Chance the Winds of Fortune

by Laurie McBain

  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.

  The King’s Messenger Inn was a small, well-kept inn sitting snug on a quiet side street off St. Martin’s Lane. It was an inn frequented by travelers arriving in London. Its closeness to the festivities held at Covent Garden and Drury Lane and to the shopping that could be done on Oxford Street, as well as its proximity to the fashionable squares and parks of the West End, made it a convenient place to stay if one were trying to get around London. But, despite these advantages, the King’s Messenger Inn was not one of the more exclusive inns, which was why Kate had chosen it, for it was unlikely that she would cross paths with any past acquaintances from her former life in London, or see any familiar faces from Venice. The King’s Messenger Inn was where Niccolò, Conte Rasghieri, preferred to stay when in London. She had heard him speak of it often when telling her of his trips to England; she’d treasured and remembered his every word about her beloved homeland. It oddly comforted her now to know that the conte had been here, eating and sleeping under this very same roof, Kate realized as she stepped inside the inn, and a surging tide of warmth and light spread out around her. Coming from within the large common dining room to the left of the entrance hall were the unmistakable sounds of mealtime, and it seemed to be a jovial one at that; laughter was drifting from the room along with the clinking of china and cutlery. A serving girl hurried by holding a heavy tray shoulder-high, which was loaded down with brimming mugs of ale. The tray was balanced precariously on one hand. Her expression was harried as she easily sidestepped the newcomers filling the small hall. “’Erself’ll be ’ere sooner’n them thirsty blokes stuffin’ their faces can be emptyin’ these bleedin’ mugs,” the girl said over her shoulder as she disappeared inside the smoke-filled room. Her entrance prompted a chorus of cheers and rude remarks from the patrons.

  “Ye’ll be wantin’ a room, I s’pose?” inquired a woman of incredible obesity matter-of-factly as she waddled toward them, her bulk just barely managing to squeeze through the narrow door at the back of the hall. A ruffled mobcap was perched on top of her powdered curls, the bands tied in a bow that had nearly disappeared between her double chins. A matching apron was stretched around her jiggli
ng midriff, and on her small, pudgy fingers an amazingly fine collection of jewelry flashed when she fluttered her hands.

  And they were hands that could deal a stinging blow, Kate thought, seeing the serving girl cringe instinctively when she returned with her tray full of empty mugs, as if she were expecting a blow to fall on her unprotected shoulders as she passed her mistress.

  “Ye’ll pay in advance, that’s me rule. And I’ll not be havin’ any of them feurin-lookin’ coins in payment,” the proprietress warned, jabbing a thick finger into her palm where she held several English shillings. “English. Comprenez-moi?” she demanded, placing her hands on her ample hips as she stared contemptuously at the old woman who was jabbering away in a foreign tongue. Meanwhile, the giant towering over the two women continued to stare silently into space. “Feuriners,” she muttered beneath her breath, “expectin’ me to be understandin’ their language right here in London.”

  “Oh, but I understand you perfectly, my good woman,” Kate responded in her most haughty tone, ice dripping from each carefully enunciated word. “And I wouldn’t dream of paying in anything but English currency.”

  “Oh,” the proprietress mouthed silently, a look of chagrin staining her face an unbecoming red. “Beggin’ yer pardon, m’lady,” she responded quickly, for she was no fool, and this was a lady if ever there was one. “Yer maid, talkin’ in all them funny words, well, naturally I thought ye was foreign. Most of me guests are from across the Channel, and if ye knew the devil of a time I’m having in gettin’ them to pay in good English money, well, let me tell ye—”

  “Please do not. Since that problem is unlikely to arise, your domestic situation is of little concern to me. I have just arrived from Venice, and I am quite fatigued,” Kate drawled in a bored voice. With an imperiously raised hand she had abruptly halted the garrulous woman’s confidences. “Do you or don’t you have rooms that I may take?”

  “Of course, m’lady. Please follow me. The King’s Messenger has a good reputation for cleanliness,” she boasted as she heaved herself up the steps, the stairs groaning and creaking under her weight. “Air our sheets and got warming pans for damp ones. Neat wines. And, if I do say so meself, I’m one of the best cooks in London. Even know how to prepare a few of them feurin dishes,” she declared magnanimously, never pausing in her stride even when a striped cat shot down the stairs, a mouse trapped in his jaws. “Got his dinner, he does. A good mouser, him. Now, here’s yer rooms. Me best suite, and overlooking the street. Too noisy on the courtyard side. Figure ye might be wantin’ it nice and quiet like,” she added, her sharp eyes not having missed the mourning black worn by her guest. “Come fer a funeral, have ye?” she asked, clucking her tongue in sympathy.

  Kate smiled beneath her heavy veiling. “Yes, ‘I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him,’” she quoted with a chuckle.

  “Here, what’s that? Caesar? Strange name for a bloke—oh, Italian, is he?” the proprietress asked. She’d cast Kate a strange look when she’d heard the chuckle; then she shrugged, for as long as Kate’s money was good, she was welcome at the King’s Messenger Inn. “I’ll have a maid in here right soon. Light ye a nice cheery fire. Take the chill away. Will ye be dining in here or downstairs?” she asked, glancing around the room to make sure everything was in order.

  Kate was standing before the small mullioned windows, her shoulders slumping tiredly. “I’ll take all of my meals in here,” she informed her. Then, turning around, she glanced about the room too, but was not overly impressed by its cozy atmosphere. “Oh, and I shall want something very English tonight for supper. It will be my homecoming dinner, so I want it to be something special.”

