Chance the Winds of Fortune

by Laurie McBain

  * * *

  “Damn coachman! I swear he has gone out of his way since we left London to hit every bloody pothole in the road!” Kate swore in wrathful indignation. “And if you moan and cross yourself one more time, Sophia,” she warned, “I’ll toss you out of the coach!”

  Teddie Waltham eyed her ladyship almost indulgently, so accustomed had he become to her tantrums. “Beggin’ yer pardon, m’lady. But if you had bridled yer tongue for once, the coachman wouldn’t be doin’ his damnedest right now to be shakin’ out what teeth I’ve got left.”

  “The man was surly,” Kate replied arrogantly. “He needed a setdown. And I still say we would have done far better with that fellow you hired the first time.” Her teeth snapped painfully as the coach entered another pothole.

  “He wouldn’t have nothin’ to do with me, or you, m’lady, after that hair-raisin’ ride a couple of months ago,” Waltham informed her. “Said there wasn’t money enough to get him to race through the night again like a crackpot. This—” His words were cut off when his head came within a few inches of the ceiling as the coach was jolted again. “This is the best I could do under the circumstances.”

  “And how about these other hirelings of yours?” Kate asked in a doubtful tone. “I trust they know how to do their jobs better than this lout of a coachman. They do know where to meet us, and when?”

  “Aye, m’lady,” Waltham replied flatly, wishing the day after tomorrow were over, and he were already on his way back to London. But here he sat in a drafty coach, the wind whistling around his stiff ankles, his nose freezing into an icicle, while M’Lady March Hare ranted and raved about potholes and poems, and hummed that damned song beneath her breath.

  * * *

  The Duchess of Camareigh cradled her two-month-old niece in her arms. Richard and Sarah’s daughter had been born at dawn and christened Dawn Ena Verrick on an autumn day of somber joy. Dawn Verrick was a healthy baby who, by the few red hairs curling on top of her small head, promised to carry on the redheaded tradition of her Scottish great-grandfather. Motherhood seemed to agree with Sarah, for she possessed a newfound confidence and pride in herself, which had been missing before the birth of her daughter.

  “’Tis good to see the sun shining again,” Richard commented as he watched with fatherly interest his daughter’s little hands waving in the air.

  “But have you stepped outside?” Francis asked his uncle. “’Tis colder than a Highland stream in the dead of winter.”

  “And if I remember correctly,” Richard responded with a chuckle, “you should know. I had warned you that the rocks were slippery.”

  “Ah, but Francis is like you, Richard,” the duchess contributed. “He must find out for himself, despite the risks.”

  “An obstinacy which I inherited from you,” Richard retorted.

  With an answering smile, the duchess handed her bundled-up niece into her mother’s welcoming arms, amazed again at how naturally motherhood came to Sarah. Mary had been the same way with her firstborn. The duchess, however, could remember how frightened she had been the first time she held Rhea Claire in her arms. Now she prayed to have that chance again, to feel her daughter’s head pressed for comfort against her breast. If only…

  “I received a letter from Mary,” she said now, forcing her mind from dwelling on Rhea. “She asks, first of all, about Dawn, and wonders if her hair is still the same red as her own. And—”

  “—And will most likely grow brighter as the years pass,” Richard declared, grimacing comically as he tried to catch a glimpse of his own red locks.

  “—And asks about you, Sarah,” the duchess continued with a laugh.

  “How was their journey home? No incidents?” Francis asked.

  “She says it was bumpy, but they made surprisingly good time considering the rain and condition of the roads. Terence will be leaving for London tomorrow. He will be meeting with several officers who have been searching for news of Rhea in France. Others are due from Ireland and Wales. But the man sent to the colonies is most likely still at sea,” the duchess informed them, privately thinking naught would come of it, although there was always a chance that someone might have seen or heard something about Rhea Claire.

  Through both Lucien’s influence and Terence’s connections with the military, troops had scoured the countryside for Rhea Claire. But so far it had been futile, for Rhea Claire seemed to have vanished without a trace.

