Chance the Winds of Fortune (44 page)

* * *

In less than a quarter of an hour the duke had changed his clothes and was walking with quickening strides across the stableyard.

“Saddle my horse,” he ordered the nearest groom, who'd been standing idly by the doors sucking on a piece of straw. He nearly choked at the duke's sudden appearance, for usually word was sent on ahead from the great house that His Grace wished to ride.

As the groom hurried off to do his master's bidding, Butterick, who seldom missed anything that occurred in his domicile, caught sight of the duke cooling his heels in the entrance and sent another groom to assist the first.

“Your Grace,” Butterick began, an apologetic note in his gruff voice, “I am sorry for the delay. The message must not have been delivered, for I couldn't look meself in the eye if I kept you waiting, Your Grace.” With a scowl of impatience, Butterick glanced along the row of stalls from which the duke's horse should be appearing.

“I did not send a message,” the duke said rather shortly, his mind contemplating his next meeting. For all the attention he was paying to Butterick, the duke might as well have been in his own world, for his eyes were narrowed in contemplation of open space. In his plain frock coat, buckskin breeches, jackboots, and neatly folded linen stock, his appearance was as severe as his expression.

Butterick cleared his throat nervously, wondering what the hell was keeping that looby, for it was becoming a mite uncomfortable to be standing here with His Grace. “Butterick?” the duke said suddenly. “How well did the late Mr. Taber know my cousins Kate and Percy?”

Butterick's mouth dropped open at the question. “The Rathbourne twins, Your Grace?” he repeated dumbly, for no one at Camareigh, including the duke, had mentioned those two in years. Aye, they'd been a poisonous pair, that wicked twosome. 'Twas bad blood they had, and he had blessed the day they left Camareigh.

Butterick jutted out his lower lip as he gave his full attention to His Grace's question. “Well, reckon the old gent knew them as well as any other person hereabouts. Never forgot no one, he didn't. In fact,” Butterick continued, pleased that he had captured the duke's attention, “I remember he used to have words with your grandfather, the old duke, about the young Miss Rathbourne mistreated that little mare of hers. Had a mean streak in her, yes, sir, beggin' your pardon, Your Grace, but 'tis the truth,” Butterick said, refusing to soften his opinion of the vixen, even if she was His Grace's cousin.

But the duke seemed oblivious to the criticism. “So, if Mr. Taber had happened to see my cousins, he would most likely remember them?”

“Aye, reckon so. Especially because of that little mare, Dove. Remember her meself, I do. Sweet little thing, she was. 'Twas a pity the young miss rode her so hard she broke her leg. Upset, the old man was, Mr. Taber, that is, when he come to talk to the duke about her. Aye, remember it well, I do,” Butterick said, folding his big arms across his barrel-chest as he recalled with satisfaction how the chit was denied access to the stables and to his beloved horses.

Finally the duke's horse was led out, and he climbed into the saddle, feeling his sword riding against his thigh in almost a caress. “My saddle holsters, Butterick,” he ordered.

Butterick sent one of the staring grooms hotfooting it after the requested accoutrements, and became aware for the first time of the pistols the duke was drawing out of his frock coat. Butterick's eyes nearly disappeared beneath his heavy brows as he frowned thoughtfully, wondering what the duke was up to.

The leather holsters were attached to the pommel by Butterick himself; then the duke slid the pair of flintlock pistols into their snug housings. Then with a curt nod, the duke sent his big stallion out of the stable yard and rode into the distance without a backward glance.

If the Duke of Camareigh had chanced to glance back, he might have been surprised to see Butterick standing in the doorway watching him, his big hands on his hips, his expression one of concerned puzzlement. But suddenly the big man slapped his knee, the resounding whack drawing the attention of a young stable boy crossing the yard, whose steps faltered when he heard Butterick exclaim:

“Why, blast my butt from here to there! 'Tweren't no damned pigeon,” he swore, his face turning a vivid red with the violence of his feelings. “'Twas a dove! I oughta be horsewhipped for sitting on my brains all of this time. The Rathbourne miss's horse was named Dove. And
that
was what the old gent was trying to tell us. In his last breath he named the thing he remembered the most about his murderer. Old Mr. Taber was drawing a dove. Couldn't write, so drew us a picture, he did. Only I was too damned blind to see it!”

