Chance the Winds of Fortune

by Laurie McBain

  “Lucien…Lucien…Lucien…” Kate said, both savoring and despising the name of her cousin. “Standing in the path of all that Percy and I should have had as our right. Meddling in all that we had planned, obstructing us every way we turned. Conspiring against us with that old woman. How we have hated you, Lucien. But,” Kate said, her voice suddenly falsely bright and almost teasing, “you asked how ’twas that I got in? Oh, poor Lucien, fool that you are,” she said pityingly, “you have always underestimated Percy and me, haven’t you? ’Tis a pity for you, that you have always thought yourself so much smarter than us. You see, even though you have so cruelly denied me my home for over a quarter of a century, do you really think I would have forgotten anything about Camareigh? I still remember that underground passage used by our ancestors fleeing from the Roundheads. I easily found the entrance near the stone balustrade in the terraces, so cunningly concealed in the rose arbor. The kitchens were quiet when I entered beneath the back stairs, but then I suppose you dined hours ago, didn’t you?

  “And do you know where I have been?” she continued. “I have been waiting outside in the cold. For hours I stood there gazing at the lighted windows. Can you at all imagine how it felt to be on the outside looking in? How that warm yellow glow beckoned to me? I could hear a whispering through the boughs above my head, telling me that I had come home at last. Home, Lucien. Home to Camareigh after so many endless years of suffering the tortures of the damned. Percy and I have finally come home to deal retributive justice to you, Lucien. And you will not deny me my prize. ’Tis my inheritance from Camareigh, and this time I will not be cheated out of it. ’Tis only fair that I should have it, Lucien. Percy would want it this way. I know he would.”

  Lucien glanced around casually. “And where is that pale shadow of yours, Kate?” Lucien raised his voice in a command. “Percy! It is safe now, you may come out from behind your sister’s skirts. Come now, do not be shy. Show me that sniveling countenance of yours, Percy.”

  Kate’s shrill laughter halted any further taunts he might have issued. “If he does indeed show his face, ’twill be Camareigh’s first ghost.”

  “What do you mean, Kate?” Lucien asked softly. Her quivering voice had sent a shiver of warning up his spine.

  “He is dead,” Kate groaned. “And you are his murderer. ’Tis all your fault, Lucien. My Percy is gone. My sweet Percy,” she cried, her voice heavy with grief and confusion. “They found him floating in the canal, an assassin’s knife embedded in his back. One day he was alive and the next day he was dead. Oh, my God, how he must have suffered. My Percy, my sweet Percy,” she whimpered, sounding as if she’d been dealt a blow which still could not be comprehended. But just as quickly her voice hardened as she added, “And do you realize how I have suffered without Percy? I might as well be dead too.”

  Lucien moistened his dry lips. He knew now what had triggered this horrifying chain of tragic events. Kate was seeking revenge for Percy’s death. Lucien shook his head in disbelief. Percy was dead. He had not thought of his cousins in years; yet, knowing that Percy was dead gave him an overwhelming sense of relief.

  He stared hard at the veiled figure. “You kidnapped my daughter, Kate,” he said softly, his words almost imperceptible to Kate. “She never did you any harm, Kate. I am your enemy, not my children.”

  “She was a Dominick. Flaunting her heritage in my face. So beautiful. So pure. So gullible, she was,” Kate all but crooned. “She was dear to your heart, was she not, dear cousin Lucien? There is your reason why. You have suffered each day she has been gone from Camareigh, haven’t you? And puzzled, were you, by my little notes?” she asked hopefully. “I did think that was rather clever of me, Lucien.”

  But Lucien hadn’t been listening; his heart had leaped painfully at one of her casually spoken words. “‘Was,’ Kate?” he asked.

  “Was what?” Kate demanded, not fully understanding what he was asking. Then suddenly she chuckled deeply. “Oh, I see. You want to know whether or not your daughter is dead or alive, is that it, Lucien? Well”—she hesitated, baiting him—“I shan’t tell you. No, maybe I shall. Either way, ’tis bad news for you, I fear,” she said remorselessly.

