Chance the Winds of Fortune (7 page)

But when Richard saw the quick retort quivering on his sister's lips, he spread out his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Pax?” he asked coaxingly as he approached the duchess and kissed her cheek. Then he dropped down on the opposite sofa beside his wife. “I suspect I've been outmaneuvered again, and she has me just where she wants me. I don't know how it is that I managed to marry Sarah without Her Grace's assistance.”

“Do you actually think you did not?” the duke inquired, a mocking look in his heavy-lidded eyes as they lingered on his wife. “If I remember correctly, Sabrina corresponded almost daily with Mary while you were visiting Green Willows,” the duke informed Richard and Sarah, to their astonishment. Then a grin of amused satisfaction warmed his lean face as he met Sabrina's startled gaze. “Now, if you will forgive me, I've a small errand to see to,” he excused himself. “And do not despair, my sweet, for I promise I shall not be too hard on Robin. Indeed, how could I, when he looks just like you?”

The duchess gave an audible sigh of relief, for Lucien could be quite a stern parent at times. “He will settle down, Lucien. He's just excited; after all, Mary and the children will be here tomorrow, and then Robin will have plenty of companions to play with,” she said to reassure her doubtful-looking husband.

“That is precisely why I want a word with him now,” Lucien replied, shaking his head as he walked to the door. It opened just as he reached it, and his elder son and daughter hurried in, followed almost immediately by a loaded down tea tray.

“Poor Rendale, he'll never escape their pranks now that Robin will have accomplices,” he predicted as he paused in the doorway, his narrowed gaze resting briefly on his two children. “I trust you will help keep an eye on your brother, for if there is any trouble, you will bear the brunt of my displeasure,” he warned, disregarding their groans of protest as he left the room.

“Father! That isn't fair!” Francis called after his retreating back. “If Robin knew we were supposed to keep him
out
of trouble, he'd just get
into
more,” he complained, frowning with concentration as he selected a plate full of sweets from the tray.

“And what was that dire warning about?” Richard demanded of his niece and nephew, swiping the rich, cream-filled cake that Francis's hand had been hovering over. Then his chuckles of appreciation filled the room as Rhea Claire recounted the afternoon's incident, Francis's uncharitable remarks making the earl look more ridiculous than ever.

“I did warn you, my dear,” Richard told his wife, “about marrying into this madhouse. And I believe Lucien is well justified in his concern for the earl's safety, for Mary, despite her gentle appearance and manner, is usually the center of the storm,” he joked, selecting another sticky-looking confection.

The duchess sipped her tea, her eyes traveling around the room and lingering every so often on a laughing face. She spied her forgotten embroidery and smiled thoughtfully; she knew that Mary would most likely be more than pleased to complete it, for she had inherited their late aunt Margaret's expertise with needle and thread. Dear Aunt Margaret, who had never quite known where she was, or even what year it was, Sabrina remembered, her smile turning sad. Yet Aunt Margaret could sew a line of delicate stitches straighter and neater than any royal seamstress. Ah, well, it would be good to see Mary and her family again, the duchess thought in anticipation while she poured fresh tea into the cups being held out to her expectantly.

* * *

Rhea Claire's bedchamber at Camareigh was decorated in shades of pale blue, yellow, and silver. The tall windows, overlooking the gardens along the south wing, were draped with hangings of pale blue and silver damask. A canopied bed with hangings in the same pattern sat snug in one corner, while a molded fireplace occupied the wall opposite. A small chaise longue, delicately curved and upholstered with soft down cushions of blue velvet, and several curved-back white armchairs, with pale yellow and silver-striped brocade cushions, filled in the space before the windows. A small writing table and chair were positioned at the end of the Aubusson carpet, but it was at the rosewood and gilt dressing table that Rhea Claire was sitting, the mirror reflecting burnished golden hair cascading down her back and over her shoulders as her mother's personal maid brushed it into thick waves.

“And what gown will ye be wearin' today, Lady Rhea Claire?” Canfield asked, expertly winding the long strands into heavy loops.

“I thought I'd wear my pale green brocade,” Rhea replied, handing Canfield a long length of green velvet ribbon and a bunch of artificial flowers to weave into the nearly completed and stylish coiffure that the maid prided herself on knowing how to create.

“I'd be most grieved, m'lady, to see ye soil that pretty gown at the picnic,” Canfield told her with a disapproving look on her thin face. Meanwhile, she eyed a stray curl that refused to stay in place.