  “Aye, ’twill be as ye wish, m’lady,” the proprietress of the King’s Messenger Inn replied, smiling nervously as she eyed the lumbering footman pacing around the room like a caged beast. “Don’t say overmuch, do he?” she asked, jerking her bonneted head toward the silent man.

  Kate followed her look. “He isn’t required to. He has a strong back; that is all that is needed. Do you know,” Kate added in a very confidential tone, concealing her grin from the woman, “that he once became so angered with a farmer who was beating a poor defenseless donkey that with his own two bare hands, Rocco twisted the farmer’s head off.”

  “No,” the proprietress breathed in awed fascination, sucking in her breath in a whoosh while she stared at Rocco’s big hands as if they were, at this very moment, strangling the life out of someone. “Lord help us. Who would’ve thought such a thing of him? Looks so gentle like, he does. Don’t ye ever get a wee bit worried havin’ a man of his sort around?” she asked, touching her head meaningfully.

  “No, not at all. Rocco is devoted to me and I am quite comforted by his presence,” Kate responded matter-of-factly.

  “Aye, well, to each his own, I’m always sayin’,” she muttered, taking a careful step backward. “If’n ye’ve got any questions or needs, juz be askin’ fer Nell Farquhar, that be me. I’ll have someone bring up yer dinner, real soon, I will,” she promised, heading for the door with incredible speed for a woman of her bulk.

  Kate was warming herself before the fire when two serving maids entered with her dinner, their glances darting nervously to where Rocco was sitting in the corner, his dark eyes staring dreamily into the fire. Kate knew that Nell Farquhar had wasted little time in spreading the story of Rocco’s incredible strength, which was exactly what Kate had hoped she would do. A healthy respect for another’s unpredictable temper certainly kept people at a distance, and also kept them minding their own business. Kate eyed Rocco with the same affection she would have for a devoted dog, for Rocco seemed to know only one thing in life, which was to serve her. He’d been her most valued footman for years now, his size and unquestioning obedience serving her well, and that was why she’d brought him with her to England, for he would do as she told him—never questioning, never criticizing, just loyally obeying.

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, m’ady,” said one of the serving girls timidly, her thin hands holding her empty tray against her chest like a shield. “Where will yer servants be eatin’? Ye wants us to bring them somethin’?”

  Kate waved them away. “I shall not be able to eat all of this. They can have what is left over. Don’t worry, Rocco will not be coming down to dine. Of course”—Kate paused, pretending to give the thought some serious consideration—“if you do wish him to join you, I am sure it can be arranged,” she told them, enjoying with sadistic pleasure their obvious discomfort.

  “Oh, no, m’lady!” the serving girls squealed in unison, bumping into each other as they backed to the door. “We was just wonderin’. We really didn’t mean for ’im to be joinin’ us. I means we don’t have a set time for supper. We just grabs whats we can. If’n ye knows what I means?”

  “Yes, I know exactly what you do mean. Now go, I grow weary of conversing with you while my meal grows cold,” Kate ordered, a look of irritation crossing her face beneath the veil. “It would seem, Rocco, that only your mistress can bear to be in your presence,” she commented as the door closed on the shaking serving girls.

  Kate sniffed appreciatively at the cut of rare roast beef soaking in its own gravy on her plate. The good proprietress had certainly taken her at her word, Kate thought, eyeing the very English meal of roast beef, pigeon pie, and puddings, one of which she knew was a savory blend of steak, kidney, lark, and oysters, accompanied by several vegetable dishes, and followed by custards, tarts, and jellies.

  For the first time since leaving Venice she was hungry, Kate thought in surprise, and poured herself a goblet of wine from one of the several she had ordered. Tossing off her veil she glanced around her strange yet familiar surroundings, her mask hiding any flicker of emotion that might have crossed her face. It was odd, Kate pondered, that when living in London so many years ago, all she could abide was French cuisine, and yet, while in Venice, she would have given a fortune for an E
nglish pudding, something she once would have scorned.

  Kate was well into the second bottle of wine when Nell Farquhar knocked on the door, and receiving permission to enter, stood awkwardly before Kate, shifting her weight from one tired foot to the other. Her round mouth was open in amazement as she continued to stare at the masked woman sitting negligently before the roaring fire, a sable rug draped across her knees, and a half-empty glass of wine held indolently to catch the flickering light from the flames.

  “Ye wanted to see me, m’lady?” Nell inquired, casting an uneasy glance at Rocco and the old woman, who were busily putting away the leftovers from Kate’s meal. The only sound was the smacking of their lips as they every so often licked their fingers.

  “Yes, Mrs. Farquhar, is it?” Kate inquired politely, her blue eyes glittering behind the mask.

  “Aye, I’ve had three husbands, I have. Johnny Farquhar was me last. This was his place, it was. Outlived them all, I have,” Nell Farquhar stated proudly.

  “Have you indeed? How extraordinary, and how enterprising of you, Mrs. Farquhar,” Kate complimented her, recognizing a fellow opportunist in the proprietress of the King’s Messenger Inn. “What I would ask of you now, Mrs. Farquhar, is, perhaps, some advice,” Kate began smoothly, flattering the woman.

  “Well, don’t know as how I can be givin’ the likes of ye advice, but I don’t see as how it can be hurtin’ none,” Nell Farquhar stated with a fine show of modesty as she settled herself into her favorite stance of hands on hips.

  “Oh, my dear Mrs. Farquhar,” Kate responded with an equal display of graciousness, “you are too kind for words. But, of course, I shall recompense you for any information or assistance that you are about to so generously offer me.”

  Nell Farquhar’s round face was beaming. “Well, m’lady, in that case, of course I should be more than happy to help ye,” she responded with a widening grin.