Chance the Winds of Fortune (15 page)

“Ah,” Mr. Taber murmured, continuing to stare with fascination into the coach, his weathered brow furrowed in puzzlement. “Are ye sure we've never met? I may be an old man, and my eyesight isn't what it once was, but I've never forgotten a body once I've made their acquaintance, and by that I'll swear. I'm sure I've heard your voice before. But where?” he persisted.

Kate glared down at the nosy old goat in disbelief. How could he still be alive after all of these years? He'd been ancient even when she'd been a girl living at Camareigh. He must be pushing a hundred, she thought in amazement, and yet here he was poking his busybody nose into affairs that did not concern him.

“Aye, well, I'll remember soon enough,” he was saying very matter-of-factly. “Pride myself on never forgetting a thing that's happened in this valley. Remember ye soon enough, I will,” he promised.

“How very nice,” Kate muttered. “I hope you will not be too disappointed when you fail.”

He chuckled, somehow finding her remark amusing. “Aye, with each word ye say, I'm coming closer to remembering ye, that I am. But now,” he added, turning back to Rhea Claire, “I'm going to take these wee ones inside. 'Tis too damp and cold out here for them any longer. By tomorrow, or perhaps the next day, ye won't even be recognizing them, Lady Rhea Claire,” the old man said, clucking to the pups as he stumbled off.

“I'll be back to see them, Mr. Taber,” Rhea called after him, and the old man nodded absentmindedly as his bent figure disappeared around the corner of the house.

“There's a break in the storm,” Ewan said, drawing their attention to the pale light filtering through the clouds. “If we hurry, we can make Camareigh before it opens up again.”

“I'm so wet now, it doesn't much matter,” George grumbled, shivering in his soaked coat. “But I'd sure like to get warm.”

“Francis?” Ewan inquired, but Francis was unusually quiet as he stared at the woman in the coach. “Shall we go, Francis? Rhea isn't soaked yet, and we can probably just make it to the stables before it rains again.”

“I think you would do well to follow his suggestion,” Kate quietly advised as she gestured for Rocco to slam shut the coach door. “Personally, I'm beginning to feel the damp. But I would be more than happy to offer you a ride, my dear, if you are not feeling well,” she offered politely.

“No, but thank you anyway,” Rhea said.

“Very well,” Kate said. Then she bid them a good afternoon and sat back against the cushions, disappearing from view as the coach pulled away from the farm. But Rocco turned around on the box to catch one last glimpse of the golden-haired creature who had smiled at him.

“You've made a conquest there,” Francis commented as he helped his sister to mount. “Strange pair, those two.”

“I felt rather sorry for both of them,” Rhea said as they rode away in the opposite direction from the carriage. “They seemed to be so unhappy.”

“You wouldn't expect a woman in mourning to be full of mirth,” Ewan said as he rode alongside them, his horse's hooves splashing more mud onto Rhea's skirts.

“No, I would not, Ewan,” Rhea agreed. “But it seemed to me to go deeper than the present. There was such a feeling of melancholy about them. 'Tis hard to explain, but there it is. Oh,” she added, suddenly remembering something, “do you know, there was the strangest fragrance of roses about the woman.”

“What's strange in that?” Ewan demanded. “Women always wear scent.”

“Yes, but hopefully not
that
much. I felt I was going to suffocate under the fragrance. It was so cloying in that carriage that…” Rhea paused, looking uncomfortable.

“That?” Francis urged her, curious to hear her feelings about the woman whom he too had found strange.

“Well, it might sound crazed to you,” Rhea continued, “but I felt almost as if I were in a coffin draped in roses. Now, you may laugh,” she told them defensively, already feeling silly now that she'd voiced her thoughts.

“I'm not laughing, Rhea,” Francis replied with equal seriousness.

“I must admit, it does seem odd,” Ewan contributed. “Camareigh isn't exactly sitting in the middle of Charing Cross. This is a quiet valley, so what the devil is she doing here?”

“Well,
I
for one don't like the looks of that big fellow acting as footman for her,” James piped in, feeling his first stirrings of jealousy as he remembered the spoony looks the large footman had cast at Rhea.