“But that is not until tomorrow, Canfield,” Rhea told her, slipping a delicate, bow-shaped ring, set with diamonds and sapphires, onto her slender finger. It had been a gift to her from her parents on her seventeenth birthday.

“'Tis today,” Canfield corrected her as she marched over to the wardrobe; when she opened it, the colorful selection within was revealed. “Sir Terence and Lady Mary arrived late last night. Most odd, if ye be askin' me, 'twas,” Canfield remarked with a sniff, not caring for anything that upset her carefully scheduled days.

Rhea Claire shrugged. “I think it is wonderful that they have already arrived. And I shall still wear my green brocade, Canfield,” Rhea informed her adamantly, for if given an inch Canfield would take a mile. “I am no child to be spilling cocoa down my dress.”

“Very well, m'lady, but I'm sure I don't know what Her Grace will be sayin',” Canfield capitulated, noticing the set of her young mistress's delicately rounded chin. “This décolletage is far too low for a young lady your age. Told the seamstress, I did, but would she listen to me?” Canfield continued in a grievous tone, sniffing contemptuously at the likes of the London seamstress who'd been brought in to make Her Grace's wardrobe, as well as her daughter's. “No, she did not. Too busy rolling them bovine eyes of hers at His Grace and ogling Camareigh to sew a proper stitch, her. Hrrmph, told her, I did. But she soon found out, she did…”

Rhea Claire closed her mind to what would no doubt become one of Canfield's never-ending monologues, for the woman seemed to have an opinion on everything that went on at Camareigh, or anywhere else for that matter. Rhea Claire hurried into her green brocade, breathing in deeply as Canfield tightened the laces on her corset before fastening the gown snugly around her waist. She frowned slightly as Canfield insisted, under threat of not letting her out of her room, on attaching a modesty piece to the top of the corset, which effectively hid any cleavage that might have attracted an appreciative male eye, or Her Grace's eye, heaven forbid, thought a worried Canfield. But finally, Rhea was able to escape Canfield's overzealous ministrations, leaving her contentedly tidying up the bedchamber.

In the Long Gallery, the narrow, corridor-like room that stretched nearly the length of the east front, Rhea Claire stopped before the family portrait completed just months ago. It hung last in the long line of family portraits commissioned by the Dominicks over the centuries, its ornate gold frame bright against the aged oak paneling of the walls. With a misty landscape in the background, the Dominick family was gathered around the base of a sturdy oak in the foreground. The Duke of Camareigh was leaning against the gnarled trunk, with his youngest son, Andrew, riding his upraised leg, which he was resting on a fallen log. Sitting farther down the makeshift bench, with Andrew's twin sister Arden on her lap, was the Duchess of Camareigh, her primrose-colored, quilted petticoat a spot of brightness against the dominant greens of the painting. Rhea Claire glanced at her own painted face staring expressionlessly back at her from where she sat at her mother's feet, her blue satin skirts spread out around her. Francis was positioned behind their mother's shoulder, while Robin was squatting down in front, a pair of frisky-looking King Charles spaniels romping at his feet.

Rhea Claire stayed before the painting a moment longer, then continued along the gallery, her steps slowing every so often as she paused before a familiar portrait. One of them was the painting of her great-grandmother, the late dowager duchess, who, according to her mother and father, had been a force to be reckoned with as she'd tried to manipulate all of those within her sphere of influence. Her Grace, Claire Lorraine Dominick, Duchess of Camareigh, and daughter of a French count, who had been born to rule the ducal estates with an imperious nod of an elegantly coiffed, regal head, had held the reins with a hand of iron. She had been quite a woman, Rhea Claire thought, leaning closer to get a better look at the three golden-haired children grouped around their grandmother's chair. It was her father and his twin cousins. Grinning as she thought of her father as a little boy, Rhea moved on down the gallery, stopping before her favorite portrait, which was of an ancestor dressed in doublet and hose, a stiff ruff tucked beneath his bearded chin. He was certainly a handsome devil, Rhea thought, her smile changing slightly as she speculated on his unsavory reputation. The rumor was that he had been a privateer in the service of Queen Elizabeth I, and had added looted Spanish gold to the Dominick fortunes. Rhea Claire stared dreamily up at him, wondering what kind of man this adventurer ancestor of hers truly had been.

