Chance the Winds of Fortune (24 page)

But Janey shook her mop of tousled, tow-colored curls. “Oh, no, Yer Grace, he was out of t'house early this morn. He's a ramblin' sort of fellow. Never sits still, he doesn't.”

“Do you know where he has gone? We would like to speak with him. He was supposed to meet Lady Rhea Claire, the daughter of the duke and duchess, Janey,” Butterick tried to explain.

“Don't know nothin' about that, sir. And I haven't even seen the old man this morn. He left the house afore I was even up. Didn't see him none last night, either,” she admitted sheepishly. “Fell asleep by t'fire, I did. Takin' care of them pups he had in the kitchen. Lady Rhea Claire brought them to me grandfather, didn't she? Oh, but she's a pretty one, her,” she added dreamily.

Butterick coughed, a look of irritation flashing across his face. “Now, Janey, we haven't time for that kind of non—”

But the duke held up a hand to silence him. “Janey, we'd like to speak to your grandfather. It is very important. Do you have any idea where he might have gone?” he asked her gently.

“No—no,” she answered faintly, mesmerized by the scar cutting across the duke's cheek. “He's most likely to wander halfway t'other side of the valley, if the feeling takes him.”

The duke sighed, not wanting to meet his wife's questioning glance. “Have you, perchance, seen Lady Rhea Claire this morning? Or the Earl of Rendale?”

“No, sir, that I haven't. I've been busy, I have though,” she explained, sensing that her answer had disappointed these important people. “Milked the cows and herded them out to pasture. The three of them took their own sweet time, the stubborn beasties. I've still got me baking and churning t'do. Worse still, the hens been off their layin'. Reckon 'tis all of this rain we been havin' and—”

“Lucien! Richard!” called Terence Fletcher from the barn. While they were talking with Janey Taber, the general had wandered off and searched the yard for any recent sign of activity—horses' hoofs, footsteps, or whatever might seem out of the ordinary.

The duchess eyed her brother-in-law with growing concern as she hurried to his side, for his expression, which often seemed grim, was grimmer now than any she had seen in years.

“What is amiss, Terence?” she demanded as she halted beside him, her eyes already straining to see past him into the dark barn.

“Keep the girl out here,” he advised, meeting Lucien's eyes meaningfully. “Sabrina, I'd stay out here, if I were you,” he added. But his request was futile. She sidestepped him and marched inside, then waited impatiently for him to follow.

Lucien shrugged his shoulders, for he was well used to his wife's stubbornness, and followed her. The general and a curious Butterick came close behind him, and an openmouthed Janey was left standing by herself in the doorway.

“Over here,” Terence directed them, pointing to a dark corner of the barn. “It's the old man. He's dead,” he told them, moving aside for them to view the scene.

The elder Mr. Taber was lying stiffly in the straw, his arms outstretched as if he'd tried to catch himself as he'd fallen. On the back of his silvery head was a dark patch of congealed blood.

“The poor man,” Sabrina murmured sadly.

“It looks as if he tripped and hit his head against the corner of the table,” Terence commented, noticing the blood smeared against the wood.

“'Tis a pity. He was a good man, Lucien,” Sabrina said, thinking of his many kindnesses to unfortunate animals, and how he'd unselfishly shared his healing gifts. “He had gotten rather enfeebled of late, though.”

“He was an old man, Sabrina,” Lucien said softly. He had been fond of the old gent, and for as long as he could remember the elder Mr. Taber had been a living legend around Camareigh. “We shall miss him.”

“Aye, Your Grace,” Butterick said sharply, his face flushed with growing anger. “He was a good man, a fine old gentleman, and there was no cause on this earth for him to die like this.”

Terence looked with surprise at the grumbling Butterick. “What are you talking about, man?”

“'Tisn't a natural death, this. The old man was murdered, that's what I mean,” Butterick replied firmly, setting his jaw as if preparing for battle.

“Good God, man! Do you know what you're saying?” roared the general.

“Aye,” Butterick replied calmly, refusing to be intimidated by the general's military demeanor. “And I'll tell ye somethin' else, although I reckon you'd have noticed it soon enough, General, if you'd been of a suspicious nature like meself.”

“What's that?”

