Chance the Winds of Fortune (8 page)

The sound of laughter drew Lady Mary's gentle gray eyes toward a group of young men playing croquet in the distance. Ewan, her eldest son, and his two brothers, George and James, along with their cousin Francis, were all there. With their coats thrown into a disorderly pile on the grass, and their shirtsleeves rolled up around their elbows, the cousins, all of a similar age, were hard to distinguish from one another.

Lady Mary's gaze sought out her husband's familiar figure as he came across the gentle slope of lawn, his stride slow but even as he kept pace with the duke. They were deeply engrossed in conversation, and Lady Mary could well imagine what it was about, for the rumor of war seemed to be constantly raising its ugly head nowadays. Lady Mary was relieved to see that Terence's old wound wasn't bothering him, but then on a warm day like this, it seldom did. It was only during the long winter months, when the cold penetrated deep, that his war wound painfully stiffened his leg, causing him a great deal of silent suffering. Terence was not one to complain or easily accept sympathy. But that had never stopped her from seeing that he'd been comfortable, Lady Mary remembered, the glint in her usually soft gray eyes reminiscent of the look the general had to face often.

Mary sighed, knowing she shouldn't let it upset her still, but she knew she had never quite gotten over Terence's rejoining his regiment. They had enjoyed so many peaceful and contented years at Green Willows that she'd never imagined in her wildest of dreams that Terence would agree, after he'd been asked by his friends and former fellow officers, to rejoin his troops fighting on the Continent. She supposed it had been at the back of his mind all along, but that out of love and consideration for her and the child she carried in her womb, he had not seriously contemplated it until a delegation of officers had landed on their doorstep and pleaded with him to come back to his men. She had thought she would never be able to forgive him for abandoning her and their children, even though she had realized that for Terence it would have been not only dishonorable, but cowardly as well to reject his men's desperate plea. Terence was not a bloodthirsty man; in fact, he was a very compassionate man, but he was a soldier, and had been for most of his adult life. He enjoyed playing the country squire, but when the call to arms was sounded, it was hard for him not to respond, especially when men he had known and served with were being slaughtered on the field of battle. But as soon as she'd seen him come limping home, his wound still raw, she'd forgotten all of her resentment and channeled all her efforts into nursing Terence back to health. He had been promoted to general, received numerous medals for valor, and had even been knighted for his service to king and country. But none of that had mattered to her, for all she had prayed for had been Terence's safe return to Green Willows. And if indeed there was to be another war, what with this talk of rebellion brewing in the colonies, then she was thankful that Terence was finally too old to rejoin his regiment this time.

Giggling voices, crying out to be pushed higher and higher, caught Lady Mary's attention. She glanced over to where the younger children were playing on swings tied to the heavier branches of the trees, their dangling legs sweeping high and low as they took turns pushing each other into the heavens.

“Lovely, isn't it?” the duchess commented lazily, her eyes following Mary's around the lawns. “I wish we could spend every single afternoon out here under the trees,” she added dreamily, smoothing a fair curl from the forehead of her sleeping daughter, who lay curled up on her lap.

Lady Mary smiled. “You always have wished for the impossible, and yet”—she paused thoughtfully—“you do seem to have your wishes granted sooner or later.” Lady Mary glanced down at Sabrina's sleepy-eyed son, whose golden head was dropping against the duchess's lap as he finally dozed off. Mary grinned and touched his soft cheek. “These two must have come as quite a surprise to Lucien.”

“It shouldn't have. 'Twas his doing,” the duchess replied with an impish twinkle in her eye that reminded her sister of that little rascal Robin.

“There was a time,” Lady Mary continued, “when I thought Rhea Claire might be your only child. She certainly has grown into a lovely young woman. I always did think, and still do in fact, that she was the most exquisite baby I've ever seen. I see much of you in her, Rina, especially in her eyes. But with that gold hair she is Lucien's daughter.”

