Chance the Winds of Fortune (22 page)

Turning to her English hireling, she gestured arrogantly. “Kill the girl and dump her from the carriage. No one will find her body for weeks, maybe months, if at all. Now that I have proof of her capture, we don't need her alive.”

“No,” Waltham replied evenly.

“No?” Kate repeated incredulously, stunned by this growing mutiny among her menials. “You refuse me? How dare you! What do you think you are getting paid to do? For all the help you've been, I should've hired that fat innkeeper. I curse the day she ever recommended you to me,” Kate ground out, her hands clenched before her. “If you think you shall be getting paid in full, then think again, Mr. Teddie Waltham.”

“But, m'lady, that is just what I have been doing,” he responded in a quiet, confident voice. “The way I see it is that I'd never be paid in full if I tried to take the girl away from friend giant there. All I'd get for my efforts would be a broken neck. If you so badly want to see her dead, then you're going to have to do it yourself,” Waltham dared her, shaking his head in regret. “And that Rocco fellow, well, he sure seems to have taken a liking to the little golden-haired lass. I'd watch myself if I were you. Of course, there is an alternative,” he added. “If you would take my advice, seein' as how I'm an old hand at avoiding the hangman's noose, I'd say don't kill her. Bodies have a nasty way of popping up at the damnedest times. It can be devilishly awkward. My motto has always been, ‘If you can avoid havin' a dead body around in the first place, then why take a step closer to the gallows?'”

Kate was fuming silently, for she had rather looked forward to shedding a little Dominick blood, even though Lucien's would be far sweeter to taste than his daughter's.

“Oh, very well,” she capitulated. “Do what you wish with the brat, but make sure that she isn't around to complicate matters, or you
will
be feeling the hangman's noose tightening around that scrawny neck of yours.”

Waltham breathed a shade easier, although he knew they weren't completely out of the woods just yet. But at least he hadn't killed a duke's daughter, or had to face Rocco. He could do without either situation, since he valued his admittedly disreputable skin. Aristocrats, especially dukes, could make for deadly enemies, seeing how they answered to no one in the land except themselves. And this Duke of Camareigh sounded like a ruthless fellow. Any man who could get the best of her ladyship here, which this duke seemed to have done time and time again, was a man who got Teddie Waltham's respect. But only from a safe distance, for he didn't want to meet the gentleman up close. He shook his head wearily, for he had the feeling that even if he managed to squirm out of this mess without a scratch, he would probably spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder for a vengeful duke's hand to grab him out of a comfortable tavern in Limehouse and toss him into a rotting cell in Newgate. Eventually, if the Duke of Camareigh were powerful enough, he might find his head the first one in years to be stuck on Temple Bar for all of London to gawk at.

“Well, what do you have planned?” Kate's raspy voice broke into Waltham's unpleasant speculation about his none-too-rosy future.

“Planned?” he asked dumbly.

“About the chit, damn it!”

“We're headed back to London, I gather?”

“Yes,” Kate admitted, reluctant to divulge any of her plans to this ruffian, about whom she was beginning to have serious doubts.

“Then I propose, m'lady, that we waste very little time in getting there,” he advised. “I would even suggest stopping only to change teams and sup, but not to stay overnight. A few eyebrows might be raised at sight of Rocco and the girl. Besides,” he added with an instinctive glance over his shoulder, “who knows what's on the road behind us?”

Kate nodded. “For once, Mr. Waltham, we are in complete agreement, for I had not thought to linger in the vicinity. I must own to being slightly curious,” she continued in a sarcastically conversational tone, “about what you have planned for our little friend. You are not contemplating taking her all of the way to London, are you?”

Waltham glanced over at the still form being held so lovingly in Rocco's big arms. “I've got a lot of friends in London, m'lady, and I can count at least a dozen who'd be more than happy to take the little lady off our hands,” he informed her, not really satisfying her curiosity. “In fact, we might even manage to profit by the transaction, if handled properly. Aye, London, 'twould seem, is the place for us, m'lady.”

