Six
Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t.
—Shakespeare
“Hmmm, what do you say to this one, Teddie?” Kate asked thoughtfully. “‘A ministering angel shall my sister be.’ No”—she sighed in disappointment—“’tis too obvious, I fear. Ah!” she cried out suddenly. “Now this one is priceless. ’Tis quite brilliant, indeed. I must admit, I do astound myself at times.” She chuckled, dipping her quill pen into the crystal inkwell that was part of an elaborate silver inkstand.
Teddie Waltham sourly eyed her ladyship. The busy scratchings of her quill pen were beginning to get on his nerves, but at least it kept her occupied and out of mischief. Teddie was thankful for small favors.
Day after day, there she sat, poring over dusty books. Her sometimes unintelligible utterances varied between pleased cooings and half-muttered curses as she searched for the proper lines of poetry to torture and perplex her enemy at Camareigh. For almost two months now she had been playing her sadistic game, savoring her revenge, and Teddie could well imagine the duke’s reaction when yet another of her ladyship’s little missives arrived.
It had been fortunate that they had sent the kidnapped girl off to the colonies, for London, as well as every seacoast town and country village, had been flooded with broadsides and handbills describing the missing girl and offering a small fortune for information resulting in her safe return. He had been relieved, and at first thankful, to learn that he wasn’t a murderer, for the gent he’d shot—who was no less a personage than an earl—had staked a reward for information and/or apprehension of the persons unknown involved in the kidnapping of Lady Rhea Claire Dominick and the attempted murder of his own person.
It had caused him a bit of concern at first, as well as indignation, when he’d found himself described as “a seedy ruffian of middling size, coarse-featured, and wearing a nasty, red velvet coat.” Now, that had hurt, for a man had his pride regardless of what he was, and he’d always done his best, considering his straitened circumstances. Not to mention that the red velvet coat, so contemptuously described, had been one of his favorites. It had saddened him grievously to have to toss it into the river. Now Teddie stared in disgust at his plain brown cloth coat, thinking it did little to enhance his appearance.
“Do you know, Teddie, I think it is about time I breathed some fresh country air again,” Kate said, not noticing Waltham’s start of surprise. “Find someone to send this note, then I think we should start packing for our journey,” she told him, still unaware of his reluctance.
“Our journey?” he questioned doubtfully. “I’m quite content right here before the fire, m’lady.”
“I’m sure you are, but that is not the point. I think I have lulled Lucien into letting down his guard. He cannot live forever holed up at Camareigh. I could scarcely believe my eyes when we journeyed back there a fortnight ago and found the place armed like a fortress. But I do think now is the time to act, and I shall deliver my next message to Lucien personally,” she vowed, her voice ringing with the anticipated pleasure of revenge. “God, but it will be worth it all just to have the pleasure of seeing Lucien’s face when I confront him. If he didn’t have the devil’s own luck, Percy and I would have succeeded in ridding ourselves of him years ago. Why, when I think of all of the bungled attempts we made on his life, well, it leaves me quite stunned, let me tell you.”
“It doesn’t me,” Waltham muttered, having come to the belated conclusion that nothing was impossible to believe where m’lady was concerned. He had always had suspicions that these folk calling themselves “quality” were crackbrained. Did things in style, they did, but mad just the same. Thought of themselves as eccentric, but it all came down to having rats in the upper story, same as any other raver. Only these swells had the funds to keep themselves out of Bedlam.
“Teddie?”
Waltham cringed, for he had come to dread hearing his name spoken in that wheedling tone of voice. He remained silent, hoping against hope that her ladyship would forget her summons.
“Teddie!” Kate spoke his name more sharply. “Now do listen. I should like to become acquainted with a few of your friends. Now that we are without the useful services of Rocco, we shall have to find several other large fellows to assist us if my plan is to succeed. I am quite sure that you must know some beef-witted men who would be glad for a little easy work. You know the type, Teddie. More brawn than brain,” she told him casually, as if expecting him to instantly produce the fellows from his coat pocket.