He glanced at the empty drive, his puzzled expression replaced by growing consternation as he realized where the duke's solitary ride would lead him—to a confrontation with his Rathbourne cousins. Malcontents, always up to no good.

* * *

Robin Dominick slipped past the heavy door that usually served to bar the uninvited from entering the private domain of the Duke of Camareigh. Robin knew, with a trepidation that was causing his heart to beat loudly in his ears, that he was risking his father's ire by entering the sanctity of his study. It was a place forbidden even to family members. Only his mother dared to enter uninvited, and even she took the precaution of knocking first.

Robin glanced nervously around the quiet room, knowing he hadn't much time to forage about. Just in time, he had ducked into a shadowy alcove in the hall when his father had abruptly left his study, his destination
not
the salon and a cup of tea with the family as had been expected. Robin had watched in amazement as his father vaulted up the Grand Staircase, taking the steps two at a time in his haste. As he watched, his father had shed his coat as he had hurried along the landing toward the entrance to the south wing and the ducal apartments.

Robin wanted to enter the study then, but a group of gossiping footmen, standing directly in front of the study door, had kept him biding his time in the alcove. But with the sudden appearance of Mason's stiff-backed figure the garrulous threesome had split up, clearing a passage for Robin in the confusion.

Now, with the door safely closed behind him, Robin glanced around the room, which had book-lined, paneled walls and velvet armchairs situated on either side of the hearth. It was a very masculine room, almost austere, yet there was no lack of warmth, for the rich patina of aged wood, mellowed and polished, glowed softly in the firelight. Heavy velvet drapes hung beside the tall windows, where pale sunlight was filtering in through the heraldic designs of stained glass.

On the wall near the door there were several crossed swords and ancient shields bearing the coat of arms of the Dukes of Camareigh. Usually, this display held the attention of the present Duke of Camareigh's young son, but now the object of his unblinking gaze was his father's hallowed great mahogany desk.

Mesmerized, Robin stared at the cluttered surface of the desk. Two silver candlesticks stood sentinel at each end of the massive desk, while a silver-framed miniature of his mother occupied a place of honor at the center. A quill pen lay forgotten in an opened ledger, a pool of black ink soaking into the page of neatly inscribed figures. Robin saw several buff-colored envelopes, their wax seals broken open, but he knew the letter he was searching for was not among them. Breathlessly, he slid past his father's armchair with its carved, cabriole legs, stumbling slightly over a claw and ball foot. His lower lip trembling with fear and excitement, Robin pulled open the center drawer, the one into which he had seen his father, only minutes earlier, slip the mysterious letter. And there it was, he thought, reaching out for it with a barely concealed sigh of triumph.

“What the devil are you doing?”

Robin squealed in guilty surprise, which sent him tumbling backward into the chair, the coveted letter floating from his grasp and settling beyond his reach in front of the desk.

“Francis!” he cried in relief, despite his elder brother's glowering look.

“You are in deep trouble now, Robin,” Francis told him, feeling little pity for his brother and his act of trespass. “And this time I think you deserve whatever punishment Father metes out to you. My God, but you must be mad to be rifling through Father's desk.”

“Francis!” Robin yelled, then lowered his voice to an almost conspiratorial whisper. “You don't understand. I—”

“Yes, I do understand, and only too well,” Francis retorted as he bent down and rescued the letter that had fallen out of his brother's prying hands. “That insatiable curiosity of yours has led you astray this time, Robin. I can see no excuse for it, and quite frankly, I am ashamed of you.”

“My—my curiosity, Francis,” Robin replied huskily, a glint of anger and tears flashing in his eyes, “may have something to do with Rhea.”

Francis was finally silenced. “What are you talking about?” he asked quietly, noticing his brother's squared-off shoulders as he came from behind the desk.

