Chance the Winds of Fortune (12 page)

The sound of a pouch full of coins hitting the table brought Nell Farquhar's wandering attention to a sudden standstill.

“A name, Mrs. Farquhar,” Kate urged her gently but firmly.

Nell Farquhar hesitated for only a moment before reaching out and grasping the small pouch of coins with a greedy hand. “Edward Waltham. Most likely be leavin' his own mum to the gallows if'n the price was right. Aye, Teddie Waltham's yer man, and a more slippery devil I've not had the pleasure of meetin'. Fancies himself a gentleman of sorts, although we all knows he was born of a bastard's brat over by Billingsgate. Says he's got royal blood in him from King Charles II himself, and that his father is a duke,” she snorted, sniggering behind her hand. “If'n that's true, then I'm Nell Gwyn! More'n likely his father was a fishmonger, but that Teddie Waltham, he can talk ye into believin' anything. Even sweet-talked his way out of Newgate, he did. Probably had the turnkey holdin' the gates open fer him as he sauntered past.”

“Sounds a most remarkable man, your Teddie Waltham,” Kate said softly. “And where might I find this honey-tongued exquisite?”

“Why, downstairs, m'lady.” Nell Farquhar's deep laugh rumbled across the room. “But I'm not knowin' how exquisite he might be tonight, seein' how he's been tryin' to drink up all me best rum and cheapest gin, he has.”

“Well then, Mrs. Farquhar, so as not to disappoint the gentleman, have a bottle of your finest sent up, and then inform Mr. Waltham that I should like a word with him.”

“Aye, m'lady,” Nell readily agreed, not averse to making a few extra shillings for her night's work. “Oh! And who am I supposed to say wants to see him?” she demanded suddenly, realizing she'd never caught her guest's name.

“Just tell him a prospective employer,” Kate informed her, which did not satisfy the proprietress's avid curiosity. “And one who is willing to pay quite generously for services rendered.”

“Aye,” Nell Farquhar remarked, a shrewd look in her eyes. “I reckon ye would be at that.” And with that oblique comment she sauntered from the room, the leather bag full of coins held firmly in one fat palm.

The chimes had struck nine times, and at half past the hour Edward Waltham knocked upon the door. He nearly fell backward in surprised fright when the silent mass of the footman filled the doorway, and he very nearly came to running again when he saw the masked woman sitting before the fire, her black clothing striking him as an omen of ill luck about to befall him. But because his pockets were empty, and he could see the formidable shadow of debtors' prison looming before him, he reckoned he really had nothing to lose in listening to the woman. And, perhaps, he'd have everything to gain.

“Rocco, do let the gentleman pass, for if this is Mr. Edward Waltham, and he is as lacking in character as I have been led to believe, then we most definitely shall have something to talk about,” Kate said as she invited a rather subdued-looking Edward Waltham into the room.

“Aye, I'm Edward Waltham. Ol' Nell said ye wanted to hire a man for a job,” he informed her, fighting to clear his fuddled brain of rum, for he knew he'd need his wits about him tonight. “Reckon I might be your man, and then again, I might not be. 'Twill depend on what's in it for me,” he told her bluntly, keeping a watchful eye on this fellow named Rocco, whose shadow seemed to be steadily growing until it had stretched across the whole length of the room.

“Marvelous, Mr. Waltham!” Kate exclaimed. “You have not disappointed me. No questions asked concerning the job, or what might be entailed, just what is in it for you. I can see we shall get along splendidly,” Kate told him, gesturing for him to take the chair opposite her and to pour himself a drink from the rum bottle sitting close at hand.

Through the slits in her mask, Kate's pale blue eyes watched the man called Edward Waltham walk closer, his darting eyes searching the room for exits, weapons, or hidden third parties. He was a wily character, she decided, and just what she'd had in mind as an accomplice. His age would be hard to pin down, even if he could have told her, which she doubted, for he was one of those people of medium height and weight, with medium-colored hair and eyes, and with no outstanding features. Which was certainly in his favor, for no one would remember the innocuous stranger, and certainly no one would suspect him of any jewel theft or blackmailing scheme.