“The elder Mr. Taber, here, has been dead since last night.” He spoke this startling news quietly. “So I'm thinkin' that them stiff fingers didn't write no note to Lady Rhea Claire,” he said, and this horrifying conclusion sliced through the heavy silence like the blade of an ax.

The duchess continued to stare with fascinated horror at the harmless old man's body. “I-I don't understand. Why should anyone wish to murder him? My God, Lucien!” she cried out. “He was close to a hundred years old! What harm could a gentle old man like Mr. Taber do to someone?”

“What I do not understand,” Terence said worriedly, “is what the connection is between the old man's death and whatever has happened to Rhea Claire and the Earl of Rendale. And who, for God's sake, wrote that damned note?”

Butterick glanced up from where he was kneeling beside the body. “He's scrawled something here in the dirt,” he said. He looked satisfied that he'd ferreted out a clue, even if it was indecipherable.

“A bird?” Terence Fletcher exclaimed in disbelief, staring over Butterick's shoulder at the scratchings in the hard-packed dirt.

Sabrina leaned closer as she squatted down beside the body. “It looks like a pigeon,” she said wonderingly.

“Aye, right ye are, Your Grace,” Butterick agreed. “But why the old man should draw a pigeon in his last breath of life, well,” Butterick said with a frustrated shake of his head, “I'm sure I don't know.”

The duchess rose on shaky legs and stumbled away from the body. She closed her eyes for a moment as she leaned her forehead against the wooden support of the stall. Then she felt Lucien's arms close around her, and she allowed herself to be pressed against the familiar, comforting warmth of his chest.

“Oh, Lucien,” she whispered, tears choking her voice. “What are we going to do? What has happened to our daughter?”

Lucien turned her around in his arms and stared down into her wet eyes, feeling more helpless than he'd ever before felt in his life. “I promise you, Rina, by all that I hold dear, that I will find our daughter. This I swear to you with my life,” he vowed.

* * *

“'Ere, what d'ye mean ye saw me Tommy with some saucy wench in Cheapside?” a shrill voice demanded. “Lies, that's what it is. Ye be sea green with jealousy 'cuz I got meself a man, and ye ain't! Wish ye had Tommy yeself, ye do. Aye, that's the trouble wif ye—what! 'Ere, there's no call fer sayin' such a thing, and about the dead too. Me mother was as fine a…” But the rest of the denial went unheard, the voices drifting away as the two women in conversation moved briskly along the slippery cobblestones, hurrying to reach their destination before the light, cold drizzle turned into a downpour.

The man who'd been watching them was standing silently in the shadows and was wishing for a warm hearth and a mug of ale to take the chill away, but he knew almost for a certainty that that would be a long time coming
this
evening. Teddie Waltham hunched his shoulders, waiting for a group of boisterous sailors to pass; he knew that in their unrestrained mood anything or anyone unfortunate enough to cross their path was destined to end up in the gutter.

Waltham glanced around very surreptitiously, shivering slightly as he moved from the safety of the shadows and made his way with easy assurance through the back alleys and twisting lanes of London. He figured that he and her ladyship had made London in record time, and 'twas only a pity that they could never make it public, for it'd be a tough time to beat. Aye, but it'd given him a good feeling to once again see and smell the city in which he'd been born and raised. They'd returned to the King's Messenger, for 'twas a well-known place to certain people, and most of them knew they could find Teddie Waltham on the premises. Then he'd spent the better part of a cold, rainy day going about London, searching out old friends, leaving word here and there, getting suspicious looks from friends of friends who wanted to know why he was looking for so-and-so… Well, now he wanted to make sure he received any messages coming back to him. And that was why he now found himself out in this inhospitable weather, for he had arranged to meet an acquaintance in about an hour's time. His steps faltered briefly as he thought of his next interview, which was with a certain unfriendly party, but the jingle of coins in his pocket kept his steps heading in the right direction.

He would have liked to stop off for a wee one at a coffeehouse he knew of just around the corner, but he thought better of it, for he needed a clear head to deal with her ladyship. He saw the dark bulk of her coach before he heard the snuffling of the horses, but he refused to allow himself to be intimidated by the upcoming confrontation and continued to shorten the distance between himself and the door that was already beginning to open for him.