“Lucien says he is relieved she did not inherit my quick temper. Although I do wonder,” the duchess added, “if it is not better, perhaps, to rid yourself of your anger quickly, rather than let it simmer and build until it boils over. That is what happens to Lucien, and then there is all hell to pay. Rhea is like Lucien. She seems very indolent, even docile, but her anger will be simmering underneath. She will have been carefully thinking out her revenge, or her cutting sarcasms, and then she will strike back, leaving you quite stunned by the experience.”

“Are you and Lucien going to allow a match between Rhea Claire and the Earl of Rendale?” Lady Mary asked curiously, a shadow of something flickering across her face.

The duchess smiled at the thought. “I know Rhea is of marrying age, but she still seems so young. And as far as we are concerned, there is no hurry for her to wed. Also, I am not sure we totally approve of the earl.”

Lady Mary smiled now. “I doubt whether
any
man will ever be totally acceptable to you and Lucien. Wesley Lawton, however, does seem to be a nice enough young man,” she added, her gaze traveling to the young couple in question as they strolled along the lakeshore with Richard and his wife. “Things have worked out nicely for Richard. I do like Sarah.”

“Yes, so do I,” the duchess agreed. “I am pleased that he brought her home to Camareigh for the birth of their first child. We will make sure that nothing goes wrong. Indeed, nothing would dare to go wrong with Rawley overseeing the birth. Sometimes I swear she knows more about healing than most doctors, and yet, except for a year in London, she has spent her whole life working at Camareigh as a maid, and claims, quite vehemently too, that she has no higher aspirations than living and dying right where she was born. She says she belongs here, and nowhere else. She's quite fond of Richard, especially that red hair. She'll see that nothing endangers the life of his wife or his firstborn.

“I do miss Richard,” the duchess confessed. “But he does seem to love living in Scotland, and it is, after all, his heritage. Grandfather would have been pleased, I think. Although I suspect he'd think Richard a bit too English now. But as to Rhea,” the duchess continued, changing the subject, her eyes narrowed in thought as she watched her daughter and the besotted Earl of Rendale, “there is still plenty of time. Actually, we have had numerous offers for her hand in marriage, but the gentlemen have either been dirt-poor and hoping to acquire an easy fortune, or aging libertines finally wanting to settle down before it's too late, or genuinely love-struck young bucks reciting poetry, which, believe me, can become quite tedious. So far we have had little trouble rejecting their proposals, for Rhea has wanted nothing to do with any of them. However, I do think that Lucien strikes terror into the hearts of most of them, for there is nothing worse than a reformed rake as a father.”

“Yes, I can see how Lucien might seem a trifle intimidating, especially if one's conscience is not clear. When Maggie and Anna are of age,” Lady Mary stated with certainty, “I'm sure Terence will play the general to the hilt. I'm certain he shall have half of their suitors signing up for duty just to please him, as well as to escape his eagle eye,” she added with a good-natured laugh, her eyes lingering on her husband before they moved on to gaze at the rippling waters of the lake.

As quickly as a cloud passing across the sun, Lady Mary Fletcher's smile faded, and her eyes became darkened by unseen thoughts. Flashes of strange and familiar faces, bizarre surroundings and hazy incidents swirled through her mind with dizzying speed.

“What is wrong?” the duchess asked in concern, noticing the strange expression on Mary's usually serene face. “What is amiss? Aren't you feeling well? Perhaps a sip of wine would…” But the duchess never finished her suggestion. A sudden thought had struck her, and she felt a cold chill spread through her. “You've had a vision, haven't you, Mary? That is what brought you to Camareigh a day early, isn't it?” she demanded in a hollow-sounding voice.

Lady Mary turned slowly to face her sister, for she had lived too long with the curse of second sight not to fully understand the implications of her visions. Nor could she, or would she, lie to Sabrina about it—Sabrina, of all people, had the right to know the truth.

“Yes, Rina,” Mary answered quietly, confirming her sister's worst fears, “I've had a vision.”