  Beginning to enjoy herself, she continued, “Actually, to be quite honest, Lucien, I really am not certain if the chit is alive or not. But I certainly would not bet on her chances of still being with us,” she advised in a kindly tone. “You see, dear cousin, I sent your daughter to the colonies.” She laughed contemptuously when she heard his sharp intake of breath.

  “I sold your precious daughter as an indentured servant. She is probably slaving away in some whorehouse in the Americas right now—if she survived the journey, which I seriously doubt. She was such a pale, pitiful-looking little thing. I must say, Lucien, from what I have seen of your children, you certainly did not sire any robust heirs. I am afraid that I fear for the Dominick bloodline. Grandmama would be so disappointed, don’t you think so?” Kate inquired with all of the concern of a doting aunt. “Well, anyway, back to that whey-faced daughter of yours. I may very well be wrong; she might possess far more spunk than I’d given her credit for. But I, for one, would certainly not wish to be in her shoes when she arrives in the colonies. Savage place, so I’ve heard. This is mere speculation, and perhaps completely irrelevant, since she was unconscious the last time I saw her. We had to drug her, of course. I wonder if we gave her too much of the sedative. She was breathing rather heavily, now that I think about it,” she said thoughtfully.

  When Lucien moved toward her, she said, “No! Stay where you are, Lucien.” Then her pistol appeared quite magically from the folds of her cloak.

  “I am surprised that you did not kill her, Kate. You never were a very patient person, and apparently you took Rhea all the way back to London. I imagine that is where you bought her passage for the colonies?” Lucien asked easily.

  “Please, do not be thanking me. That would be more than I could possibly bear,” Kate said with amusement. “Your gratitude for the brat’s life would be sorely misplaced, for I would have dumped her from the carriage the first chance we’d had. ’Twas that fool of a footman of mine who stayed her execution. He took an odd fancy to her and kept her cradled in his arms for the whole bloody journey. And I tell you now, Lucien, that was a damned uncomfortable ride through the countryside, with Rocco slobbering over the girl and growling if I so much as looked her way.” Kate still smarted from the experience. “But I took care of Rocco later. No one betrays me and gets away with it.”

  “What happened?”

  “He wouldn’t part with her even in London. And that was damned awkward, believe me. Especially where that busybody landlady of mine was concerned. But Teddie and I—he was the bungling fool who shot you—had made our plans, and I was not about to let Rocco stand in my way. So I killed him. Then this friend of Teddie’s came and took her on board his ship. What happened to her after that, well, I haven’t the faintest idea. I must admit, ’twas Teddie’s idea to send her to the colonies. Teddie,” Kate murmured, his name filling her with a loathing almost as great as that which she felt for Lucien. “When I find him, I’ll kill him. Damn him, the swine,” she swore, raising her free hand in a protective gesture before her face.

  “But I will deal with him later,” she continued, turning her thoughts once again to Lucien Dominick, Duke of Camareigh. “You have brought me such misery, Lucien. Everything Percy and I wanted in life, you ruined—and just because you were alive. When I think of our life in Venice, then look at you sitting here, looking so disgustingly healthy, I could scream at the injustice of it all. That would have angered Percy so. I am sure he hoped that you would get fat and gouty, but no, not you,” she told him resentfully.

  Then, suddenly changing the subject, she said, “Do you know, Lucien, I do rather like Francis, even though he did ruin my plans this afternoon. He is much like Percy, I think. Yes, just like Percy. I have not seen the twins
yet, but I hear they are golden-haired, just like we were. Once, Percy and I were golden-haired and beautiful, were we not, Lucien? Once, long ago,” she whispered in anguish, her voice trailing away. “But the years have changed that, haven’t they? Do you want to see what I look like now, Lucien? You should be curious; after all, you are the one who destroyed me.”

  Slowly and deliberately, she raised the filmy veil that floated eerily around her shoulders; at the same time, the pistol held so steadily in her hand was still pointed dead center at Lucien’s chest. With a lack of trepidation or shame resulting from that afternoon when Teddie Waltham had gazed in horror upon her scarred face, Kate now waited with a smoldering anticipation for a similar reaction from Lucien. She wanted to see the look of uncontrollable revulsion cross his face; then she would have the supreme pleasure of turning it into a death mask.