“Well, m’lady,” he replied, “seein’ how me activities have been curtailed a wee bit, I might find it hard gettin’ about town.”
“Hmmm, well, you’ll just have to do your best then, won’t you?” Kate replied unsympathetically. “’Tis a pity that fool lived to describe you.”
“Aye, ’twas indeed,” Waltham agreed glumly. “But ’tis even worse havin’ a price on yer head, fer I’ve found out who Teddie Waltham’s friends are, and that fat tart Farquhar ain’t one of them. Heard tell she was the one talkin’ to them Bow Street Runners, puttin’ them snoopy noses of theirs on my scent!” he exclaimed indignantly. “Reckon she thought the chance of pocketing that reward was worth more than Teddie Waltham’s neck.”
“Well, I did tell you the old biddy was suspicious of our clandestine activities. That is why, if you will remember, I advised moving to another inn. And I must admit, I rather enjoy being so close to the river. The stench and damp reminds me much of Venice,” Kate remarked, more concerned about her present comfort than the future condition of Teddie Waltham’s scrawny neck. “I should imagine, Teddie,” she continued, “considering your lack of popularity in certain quarters, that you would be more than pleased to get out of the close confines of London. You really should be thanking your lucky stars that there is someone like me around to take you in hand.” Impatiently, she eyed his sullen figure. “Now come on, Teddie. It won’t do at all to sit here sulking when we’ve work to do. This will be the culmination of all that I have planned. I have been waiting for this moment for nearly twenty years, and by God, I’ll not be cheated out of it. Oh, if only Percy were here to share in our greatest moment!” she cried, clutching her thin, pale hands almost as if in prayer.
Waltham shook his head; propping his stubby chin in his hands, he stared into the fire, thankful that this Percy fellow she kept mentioning was not here to share in m’lady’s greatest moment. Even one of these crazed blue bloods was too much for him to handle, he thought on a rising feeling of impending doom.
* * *
The Duchess of Camareigh moved with unusual slowness toward the bed with its pale blue and silver damask hangings. The only sound in the room was the rustling of her silk skirts. She carefully straightened one of the lacy-edged pillows. As if satisfied with her work, she glanced around the deserted room, where not a speck of dust could have been found. It was just as Rhea had left it that morning.
The duchess paused before the rosewood and gilt dressing table, where the mirror reflected her slight figure in dark blue silk, the Valenciennes lace gracing her sleeves in deep ruffles giving a touch of brightness to her otherwise somber appearance. The elaborately embroidered and trimmed white silk underskirt, which usually accompanied the gown and relieved its darkness, had been replaced with a plain, dark blue quilted one.
Her small hand moved amongst the undisturbed toiletries, lingering on the engraved silver brush, in which remained a few golden strands of hair. She held a small crystal bottle to her nose and breathed the sweet scent of jessamine her daughter had been fond of.
The duchess’s bottom lip trembled slightly as she walked to the tall windows and stared out across the gardens below. Although Rhea’s rooms were situated in the south wing, the windows looked westward. The duchess watched as the light began to fade; darkness came earlier now with the approach of winter.
Reaching into the pocket of her ski
rt, the duchess withdrew a carefully folded piece of paper. She opened it wide, her eyes straining in the dim light to read the words. But this was unnecessary, as the words were ingrained in her memory. She recited aloud the latest lines of poetry received just that morning:
“If they be two, they are two so
As stiff twin compasses are two.
Thy soul the fixt foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if the other do.”
The duchess stared helplessly at the words. If only she could fathom the meaning. Were there clues in those lines to the identity of the madman behind the kidnapping? And a madman he was, for this was no mere blackmailer’s game, nor extortionist’s plot. At least with an honest blackguard they could have paid the ransom and gotten Rhea returned to them. But so far, no demand for ransom had been received.
Or did those enigmatic lines refer to Rhea’s whereabouts? the duchess wondered, thinking of the riddle they had received just a little over a week ago.
All day they hunted,
And nothing did they find,
But a ship asailing,
A-sailing with the wind.
