Chance the Winds of Fortune (9 page)

La Rosa Triste, dressed in black velvet, with a bloodred rose folded into the silver-gold hair she left un-powdered, moved with graceful assurance from group to group, speaking French, Italian, or English with fluent carelessness as she playfully teased a French count, lost money to an Italian boatman, or berated an English lord for being too bold, even though she knew she might well make an assignation with him before the night was over.

Like a black widow spider in a dark corner, La Rosa Triste held court with a bevy of admirers, each of whom hoped he might have the good fortune of an hour alone with her. After all, what better claim to make as proof of one's manhood than to have spent a night of love with La Rosa Triste, a courtesan whose favors even the most titled of gentlemen were sometimes denied? With a crystal goblet brimming with wine in one hand, and a black feather fan held indolently in the other, La Rosa Triste surveyed her kingdom with a cynical eye. The gaudy surroundings and noisy people almost bored her, for she had seen it all before.

A loud, slightly raucous laugh caught La Rosa Triste's attention, and she turned her contemptuously amused, pale blue eyes on the woman who had dared to disturb her contemplation. The laugh had emanated from a portly woman, who seemed well used to being the cynosure of all eyes; perhaps in the past she had attracted attention with her beauty, but she now relied upon her range of voice. A black oval mask hid part of her face, although it could not disguise the double chins quivering with her laughter. Her thick hair was powdered and piled high, and it was woven with a string of pearls caught in loops held by ruby and diamond fasteners. A crimson damask gown covered a tightly corseted figure that looked tortured almost beyond human sufferance, but it was not the grand dame's appearance that now held a spellbound La Rosa Triste's attention. Rather, it was the name she had just spoken so casually, as if she said it frequently.

The pale blue eyes pinpointed an indolent young man, who was twirling his discarded mask in obvious boredom as he stood in attendance beside the large woman. He was a handsome boy and could not be more than seventeen, if indeed he was that, but there was a sulky look about him, as if he'd been pampered and petted by his family until he had become a petulant young dandy hanging on to his mama's skirts. He was the center of attention now, which he obviously enjoyed, since he was visibly preening himself, a self-satisfied smile curving his mouth.

“…half brother of the duchess, he is,” the contessa was saying, her words carrying across the room to the attentively listening La Rosa Triste. “Unfortunately, there was a slight misunderstanding between the duchess and my late husband, the marquis, who happened to be her father. This is true,” the contessa said with growing emphasis, catching the doubtful look of one of her listeners and shaking a bejeweled hand at her. “I swear it on my own mother's grave. I was James's third wife, and he was my second husband, but you know he was much older than I,” she added with a sniff. “The duchess and her sister and brother, who are all English, are from his first marriage. Most unfortunate match, you know, but she was wealthy. But I am afraid,” the contessa continued, eloquently shrugging her thick shoulders, “that the marquis was a bit negligent in his paternal duties to the bambini. But who would have guessed that the little fiery one would someday wed a duke? She was a handful, that one, and such a beauty too. She looked much like my James, and he was quite the proud papa when he finally met her. But her, well,” the contessa said, sadly shaking her head, “she was not one to forget past grievances, or to forgive her papa for his neglect. But the duke, now there is a man. He was far more understanding, you know, and gave James quite a handsome sum for the marriage settlement, let me tell you. But then a man of his great wealth and stature can well afford to see that his in-laws are well provided for. Imagine,” she stated with a proud lifting of her regally coiffed head, “I am the stepmother-in-law of the Duke of Camareigh. A most important man in England. This is the truth.”

La Rosa Triste stood like a column of black marble as she heard the name she had first sworn never to utter aloud over a decade ago. The very sound of it made her heart swell painfully in her breast, while her cheeks burned with the heat of her emotions.

“But now that my beloved James has passed away,” the contessa was saying, a delicate lace handkerchief held to her eyes to dab at nonexistent tears, “I thought that the duchess should be informed of her father's death. And now that his presence has been removed as an obstacle, I thought she should have the opportunity of meeting her brother. It does seem the only decent thing to do,
n'è vero
?”

“I'm not sure I wish to go to London,” the half brother in question commented, his mouth settling into a pout of displeasure.