Waltham vaulted inside, the darkness swallowing him up as the door closed behind him.

“Well?” Kate asked impatiently. The damp cold had seeped through her velvet cloak, bodice, skirts, and petticoats, and she was having a hard time controlling the chattering of her teeth, which she did not find at all amusing.

“In an hour, m'lady,” Waltham told her uncommunicatively as he huddled in the corner. He sniffed the stuffy air curiously, his mouth tightening ominously. “Gave her another dose, did you?”

“Astute, aren't you?” Kate said from her corner of the coach. “She was waking up. Or did you want a screaming, hysterical female bringing the watchman poking his nose in here, or, even worse, a couple of them damned Bow Street Runners?” she asked him, leaving him little choice but to agree with her decision.

“I just don't want her dead, that's all, m'lady,” Waltham replied, eyeing the heavily drugged form wrapped in a cloak and held protectively against Rocco's chest.

“Well, I just hope this deal doesn't fall through like the last one you set up,” Kate told him, her tone leaving him in little doubt of her opinion of his abilities. “My God, I could scarcely believe my ears when I heard that fool fall down the stairs. I did tell you to be discreet, but what do you do?” Kate said, warming to her grievance like a cat settling herself on a hearth. “You invite some drunken clown to meet you in
my
rooms! That biddy, Farquhar, is already getting suspicious about the chit. I'm not sure she even believes my story that the brat is my niece. And I'm sure she didn't believe me when I told her she was suffering migraine, and that was why I had to keep the room quiet and dark. I think she suspects us of smuggling in the pox. I caught her snooping outside my door last night, so I'd just as soon not have to take the girl back there,” she warned her accomplice.

“Aye, 'tis tonight or never for her,” he agreed. “But you needn't worry that soft heart of yours about doin' her in, 'cause I've already talked to my friend, and he's very interested in the merchandise. There will be no problems this time.”

“There had better not be, my good man,” Kate remarked, unimpressed by Waltham's reassurances. “Who is this fellow?”

“He's a supercargo on board a merchantman sailing between London and Charles Town in the colonies. His cargo ain't always dry goods. Seems there's quite a profit in the trafficking of indentured servants. He figures he can take on one more passenger this trip. And they're weighing anchor with the tide. Just to whet his appetite for the deal, I also didn't neglect to describe our little beauty very enticingly. He is already counting his profit when he sells her in the colonies.”

Kate startled him by clapping her hands. “The colonies!” she crooned, her harsh, unbridled laughter filling the coach. “Lud, but that's rich! The grand Duke of Camareigh's daughter being sold as a servant. Ha!” She chuckled, her shoulders shaking with mirth. “Oh, you have surely surpassed yourself, Mr. Edward Waltham. You and Percy really should have met. He would have loved this.”

Waltham frowned, thinking that if this Percy fellow were anything like her ladyship, then he would just as soon prefer not to cross paths with him. “We're to meet my friend near a place I know along the river,” he told her.

“Very good, Mr. Waltham,” Kate said, tapping on the roof of the carriage. “Give the coachman the directions.”

“Oh,” he added, pretending that something had slipped his mind. “I take it that you, personally, shall be handing the girl over to my friend?” he asked with a meaningful glance at Rocco. “After all, you do have a way with him, don't you?”

“Indeed, Mr. Waltham,” Kate replied, unworried. “There will be no difficulties; that I can promise you.”

“Good,” he replied with an equal show of unconcern. But he didn't at all care for the tone of her ladyship's voice.

They left the coach some distance down the lane where it would draw little attention from passersby and proceeded on foot up the cobbled street. Then they turned into a narrow, garbage-strewn alley.

Waltham could almost hear her ladyship fuming as she carefully picked her way through the stinking refuse thrown down from the windows above.

“A fine place, indeed,” she muttered as she felt her satin shoe slide into something indescribable.

“You said you wanted me to be discreet,” he reminded her, with great pleasure. Blowing on his cupped hands, his breath vaporizing, he tried to keep warm, but he could feel the drizzle and mists that were drifting in off the river seeping into his clothing. The sound of approaching footsteps caught his attention and he walked toward the end of the alley, leaving her ladyship behind with Rocco and his armful.