Chance the Winds of Fortune (43 page)

“What makes you suspect them, Lucien?” Sabrina demanded. “We've heard naught of them for almost twenty years. I remember the dowager duchess heard from them infrequently, and it was usually a demand for funds. But that was long ago, and I know she had not heard from them for some time before her death. They were traveling on the Continent, I believe. I've never heard a word about them returning to London.”

Lucien continued to stare in fascination at the faces so like his own. His cousins. Kate and Percy, the twins, who had hated him with a murderous vengeance for most of their lives.

“I have no conclusive proof, just a feeling, Rina,” Lucien warned her.

“A feeling is sometimes all we have to depend upon,” she replied, her hand resting on his arm to encourage his confidences.

“Remember the veiled woman Francis mentioned?”

“Yes, we thought—especially when Lord Rendale remembered the big man—that it might be my stepmama, the contessa. Francis had sworn that they were speaking Italian. That made her the most logical suspect, although I never did quite see her in the role. She might be grasping and selfish, but she's no murderess.”

“No, I didn't really think so either, but we had to make certain. And besides, Francis did think the woman was English, despite her foreignness. But we sent a man to Venice to discover if she had left the city, or was still in residence. His report eliminated her as the mysterious veiled woman, for at the time of the kidnapping she was in Venice, and there are witnesses who can swear to that. We also are not even certain that the man Lord Rendale saw was the same man who had been with the veiled woman. If it was not the same man, then she was exactly what she said she was, a traveler passing through the valley, and nothing more.”

Lucien's voice hardened perceptibly. “And then came that note. And in it the warning, ‘Ye that are of good understanding, note the doctrine that is hidden under the veil of the strange verses!' A coincidence, perhaps, but suspicious nonetheless. And, after all, that is the purpose of the poems, to entice us into guessing about hidden meanings. So once again we became suspicious of the veiled woman. Then today, we received the poem mentioning twin compasses, and because of that earlier poem, we automatically assumed it referred to Rhea's whereabouts. But what if the focal word in the line is not
compasses
, but
twin
. Had you forgotten that Kate and Percy are twins? That one never made a move without the other one? They are practically one entity.

“Then there is the riddle we received just before this one about the scars of others teaching us caution, and we assumed it referred to the mental scars suffered by others, but, Rina”—Lucien paused and glanced significantly at the little girl in the portrait—“what if it was meant literally?”

“Kate was horribly scarred that day,” Sabrina recalled. “And she would blame you for it, forgetting her own treachery.”

“Yes, and perhaps the words have double meaning, in that they refer to my scar as well. It is giving fair warning that some action of mine will elicit a violent reaction.”

Sabrina gazed into the eyes of the angelic-looking Kate and Percy, their cherubic faces, haloed with golden curls, imprisoned forever on the canvas, giving away no secrets.

Unconsciously, Lucien rubbed his scarred cheek as he thought back on his uneasy relationship with his cousins. It had only worsened through the years, until finally they had tried to murder him in order to inherit Camareigh and its wealth. If they were behind the kidnapping of his daughter, Lucien thought, then he was more frightened than he had ever been in his life—for their hate knew no bounds. They would delight in hurting that which belonged to him. They would be pitiless—and especially to
his
daughter.

The pain he had suffered when Kate had scarred his cheek was nothing compared to the anguish he felt now as he realized that his daughter might be in the hands of the twins.

Sabrina leaned her head against his shoulder, and he moved his arm slightly to draw her closer against his chest. He felt her shoulders shaking as she wept silently. Lucien closed his eyes and rested his scarred cheek against the top of Sabrina's head. He felt almost weak from the wave of helpless rage coursing through him. With a deep sigh of weariness, he opened his eyes and found himself staring into the painted blue ones of a very young Kate Rathbourne. When, he wondered, would he come face-to-face once again with his cousins in the flesh?

* * *

“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 silver 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.