“That letter you are holding was just delivered to Camareigh. I was at the door to the study and overheard Father telling the footman
not
to let anyone else learn of its arrival.”

Francis looked doubtfully between his brother's intent face and the letter. “So? Father has many business interests that are not any of our concern.”

“Father especially did not wish Mother to know about this note,” Robin interjected. “He never keeps secrets from her.”

“It is Father's decision and we should not question it, nor his motives,” Francis stated firmly, unwilling to admit the strangeness of his father's actions.

“He's not having tea, is he, Francis?” Robin continued, unwilling to be swayed from a course of action he wasn't even certain of yet. “You would not have come looking for us if he was.”

“He is most likely there now and wondering where
we
are.”

“No,” Robin contradicted him. “He is most likely at the stables.”

“How do you know that?” Francis demanded, his eyes straying to the letter in his hand.

“Because I saw him going upstairs and taking off his coat at the same time. He was in a hurry. Whatever is in that note upset him. I have never seen him looking so angry,” Robin said, glancing nervously at the door, as if expecting to see the duke standing there watching him.

“Read it, Francis,” he urged his brother, tugging insistently on his arm. “Read it.”

Francis continued to stare down at the suddenly ominous-looking, buff-colored letter; then, with doubts about the propriety and consequences of reading his father's personal correspondence uppermost in his mind, he carefully unfolded the letter.

* * *

The Duke of Camareigh was riding east, toward the great oak mentioned in the anonymous letter. His suspicions concerning the identity of the kidnappers had grown into a dread certainty, for few people would know of the ancient tree's existence, much less of the narrow path twisting through the vale and around the pond at the far end. There stood the centuries-old oak that had spread its boughs to the skies through much of the history of Camareigh.

It had not always grown in a peaceful vale, for the blood of Saxon insurgents had been shed by battle-honed Norman swords some seven hundred years earlier, on a day much like this one, when gray clouds ran before the wind and the mighty oak cast no shadow. Legend had it that a hundred serfs, loyal to their Saxon lord, had fought valiantly with scythe and rusty blade that day by the oak, only to fall beneath the shining swords of the conquerors. But with his last dying breath, their liege lord had avenged their martyrdom and called down a curse on his Norman murderers, and upon the seed of their seed.

It was a prophecy that had yet to come true, but it had been remembered by each generation of Dominicks. For the dying Saxon lord had prophesied that he would have his revenge against them one day, when Norman blood would be shed beneath the oak and mingle with the blood of slain Saxons.

Nearing the oak, Lucien worried little about this ancient curse as he folded back the leather covers of his saddle holsters. His eyes searched the vale for some sign of entrapment, since he felt certain that he was now riding into a cleverly designed trap. Some might call him mad, or foolhardy, for having ventured forth into what must surely be danger. Some might even suspect him of courting his own death, but in his own eyes he'd had no other choice—not if he wanted to see his daughter alive again.

The note had stated quite bluntly that unless he came alone, he would never see his daughter alive. Should other riders be following him, Rhea Claire Dominick would be killed at that instant. The note had coldly stated that her blood would be on his hands.

Coming ever closer to the oak, he knew that his actions had been predictable, for he would take no chances where Rhea's safety was involved. And so he was playing into his adversaries' hands, but there was nothing he could do about it. He would, as the note had suggested, trade his life for his daughter's.

But he was no fool, nor was he about to die in vain, and before he would forfeit his life, he would have to be assured that his daughter's was to be spared.

Unfortunately, the Duke of Camareigh never had the chance to face his true enemy, for a carefully aimed pistol felled him within a few feet of the wizened oak. The ball scored deep into the flesh of his upper arm, but the spurting blood made his wound look worse than it actually was.

To his three attackers, the duke appeared to be at their mercy, and so they moved with little urgency toward his figure, which was slumped over his saddle bow. As far as they were concerned, they had met their enemy and vanquished him.

They really should have shown more care, or taken the time to know their enemy better, for the Duke of Camareigh was not finished with them yet, especially when he overheard their conversation.