  Her hand now trembling, Kate bared her face and stared boldly into Lucien’s eyes. But much to her disappointment, he did not flinch or recoil from the macabre sight of her flawed beauty. He continued to stare at her with the same haughty and indifferent look he had always reserved for her. That cold, contemptuous expression still had the power to infuriate her, and Kate realized she would never be free of Lucien, for he haunted her even in her dreams. He seemed always to be sitting in judgment on her and Percy. He was always there ridiculing them, goading them and hounding them. From the very beginning he had connived to have them banished from Camareigh. It was Lucien’s fault that misfortune had befallen them, that sweet Percy had died in Venice, bloated with drink, and that her own beauty had become a grotesque mask. It was all because of Lucien. Dear cousin Lucien, who was finally about to meet his fate.

  Lucien watched silently as the violent display of emotions stole across her face; he knew that all her grievances against him were being rekindled and fanned into flames by her insane hatred of him. He gazed into the pale eyes, which were glowing with an insatiable lust for revenge, and he waited, knowing that he would not escape death this time.

  * * *

  The duchess awoke with a start. She gazed blindly around the dark bedchamber. The fire in the hearth had burned down to glowing coals, leaving the room at the mercy of cold drafts seeping in through ill-fitting doors. She stretched out her arm as she rolled over, instinctively seeking out Lucien’s warmth beside her.

  She sat up in surprise when she felt the cold, empty space. Lucien’s wound, was her first thought. He might be feverish, she thought, her eyes searching the shadowy room, but there was nothing to be seen except the bulky shapes of furniture.

  “Lucien? Lucien, are you here?” she called out softly. But the only response was silence.

  The duchess hesitated for only an instant before throwing back the covers, sliding from the bed and slipping her feet into her silken mules. In the darkness her fingers found her soft, finely woven wool shawl, where it lay folded across the back of the chaise longue at the foot of the bed.

  Camareigh seemed unusually quiet, the duchess thought as she hurried along the dark corridors. Before leaving the bedchamber, she had checked the dressing room, thinking that had Lucien been restless, he might have gone there in order not to disturb her sleep. But the small room had been empty. She had walked the distance of the Long Gallery, hoping to find him gazing at that picture again, but the room was possessed of an almost death-like silence. The duchess berated herself for her midnight fancies, but the room suddenly began to feel like a tomb, with the dead staring down at her, resenting her intrusion into their solitude.

  The duchess shivered, wishing Mary were here to explain away such strange feelings. Holding the hem of her dragging nightdress in one hand and a candlestick and the ends of her shawl in the other, the duchess descended the Grand Staircase, headed for Lucien’s study. It was the first place that she should have looked, she decided, shivering with cold and wishing she were back beneath the quilts in her bed.

  Absorbed as she was in making her way carefully down the stairs, she heard nothing until she had taken several steps across the marble hall toward Lucien’s study. She paused, pushing her unbound hair out of her eyes when she heard voices coming from the opened door of the room. At first she thought it was a servant; then she realized with growing alarm that no servant would be speaking to the Duke of Camareigh in that tone of voice.

  “…and ’tis time I felt your blood on my hands, dear cousin Lucien. You should have died years ago. ’Twas remiss of me not to have taken care of this matter sooner. You really never should have been left alive to sire heirs to Camareigh. To think that you, of all people, should have sired twins. Even Percy never had twins, but then that cow of a wife of his hadn’t any hot blood in her. I’m surprised she managed to give birth to anything, or that Percy persisted in trying,” Kate was saying.

  A log fell with a shower of sparks in the hearth, startling Kate for an instant. But her aim never wavered as she continued to stare hungrily at Lucien’s face, his scar still having the power to fascinate her.

  “This will be the very last time, Lucien. I shall finally put an end to your cursed existence. Good-bye, dear cousin Lucien, and may your soul rot in hell!” she spat in a final burst of venom. Kate never saw the flashing blade, but Lucien did; yet he still could not believe it, even as it swung down in an arc from the doorway, guided by Sabrina’s hands.

