Chance the Winds of Fortune (10 page)

On the other hand, the fine Lady Anne, Percy's wife, had thought she could replace Kate in Percy's affection. She had sought to turn Percy from Kate, but she had been wrong. He couldn't forsake his Kate, for they breathed as one—they were nothing without each other. Percy had only married Lady Anne for her money. Percy and Kate had long ago spent all of the legacy left to Kate from her late husband's estate, and they were desperate for funds. But the marriage had done little to help them, for Lady Anne's money had not lasted long after they'd settled in Venice. And when times had got hard, what had Percy's little mouse of a wife done? She'd run back to England and the safe bosom of her family, leaving Percy and Kate to fend for themselves. Actually, Kate had been glad to see the back of that English miss and her runny-nosed brats. Why Percy had ever fathered them, she would never understand. Kate smiled, thinking of Lady Anne back in England, not realizing she was a widow. And nor would she find it out for a long, long time.

She and Percy had been strong, and they had survived those first long winters in Venice. But Kate knew it shouldn't have been like that. It should have been different. If Lucien had never been born, if he'd never walked the face of the earth, then she and Percy would've been the rightful heirs to Camareigh. They would have been the golden ones, the ones with the money and influence. But no, they had been the poor cousins, the ones to have pittance doled out to them. As Kate stared at herself in the mirror, her pale eyes hypnotized by her distorted face, she remembered once again the agonizing pain she had suffered that day in the small English inn when the pistol, which Percy and Lucien had been struggling to possess, had gone off accidentally. The ricocheting bullet had scored a deep trough through her cheek, leaving her lying in a pool of her own blood. The blood spilled that day should have been Lucien's.

Nothing had gone as planned, but then it seldom had when it concerned Lucien. He led a charmed life. Kate laughed harshly, thinking of the many times she and Percy had tried unsuccessfully to end their dear cousin's life. But he had always managed to survive, like a cat with nine lives. It had been seventeen, no, eighteen years now since she had last seen Lucien, and he must have used up most of those extra lives by now. In fact, he must be down to about the last one.

Sighing, Kate moved slowly toward her bed, sinking wearily into the soft fur. She was so tired, so sleepy. And yet she could not sleep, must not sleep, not yet. She had to think. Percy was dead; she had to keep reminding herself of that. Her sweet Percy was dead, and Lucien was still alive. Her twin was gone, and yet Lucien had fathered twins.

Kate rubbed her throbbing temples as she looked around the shambles of her room, her eyes dulled with unbearable pain. She would think of something. There must be some way to make Lucien pay for his crimes against them. She couldn't let Percy die unrevenged. Yes, Kate decided, yawning as she buried her scarred face in the silky fur, Lucien would pay, and pay dearly. She would find a way of seeking retribution, but for now…now she must sleep. There would be time enough tomorrow to plan her revenge against Lucien Dominick, Duke of Camareigh.

The bright day is done,

And we are for the dark.

—Shakespeare

The early twilight of late autumn lingered in the hazy skies over the sprawling metropolis of London. Dark, grayish smoke curled upward into the sky from a thousand chimneys of red and gray brick and Portland stone as the city's inhabitants tried to fight off the damp chill creeping in from the Thames. The slight warmth of the day was fleeing quickly under the fall of darkness. Whether it was a struggling family lighting a few precious pieces of hoarded coal in a tenement on the industrial east side, or a genial landlord rubbing his hands before a crackling fire of sweet-smelling wood in an inn or tavern in the Whitechapel or Limehouse districts along the river, or a busy maid tending a hearth in an elegant salon in one of the mansions in the fashionable squares of Russell, Berkeley, or Hanover, they all contributed to the grimy layer of soot settling down over the city.

Vendors were still bustling in the streets, hawking their wares, ringing hand bells to attract the attention of passersby. Both the pungent odors of fresh oysters being sold cheap from wheelbarrows and yesterday's prawns being peddled at a bargain on every corner mixed with the noisome smells of the offal collecting in the open sewers and gutters, which needed a good, hard rain to wash it into the Thames. The more savory scents wafting from the muffin-men and pie-women were enticement enough to draw the eye of the prospective customer from other itinerant vendors offering asses' milk, fresh fruits, and vegetables, whose trays were weighed down with goods as they jostled for position along the narrow, cobbled streets of London.

Crowding close along miles of wharves was a forest of stark masts swaying and bobbing with the rise and fall of the tide. Dotting the surface of the Thames as it curved through London were ships representing every great and small seafaring nation of the world that traded with the ever-expanding, far-reaching British empire. There were well-seasoned merchantmen flying foreign flags and riding low in the water, barques with cargo nets stretched wide, luggers laden in bulk, schooners that had already discharged their cargoes and were waiting to be loaded again for their return voyages, and coastal fishing boats and river barges that knew well the tides and currents of the Thames. Filling the busy wharves to capacity, until they creaked and trembled beneath the weight, were crates and bales, barrels and chests of every conceivable size and content. The aromatic and exotic fragrances of coffee and cacao beans, nutmeg, clove, molasses and cayenne from the Indies, tobacco from the colonies, as well as countless varieties of teas from the China trade, all blended with the odor of the honest sweat of dock workers and seamen, who were lifting bales of finely woven silks, Genoa velvets, and delicate laces from convents in France, soft furs from the Northwest Territory for milady's cloak, barrels of flour and stacks of timber from across the Atlantic, and casks of aged wines and brandies from cellars on the Continent.