The contessa reached out with her fan and sharply tapped her son on the wrist. His responding yelp of pain satisfied her. “You hold your tongue. You have not even been invited to London yet. And you would do well to count your blessings if you are, for I have heard that Camareigh, the ancestral home, is no less magnificent than Versailles.”

“If I am not mistaken, Contessa,” said a doubting dowager sitting next to the contessa in overly polite tones, “has not the marquis been dead for nearly two years now? Why have you not visited this duchess you claim is your daughter-in-law before now?”

The contessa turned an eye of dislike on the old woman. “I tell you this, Signora Perelli,” she said, for there was no mistaking this meddling Venetian, despite her mask, “and it is most extraordinary, so you may believe me or not.” The contessa shrugged, her simple gesture conveying her lack of interest in the other woman's opinion. “My stepdaughter,
the duchess
, and her husband,
the duke
, a devil if ever there was one, made a remarkable love match. Amazing, for you know he has a scar running down his face. Oh, he looks, and is, most diabolical,” she added, raising her hands as if in prayer. “But these Inglese, they are the strange ones. I should know, I lived with the marquis for over fifteen years. So cold they are at times, not to mention that country of theirs. Well, as I was saying, it is most uncommon, for the duchess, when I had written, had just given birth to twins. Twins! Can you imagine such a thing? The duke and duchess are not newlyweds; in fact, they have been married for close to twenty years now.”

“Amazing!”

“
Sì
, but who
is
the father?”

“The duke,” the contessa replied most assuredly. “They say, and this I have heard from friends in London, and they would know, that twins have been born in the Dominick family for generations. It is not unusual. Also, they say that the twins, a boy and a girl, are both fair-haired like the duke. So I think there is little doubt that they are his. That is why my trip was postponed,” the contessa explained. “The duchess was quite ill from their birth, and I should think so. Twins! And at her age, why it is most…” The contessa's words trailed off as a strange cry drifted to the silent group. “
Che cosa è quello
?” she demanded, glancing around before glaring up at her son. “Did you make that awful wail?”

Young Giulio opened his mouth in surprise, then took a safe step backward as he indignantly protested his innocence. “Of course not, Mama!”

“Well, I should certainly hope not. I pray I never hear such a screech as long as I live. It sent a shiver up my spine,” the contessa said, fanning herself. “Giulio, go fetch your mama something to sip. I think I am growing faint. Now, where was I? Ah, yes…” the contessa continued, her eyes following her son's figure as he passed the empty corner where only moments before La Rosa Triste had stood.

* * *

“
Signora! Signora! Che cosa c'è
?” Sophia cried out in alarm as her mistress stormed up the grand staircase, leaving the puffing maid far behind. By the time Sophia had reached the doors to her mistress's private apartment, they were barred against her. She hesitated before the closed doors, her eyes round with fear as she listened to the ranting going on within, which was broken only by the sound of shattering glass.

“
Dio mio
,” Sophia whispered, still panting from her speedy climb up the stairs; then, as a thud hit the door, she jumped back and crossed herself for protection against whatever evil was driving her mistress into an uncontrollable frenzy.

Beyond the closed doors La Rosa Triste stared bemusedly at the ruins of her once elegant bedchamber, her breathing ragged as she fought for control. Then with her breath coming in short, uneven gasps, she collapsed on the edge of her bed. Through the opened doors she could see the destruction she had wrought in her salon, yet she had no real memory of doing it.

“Twins!” La Rosa Triste cried out in disbelief and outrage. “How dare he! Twins!” She rolled over on the bed, her screams muffled against the soft fur coverlet as she beat against it with clenched fists. “Damn him! Damn his rotten soul to hell! 'Tis his fault. It always has been. I hate him, hate him! Look what he has done to me. He's taken everything away, everything. I hate you, Lucien!”

With a deep sob of despair La Rosa Triste climbed from the bed, tripping over her cloak. In a savage motion she threw it off and stumbled to the cracked mirror hanging off center in one of the wall panels. With shaking hands she began to untie the cords that were always securely tied around her head to hold her mask immovable. Not once in almost eighteen years had she seen her own face revealed without its protective mask. She had sworn never to gaze upon it, but now…

Without stopping to think she pulled the mask free, leaving her face bared, her inhuman cry of pain echoing around the room as she stared at the jagged scar running from chin to temple that destroyed forever the perfection of her features. The cicatrix was an ugly, reddish purple color that moved in a puckered line along the length of her face. The base of the wound pulled down the corner of her mouth just slightly, but it was enough to give her a grotesque sneer. The more La Rosa Triste stared at her deformity, the more the scar began to take the shape of a sloppily executed
L
, marking her for eternity with the brand of Lucien.