The duchess closed her eyes in silent prayer, hoping that her worst fears were wrong, and that Rhea Claire’s kidnapping had not been the act of an evil, twisted mind. But deep down inside she knew that Rhea was just a pawn in this madman’s game. And that was what horrified her the most, for a pawn has little value once its purpose has been fulfilled. And what was that purpose? If it were to cause them the deepest suffering and anguish a parent could endure, if it were to torment them with baffling riddles, then this madman had succeeded, for they were living the agonies of hell.
And that was why, God help them, she believed that revenge was the motive. But revenge for what? Was it for some imagined misdeed committed by either herself or Lucien? Or perhaps it had been a genuine misunderstanding, where no harm had been intended? But merely by living from day to day, one could make enemies, and both she and Lucien had led very full lives. And each of them had made enemies in their lives before they had met and married. Lucien had had his share of duels. Was some grieving relative now seeking retribution? Lucien had also been a gambler, and one who had won more often than lost. Perhaps a son or daughter was out to avenge the loss. But why now? she wondered. Nothing untoward had occurred in the past few years. They’d had the unpleasantness of having to fire a footman for pilfering, but he had been illiterate and hardly clever enough to plan such a diabolical scheme of revenge.
So the question remained—why now? What had happened to set this act of madness into motion? And why kidnap Rhea Claire? Why not Francis or Robin instead? The only reason she could think of was that within this year, Rhea had been seen by most of London society. She had been a stunning success, her grace and beauty eclipsing other young hopefuls, whose future fortunes depended on a successful season of parties and routs and on making a good impression on influential people.
Rhea Claire would have been noticed by many people. Perhaps she had been watched by an unfriendly, calculating eye. Perhaps her family name had awakened a slumbering beast. A deep enmity could have smoldered beneath the surface for years, waiting for that certain spark to ignite it into a raging fire of vengeful hatred.
The duchess knew her assumptions to be partly correct, for one line of poetry they’d received had said: “Thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges.” That surely referred to the cycle of time turning over a period of years to mete out its justice.
“Oh, Your Grace! I had no idea you was in here,” gasped one of the maids as she lighted the candles, which spread flickering light into the shadows, revealing the duchess’s dark figure. “I’ll come back later, if ye like,” she offered, not liking to disturb Her Grace nowadays.
“’Tis all right, Betsie,” the duchess told her, moving away from the chill in front of the windows. “I suppose I’ve missed tea again?” she asked, glancing at the clock on the mantel. For the first time, she seemed aware of the lateness of the hour.
“Aye, Your Grace,” Betsie replied half apologetically, thinking privately that Her Grace was going to fade away if she missed one more teatime. “Of course,” she added, “His Grace missed tea too.”
“Did he indeed?” the duchess murmured thoughtfully. “Is he in his study?”
“No, Your Grace. Heard one of the footmen say His Grace was in the Long Gallery. Lookin’ at pictures, he was, and never knew the room was dark,” Betsie said.
“I see. Thank you, Betsie,” the duchess said, a slight frown settling on her brow. Then, with a last glance around the bedchamber, she was gone.
Betsie also glanced around the lovely room, thinking it would be a shame if Lady Rhea Claire never returned to see it again.
The Duchess of Camareigh moved briskly along the corridors, finally arriving at the Long Gallery. The narrow length of room was lighted every few feet by a candelabrum and various sofas and chairs scattered along the gallery’s great length cast strange shadows across the floor. The duchess made her way purposely toward the tall man standing lost in thought before one of the paintings.
“Lucien? Lucien, what is it?” the duchess asked softly, coming up beside him and staring up at the portrait which seemed to hold him spellbound.
“I think I know who our enemy is, Rina,” Lucien said, his voice barely above a whisper. But there was such a note of dread in it that Sabrina felt whatever hope she had left die in that moment.
Her eyes moved across the portrait of the dowager duchess and her three young grandchildren, the blond heads glowing brightly in the candlelight. “Your cousins?” she breathed in disbelief, for although Lucien had spoken of them just after they had been married, he had never since brought their names into any conversation. It was almost as if he had willed himself to forget their very existence—at least until now. She herself had never met either of them.