The London docks were a hive of activity as heavily loaded drays, their harnesses straining, were pulled away by teams of short, thickset Welsh cobs or the larger Suffolk Punches. But now that the dank, swirling fog was rolling in off the water, all business was coming to a halt. As the workers retreated to the warmth of a favorite tavern, the sudden silence shrouding the docks was as deafening as the clanging racket of only moments before had been. The only sounds to be heard now along the docks were the muffled voices and laughter coming from inside smoky, well-lit taverns, and the creaking of masts and gentle lapping of the river current against wooden hulls.

Out in the river, the
Stella Reale
, a merchantman out of Venice, had long since made fast her moorings, unloaded her cargo, and sent passengers ashore. However, an odd trio of travelers had been the last passengers on board to set foot on dry land. The heavily veiled woman dressed in black and her hulking footman, who had moved with unusual grace for a man of his size, had been strangely silent, while the ancient little woman hurrying after them had never ceased her agitated flow of foreign words.

A hackney coach had been hired, and now was rattling along the narrow, twisting cobblestone lanes in the oldest part of the city of London, the grumbling coachman cracking his whip over the flowing manes of his pair of grays. From beneath his beetle brows, the coachman cast a curious glance at the silent figure sitting beside him on the box, who seemed oblivious to the sights and sounds around him, not to mention the nip in the air.

“Yer mistress there,” the coachman began, jerking his head back. “Her's a queer one, sure enough. Who'd 'av thought her be an Englishwoman? Tryin' to be polite, Oi was. Just welcomin' a stranger t'London,” he said, his voice heavy with disgust as he spat over the side of the coach. “And what does 'er laidyship do—and not even sparin' me a glance, she didn't! Says to me, ever so hoity-toity like, ‘I am not a fool, my good man, so you might as well speak properly, if indeed that is possible for you, which I seriously doubt. I happen to be English, and speak the language better than you shall ever have hope of doing. And don't try to pad the fare, for I know London better than you ever shall,'” said the coachman, mimicking his upper-class passenger, then snorting with ill-concealed derision. “So Oi'm askin' ye now, if'n her knows London better'n meself, why is it her wants a tour of the city? Crazy her be, that's it. Juz me luck to get a crackbrained female as a passenger on a foul night like this'un.

“Don't understand a bleedin' word Oi've said, d'ye? Well,” he added with another appraising look at his silent companion, “'tis just as well. Wouldn't care to tangle with ye, that's fer sure. But Oi'm goin' to be sayin' this anyhow, 'cause Oi'm an 'onest man, Oi am, and Oi'm not takin' kindly to bein' accused of cullyin' practices, and 'twouldn't 'av made no different if'n she 'ad been
I
talian. Would've charged the same, Oi would've. 'Ow was Oi to be knowin' any different with that old woman ajawin' away in some feurin tongue? And now,” added the much aggrieved coachman, his heavy brows lifted heavenward for emphasis, “her 'as me stoppin' fer flowers! Be dark soon, 'twill, and 'ere we are hurry-scurrin' across town and—

“'Ere, watch out, ye son of a whoremonger! Aye! And the same t'ye, and t'ye grandmother as well!” the coachman yelled, shaking his gloved fist at the sedan chair that had shot across their path, the cringing, liveried footmen carrying it away from the powerful forelegs of the pair of grays.

Inside the coach, Katherine, Lady Morpeth, was smiling behind her veil as she listened to the familiar voices of London. The offensive language and abuse heaped on the heads of the unfortunate footmen's families sounded like music in her ears, for the sights and sounds of London could not be duplicated anywhere else in the world. And how she had missed it all, Kate thought now, pushing aside the leather covering of the coach window and staring out with burning eyes, never seeing quite enough to fill the deep ache within her.

The congested streets were lined with neat rows of narrow, sash-windowed shops that had gaily painted signs swinging above glaze-windowed doors. From chemists, carpenters, and printsellers, to publishers, saddlers, and picture frame makers, all were hoping to hear the bells above their doors jingling with a steady stream of customers.

As the coach halted at a busy crossroads, Kate watched a splendid coach-and-six rumble past, its liveried attendants hanging on for dear life, while outriders rode on ahead to clear a passage through the crowded roadway. Kate recognized the crest painted on the door of the coach and wondered whether time had been kind to the occupants. As she leaned back against the leather-cushioned seat, she speculated about where her old acquaintances might be headed. Ranelagh and Vauxhall, the pleasure gardens, would be closed for the winter season, but had they been open, their customers could have enjoyed concerts of Handel in the Pavilion, midnight suppers in secluded alcoves, and brief assignations along dark paths.