“
Well
, since we're all airing our grievances,” said George, the ever-practical, “I'm for home. I've just about ruined my best riding coat, and I don't look forward to explaining any of this to Father!”

With that disagreeable reminder, the five cousins quickened their pace, arriving at the gates of Camareigh some twenty minutes later, just as the heavens opened up above their heads. The centuries-old gatekeeper's cottage looked snug against the blowing gusts of rain that spattered against its leaded windows. It had witnessed many a visitor to the stately halls of Camareigh, but perhaps none so cold and bedraggled as the five hurrying past at that moment.

The chestnut-lined drive had never seemed so endless as they rode against the wind and rain toward the great house. The low stone buildings of the stables were a welcome sight, the doors swinging wide as the group of riders were spotted entering through the stone-arched gates of the stable yard. The long straight rows of stalls, accommodations for the duke's prized stock, were redolent of sweet meadow hay, molasses and oats, saddle soap and leathers, linseed oil, newly made poultices, and the ever-present horse droppings.

The stable block was the dominion of Butterick, a man in whose capable hands the Duke of Camareigh had entrusted the welfare and breeding of his thoroughbreds, as well as the maintenance of Camareigh's fleet of carriages. Butterick took his job very seriously and performed his duties as regally as any sovereign in his kingdom. Because he used so much pomp and ceremony as accompaniment to the everyday routine of the stables he was fondly and respectfully known as His Highness. Some, however, who were mostly stable hands and lesser menials, referred to him, beyond his hearing, less respectfully, as Old King Butt. Since their jobs were mostly concerned with the shoveling of manure and daily scrubbing down of floors, and since Butterick was considered a tyrant when it came to the spotlessness of his stables, their resentment could be well understood. Not that Butterick was a man who demanded of others what he was not willing to do himself. He had not always been the master of the stables and, in fact, had started out in the Camareigh stables as a lowly stable boy who spent many an arduous hour on hands and knees.

He was proud of his stables and honored to be in the service of so fine a gentleman as the Duke of Camareigh. In Butterick's book there could be no finer man than one who knew his horses, and if ever there was a man who knew his horses, it was His Grace. He had never been fooled yet by a horse, and it was because of His Grace's eye that they had a stable full of fine-blooded animals that had made them the envy of every groom, ostler, coachman, and lord in England.

But His Grace's eye hadn't been limited solely to horseflesh, for he'd picked himself a mighty fine little duchess, who had more than proven herself to be of good stock. Butterick had to admit that he had misjudged her when His Grace had first brought her to Camareigh as its new mistress. He'd forgotten that size wasn't necessarily indicative of spirit or intelligence—both of which Her Grace had in plentiful supply. He'd also thought she wouldn't breed well, and then she up and gave His Grace twins! He ought to have his head examined, Butterick thought, disgusted with his own temporary disloyalty to Her Grace, or he should keep his nose out of affairs that were no concern of his.

But even as he silently voiced that thought, he was watching with an almost fatherly eye the five riders who'd raced the wind and rain into the dry warmth of the stables. Despite their shivering wetness they found something to joke about as they dismounted, their young voices filling the cavernous room with a brief breath of spring.

Young Lord Chardinall had turned into a fine horseman and would do His Grace proud one day. It was fortunate for Camareigh that he was the elder, and heir to the title, for Lord Robin, bless his heart, was a mischievous little imp who could always be found in the center of a ruckus. Now on the other hand, there could be no finer a young lady than the Lady Rhea Claire. In his prejudiced eye there could be no little filly to match her, although now she looked hardly better than a milkmaid who'd just had a tussle with a cantankerous cow, and lost.

With a quick professional eye, Butterick looked over the horses, sighing in satisfaction when he found that none of his beauties had sustained an injury. With that discovery he allowed a slight smile to sneak across his florid features.

“Ye took a fall, did ye, Lady Rhea Claire?” Butterick greeted her, while he ordered in almost the same breath that the horses be led away, unsaddled, brushed, fed, and watered. His booming voice carried to the far end of the stables, reaching any laggards idling away a few minutes in a quiet corner. “'Twas the privet hedge, was it,” he said, making it more of a statement than a question.