“God, it has been so long since you've experienced one. I'd almost forgotten about them,” said the duchess, more to herself than to Mary, her brow troubled with her thoughts.

“I know,” Mary replied sadly. “I, too, had hoped to be spared any more of these damned visions.” Her voice was uncharacteristically harsh.

A single teardrop was clinging to her lashes as her darkening gray eyes met her sister's anxious glance. “Life has been so idyllic. Too much so, I suspect. If only I could tell you, Rina, exactly what it is that I fear,” she said almost apologetically, her hands clenched into tight fists. “I feel so helpless. I always have. This damned sight only gives me fears. I sometimes think I would rather have something terrible happen, without the prior knowledge, than to know it is coming, to sit here expecting it, but be unable to do anything to stop it.” A sob caught in her throat. “Do you realize that a hundred years ago I would have been burned at the stake as a witch, because of the knowledge I possess?”

“Oh, Mary, dear, sweet Mary,” Sabrina breathed. “If I could help you, I would. If I could blind you to this tormenting inner sight, I would burn it out of you, but you know it is beyond our control. 'Twas meant to be, Mary,” Sabrina said softly, trying to comfort her sister. “Think of the times you have helped us, Mary. Of the times you saved Richard, and me, from certain death. Perhaps, with this warning you will be able to avert something terrible from happening. Now please, dear,” she coaxed, holding Mary's cold hand in hers, “tell me what you have seen. Share it with me.”

“'Tis water, Rina,” Mary began, her voice husky with tears. “I can see deep water, no, dark water. Dark water rippling around me. I can almost smell the stench rising from it. I feel befouled by it, as if it is going to suck me under. It is so black, so horrible!” Mary cried, burying her face in her clasped hands. “It is so cold around me. And there is such unbridled terror, and yes, death,” she said in a whisper. “I can see something gold, shining like a star in the depths below. And above”—her voice was cracking under the strain—“I see dragons. Oh, God help me! You must think me crazed, Rina, to be seeing dragons. They're laughing and snarling, and they're dangerous. I keep seeing these horrible red and green dragons. They seem to be haunting me. And sometimes I feel like reaching out to them; at other times I feel myself drawing back in terror. I'm so confused, Rina!”

Mary raised a ravaged face and stared out on the warm summer afternoon, taking deep breaths as she gulped for air. “You should hate me. Despise me for bringing such evil premonitions to Camareigh, but, Rina,” Mary said, reaching out to grasp Sabrina's hand in a painful grip, “'tis
your
face I see full of grief. 'Tis
your
eyes I see full of such terror. How could I not tell you, warn you?” she pleaded.

Sabrina, Duchess of Camareigh, swallowed something painful that had lodged in her throat, her arm tightening instinctively around the innocent child sleeping peacefully in her lap. Her eyes scanned the horizon as if searching—but for what? What was out there waiting to strike? And what danger did it present, and for whom? Sabrina watched Lucien walk toward her across the lawn, Terence at his side, and she wanted so desperately to reach out to Lucien for comfort, for strength, but she couldn't seem to move or even to cry out. Mary's vision of terror had wrapped itself around her, paralyzing her as she stared helplessly at her loved ones, knowing that some tragedy was going to strike at the heart of Camareigh—and that all she could do was sit and wait and watch as ultimately the terror unfolded.

The fire which seems extinguished often slumbers beneath the ashes.

—Pierre Corneille

Venice—Fall 1769

Beneath the Bridge of Sighs the dark waters of the Rio de Palazzo rippled in the wake of the black, shallow-hulled gondola sliding silently past. The lacy-patterned, rose and white marble arches and columns of the Doge's Palace climbed like a wall of light out of the depths, while on the opposite side of the canal, as vivid in contrast as black is to white, stood the crouching form of the pozzi, the forbidding prison block that housed the less fortunate of Venice. Its ominous presence gave reason for the name of the Bridge of Sighs, for few who crossed over that covered bridge into the damp prison cells ever crossed back again into the light of freedom.