Kate's head lolled against the seat as the coachman sent the coach across the road, the big wheels sliding sideways on the slippery cobblestones. She buried her face in the soft petals of the roses she had purchased from a thin, bedraggled flower girl near St. Paul's Cathedral. The dome of that magnificent church sat like a jeweled crown above the city. With a deep sigh of satisfaction, Kate breathed in the sweet scent of English roses—she was in England at last!

The coach continued along the Strand, the time-weary roadway connecting the carefully planned squares of the Georgian aristocrats to the old parts of the city, with its Tudor shops and twisting lanes. The hackney coach stopped, as had been ordered, across from a Queen Anne style house in a discreetly laid out square near a small park. Although this square was not as elegant as some of the larger, more prominent ones, it was no less exclusive.

Kate stared unblinkingly at the red brick house with its steep roof and double-tiering of sash windows. There was a single mahogany door centered in the severe facade. Behind that door had been a marble-floored entrance hall and a massive staircase with carved balustrades. At the end of the hall had been a door leading into the garden. It had been a garden full of roses—her garden. Most of the rooms in the comfortable house had been oak paneled, although her own bedchamber and dressing room had been hung with the finest chinoiserie silk wallpaper. She could remember seeing the small park from her bedchamber window—not that she had spared much time or thought for it then. She had been more interested in St. James's Park, where it had been of the utmost importance to be seen, for only the best sort of people mixed there. Or perhaps she and Percy would have gone to Hyde Park where Royalty hunted deer, and she would have had a few words with… No, that was wrong, Kate thought with a frown of concentration. They no longer hunted deer in Hyde Park, did they? No, she had heard somewhere that they no longer did. Kate pressed slender, shaking fingers against her pounding temple, for she didn't like to think that anything had changed since she had last been in London. She wanted it to appear exactly the same, and for the most part it seemed that not much had changed. The house that she and Percy, and his family, had lived in was still the same. There were a few new buildings, and some of the streets had been widened. And there was a different George ruling as king, but to her eye not much had changed over the years.

As Kate watched, a carriage pulled up before the red brick house; then the mahogany door opened as several footmen hurried to the carriage. A moment later the owners of the house, people she had never seen before, swept down to the waiting carriage and were whisked away. Most likely they were dining with friends, then attending a play in Drury Lane, then afterward supping, dancing, and playing cards at a private party, their evening's entertainment just beginning.

With a sharp tap on the roof of the carriage, Kate sent the coachman whipping his horses on to their next destination, a far grander townhouse in Berkeley Square. It was the dowager duchess's house, and always would be, even if Lucien now resided there when he was in London. It hadn't changed either, Kate thought when the coach rumbled to a halt before the darkened house. What a harridan the dowager duchess had been, and how they had despised her. She and Percy could never make a move without the old duchess hearing about it, criticizing them for it, thwarting them at every turn of the wheel. How she had loved playing the grand dame, interfering in the lives of her grandchildren. Even Lucien had not been exempt from their grandmother's meddlesome ways. But Lucien had never suffered as much as she and Percy had, for Lucien had been a
Dominick
, and they had only been Rathbournes. Only one who bore the proud Dominick name and title deserved any special favors. How many times, Kate wondered, had the dowager duchess given Lucien a second chance. Anyone else would have been banished from her royal presence, but no, not Lucien; he remained the fair-haired one.

Kate's lips parted in a slight smile as she remembered the one time she had ever truly got the best of dear cousin Lucien. As she conjured up his lean, hawkish face she saw once again the scar
she
had put there. They had been just children, she and Percy years younger than Lucien. But when they'd acted together, as they always had, they were more than a match for him despite his larger size. That was how she had managed to scar him, for Percy had jumped Lucien, keeping his attention centered on a pair of swinging fists while she, unbeknownst to Lucien, had picked up a shard of broken china, slashed deep into his cheek with the sharp-edged, makeshift weapon, and scarred him for life.

It was ironic, then, that he should be instrumental in causing her disfigurement and ruining her life. But dear cousin Lucien had managed well enough through the years; in fact, the scar on his cheek had created a certain air of mystery about his figure, and had enhanced an already disreputable reputation. Lucien, Duke of Camareigh, had never had to bear the agonies that she'd had to. Lucien, despite all of their efforts, had inherited Camareigh. Lucien had all of the wealth and power that she craved, and now Lucien had twins. Lucien had everything, and she, Kate, had nothing—she didn't even have Percy anymore.

“Well, don't dawdle, man, I haven't got all day to sit here while you ponder the ills of the world,” Kate called out to the patiently waiting coachman, impatience with her own thoughts tingeing her voice with shrewish sharpness. “Take me to the King's Messenger Inn. 'Tis near St. Martin-in-the-Fields. I trust you do know of it?”

“Aye, m'lady,” the coachman answered shortly, swallowing a retort about it being his job to know every inn, tavern, and coffeehouse in London, and that he had indeed known them since he'd been knee-high to a coach wheel. With the purpose of ridding himself of his strange trio of passengers, the coachman sent his coach hurtling toward Piccadilly as night cloaked the city of London in darkness, and a thick, unfolding fog blinded him from seeing as far as his horses' heads.