“Indeed, Mr. Waltham,” Kate remarked as she settled herself more comfortably in the corner of the coach. Sophia, who'd maintained a discreet silence, turning a blind eye and deaf ear to the goings on, now arranged, with solicitous care, a fur rug across her mistress's knees. Her only concern in life was her mistress's comfort. “I can see that I have been hasty in my judgment of your abilities, and indeed, may have sorely underestimated you,” Kate now told Waltham.

But I haven't underestimated you, m'lady, Teddie Waltham thought as he leaned his head against the soft leather of the seat. But prudence advised him against slumbering in the watchful silence of the coach.

* * *

“It isn't the
horse's
blood, Your Grace,” Butterick pronounced gravely, his words carrying like a death knell through the breathless silence of the stables. Butterick met the duke's eyes squarely, his big capable hands hanging helplessly at his sides. If only he hadn't had to tell this to the duke, Butterick thought with a feeling of rising despair, for it was beginning to look bad, real bad, and they didn't even have any idea of what had happened—except that Lady Rhea Claire and the Earl of Rendale were missing.

The Duke of Camareigh sighed, but he was not surprised, for he had suspected as much. But what could have happened? The dreaded thought of foul play hung heavy in his mind; but it just didn't make any sense. No one in their right mind from Camareigh, or the surrounding countryside, would dare to lay a finger on Rhea. She was far too well known as his daughter. So what had happened to her? Had some accident befallen her? Was she lying unconscious somewhere? And where was the Earl of Rendale? What had happened to him?

“If only the young miss could tell us what happened, Your Grace,” Butterick said, glancing impatiently toward the big house where the unconscious Caroline Winters had been taken. After the three horses had found their way back to Camareigh, he'd sent out a carriage and several footmen and stable boys to find the horseless riders. At that time his fears had not yet been unduly aroused, although he'd felt the beginnings of concern, for both Lady Rhea Claire and the earl were fine riders. For either of them, and certainly for both, to have fallen from their mounts, well… It was a thought he hadn't liked thinking about. He'd sent a boy up to the house to inform His Grace of the incident and had been waiting for his orders when one of the riders had returned with rather startling news. He hadn't been prepared for the sight that met his eyes when he'd opened the carriage door to see a delirious Miss Caroline Winters, her blue riding habit muddied and torn.

The duke himself had carried the stricken girl up to the house, and not a word had been heard from her since she'd been found wandering dazedly along the lane, a dark bruise beginning to swell over her eye. How long she'd been staggering on the road, or from where she had come, they didn't know. Only Caroline Winters knew the answers to so many puzzling questions, and she was temporarily lost to the world. The doctor had been sent for, but hadn't as yet arrived, so all they could do was wait.

“They were bound for Stone House-on-the-Hill,” the duke said, a speculative look in his eye. “I wonder if they ever got there.”

“I reckon they went to see the elder Mr. Taber about the pups,” Butterick mused.

“Rhea received a note from the old man requesting her to come. Naturally she went,” the duke told him, a gentle expression softening his face for a moment while he thought of his daughter's overly generous nature. And it was this act of kindness that may have cost her…

“'Twas a note from the old man himself, ye say?” Butterick asked.

“I'm not really certain. Although, now that I think about it,” the duke said thoughtfully, “it does seem strange that the note should be delivered so early.”

“Aye, that it does, but what has me interested, Your Grace,” Butterick confided, “is that the elder Mr. Taber never learned how to read or write.”

“Perhaps one of his family wrote it for him,” the duke speculated, not quite seeing the reason for Butterick's worried expression. But then Butterick was famous for his penchant for mysteries.

“He's there by himself, except for a granddaughter,” Butterick explained. “And she's just a girl. She wouldn't be knowin' how to read and write. Most Tabers don't see any need for it anyway.”

“Saddle my horse, Butterick,” the duke ordered. “And one for the general.”

“Aye, Your Grace,” Butterick said, sending the gawking stable boys into immediate action, “we'll get to the bottom of this, or my name ain't Old King Butt!”

“Oh,” the duke added, pausing in the doorway, “and saddle a horse for yourself.”

A grin split Butterick's face wide. “Aye, Your Grace, 'twill be my pleasure, that it will.”