  “There is a note included from Stuart for you, Robin,” the duchess said, but she received no acknowledgment from her son.

  She stared down at his dark head, and a worried expression appeared on her face. Robin had changed. He had always adored his sister, and was perhaps closer to Rhea than to Francis. Her kidnapping had transformed a giggling, mischievous little imp into a slightly sullen and disinterested boy. He had bottled up his grief, and she was beginning to despair of finding a way to help him.

  Andrew was toddling unsteadily around the salon. In his explorations, he found Robin’s stockinged legs of particular interest and wobbled toward them, his giggling baby talk cut off abruptly when he stumbled and grabbed at Robin’s knee with sticky fingers.

  Robin frowned, his gaze drawn away from the flames that had held him absorbed, and with a brusqueness of manner unusual for him, he pushed his brother away. The little fellow lost his already precarious balance and tumbled to the floor, his bellow of rage and his red, tearstained face drawing every eye in the room.

  “Robin!” the duchess said sharply. It was a tone of voice she had never used before with her son.

  Robin’s lip quivered as he glanced shamefaced at his mother. “I didn’t mean to push him, Mama. I-I didn’t mean to, honestly. I’m sorry, Andy,” he apologized, helping his brother to his feet and trying to pat dry his tears. He made funny faces at him and tickled him beneath the chin, but Andrew’s feelings were still hurt and he continued to wail.

  “Tea, Your Grace,” Mason announced in his haughtiest voice, his eyebrows rising slightly when he realized that young Lord Andrew’s shrill cries had drowned him out “Tea, Your Grace!” he repeated, his voice just short of a yell. But at that moment, Andrew, with the capriciousness of the young, decided that he had cried enough, and just as abruptly as he had begun, he now stopped, leaving the pompous butler’s words filling the void.

  Under the duchess’s surprised gaze, Mason, for the first time in his life, looked embarrassed. “My pardon, Your Grace,” he said, mortified by his lack of good manners. He was chagrined to realize that he had actually raised his voice like some common lout in a tavern. Had he been in Her Grace’s shoes, he thought, he would have fired him on the spot. “Tea is served,” he repeated, his voice well modulated once again.

  “Thank you, Mason,” the duchess said, ignoring his outburst and allowing Mason to keep his prized dignity. Meanwhile, her eyes dared either Richard or Francis to laugh out loud.

  “Why don’t you go and find your father, Robin,” the duchess suggested.

  “Yes, Mama,” Robin answered quietly, leading Andrew by the hand to his mother’s chair, where the toddler, who was now smiling, was within easy reach of the tea table.

  The study door was slightly ajar when Robin approached, and overhearing voices from within, he paused politely just outside.

  “Your Grace, another letter has arrived, and I thought I should bring it directly to you,” the footman was saying. “Mr. Mason was serving tea, or I would have waited for him, Your Grace. But considering the importance of the last letters, I thought I should not delay.”

  “Thank you. You did quite right—ah, Soames, isn’t it?” the duke said, with obvious approval of the young footman’s actions.

  “Aaah, yes, Your Grace, I-I am Soames,” the flustered footman replied, surprised that so great a man should know the name of one of his lesser footmen.

  Taking the plain envelope from the silv
er salver, the duke slit it open and began to read its contents. He raised his hand, halting the progress of the departing footman. For what seemed forever to the patiently waiting footman, the duke stared down at the letter in his hands, his expression so severe that the young footman experienced a second’s doubt about his actions in bringing it to His Grace.

  When the Duke of Camareigh finally glanced up, the footman’s worst fears were realized. Never before had that young man seen such a cruel, inhuman look in a man’s eyes, for the duke’s strange, sherry-colored eyes were glowing with an intentness of purpose that sent a cold shiver up his spine.

  “No one must know of this letter you have just brought me. I expect your silence in this matter. I especially do not want Her Grace to learn of its arrival. As far as the rest of Camareigh is concerned, you delivered no letter to me. Do I make myself understood?” he asked coldly.