Sitting in solitary silence in the gondola was a figure swathed in the black of mourning, for the long, slender craft had just crossed St. Mark's basin from the Church of San Giorgio Maggiore, where the grieving woman had said her last farewell to her loved one. With slow, even strokes of his oar the gondolier, perched high in the stern, sent the canal boat smoothly along the winding miles of narrow, back canals, which twisted into the heart of the city that had once been the proud, shining jewel of the Adriatic. The great domes of St. Mark's Basilica still glowed golden in the Italian sun, and many of the marble palaces of the once-powerful merchant-princes were still blessed and inhabited by the gilded few who could afford the expensive pleasures of their leisure hours. But there was a rot eating away at the city and her people, an ever-growing decadence of mind and spirit that ate away at the flesh of the body and was as destructive as the foul water lapping around the crumbling foundations of the buildings of Venice.

Through this spreading illness and adding to its darkness moved La Rosa Triste, The Sad Rose, one of the most infamous and sought-after courtesans of Venice. So named by the Venetians because she dressed in black and wore a single red rose in her hair, she was a figure of mystery—for no one had ever seen her face. In a city where the wearing of masks was not unusual, where aristocrat and peasant, highborn lady and whore, duke and gigolo could mix freely, without fearing the disclosure of a reputable identity, La Rosa Triste stood apart, her face and true name a secret even to her most ardent, and paying, admirers. But she was beautiful—a Madonna, some said—and all of Venice knew this to be true. For on one or two occasions, when attending a carnival or grand ball, La Rosa Triste had left behind her usual domino, the black mask that covered most of her face, and had instead donned an extraordinary mask. Half of her face, from forehead to chin, was covered by a black silk mask, while the other half of her face was left bare. Her classical features were said to be as innocently beautiful as those of an angel, and with her pale eyes and hair she stood out like a shining star in a midnight sky.

Why La Rosa Triste dressed in black and red roses, no one knew for certain, although some who were less kind and perhaps jealous of her popularity said that it was merely for show, to catch the eye. But others, who seemed to know, said it was because her family and true love had been murdered in a vendetta, and that now she was burying the last of her loved ones. Her grief, at least now, was very real, for her beloved brother, Le Principe Biondo, The Blond Prince, as he'd been fondly nicknamed by the wealthy, noble ladies he'd played the cicisbeo for, was dead. He had been found floating in the dirty waters of the canal, a stiletto embedded in his back.

With his princely airs and beautiful face he had enchanted the jaded ladies of Venice when he'd acted as escort for them while their husbands had purchased elsewhere their own private amusements. By a lady's side he had served as escort, maid, confidant and companion, court jester and lover—always at his lady's beck and call. Perhaps Le Principe Biondo had played the cicisbeo too well, and a jealous husband had rid himself of a rival. Or had an enraged noblewoman and former protectress wanted her lover back—and had been scorned instead? Had Le Principe Biondo insulted the wrong person, perhaps cast his eyes at some churlish gentleman's wife or mistress? He'd had the reputation of being contemptuous and jeering of those he thought beneath his dignity, and of those he didn't need to toady up to. Too often, while intoxicated from imbibing too freely of port wine and punch, Le Principe Biondo had given rein to his tongue, which had, more often than not, been coated with disparaging remarks that were bitingly sarcastic. No one had been exempt from his virulence, except perhaps for La Rosa Triste, although no one was the wiser about their personal relationship, and what passed between them in the luxurious palace they rented just off the Grand Canal.

“
Lui è morto
!
Le Principe Biondo è morto
!” The shrill cry sliced through the dark shadows of the canal as the gondola carrying La Rosa Triste slid beneath a bridge crowded with onlookers, some of whom were mourners. Roses floated down around the gondola as it reappeared on the other side and slipped farther down the canal, with wails of grief following in its wake.