He was dressed now in imitation of a dandy, his claret-colored, velvet coat having seen better days and his lacy stock looking sadly yellowed from where it hung limply around his neck. His buff breeches had felt the darning needle many times, and his wig could have stood a good brushing. Yes, Kate thought with a satisfied smile curving her lips, Mr. Edward Waltham was exactly the kind of scoundrel she'd had in mind.

“How would you like to take a trip into the country, Mr. Waltham? I hear the air does wonders for the lungs,” she began. Then a log fell in a shower of sparks and drowned out the rest of her softly spoken words.

* * *

The gently sloping meadows stretching away from the terraced gardens of Camareigh were brown, and the copses beyond the sylvan lake had shed the last of their autumn leaves. Now the trees stood etched against the gray skies of oncoming winter. There was more than a hint of rain in the air as a few drops fell from overhead, the clouds darkening with each passing second. A distant rumble of thunder was growing louder, drowning out the sound of a voice raised in fear.

“Rhea! Rhea Claire! Are you all right?” Francis called as, helplessly, he watched his sister tumble from her horse when the dainty mare balked at jumping over the privet hedge. The sound of thunder had frightened her, and she was now running free as she danced skittishly across the meadow, her reins hanging loose.

Rhea sighed, pushing her dark blue velvet tricorne out of her eyes as she pulled her skirts aside and stumbled ungracefully to her feet. She was straightening her waistcoat and jacket when Francis and Ewan rode up, the bolted mare in tow.

“Are you hurt, Rhea?” Ewan asked in concern as he caught sight of her torn and muddied skirt.

“No, I'm fine, but I fear I shall be in for a scolding when Canfield catches sight of my riding habit. Hello, sweetheart,” Rhea said softly, placing a soothing hand oh the little mare's velvety nose. “Give me a hand up, will you?” Rhea asked, rubbing her bruised elbow and wincing slightly.

James was off his mount before either of his brothers or cousin could make a move to assist Rhea. He gallantly presented his linked hands to Rhea, holding them firm as she placed her booted foot in them; then he boosted her onto the mare's back, holding her steady while Rhea hooked her right knee over the pommel.

“Thank you, James,” Rhea said with a special smile for him. She knew her young cousin was experiencing the first pangs of puppy love as he stared up at her. Bemusement clouded his gray eyes as he eagerly returned her smile with a wide grin.

“Are you sure you feel like riding, Rhea? You could ride with me,” he offered shyly, sending his older brother, George, a threatening glance when he heard a hastily smothered guffaw. “You took quite a fall. If we hurry, we can make the stables before it rains.”

“No,” Rhea contradicted him gently, her mouth set firmly. “We shall continue as before. I don't think 'tis going to rain just yet, and I do not intend to be the reason for depriving you and Ewan and George of a ride. You were cooped up in that carriage all of yesterday and the day before, and now that you've a chance to get out, I will not be the cause of ruining it. Besides,” Rhea added with a glint in her eye as she glanced at the hedge, “I haven't cleared that hedge yet.”

“You're not still going to jump it, are you, Rhea?” Ewan demanded, even though he knew she was, and that there was nothing he could say to deter her.

“Father says not to let your fear set in. I'll do better, not to mention Skylark here, to take this hedge today. By tomorrow or the next day I would have had time to go over the jump in my head a thousand times, as well as my fall,” Rhea reasoned. “I would be a thousand times more nervous than I am now.”

“But, Rhea—” George began, only to be interrupted by a wise Francis.

“Better not to argue with her,” he stated calmly, knowing his sister well enough not to waste his breath arguing with her.

“There, you see, Ewan,” Rhea declared with a triumphant laugh, “haven't I always said that Francis had a good head on his shoulders?”

Another loud clap of thunder sounded across the hills as the storm rolled closer. Rhea stared up at the angry clouds and kept a tight rein on Skylark as she shied nervously. “I'm afraid that you are going to end up spending most of your visit inside Camareigh this time,” Rhea predicted with a glum look. “No more picnics on the lawn.”

“I'm afraid so,” Ewan agreed, following her glance to the blackening clouds above.

“I'm pleased to see you,” Rhea began, a perplexed look on her face, “but why did you arrive so early? The ball isn't until next week.”

“You know Mother. When she gets her mind set on something, she can be as stubborn as a mule,” George explained. “She said she had to be here right now. She wouldn't say why.”

