Chance the Winds of Fortune (4 page)

* * *

A little over a week later the
Sea Dragon
was rounding Cape San Antonio, the prevailing winds carrying her along as she caught the Gulf Stream and the coast of Cuba fell astern. Dante Leighton was standing, legs braced slightly apart, on the lee side of the deck, his spyglass trained on the horizon as he swung it slowly in an arc from fore to aft. He knew he was the center of the crew's curious speculation, for only a crazed man, if given a choice, would dare to challenge the Florida Straits with nightfall closing around his ship and the treacherous passage hemmed in by reefs and sandbanks.

“Captain, 'tis dangerous, this course you are about,” Alastair said quietly as he moved up beside the captain.

Dante lowered the glass. “Aye, Mr. Marlowe, but you've got to take chances if you are to win.”

“If you'll pardon my indiscretion, Captain,” Alastair continued, “what urgent need is there to risk the reefs at night? The way the winds come up out of nowhere, we could easily run aground.”

“Believe me, Alastair, the need is there,” Dante replied, not in the least offended by his supercargo's questioning. “I suspect the lookout will spy a sail aft any moment now,” he informed the startled Alastair, who spun around quickly and strained his narrowed eyes into the falling twilight.

“A sail? Where? I don't see one.”

“Sail ho!” the lookout cried from aloft.

“Good God, how the devil did you know even before the lookout saw it?” Alastair exclaimed. “Can you make her?” he asked, standing by helplessly while Dante stared through the spyglass.

“She's no British ship-of-the-line,” Dante replied. “But then I didn't expect her to be.”

“She's maneuvering, Cap'n! Crowding on!” the lookout called as he watched the pursuing ship set all of her sails.

“'Tis the
Annie Jeanne
,” MacDonald said as he came to stand beside the captain on the poop deck. “I recognize her rigging and sails. And the tartan flag as well.”

“Bertie Mackay?” Alastair expostulated. “What the devil's he doin' out here? He was in St. Eustatius when we were. He said he had a cargo he had to deliver to Charles Town. I wonder what happened to it, 'cause unless he had wings, there is no way he could have made it there and back in this short time.” Alastair was reasoning aloud, thinking of the portly captain of the
Annie Jeanne
, who happened to be one of the best smugglers in the Carolinas. Cuthbert “Bertie” Mackay, who had a crew of cutthroats even a pirate would think twice about taking on board.

“The cap'n's got mighty fine eyesight,” MacDonald said casually. “I don't imagine the lookout would hae seen the sails unless he'd been told to look for them in that direction.”

Dante smiled and glanced over at the shrewd Scotsman. “Right you are, Mr. MacDonald. I suspect that Bertie Mackay has been riding in our wake since St. Eustatius. I first caught sight of him two nights ago. I'd come up on deck during the graveyard watch, and was quite surprised to find someone signaling the
Sea Dragon
. However, I was even more surprised to find the
Sea Dragon
answering.”

“Good God! A spy on board the
Sea Dragon
?” Alastair blurted, unable to contain his shocked dismay. “Who the devil is it?” he asked, glancing around as if the culprit might be lurking next to him.

“You will find out soon enough,” Dante said, not in the least concerned. “Ah,” he added then, as a scuffling of feet on the deck below and the sound of angry voices could be heard coming closer. “I believe our questions shall be answered very shortly.”

Suddenly, however, pandemonium broke loose as a group of men scrambled from the companionway and set off across the deck in pursuit of the first man, who'd shot out as if he'd had the hounds of hell on his heels. This noisy group, some swinging boat hooks and others, belaying pins and mallets, cornered their quarry near the foremast.

“Mission accomplished, I see, Mr. Fitzsimmons,” Dante remarked lazily, his gray eyes narrowed with displeasure as he watched the struggling seaman being held very much against his will between Cobbs and Trevelawny.

“Aye, he tried to cut and run, he did,” Cobbs spat. “But he's got the devil to pay and no pitch hot now.”