* * *

A silence so heavy that it seemed deafening pervaded the guest bedchamber where Caroline Winters lay sleeping just beyond the reach of those standing vigil at her bedside. Although both the Duchess of Camareigh and Lady Mary Fletcher showed an outward calm that did them credit, their fears extended far deeper than their present concern for the girl lying unconscious on the bed. They were both remembering words spoken in early summer. Words that were now, perhaps, beginning to come true. Neither the duchess or Lady Mary had voiced the troubled thoughts that were uppermost in their minds, nor did they need to, for each knew what the other was thinking.

The duchess watched thoughtfully as Mary touched the soiled blue riding habit that Caroline had been wearing. It was Rhea's, of that she was certain, although why Caroline should have been wearing it was a puzzle. For an instant, when they had carried Caroline into the house, she had thought it was Rhea, forgetting that her daughter had worn her green riding habit. But then her heart had, God forgive her, leaped with joy when she'd seen it was Caroline. She had been so grateful that it had not been her daughter that lay injured, and she had looked toward the door expecting to see Rhea come striding in. But she hadn't entered, and no one knew where she was. She and the Earl of Rendale had vanished without a trace.

Her shadowed violet eyes strayed back to the girl who bore such a close resemblance to her daughter. If only she would awaken and tell them what had happened. The duchess swallowed the lump lodged in her throat as a thousand different thoughts raced through her mind. No, she would not think of the bad things. Everything would be all right. It had to be.

A low moan drifted from the bed, and both the duchess and Lady Mary held their breath as they waited anxiously for some sign of consciousness. But the pale eyelids remained closed, and the lips sealed.

Sir Jeremy fell back onto the seat of the chair as if his legs had been knocked out from under him. He was taking it hard, and the duchess knew he was suffering, but there was nothing she could say to relieve his mind as he sat staring with red-rimmed eyes at his only child.

“We shall do all we can to help her, Jeremy,” the duchess told him, trying to reassure him. “The doctor will be here shortly, and of course, we do have Rawley,” she added, gesturing to the sad-faced maid waiting quietly at the foot of the bed. “She is well versed in these matters. We trust her implicitly. You can imagine. Jeremy,” the duchess continued, forcing a small, amused chuckle to her lips, “how many bumps, cuts, and tummy aches she has had to deal with, and not only with my children, but with Mary's as well.”

“Aye, right ye are, Your Grace,” Rawley agreed, following Her Grace's lead. “Why, I even remember once when young Lord Robin took a tumble down the whole flight of stairs, banging his head wide open. Didn't hear a sound out of him for nearly two days, we didn't. And then the very next day, while I was dozing, the young Lord Robin just up and gets out of bed and wanders down to the kitchens in his nightshirt. And there I found him, just as bold as brass, sitting there eating a piece of peach cobbler. Aye,” Rawley said with a firm shake of her head, “there's no better cure for a good bump on the head than sleep, and plenty of it.”

Sir Jeremy looked brighter as he peered closer at his daughter's sleeping face. “Do you really think so? I do believe she seems to be breathing easier, Rawley. She's not nearly so flushed.”

“There, didn't I tell ye so. Now we're going to keep her nice and warm. And as soon as she's awake, I'll give her a good dose of Mrs. Taylor's Special Treat,” Rawley said, warming to her favorite subject, which was the art of healing. “That'll put her on her feet faster than sitting on a hat pin. I remember once, Sir Jeremy,” she began, nodding to Her Grace before turning back to the slightly bemused but attentive listener, “when I was working as a maid in a London bawdy house…”

The duchess and Lady Mary let themselves quietly out of the room, leaving Sir Jeremy and his daughter in Rawley's very capable hands. They had walked a considerable distance down the hall in a companionable silence, linking their elbows together the way they'd done as children when they'd run together laughing across sweet meadows of newly mown grass. The duchess could feel the tenseness in her sister's rigid arm, and giving it a gentle squeeze, she met Mary's soft, gray eyes.

“I know it does no good to tell you this, Mary,” the duchess began, “but you mustn't blame yourself for what has happened.”