Suddenly a low laugh escaped from the black-clad figure, and as the slim shoulders began to shake, the laughter built into a crescendo of uncontrolled mirth. The gondolier nervously crossed himself as the eerie laughter continued, until finally it broke down into deep sobs of despair that left the cloaked mourner gasping for breath.

With a shaking hand La Rosa Triste picked up the single rose that had fallen onto her lap, pressing her lips to it as she breathed in its sweet fragrance. He was dead. She had seen him buried this very day, and he had left her alone in their exile. How dare he do this to her? How dare he leave her to suffer alone? God, if she only could drag him up from the grave she would. Damn him anyway, he had no right to die!

The gondola nudged against the landing in front of an elegant and strangely dignified baroque palazzo. The broad marble steps leading down to the water's edge were crowded with liveried footmen waiting to assist their mistress from the gently swaying gondola the moment she placed a satin-slippered foot on the carpeted stair.

Never before had the steps seemed so hard to climb, La Rosa Triste thought as she stumbled slightly, recovering before an attentive footman could reach out. Determinedly, she climbed the last of the steps, sweeping regally into her home through the carved double doors. Across the cold marble flagstones she moved, her black skirts whispering. With a steadying hand placed on the balustrade, La Rosa Triste climbed the curving flight of stairs to her private apartment. Her veiled head was bowed slightly as she entered through the tall doors and her black figure was reflected and multiplied in the mirrored walls, as were the rococo furnishings of the room. Ornately carved and gilded tables and scarlet, silk-covered chairs and sofas filled the room with splashes of color. Sparkling chandeliers with painted flowers hung from the frescoed ceiling above La Rosa Triste, who was standing in silent contemplation of the quivering shadows reflected off the water of the canal below.

“
Mi scusi, signora
.” Sophia, La Rosa Triste's loyal maid and ever-present shadow, spoke softly, almost in a whisper so as not to disturb her beloved mistress. “I tell him, you wish not to see him, but he say you will,” she said, wringing her hands. “I tell him you bury your brother today. You much sad, and you no wish to see him.”

“Who dares to disturb me?” La Rosa Triste demanded as she looked up, her thoughts broken by her maid's apologetic voice.

“I do,” said Conte Niccolò Rasghieri, rising from his seat. The high velvet back of the chair had hidden him from La Rosa Triste's view. He now came forward as if he had every right to be here in La Rosa Triste's salon, his casually elegant air and arrogantly held head telling its own story of generations of aristocratic wealth and privilege. He was not a young man, and his years of debauchery and sybaritic indulgences had left their mark on his thin face, in deep grooves that ran from his aquiline nose to his sensual mouth. His lips seemed to have settled into a permanent sneer of contempt and there was a weariness in the slight droop of his shoulders. But it was the tired, jaded expression in his eyes that mirrored his true feelings.

“Nicki,” La Rosa Triste breathed her friend and lover's name. Then, after a moment's hesitation, she threw herself into the familiar arms she had known for over fifteen years.

Looking over her veiled head at the vigilant Sophia, he motioned the maid from the room with an imperious hand, ignoring the old woman's jealous glare as he completely took over comforting her mistress.

“He is dead, Nicki,” La Rosa Triste cried. “He has finally left me. What shall I do without him? He was my other half. I shall miss him so, Nicki,” she sobbed, then looked up at the tall conte who held her so securely in his arms. “But I still have you. Always you come when I need you most. Why is that, I wonder,” she asked him, her pale blue eyes glittering strangely through her mask.

The conte smiled. “Because I do not
have
to come. Because it is
my
choice alone, and I do not owe you anything. We have no ties to one another. That is why we are still friends today. We understand one another, my dear. You do not set down rules for me to follow, nor do I for you. I do not sit in judgment on you. I accept you as you are, and you accept me as I am.”

“Did you never wish that I was not a courtesan?” she asked him, voicing a question on which she'd held her silence for many years. “That I could walk with pride into your home, meet your wife without being shunned?”