“To be sure, Cap'n, we caught ourselves a real fishy-smellin' vermin this time, that we did,” Fitzsimmons added with a wide grin. “When he sees us comin', he tries to jump overboard. Only a guilty conscience could make a man do that, I'm thinkin', especially when he doesn't know how to swim.”

Cobbs jerked his prisoner up closer to the railing. “Turned real nasty, he did,” he said, rubbing his slightly swollen jaw.

“Do you indeed have a guilty conscience, Mr. Grimes?” Dante asked quietly.

“Dunno what ye're talkin' about, Cap'n. What's this all about anyway? I been mindin' me own business. At least I was until these lubbers come chargin' after me like a bunch of harpooned whales. What's it about, Cap'n?”

“That is what
I'm
asking you, Mr. Grimes,” Dante responded with a smile, which should have warned the manhandled Mr. Grimes to tread lightly. “I'm sure that I, as well as the crew of the
Sea Dragon
, would be greatly interested in hearing about your clandestine communications with your
real
captain, Mr. Grimes. Now, come along, Mr. Grimes, this is no time for misplaced discretion. Your life may very well depend upon what you tell me and the crew of the
Sea Dragon
. I'm sure Bertie Mackay will understand the delicate predicament you now find yourself in.”

At Dante's mention of the rival smuggler's name, a murmur of surprise and protest rumbled through the men gathered around the captive, whose own reaction was even more violent.

When Grimes continued to remain silent, Dante shrugged. “Very well, Mr. Grimes, as you wish. A pity, though. Well, enough said, 'tis your decision. I'm sure, however, that Captain Mackay is anxiously awaiting further communication with you. I shouldn't like to disappoint him.”

Alastair frowned in confusion. “I don't understand this, Captain. Grimes has only been with us for about four months or so. How did Bertie Mackay know we'd find a treasure map?”

“I suspect that our Mr. Grimes here was placed on board the
Sea Dragon
for other purposes. This treasure map is an added bonus for Bertie. Am I not correct, Mr. Grimes?” Dante asked conversationally. But when the topman remained silent, Dante smiled. “Odds-on that I am correct.”

“What was he here to do, Cap'n?” Conny demanded as he peered at the prisoner from the safety of Longacres's side.

“To observe. To mark our secret coves where we unload our contraband. To cause mischief, and ultimately, to turn us in to His Majesty's Navy, I shouldn't wonder,” Dante told the gathering. His words sounded like the death knell in Grimes's ears when he glanced around at the ugly faces staring at him.

“Lies! 'Tis all lies. Don't listen to him. He wants to cause trouble. Split us up so there's more treasure for himself,” Grimes cried out, only to fall silent as a hand was shoved over his mouth.

“Found this map, marking our special coves, in his locker, Cap'n. Reckon we would ha' found one of His Majesty's cutters waitin' fer us one fine night,” Longacres said angrily.

“Well, what are we going to do with the fellow?” Mr. Clarke asked. “We could certainly hold a trial right here on deck. Have a jury made up of his peers,” he suggested, his guilty vote already cast.

“I think, Mr. Clarke, that we need to facilitate matters a bit, considering that Mr. Grimes is not his own man,” Dante said, overriding his helmsman. He glanced at his coxswain. “Ah, Longacres. Just the man. Let's lower a boat, shall we? I think Mr. Grimes here will be far safer in the gig than he might be spending the night here on deck. Don't you agree, men? Oh, and so he won't get lonely in the dark,” Dante continued smoothly, the tone of his voice silencing the grumbling from his crew, who were disappointed about losing their catch to the sea, “put a lantern on board. Make sure it will be seen from the stern, Mr. Cobbs. I do not want Bertie Mackay to lose his way in the channel, not after he's come this far with the help of the
Sea Dragon
.”

