“Francis!” Robin yelled, then lowered his voice to an almost conspiratorial whisper. “You don’t understand. I—”
“Yes, I do understand, and only too well,” Francis retorted as he bent down and rescued the letter that had fallen out of his brother’s prying hands. “That insatiable curiosity of yours has led you astray this time, Robin. I can see no excuse for it, and quite frankly, I am ashamed of you.”
“My—my curiosity, Francis,” Robin replied huskily, a glint of anger and tears flashing in his eyes, “may have something to do with Rhea.”
Francis was finally silenced. “What are you talking about?” he asked quietly, noticing his brother’s squared-off shoulders as he came from behind the desk.
“That letter you are holding was just delivered to Camareigh. I was at the door to the study and overheard Father telling the footman not to let anyone else learn of its arrival.”
Francis looked doubtfully between his brother’s intent face and the letter. “So? Father has many business interests that are not any of our concern.”
“Father especially did not wish Mother to know about this note,” Robin interjected. “He never keeps secrets from her.”
“It is Father’s decision and we should not question it, nor his motives,” Francis stated firmly, unwilling to admit the strangeness of his father’s actions.
“He’s not having tea, is he, Francis?” Robin continued, unwilling to be swayed from a course of action he wasn’t even certain of yet. “You would not have come looking for us if he was.”
“He is most likely there now and wondering where we are.”
“No,” Robin contradicted him. “He is most likely at the stables.”
“How do you know that?” Francis demanded, his eyes straying to the letter in his hand.
“Because I saw him going upstairs and taking off his coat at the same time. He was in a hurry. Whatever is in that note upset him. I have never seen him looking so angry,” Robin said, glancing nervously at the door, as if expecting to see the duke standing there watching him.
“Read it, Francis,” he urged his brother, tugging insistently on his arm. “Read it.”
Francis continued to stare down at the suddenly ominous-looking, buff-colored letter; then, with doubts about the propriety and consequences of reading his father’s personal correspondence uppermost in his mind, he carefully unfolded the letter.
* * *
The Duke of Camareigh was riding east, toward the great oak mentioned in the anonymous letter. His suspicions concerning the identity of the kidnappers had grown into a dread certainty, for few people would know of the ancient tree’s existence, much less of the narrow path twisting through the vale and around the pond at the far end. There stood the centuries-old oak that had spread its boughs to the skies through much of the history of Camareigh.
It had not always grown in a peaceful vale, for the blood of Saxon insurgents had been shed by battle-honed Norman swords some seven hundred years earlier, on a day much like this one, when gray clouds ran before the wind and the mighty oak cast no shadow. Legend had it that a hundred serfs, loyal to their Saxon lord, had fought valiantly with scythe and rusty blade that day by the oak, only to fall beneath the shining swords of the conquerors. But with his last dying breath, their liege lord had avenged their martyrdom and called down a curse on his Norman murderers, and upon the seed of their seed.
It was a prophecy that had yet to come true, but it had been remembered by each generation of Dominicks. For the dying Saxon lord had prophesied that he would have his revenge against them one day, when Norman blood would be shed beneath the oak and mingle with the blood of slain Saxons.
Nearing the oak, Lucien worried little about this ancient curse as he folded back the leather covers of his saddle holsters. His eyes searched the vale for some sign of entrapment, since he felt certain that he was now riding into a cleverly designed trap. Some might call him mad, or foolhardy, for having ventured forth into what must surely be danger. Some might even suspect him of courting his own death, but in his own eyes he’d had no other choice—not if he wanted to see his daughter alive again.
The note had stated quite bluntly that unless he came alone, he would never see his daughter alive. Should other riders be following him, Rhea Claire Dominick would be killed at that instant. The note had coldly stated that her blood would be on his hands.
Coming ever closer to the oak, he knew that his actions had been predictable, for he would take no chances where Rhea’s safety was involved. And so he was playing into his adversaries’ hands, but there was nothing he could do about it. He would, as the note had suggested, trade his life for his daughter’s.
But he was no fool, nor was he about to die in vain, and before he would forfeit his life, he would have to be assured that his daughter’s was to be spared.
Unfortunately, the Duke of Camareigh never had the chance to face his true enemy, for a carefully aimed pistol felled him within a few feet of the wizened oak. The ball scored deep into the flesh of his upper arm, but the spurting blood made his wound look worse than it actually was.
To his three attackers, the duke appeared to be at their mercy, and so they moved with little urgency toward his figure, which was slumped over his saddle bow. As far as they were concerned, they had met their enemy and vanquished him.
They really should have shown more care, or taken the time to know their enemy better, for the Duke of Camareigh was not finished with them yet, especially when he overheard their conversation.