With an admonitory shake of her flower-crowned head, she hurried on, checking her gold pendant watch and thinking of her breakfast growing cold. As she neared the end of the Long Gallery, a door burst open and several giggling children sped inside. They halted mid-stride when they caught sight of her figure, but when they recognized her they continued, quickening their steps as they neared her.

“Rhea! Rhea!” a chorus of high, excited voices greeted her.

“Mornin',” Rhea Claire responded, eyeing them curiously, for they had a decidedly guilty look about them, and she knew her cousins well enough to suspect something amiss. “And what do you have hidden behind your backs?” she demanded, trying to catch a quick glance.

“Secret!” cried out Margaret, the seven-year-old, then hid her mouth behind a grubby little hand.

“Maggie!” her brother warned, his gray eyes glinting beneath rusty-colored eyebrows.

“I'm not going to tell. You can't get me to tell,” chanted John, the youngest.

“Come on,” Rhea Claire cajoled, holding out her hand and smiling down at them, “do tell, now. You know I can keep a secret.”

“She can, you know,” nine-year-old Anna declared with a grin, her admiration for her beautiful cousin evident on her freckled face.

“Well,” Stuart said, his expression comically serious as he hesitated, “I guess it will be all right, but you have to promise not to say a word. Promise?”

“Cross my heart,” Rhea Claire said solemnly, her eyes widening in surprise as four hands, palms up, were presented for her inspection. A warm cherry tart sat squarely in the middle of each.

“They're for Robin,” John whispered conspiratorially, before he was nudged quiet by Stuart's elbow.

“Lud! I don't believe it,” Rhea Claire said with a laugh. “I should have known he would have a hand in this escapade. What is he up to now?” she speculated aloud.

“We each get a ride on Shoopiltee, in exchange for one cherry tart,” Maggie answered, her eyes glowing in anticipation.

“Why, that little brat,” Rhea said indignantly, knowing Robin had been forbidden any desserts yesterday in partial punishment for his misdeeds. “If Father finds out, Robin'll get the whipping of his short life. That little devil! Making you pay to ride his pony. How did you wheedle these out of Mrs. Peacham? Nothing leaves the kitchens without her approval, or didn't you receive it?” The foursome was now silent. “Hmmm, I thought as much. A diversion, no doubt, then a sleight of hand, was it?”

“You promised, Rhea, not to tattle,” Stuart reminded his cousin, not caring for that glint in her eye.

“Very well, but you tell Robin that I'm on to him,” Rhea warned as they started to dart past her. “And stay out of the garden if you know what's good for you,” she called as they disappeared, feet flying, down the gallery. Then Rhea Claire wondered what mishaps would befall Camareigh before the picnic was over and the younger members of the household were safely between the covers of their respective beds.

* * *

Lady Mary Fletcher was sitting quietly beneath the cool shade of a fine old chestnut, its spreading branches protecting her from the bright sun shining down from a cloudless blue sky. Her fingers moved mechanically with needle and thread across the linen material she was embroidering, but her thoughts were elsewhere as she stared across the smooth lawns of Camareigh to the magnificent house in the distance. She knew she would never quite get over her first glimpse of the Duke of Camareigh's home. Its splendor and elegance, its great history, was enough to awe a person into silence. However, she had never envied her sister living in such a place, and in such a grand style. Her own home, Green Willows, was a comfortable house, with a modicum of servants, just enough to keep the estate running smoothly and to see to the family's needs. But Camareigh, thought Lady Mary with a disbelieving shake of her red head, was almost deserving of homage.

She had often wondered how Sabrina had managed so smoothly over the years the responsibilities of being the Duchess of Camareigh. No, Lady Mary smiled, retracting her thought, Sabrina was strong and very determined, and when she set her mind on something, she always succeeded. If it hadn't been for Sabrina all of those years ago… How many now? Twenty, no, closer to twenty-five it was, when they had fled Scotland and the bloodshed of Culloden and arrived at Verrick House, the small Elizabethan manor that was their birthplace. But at that time it had held no memories for the three children fresh from the Highlands. They'd had a difficult time even keeping food on the table then, Lady Mary remembered, glancing over at the tables set up on the smooth lawn, their linen-covered surfaces cluttered with succulent dishes of every description, while several wine coolers and crystal bowls of punch were filled to capacity to satisfy the thirsty. Mary could still remember another time when… No, she would not think of those days, for they were of the past, and should be long forgotten. But it was hard not to think about one's memories, and of late, because she had been troubled by her thoughts, it seemed to Mary that the past was more vivid than ever before.