Alec MacDonald chuckled as he caught the captain's drift. “Aye, but the devil himself couldn't hae come up with a better, more diabolical plan. My compliments, sir.”

“Thank you, Mr. MacDonald.”

“Bertie will follow the light from the gig, just as he's been guided by the light flashing from the
Sea Dragon
,” Alastair said, thinking about the light gig drifting onto the reefs with the swiftly moving current, leading the
Annie Jeanne
into the shallows. “Blast it, but I'd like to see Bertie Mackay's face come sunrise, if he's still afloat, when he discovers we've given him the slip.”

“Cap'n Leighton, sir! You can't be doin' this to me!” Grimes called out as he was hustled to the small boat. “Cap'n Mackay will cut me heart out for this! I'm beggin' ye, Cap'n, sir. Don't be a-doin' this to me. I—” His quivering voice was cut off abruptly as the darkness swallowed him up.

“Hit his head, s'pose,” MacDonald commented as he puffed on his pipe. “Reckon he won't miss much. Morning will be soon enough for him to enjoy the scenery.”

There was a splash of water, then silence as the
Sea Dragon
continued on her course through the Florida Straits. Above her tall masts and billowing sails a myriad of stars shimmered in the black skies, an encouraging sign that no storm was gathering to hinder their progress.

“When do you think we will come back to look for the treasure?” Alastair asked his captain as they stood in silence on the quarterdeck, the cooling breeze off the water dampening their faces.

“
If
there is a treasure to be found,” Dante replied cautiously, “then we shall have to make some plans, Alastair. For unless I am sorely mistaken about Cuthbert Mackay, he will hound us within an inch of our lives. He's nobody's fool. He hasn't gotten where he is in life by ignoring his hunches, and I suspect he has the same one I do about this sunken Spanish galleon. Most likely, over a few bottles of rum, he had an interesting, and very informative, conversation with the Dane. He realizes there is a very good chance that we might discover a treasure ship, and he intends to be there when we do. Besides, he'll not easily forgive me for tonight's unfortunate contretemps. No, Bertie will keep close to our stern, and what we must try and figure out is how to sink him. For if indeed there is a treasure, I have no intention of sharing it with the captain and crew of the
Annie Jeanne
,” Dante promised, glancing over at the dark, shapeless form of the Florida coastline.

It was a place of mangrove swamps and mosquitoes, of unforgiving reefs and shifting shoals. It would become a deadly adversary if it fought to keep its watery hold on the sunken Spanish galleon. But a fight it would have, Dante promised as he continued to stare challengingly at the untamed shore.

“Lay the course, Mr. Clarke. We're homeward bound. At least for now,” Dante added to himself as the
Sea Dragon
sailed through the Florida Straits, her bowsprit swinging toward the Carolinas.

*
Until the year 1783, Charleston, South Carolina, was known as Charles Town.

There is something in the wind.

—Shakespeare

England—Summer 1769

The great house of Camareigh had been built on a knoll with a commanding view of the surrounding English countryside. Constructed of honey-colored stone mined from a local quarry, its golden-hued walls gave off a soft radiance, like a lambent flame. Early in the seventeenth century, on the crumbling ruins of the medieval house that had stood there since the middle of the fourteenth century, the first stone of the foundation of Camareigh had been laid. Stately and proud in its grandeur, the main block of the house was flanked by wings running east and west, with two towers standing sentinel at both intersecting points. Two rows of tall, broad windows pierced both floors and opened the house to sunlight. The central portico was approached by a wide avenue lined with magnificent chestnuts and carefully planted groves of copper beech, maple, and birch. In the fall Camareigh was a study in autumnal glory, but now it was summer, and bluebells covered the parkland, which sloped gently down to the sylvan lake. On the far side, protected by ancient cedars, the medieval chapel still stood. Wild irises and daffodils blossomed in the woodland, their petals dappled with raindrops from the sudden shower that had disturbed the pastoral quietness of the valley.