  “Yes, Your Grace. You have my word on it,” the nervous footman reassured his stern-faced employer.

  For the first time, the duke seemed to notice the footman’s worried expression, and on a sudden impulse—something he was not given to—he relented. “You did well, Soames,” he said simply.

  At the duke’s words of praise, the young footman’s despondency lifted and, with a wide grin spreading across his face, he left the study. Little did he realize that his conscientious actions may well have set into motion certain events that would ultimately cost the duke his life.

  * * *

  In less than a quarter of an hour the duke had changed his clothes and was walking with quickening strides across the stableyard.

  “Saddle my horse,” he ordered the nearest groom, who’d been standing idly by the doors sucking on a piece of straw. He nearly choked at the duke’s sudden appearance, for usually word was sent on ahead from the great house that His Grace wished to ride.

  As the groom hurried off to do his master’s bidding, Butterick, who seldom missed anything that occurred in his domicile, caught sight of the duke cooling his heels in the entrance and sent another groom to assist the first.

  “Your Grace,” Butterick began, an apologetic note in his gruff voice, “I am sorry for the delay. The message must not have been delivered, for I couldn’t look meself in the eye if I kept you waiting, Your Grace.” With a scowl of impatience, Butterick glanced along the row of stalls from which the duke’s horse should be appearing.

  “I did not send a message,” the duke said rather shortly, his mind contemplating his next meeting. For all the attention he was paying to Butterick, the duke might as well have been in his own world, for his eyes were narrowed in contemplation of open space. In his plain frock coat, buckskin breeches, jackboots, and neatly folded linen stock, his appearance was as severe as his expression.

  Butterick cleared his throat nervously, wondering what the hell was keeping that looby, for it was becoming a mite uncomfortable to be standing here with His Grace. “Butterick?” the duke said suddenly. “How well did the late Mr. Taber know my cousins Kate and Percy?”

  Butterick’s mouth dropped open at the question. “The Rathbourne twins, Your Grace?” he repeated dumbly, for no one at Camareigh, including the duke, had mentioned those two in years. Aye, they’d been a poisonous pair, that wicked twosome. ’Twas bad blood they had, and he had blessed the day they left Camareigh.

  Butterick jutted out his lower lip as he gave his full attention to His Grace’s question. “Well, reckon the old gent knew them as well as any other person hereabouts. Never forgot no one, he didn’t. In fact,” Butterick continued, pleased that he had captured the duke’s attention, “I remember he used to have words with your grandfather, the old duke, about the young Miss Rathbourne mistreated that little mare of hers. Had a mean streak in her, yes, sir, beggin’ your pardon, Your Grace, but ’tis the truth,” Butterick said, refusing to soften his opinion of the vixen, even if she was His Grace’s cousin.

  But the duke seemed oblivious to the criticism. “So, if Mr. Taber had happened to see my cousins, he would most likely remember them?”

  “Aye, reckon so. Especially because of that little mare, Dove. Remember her meself, I do. Sweet little thing, she was. ’Twas a pity the young miss rode her so hard she broke her leg. Upset, the old man was, Mr. Taber, that is, when he come to talk to the duke about her. Aye, remember it well, I do,” Butterick said, folding his big arms across his barrel-chest as he recalled with satisfaction how the chit was denied access to the stables and to his beloved horses.

  Finally the duke’s horse was led out, and he climbed into the saddle, feeling his sword riding against his thigh in almost a caress. “My saddle holsters, Butterick,” he ordered.

  Butterick sent one of the staring grooms hotfooting it after the requested accoutrements, and became aware for the first time of the pistols the duke was drawing out of his frock coat. Butterick’s eyes nearly disappeared beneath his heavy brows as he frowned thoughtfully, wondering what the duke was up to.

  The leather holsters were attached to the pommel by Butterick himself; then the duke slid the pair of flintlock pistols into their snug housings. Then with a curt nod, the duke sent his big stallion out of the stable yard and rode into the distance without a backward glance.

