Don’t think he cares for me, eh?” said Mackay, laughing uneasily. Even though he could well have knocked the cat clean out of the room with one easy sweep of his powerful arm, the feline made him nervous. Damn cats always had and always would, he thought with a shiver.

  “I imagine that he senses you’ve no love for his kind, Captain,” Dante commented dryly, his hand smoothing Jamaica’s slightly ruffled fur.

  “Aye, that’s it. Never could stand the sly beasties. Always got the feeling they know something I don’t, and I’m not liking the way they sneak up on a man from behind. Too quiet, they are. Like to hear an animal or a man coming at me; then I know what to expect, and where to aim my shot,” Mackay said with a smile that had caused many a faint heart to sink sickeningly. Seldom did that smile bode well for the unfortunate individual under scrutiny.

  “Ah,” Mackay sighed with pleasure. Already, he had swallowed half the contents of the snifter handed to him by a less-than-obsequious Houston Kirby. “Now that takes the chill off these old bones better than any roaring fire. Mite nippy out,” he said conversationally, while his large fingers tapped out a tuneless beat on the arm of the chair. “Just about got the Sea Dragon refitted, I hear. You wouldn’t be thinking of parting with her, would you?” he asked curiously, meanwhile shaking his head, since he knew what Leighton’s reply would be without having to hear it. “No. Thought not. Pity, though, for I’ve always had a fancy for the Sea Dragon. Trim little vessel, she is,” he muttered, his voice trailing off into the silence of the room.

  “Thank you, Captain Mackay, although I doubt you came calli
ng merely to compliment me on my ship,” Dante said, deciding to put an end to the informalities and bring Captain Cuthbert Mackay’s real reason for visiting him out into the open.

  Bertie Mackay’s grin widened in appreciation. “Aye, right you are, Captain. But please, call me Bertie. I insist all of my friends do,” he said to the man who’d been a less-than-friendly rival for many years. “Now I’m a man for plain speaking, and I’ve never thought of myself as being a fool. And,” he added, a warning glint in his eyes, which wiped all geniality from his somewhat florid features, “I don’t like to be thought one by others.”

  “I am sure no one in their right mind would assume such a thing, Captain,” Dante murmured softly, his fingers never stopping their soothing motions through Jamaica’s fur.

  “Glad to hear you say that. Yes, sir, that I am, for it seems to me that we could become very good friends,” Mackay suggested with a sly twinkle in his eyes.

  Dante Leighton stared across the warmly lit space between them, his pale gray eyes narrowed while he studied this disturbingly affable Bertie Mackay. He knew when the captain of the Annie Jeanne was smiling widest that he was usually up to no good. It had come as a great shock to many an unsuspecting person, lulled into a false sense of security by an ingratiating grin and infectious laugh, to discover that the fatherly Bertie Mackay could just as easily cut your heart out as shake your hand. His appearance was completely misleading, since no one would suspect such a jolly and apple-cheeked individual of acts bordering on piracy, and, if the truth be known, of murder most foul. But most good townspeople, especially those receiving contraband from the genial smuggler, refused to believe that Bertie Mackay, loving husband and fond father of five little Mackays, could be a murderer. They believed that if the captain of the Annie Jeanne had put a man in the grave, then it had surely been in self-defense.