It was a peaceful valley, and Camareigh and the ancestral lands of the Dominicks had weathered well the passage of over six hundred years. Its history was not a gentle one, however, nor a bloodless one. The first Dominick to set foot on English soil had come in the eleventh century, with William the Bastard and his army of conquerors from Normandy. In payment for his service to Duke William, soon to be crowned king of all England, Roger Dominick de Camaré, a knight of chivalrous conduct, was awarded the lands of a defeated Saxon lord.

Through the centuries the fortunes of the Dominick heirs continued to prosper, culminating with Francis Dominick, the ninth Earl of Carylstone, being made Duke of Camareigh for his service to his king, Henry V, in the Hundred Years' War. But during the Wars of the Roses, when the great houses of York and Lancaster battled for the throne of England, the Dominick fortunes fluctuated while the warring factions jockeyed for power and position. But destruction was not to be the destiny of the Dominicks at this time, and, with peace reigning supreme in the kingdom under the House of Tudor, Camareigh soon flowered again in the Golden Age of Elizabeth I. But with light comes darkness, and when the Civil War bloodied the fields and meadowlands of the English countryside, the fifth Duke of Camareigh was captured in battle while he fought for his king, Charles I, against the followers of Oliver Cromwell. With the ancestral home and estates confiscated by the Roundheads and her husband beheaded for his crimes, the Duchess of Camareigh and her young son fled to Holland with other Royalist families. Soon, Charles I would be publicly beheaded outside Whitehall Palace, and his son and heir, Charles II, would be in exile in Europe after an abortive attempt to overthrow the Protectorate and its lord protector, Oliver Cromwell. For the Royalists, many of whom were fortunate to have escaped with their lives, the long, ensuing years of exile were spent grieving over their dead, their diminished wealth, and their trampled heritage.

By the time of the Restoration, when Parliament had restored the monarchy and Charles II had returned triumphant to his homeland, the young Duke of Camareigh had become a man. He now returned to England with his king, and a wealthy French wife, who helped restore the family coffers and regain Camareigh from its Roundhead usurper.

That had been over a century ago. A hundred years of peaceful existence, of the pains and joys of everyday living, had mellowed the stone walls of Camareigh. It was a house filled with happiness and the sounds of laughter. No echoes of its past tragedies haunted its halls, and certainly not on this day in 1769.

“Eeeeeaaah!” A terrible scream split the serenity of the rose garden, where yellow and gold blossoms scented the warm afternoon, and bees robbed nectar from the lilies bordering the stone path.

The couple engaged in earnest conversation beside the water lily–covered pond was startled into momentary silence by the bloodcurdling sound. Only moments before, they had made an idyllic scene of young love. The soft brim of the girl's silk slouch hat had presented an enticing view to the young man of her flawless profile. He had also seen how one soft golden curl dangled on her ivory shoulder. Her gown of light blue silk damask was trimmed in Chantilly lace at the flounced sleeves and wide bodice, and was opened in front to reveal a pale rose petticoat, lavishly embroidered. The lovely picture she made was no less colorful than the woven basket of assorted cut flowers that she carried over her arm. Her young gentleman friend fit well into the scene as he stood tall beside her in his nicely cut coat of Superfine, the cinnamon cloth edged in gold trim, his waistcoat and breeches embroidered with gold thread.

But beneath his neatly powdered wig, his handsome face mirrored only horror now as he stared at the lilac hedge, which was quivering violently. “Good God! What the devil is that?” he demanded incredulously as a fat, piebald pony with a young boy astride plowed through the hedge in a flurry of flying hooves and branches.

“What th—! Watch out there! I sa—” he began, only to be abruptly halted in the middle of a word when the shaggy shoulder of the sturdy little Shetland pony struck him a blow, catapulting the gentleman aside as it sped past, with its laughing rider still clinging to its flowing mane.