  If the Duke of Camareigh had chanced to glance back, he might have been surprised to see Butterick standing in the doorway watching him, his big hands on his hips, his expression one of concerned puzzlement. But suddenly the big man slapped his knee, the resounding whack drawing the attention of a young stable boy crossing the yard, whose steps faltered when he heard Butterick exclaim:

  “Why, blast my butt from here to there! ’Tweren’t no damned pigeon,” he swore, his face turning a vivid red with the violence of his feelings. “’Twas a dove! I oughta be horsewhipped for sitting on my brains all of this time. The Rathbourne miss’s horse was named Dove. And that was what the old gent was trying to tell us. In his last breath he named the thing he remembered the most about his murderer. Old Mr. Taber was drawing a dove. Couldn’t write, so drew us a picture, he did. Only I was too damned blind to see it!”

  He glanced at the empty drive, his puzzled expression replaced by growing consternation as he realized where the duke’s solitary ride would lead him—to a confrontation with his Rathbourne cousins. Malcontents, always up to no good.

  * * *

  Robin Dominick slipped past the heavy door that usually served to bar the uninvited from entering the private domain of the Duke of Camareigh. Robin knew, with a trepidation that was causing his heart to beat loudly in his ears, that he was risking his father’s ire by entering the sanctity of his study. It was a place forbidden even to family members. Only his mother dared to enter uninvited, and even she took the precaution of knocking first.

  Robin glanced nervously around the quiet room, knowing he hadn’t much time to forage about. Just in time, he had ducked into a shadowy alcove in the hall when his father had abruptly left his study, his destination not the salon and a cup of tea with the family as had been expected. Robin had watched in amazement as his father vaulted up the Grand Staircase, taking the steps two at a time in his haste. As he watched, his father had shed his coat as he had hurried along the landing toward the entrance to the south wing and the ducal apartments.

  Robin wanted to enter the study then, but a group of gossiping footmen, standing directly in front of the study door, had kept him biding his time in the alcove. But with the sudden appearance of Mason’s stiff-backed figure the garrulous threesome had split up, clearing a passage for Robin in the confusion.

  Now, with the door safely closed behind him, Robin glanced around the room, which had book-lined, paneled walls and velvet armchairs situated on either side of the hearth. It was a very masculine room, almost austere, yet there was no lack of warmth, for the rich patina of aged wood, mellowed and polished, glowed softly in the firelight. Heavy velvet drapes hung beside the tall windows, where pale sunligh
t was filtering in through the heraldic designs of stained glass.

  On the wall near the door there were several crossed swords and ancient shields bearing the coat of arms of the Dukes of Camareigh. Usually, this display held the attention of the present Duke of Camareigh’s young son, but now the object of his unblinking gaze was his father’s hallowed great mahogany desk.

  Mesmerized, Robin stared at the cluttered surface of the desk. Two silver candlesticks stood sentinel at each end of the massive desk, while a silver-framed miniature of his mother occupied a place of honor at the center. A quill pen lay forgotten in an opened ledger, a pool of black ink soaking into the page of neatly inscribed figures. Robin saw several buff-colored envelopes, their wax seals broken open, but he knew the letter he was searching for was not among them. Breathlessly, he slid past his father’s armchair with its carved, cabriole legs, stumbling slightly over a claw and ball foot. His lower lip trembling with fear and excitement, Robin pulled open the center drawer, the one into which he had seen his father, only minutes earlier, slip the mysterious letter. And there it was, he thought, reaching out for it with a barely concealed sigh of triumph.

  “What the devil are you doing?”

  Robin squealed in guilty surprise, which sent him tumbling backward into the chair, the coveted letter floating from his grasp and settling beyond his reach in front of the desk.

  “Francis!” he cried in relief, despite his elder brother’s glowering look.

  “You are in deep trouble now, Robin,” Francis told him, feeling little pity for his brother and his act of trespass. “And this time I think you deserve whatever punishment Father metes out to you. My God, but you must be mad to be rifling through Father’s desk.”