  As the curved edge of the blade sliced deeply into Kate’s exposed wrist, she screamed with surprise and pain, the pistol dropping from her throbbing hand. She turned incredulous eyes on the small, black-haired woman standing in the doorway, who still held the bloodied sword in her hands.

  Involuntarily, Sabrina stepped backward, for never before had she seen such a malevolent, nightmarish face. The pale, glittering eyes were cursing her silently, while the distorted mouth snarled such obscenities that Sabrina could feel her blood running cold.

  Kate’s hoarse scream of frustrated rage filled the room like a demon’s howl, momentarily stunning Sabrina as she stood pressed against the doorjamb. Lucien knew Kate well enough, however, not to make the fatal mistake of underestimating her, for despite her wound she was still dangerous. She was also crazed enough to attack the woman who had foiled her last chance to destroy him.

  But Kate, with the instinct of a wounded, trapped animal, sensed his move to block her from her only means of escape. Her pale eyes, filled with a desperate cunning, darted around the room seeking a weapon, but the room was unfamiliar to her. She stared down at the pistol lying at her feet in a pool of her own blood. Her glance drew Lucien’s as well, and in that brief second when he was off his guard, she reached out with her uninjured hand and wrapped her fingers around one of the silver candlesticks on the desk; then, with a guttural cry, she threw the heavy piece at Lucien’s head.

  He managed to step aside, and it crashed with a splintering of wood against the molded paneling of the fireplace. But it had given Kate enough time to escape, and in a trice she was upon Sabrina, her clawlike hand pushing the smaller woman into the path of the pursuing duke.

  Sabrina tripped on the hem of her gown and fell to her knees as Lucien, trying to avoid her, stumbled against the door.

  He straightened slowly, favoring his injured arm. “Are you all right, Rina?” he demanded, hesitating before following his cousin into the dark hall.

  “Yes, please. Go after her, Lucien,” Sabrina pleaded as she struggled to her feet, using the bloodied sword like a cane.

  But he was not gone longer than a few minutes before returning and closing his arms around the duchess. “Oh, thank God, Lucien,” she breathed. “What happened? Where is she?”

  “I couldn’t find a trace of her in the darkness. She’s just disappeared. We will need half the household to find her. I doubt, however, that she will get far with that wound,” Lucien predicted as he guided Sabrina to one of the armchairs before the fire and gently forced her to sit. He then walked over to his desk, opened the middle drawer, a
nd pulled out a pistol. He paused beside the bloodstain on the floor; then, with a look of distaste, he picked up Kate’s pistol. The butt was sticky with congealing blood, but he grasped it firmly and walked to the windows. Pulling back the heavy velvet hangings, he opened the window and fired each pistol, the sound echoing through the silence of the night like the roar of a cannon.

  “Lucien! What—” Sabrina began as the explosions reverberated in the room.

  “That should alert Butterick and his men. Camareigh will be alive with people and lights within minutes. Kate shall have a difficult time of it, for the dogs will sniff her out if she is mad enough to still be on the grounds. Kate’s days are finally numbered,” he pronounced coldly.

  “I cannot seem to forget that horrible face and those wild eyes. I do not think I have ever felt such evilness,” Sabrina said, her lips trembling as she tried to hold back tears. “And to think that she meant to murder you.”

  “But she did not, my love. If it had not been for you and that sword, then she might well have succeeded,” Lucien reminded her, his eyes lingering on the empty space on the wall where the sword had been crossed with its mate. Now it had been used as a weapon once again.

  “Now, come on, my love, dry your tears,” Lucien ordered, watching while she dabbed ineffectively at her cheeks with the back of her sleeve. “The worst is over.”

  Sabrina sniffed: then, as her focus sharpened, she became aware of the subtle change in Lucien’s expression. It would have gone unnoticed by anyone else, but Sabrina knew Lucien’s moods too well not to sense the difference. It was as if he’d had a lightening of spirit.

  “What is it, Lucien?” she asked hesitantly. Then, as she saw a slight smile curving his lips, she felt her own excitement rising. “Please, Lucien. Tell me what it is,” she pleaded.