Wesley Lawton, Earl of Rendale, staggered from the pond, his fine coat dripping cold water and a tenacious lily pad wrapped around his silk-stockinged calf. His expression was at first comically disbelieving, but his face quickly became suffused with anger as he heard the incredible sound of laughter coming from his companion.

Lady Rhea Claire Dominick stood safely back from the water, her shoulders shaking with unbridled mirth. She knew better than to insult him further by offering assistance. Poor Wesley, he was really quite livid, Rhea Claire thought, biting her lip to contain her laughter.

“Rhea Claire, how dare you laugh. If I could get my hands on that little devil, I-I'd wring his blasted neck!” the much-affronted earl expostulated as he stepped carefully from the slippery lily pond. Then he stood facing her as he shook his leg, trying to free it from the clinging lily pad. “Damned impertinence, beggin' your pardon. A switch oughta be taken to that young man's breeches,” he complained, then added with a tightening of his lips, “and I would appreciate it, Rhea Claire, if you would stop that infernal laughter.”

“Oh, Wesley,” Rhea Claire said breathlessly, her laughter almost escaping her, “you do look so ridiculous standing there shaking your leg like a drenched rabbit. Forgive me, but I can't help but laugh.”

“I do not find this in the least bit amus—”

“Lord Robin! Lord Robin, ye get yeself back here this instant. Right this instant! I'm a-tellin' ye fer the first and last time, Lord Robin,” yelled the head gardener as he charged through the broken hedge, his fist raised impotently. Then he nearly tipped over, coming to a sudden standstill, his mouth gaping open as he stared around at the destruction of his glorious gardens. His eyes widened perceptibly when they finally caught sight of the muddied, bedraggled figure of the Earl of Rendale.

“Lord help us,” he muttered, doffing his cap. Then his gaze traveled on to the young beauty standing next to the fuming earl, and the grizzled gardener's lips quivered briefly when he heard her muffled laughter. “Pardon me, Lady Rhea, but did ye happen to see which way young Lord Robin was headed in?”

Rhea Claire pointed toward the trampled border of the path. “I'm sorry, Saunders, but I'm afraid it is only too evident.”

Saunders nodded, a long-suffering look crossing his weathered features. “Aye, m'lady, I was afeared he was headed in the direction of me prized Gilly flowers, and Her Grace's favorite at that. Oh, Lordie, but there's going to be heads a-rollin' for this day's work,” he prophesied as he started to take his leave. “I don't know what's to be happening, for I knows His Grace is going to be madder'n hell, and Her Grace, bless her, will most likely take the side of young Lord Robin. Lord help us,” he repeated beneath his breath again and again as he made his way along the path of destruction like a hound on the scent.

“Impertinent fellow,” Lord Rendale remarked. “I'd not have him speaking so disrespectfully of the duke and duchess in my presence if I were you, Rhea Claire. The man oughta be taught his proper place,” he added peevishly, glancing down at his ruined breeches.

Lady Rhea Claire Dominick lifted a delicately arched eyebrow in a perfect imitation of her father. “Camareigh,” she began in a tone of cold hauteur, “is his home, Wesley. He was gardener here thirty years before I was even born. His grandfather was head gardener here, and
his
grandfather before him, and I suspect he knows more about my family than I shall ever learn. He happens to be a wonderful man—and loyal,” she added. “He would probably give his life for my mother, so I'll not have you stand here criticizing him.”

“You are far too familiar with your servants,” Wesley retorted, grimacing as he wrung out his dripping cravat. “And I have noticed on occasion that you are too lenient with them, not to mention that mischievous brother of yours. If he were my brother, I'd have—”

“But he is not your brother, Wesley,” Rhea Claire interrupted him with growing impatience. “And thank goodness for that, for I dare say you'd crush him with your ponderous sense of humor.”

“Just because I do not find falling into a lily pond overly amusing, you accuse me of having no sense of humor. There is a time and place for everything, m'dear, and you would do well to develop a more appropriate sense of decorum,” Wesley advised stiffly, missing the glint in her eye as he squeezed water out of his sleeve.