The conte laughed, his hold tightening painfully on La Rosa Triste as she tried to pull away from him, her shoulders stiffening with indignation at his laughter. “God forbid that ever happening. She would bore you stiff, my dear. Besides,
you
have nothing to be ashamed of, for I sometimes wonder if there is really any difference between the two of you. She calls herself a lady, and you are called a…” He allowed his words to drop off and shrugged his shoulders. “But she has her lovers, as do most
ladies
of this town. But you, my dear, are at least honest about yourself.”

“Thank you,” La Rosa Triste said a trifle sardonically. “I never knew I had inspired such admiration in you.”

“Of course, I suspect that there is more to your past than you will ever let me know about,” he continued smoothly, his tone almost rebuking her for her secrets. “You have many of the airs and graces of a lady bred to the part. But you do not mimic your betters; in fact, many a fine lady of Venice has taken to wearing black in imitation of you—but none do it so well as yourself, madam.”

La Rosa Triste sighed deeply. “You are so good for me. Already I begin to forget some of my misery. I know you never cared much for my brother, but he was all that I had.” As she spoke, tears were shimmering in her eyes. “And now he is gone, and I have nothing. Nothing! Everything from the past has gone now. I am alone, and soon you will leave me too.”

“No!” the conte contradicted her, a glint in his eye as he pulled her against him. “I will make you forget,
mia rosa triste
. You will think of nothing but me. I shall be your every breath from now on. I will have you smiling again, have you crying out with love,” he promised as his mouth descended on hers, forcing her to forget her grief under the onslaught of his rising passion. With a sudden movement of his lean body, he swept La Rosa Triste up into his arms and strode with her into the bedchamber that he knew as well as his own, and, with a gentleness unusual for him, laid her down on the fur-covered bed that he knew so well. With a practiced hand he began to undress her, baring the slim alabaster body that had been swathed in black silk.

“You are as lovely today as you were fifteen years ago when I first lay with you,” the conte whispered, removing his own clothing as he stood over the bed. He stared down at her smooth skin, so pale and translucent, her breasts as small and delicate as a young girl's, and he felt his passion as fiery as if he were again a young man of twenty experiencing his first woman. Her glorious silver-gold hair tumbled down around her hips, teasing him with glimpses of soft, secret places.

“You flatter me, Nicki, but I no longer care about the truth. I know I am not a young girl anymore,” La Rosa Triste admitted, not grieving for her lost youth. “I have lost some of the satin from my skin, but I have gained across the years so much more in experience,” she said, reaching up and pulling him down on top of her. “I can please you far more today than I ever could have at sixteen. That is a fair trade, I think,” La Rosa Triste told him with a promise of pleasures to come before her words could be silenced by his searching mouth. “Now make me forget, Nicki. Make me forget the rest of the world except for us. The memory of no one else must intrude. Not now, Nicki. Not tonight.”

And so La Rosa Triste forgot her grief. Through the next few weeks she was seen with Conte Niccolò Rasghieri at every ball, carnival, soiree, and amusement held in Venice. From the glittering magnificence of the palazzi lining the Grand Canal, to the squalid gaming hells crowding the narrow back alleys, La Rosa Triste sought her pleasures. Even after the conte left Venice to see to his country estates on the mainland, La Rosa Triste still roamed, restless and searching, looking for someone or something to help her forget.

But La Rosa Triste's hell-bent path of self-destruction was to be crossed, and ultimately altered, by a chance encounter, a conversation overheard, which would set into motion a terrifying chain of events neither participant ever could have imagined in his wildest dreams. The repercussions of this encounter would spread far beyond the tranquil canals of Venice.

It happened at a masque at the Palazzo Chalzini. The Grand Ballroom was crowded with masked revelers from every walk of life, from priests hiding their vows of chastity behind beaked masks and black silk hoods, to impoverished aristocrats and beggars, their true identities and situations in life hidden behind dominoes, to the incredibly wealthy, who could afford to lose vast sums at the gaming tables, their fingers flashing with jewels while they mixed with impunity amongst the rabble.