“What makes you suspect them, Lucien?” Sabrina demanded. “We’ve heard naught of them for almost twenty years. I remember the dowager duchess heard from them infrequently, and it was usually a demand for funds. But that was long ago, and I know she had not heard from them for some time before her death. They were traveling on the Continent, I believe. I’ve never heard a word about them returning to London.”
Lucien continued to stare in fascination at the faces so like his own. His cousins. Kate and Percy, the twins, who had hated him with a murderous vengeance for most of their lives.
“I have no conclusive proof, just a feeling, Rina,” Lucien warned her.
“A feeling is sometimes all we have to depend upon,” she replied, her hand resting on his arm to encourage his confidences.
“Remember the veiled woman Francis mentioned?”
“Yes, we thought—especially when Lord Rendale remembered the big man—that it might be my stepmama, the contessa. Francis had sworn that they were speaking Italian. That made her the most logical suspect, although I never did quite see her in the role. She might be grasping and selfish, but she’s no murderess.”
“No, I didn’t really think so either, but we had to make certain. And besides, Francis did think the woman was English, despite her foreignness. But we sent a man to Venice to discover if she had left the city, or was still in residence. His report eliminated her as the mysterious veiled woman, for at the time of the kidnapping she was in Venice, and there are witnesses who can swear to that. We also are not even certain that the man Lord Rendale saw was the same man who had been with the veiled woman. If it was not the same man, then she was exactly what she said she was, a traveler passing through the valley, and nothing more.”
Lucien’s voice hardened perceptibly. “And then came that note. And in it the warning, ‘Ye that are of good understanding, note the doctrine that is hidden under the veil of the strange verses!’ A coincidence, perhaps, but suspicious nonetheless. And, after all, that is the purpose of the poems
, to entice us into guessing about hidden meanings. So once again we became suspicious of the veiled woman. Then today, we received the poem mentioning twin compasses, and because of that earlier poem, we automatically assumed it referred to Rhea’s whereabouts. But what if the focal word in the line is not compasses, but twin. Had you forgotten that Kate and Percy are twins? That one never made a move without the other one? They are practically one entity.
“Then there is the riddle we received just before this one about the scars of others teaching us caution, and we assumed it referred to the mental scars suffered by others, but, Rina”—Lucien paused and glanced significantly at the little girl in the portrait—“what if it was meant literally?”
“Kate was horribly scarred that day,” Sabrina recalled. “And she would blame you for it, forgetting her own treachery.”
“Yes, and perhaps the words have double meaning, in that they refer to my scar as well. It is giving fair warning that some action of mine will elicit a violent reaction.”
Sabrina gazed into the eyes of the angelic-looking Kate and Percy, their cherubic faces, haloed with golden curls, imprisoned forever on the canvas, giving away no secrets.
Unconsciously, Lucien rubbed his scarred cheek as he thought back on his uneasy relationship with his cousins. It had only worsened through the years, until finally they had tried to murder him in order to inherit Camareigh and its wealth. If they were behind the kidnapping of his daughter, Lucien thought, then he was more frightened than he had ever been in his life—for their hate knew no bounds. They would delight in hurting that which belonged to him. They would be pitiless—and especially to his daughter.
The pain he had suffered when Kate had scarred his cheek was nothing compared to the anguish he felt now as he realized that his daughter might be in the hands of the twins.
Sabrina leaned her head against his shoulder, and he moved his arm slightly to draw her closer against his chest. He felt her shoulders shaking as she wept silently. Lucien closed his eyes and rested his scarred cheek against the top of Sabrina’s head. He felt almost weak from the wave of helpless rage coursing through him. With a deep sigh of weariness, he opened his eyes and found himself staring into the painted blue ones of a very young Kate Rathbourne. When, he wondered, would he come face-to-face once again with his cousins in the flesh?
Chance the Winds of Fortune Page 35