La Rosa Triste gazed at her strange reflection in the mirror, almost unable to believe her disfigurement. How many of these fine Venetians, as well as others she had known, would have given their fortunes to have gazed beneath her mask? Once or twice an overly amorous and drunken lover (for he would not have dared unless he were drunk), had tried to snatch the mask from her face. But with her able-bodied footmen standing close by outside her apartment, prepared for just such an occurrence, the foolhardy gentlemen had been shown the door. Only once, long ago, when they had first come to Venice, had anyone seen her face. It had happened before she'd gained her notoriety and power, for no one would dare to offend her now; she had many powerful friends, some of whom were her lovers—and with a softly spoken word in the right ear, a man could disappear forever.

She could barely remember that night. She had been having a private dinner with a man, and before she knew what he was going to do, he had lifted her mask from her face. His look of shocked horror as he'd stared at her scarred face still caused her unbearable pain. She couldn't remember at all what had happened after that endless moment of discovery, except that Percy had come into the room and found her standing over the man, who had a dinner knife protruding from his chest. Percy had helped her dispose of the body, and no one had ever been the wiser about the man's disappearance. But she had learned a valuable lesson, and never again had she been caught off guard. Even the conte had never seen her face. He respected her privacy, and her reasons for wanting to keep it. Perhaps he even found it exciting to make love to a woman whose face he'd not know if he saw it unmasked. Many men felt that way. They enjoyed the mystery surrounding her, but only she knew the truth.

She was not La Rosa Triste. She was Kate! Katherine Anders, Lady Morpeth, granddaughter of the seventh Duke of Camareigh, and cousin to Lucien Dominick, ninth Duke of Camareigh. She and Percy were the ones who deserved Camareigh, not Lucien. She and Percy should have been living at Camareigh right now, not Lucien. Percy. Percy,
her
twin. And now Lucien had twins.
Twins
—just like she and Percy had been.

They all wondered why she wore black. Black. Black for mourning. Mourning for all that she had lost, for what she had been cheated of by dear cousin Lucien. Her mourning for Camareigh had never ended, and now she mourned for the loss of the one person she had ever truly loved. Percy. Dear, sweet Percy. And roses? Red roses? Why, in memory of England, of course. Her beloved England. Her home, the land from which she had been exiled by Lucien.

Lucien had stolen everything from her, Kate thought, looking dazedly at her hideously scarred face, her fingers rubbing against the roughly healed scar tissue. And now he was the cause of Percy's death. Percy was gone. Kate's eyes drifted over to a painting which had miraculously escaped destruction. It was draped in black crepe, and could almost have been a portrait of Kate, so identical was the likeness. But it was a portrait of a young man dressed in blue velvet, the style of his coat and stock dating it back almost twenty years. The delicately molded lips were curved in a sweet smile, while the sherry-colored eyes seemed to reflect some inner amusement. He had been so beautiful then, so perfect. A male replica of herself. Percy's face blurred through her tears as Kate remembered all of the times they'd had together, especially the ones spent at Camareigh. A deep-seated anger and resentment began to smolder within her as she reflected on all the wonderful, carefree days they'd shared before being banished from Camareigh and England.

It always had been just the two of them, and that was the way it always should have been. Even her brief marriage to Charles Anders had not altered her closeness to Percy, for even a husband could not come between that special quality unique to twins. Of course, she hadn't loved Charles, so he'd never been any competition for Percy. She'd married Charles solely for his wealth and title. One day he would have inherited a considerable estate from his father, the Earl of Grenborough, as well as that old gentleman's title. But as fortune would have it, the earl had outlived his only son, and the title had passed to a cousin after the earl had finally died the following year. So close she had come, and yet before she could even blink her eye, she'd found herself a well-to-do widow, cheated by death out of becoming a countess.