Rhea and Francis smiled, knowing Butterick's eagle eye well enough by now not to be surprised. James didn't know the man, though, and whistled in amazed admiration at this apparent magician's trick.

“How did you ever know that, Mr. Butterick?” he demanded.

“'Twas simple, lad, if you use your eyes,” Butterick told him, enjoying his little joke as the youngster glanced over at Rhea's mount. A puzzled frown was on his brow as he stared stupidly at the mud-splashed flank and thigh.

Butterick marched over to the horse and patted the little mare on the rump; then he carefully and gently removed a small branch of hedge that had been stuck in her tail. “Privet,” Butterick said, eyeing Skylark's chest and forelegs for a serious moment. “Been to Stone House-on-the-Hill, have ye? And how is the elder Mr. Taber?”

Even Francis was impressed by this piece of knowledge and stared openmouthed at the man. “How did you know that?” he demanded, running his own eye over the mare's form as he searched for clues.

Butterick's barrel-chested laugh filled the stables. “One of the footmen was coming back from the village and saw ye headed up the hill,” he replied, his shoulders still shaking with mirth.

“And what were we doing up at Stone House-on-the-Hill?” Rhea questioned, a challenging look in her eye.

“Why, Lady Rhea Claire,” Butterick replied with an innocent look on his face, “I'm no gypsy fortune-teller. However”—he paused, a twinkle in his eye—“if I was to be guessin', then I'd be sayin' ye might have found something abandoned and hurt and taken it to the elder Mr. Taber, seein' as how he's got the healin' gift. 'Tis no magic in that guess. What did ye rescue?”

“Puppies,” James told him. “Rhea found them.”

“Aye, I thought 'twould be something like that. Abandoned, were they? The old gent will take care of them right and proper. Now ye'd best be gettin' inside,” he told them, “or I'll be havin' to answer to His Grace if'n ye get the fever. Ye should've sent a groom back for the pups. I'm sure I don't know what Her Grace will be sayin' when she catches sight of ye,” he added with a worried shake of his head.

“Rhea's more concerned about what Canfield will say,” Francis answered.

“I have no regrets for what I did,” Rhea said as they hurried toward the great house.

“Well, I really don't see how any harm can come from it,” Ewan agreed. “You did a good deed, and I should think that one day you shall be justly rewarded for your act of unselfish kindness. How can that possibly bode ill for you?” he demanded as they entered beneath the noble coat of arms bearing the heraldic design of the Dominick family, which proudly proclaimed to all who entered the halls of Camareigh: “Yield Not Truth, Valor, Or Purpose.”

“I think Rhea's reward has just arrived, although I wonder how just it is,” Francis whispered loudly as they all glanced upward to see the Earl of Rendale descending the Grand Staircase in royal blue splendor, his appearance immaculate, his silk stockings without a wrinkle, his shoe buckles shining, his wig without a stray hair and powdered to perfection. This magnificence of dress was reflected in his rather complacent expression; then he happened to lower his nose as he stepped down and saw the rough-looking group staring up at him in silent fascination.

The expressions on four of the faces were less than pleased at the sight of that impeccable gentleman. The fifth face, that of Francis, showed a sudden purpose as he eyed the earl with an almost predatory glance, which certainly boded ill for one Wesley Lawton.

“Good God!”

“Leave it to the earl to never be at a loss for words,” Francis said with an amused grimace as he felt a puddle of water beginning to form around his booted feet. His damp breeches were beginning to become damned uncomfortable, and he didn't relish the thought of standing here while the earl lectured them on proper decorum.

“What has happened?” the earl demanded, quickly descending the last few steps.

“We got caught in the downpour. So if you will kindly let us pass?” Francis requested with unusual politeness.

But the earl wasn't sensitive enough to notice, and he stood his ground, his tall form blocking the tired riders' access to the stairs and to dry clothing. His haughty expression changed to one of growing concern as he took in Rhea's disheveled appearance.

“Lady Rhea Claire!” he exclaimed, ever proper of address despite how surprised he might find himself. “What has happened to you? Your hair? Your riding habit?” he questioned as he inspected the mud clinging to her skirts and the rent in her sleeve where it had been joined to the shoulder.