Chance the Winds of Fortune (27 page)

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 for 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.

“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.

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.