“Indeed, sir,” Rhea Claire said mockingly, “then I should advise you to go and change, for 'tisn't I who is standing here looking the fool.”

Lord Rendale's lips thinned ominously under her sarcasm. “With no thanks to that brother of yours. And,” he added with rising indignation as he directed his full wrath at Lord Robin Dominick's small head, “where on earth did he get that creature? It's one of them damned Scots ponies, isn't it? Barbaric place and people,” he muttered contemptuously.

“That creature, Wesley,” began Rhea Claire with a smile of anticipation for what she was about to say, “happens to be a gift from my uncle Richard. You do remember him? He lives in Scotland, on the ancestral estate of my great-grandfather, who”—she paused for effect—“happened to fall at Culloden while fighting for Bonnie Prince Charlie. We are part Scots, or had you forgotten that?” she asked sweetly, her eyes full of devilish amusement.

“Oh,” Lord Rendale said weakly, a flush of painful embarrassment staining his cheeks as he realized he'd committed an unforgivable faux pas. “Lady Rhea Claire, please, do forgive me. I shouldn't have said what I did, i-it was truly unforgivable, but I had forgotten about your uncle, the marquis, and that he lived in Scotland. Although why he should wish to live in such a godforsaken place is beyond me. The place is so deso—” He broke off, flushing an even brighter hue of red. “Lud, but my cursed tongue, I could cut it out.”

“Yes, Wesley, I should advise you to do that before you dig your grave any deeper,” Rhea Claire said with an indulgent smile, for she was not one to stay mad at anyone for long, and Wesley was, after all, a rather harmless, if at times stuffy, gentleman.

“Uh, yes, well,” Lord Rendale began, his soggy spirits lifting when he caught the flash of a smile beneath the wide brim of her silk hat and knew he'd been forgiven. “No more shall be said of this unfortunate incident. I shall spare Lord Robin any further embarrassment, and,” he continued magnanimously, “I shall forgive you, m'dear, for laughing.”

“How very generous of you, Wesley,” Rhea Claire declared, struggling to keep her mouth from twitching as she waved him toward the house. Her smile broke free as she watched him trudging along, his progress hampered repeatedly by his stockings refusing to stay rolled up and, instead, curling around his ankles.

“You may come out now, my Robin Goodfellow,” Rhea Claire called softly into the shrubbery.

The branches in question trembled, then parted to reveal a curly black head and a heart-shaped face with huge, violet eyes framed by long, black lashes. The impish slant of those eyes belied the sweetly curving mouth, which had fooled many an unfortunate person incautious enough to have tweaked a cheek. But they had never fooled Rhea Claire, who was wise to her brother's ways.

Lord Robin Dominick, now at the advanced age of ten, threw caution to the wind and stepped from hiding. Leaves clung to his blue velvet breeches, and what looked suspiciously like blackberry juice stained his white shirt front.

“I see you have been more than busy today,” Rhea Claire commented as she looked him over. “What happened to Saunders and Shoopiltee?” she asked while she rubbed a smudge of dirt from Robin's cheek. “He was after your hide.”

Robin sighed. “Shoopiltee got hungry, and I couldn't get him to budge another step, and so Saunders caught up with us in the herb garden.” Robin laughed suddenly, remembering Lord Rendale. “He sure looked funny stalking off with his stockings rolling down around his ankles. I wonder what Father will say when he sees stuffy ol' Rendale walk into the hall soaking wet?” he asked, giggling. “I bet Mason will be horrified at the sight of the earl. Maybe he'll even make him enter by the servants' entrance,” he speculated excitedly before dissolving into uncontrollable giggles.

Rhea Claire smothered her own laughter as she thought of Mason, their very proper butler. Robin was right, he would be horrified at the sight of the earl leaving puddles in his spotlessly polished entrance hall.