“One of her feelings?” Francis asked casually. He had started to follow Rhea and Skylark as they trotted some distance away from the hedge.

“One of her feelings,” Ewan confirmed, repeating the phrase that he'd heard used all of his life to describe his mother's strange visions. His tone, however, was not disrespectful but full of reverence for her gift. He had seen too many strange things happen after his mother had predicted them to scoff either at her or at any of her feelings.

“Maybe she's seen your engagement to the Earl of Rendale, Rhea,” Francis guessed, a sly grin on his innocent-looking face.

“What!” James cried out, startled by the news.

“Francis is just trying to be amusing and failing miserably at it,” Rhea retorted. Then, changing the subject, she said, “'Twill be quicker if we ride along the lane rather than go back across the hills.” She patted the mare's beautifully arched neck. “Come on, Skylark,” she whispered. “Shall we show them how to jump?”

This time Skylark did not balk, nor did her hooves even touch the privet hedge when she cleared it with plenty of room to spare. A moment later four other horses cleared it as Francis and his cousins followed Rhea's lead. She was already well down the lane, her mare's white-stockinged legs flying and kicking up mud, when she suddenly pulled up.

“What is wrong now, Rhea?” Francis asked, looking at her as if she might be ill.

“I've lost my hat!” Rhea exclaimed, her eyes searching the roadside. “Demme! I've had it now. How can I face Canfield without a proper hat on my head!”

“Well, if you ask me—” George had started to advise his cousin, but his red eyebrows shot up in amazement when she rudely shushed him quiet.

“Don't you hear it?” she asked, holding a warning finger to her lips.

“Hear what? Don't tell me you have a talking hat?” Francis demanded mockingly, holding up his hands in entreaty when Rhea shot him a murderous look.

“I hear it!” James cried out, glancing around at the hedges bordering the lane.

“What did it say to you, James?” George asked with a serious expression, but a muffled snicker escaped as he tried to keep a straight face. “Did it tell you it'd rather be a bonnet than a tricorne?”

“Well, whatever it is,” Ewan stated practically, “'tis coming from that ditch over there.”

“Shall we have a look?” Rhea suggested. Then, when they all remained seated on their horses she dropped to the ground before anyone could assist her. “Not afraid, are we?” she dared them, her mare's reins looped over her arm as she walked to the edge of the narrow lane. “Lud, there's something down here!” she said excitedly.

“Wait a minute, Rhea. Hold on!” Francis warned her as he jumped down from his frisky chestnut. “Stay, El Cid,” he ordered the young stallion before hurrying after Rhea, but she had already disappeared into the ditch, leaving James complacently holding Skylark's reins. “Rhea, don't go any nearer! It could be a mad dog!” Francis cried out—too late. Now he heard the sound that had drawn her.

“No, 'tis a sack of some kind, and 'tis moving!” Rhea called back as she slid down the muddy bank. She looked over her shoulder in relief when she heard Ewan slip down beside her, and she stepped aside to let him wade into the dirty ditch water. His boots protected him as he grasped hold of the squirming sack that was, every so often, letting out a series of squeals.

“Bring it up here on the lane, Ewan,” Rhea told him as she struggled up the embankment, gratefully accepting assistance from Francis, who held out his arm and pulled her the rest of the way up. “Come on, Ewan. Hurry,” she urged him, impatient as she watched him suspiciously eyeing his find.

“I have a feeling I should have left it where it was,” he predicted as he climbed back toward the lane, his mud-coated boots slipping and sliding while he tried to make his way up the steep bank. George held out a hand as his brother neared the top and with a hefty tug, landed him on the hard-packed road.

Before Ewan could drop the burlap bag, Rhea was inspecting it, her gloved hands touching the sack here and there as she sought an answer. “I don't suppose you have a knife or something we can cut this string with?”

Ewan dropped the bag in the center of the quiet lane and stood back to admire his handiwork. Rhea was on her knees beside it in an instant, sawing away at the tight string with a sharp stone James had found. She grinned up at him when he dropped down beside her with his own crudely improvised knife and began to cut through the rough twine. Soon the string gave way with a snap and, glancing around at the expectant faces, Rhea rolled back the edges of the burlap bag to reveal six half-drowned, half-starved puppies shivering together in the bottom.