“Waste of bloody good powder, I says. Should’ve killed the bloke with yer shot. The way I sees it, ye be either a spendthrift or a fool. Goin’ to be killin’ the gent sooner or later anyway, so what’s the difference whether ’tis now or then?”
“The difference, ye witling, is in gittin’ paid in full.”
“You oughta listen to your brother more, Jackie. I’ve been associated with her ladyship long enough to know that she means what she says. She’s a tightfisted bitch and would enjoy denying you your money,” Teddie Waltham advised his hirelings. “No, the best thing to do is exactly what her ladyship orders. Best way of stayin’ alive where she’s concerned. That woman’s got a heart blacker than the devil himself—and mean!” Waltham snorted. “Saw her shoot down her trusted servant without a moment’s hesitation, I did. Rue the day I ever saw her black-clad figure. Should’ve taken to my heels then, but her ladyship has a way of tightening the noose around your neck. Cold-blooded, she is, and the sooner we get done with this, the better off we’ll all be. We’ll take him to her, let her amuse herself with him, taunting him about his daughter most likely, then we’ll kill him off proper-like—as ordered,” Waltham declared, thinking it would be a relief to finish this job and see the last of M’Lady Madness.
“What’s this about a daughter? Ain’t no one in the carriage except that veiled woman and the old one that’s always muttering.”
“It needn’t concern you, Jackie. It was just a means of gettin’ this fellow to come and meet her. The only way he will be meetin’ up with his daughter again will be beyond the grave,” Waltham reassured them, and sending them a grin over his shoulder, missed the sudden movement of his intended victim’s body.
“Come on, lads,” he urged them. “Let’s finish this quickly, then we can get out of the cold and warm ourselves with a bottle of rum.”
* * *
At a safe distance, with the slope of the hill hiding the carriage from view, Kate saw Lucien lying slumped over his horse’s neck, senseless to his surroundings and the impending danger. She clapped her hands gleefully as she saw Teddie Waltham and his two assistants emerge from their hiding place behind the oak. She wished now that she’d had the foresight to move closer, for she would love to have seen the hopeless expression in Lucien’s eyes when he’d discovered he had been duped. But soon, yes, soon, she would have the great pleasure o
f seeing them widen with fear as he finally realized exactly who his enemy was.
* * *
Since Francis and Robin had been close to twenty minutes behind the duke in leaving Camareigh, they’d had to ride hard to catch up with him. However, because of a shortcut they knew, they had managed to arrive at the entrance to the vale just minutes behind him.
But apparently that had not been soon enough, for as they rode along the narrow path, they spied on the far side of the lake their father’s figure slumped in his saddle. He had been hurt, and even as they watched in horrified fascination, three men revealed themselves from behind the big oak that the note had mentioned.
Robin lightly touched his whip to the flank of his frisky little mare as he tried to keep up with Francis, for at the sight of their father’s attackers, Francis had sent El Cid flying along the path, despite its rocky, uneven surface. Robin wanted to cry out for him to wait, but he knew he couldn’t; instead, he bit his lip in frustration and tightened his grip on the reins as his horse followed in El Cid’s wake. Suddenly Francis slowed his pace, allowing the smaller horse to close the distance between.
“Robin!” Francis called back over his shoulder. “You take this pistol. It’s primed and cocked. I don’t care if you hit the man in the brown coat or not, just distract him from Father,” Francis ordered, managing to lean back across El Cid’s rump and hand the pistol into Robin’s outstretched hand.
As Francis straightened and glanced ahead, he saw the three men closing around his father’s wounded figure. But, just as Francis thought all was lost, the duke sat up in the saddle, a smoking pistol held in his hand, the discharged shot caught his attackers completely off guard; the foremost figure grabbed his chest, then crumpled to the ground, mortally wounded.
The expression of pained surprise on the unfortunate man’s face was no more extreme a reaction than what showed on the faces of Teddie Waltham and the late Jackie Porter’s brother as they watched their previously submissive victim turn on them with a sudden vengeance.
But Waltham hadn’t survived for well over a quarter of a century in the streets of London without having learned a trick or two about survival, and now he pulled his second pistol from his belt and aimed it at the Duke of Camareigh.
So occupied had Waltham been in dealing with this less-than-obliging duke, that he never even heard the sound of quickly approaching hoofs, nor could he have anticipated the toe of his boot being shot off. His yelp of pain and the jerking of his arm not only frightened the duke’s mount but caused his shot to discharge well above the duke’s head. However, the shot did cause the horse to rear up in fright, and the duke, whose wounded arm hindered him from controlling his mount, was unseated.
With Robin’s wild shot spent in the ground, Francis charged into the group, El Cid’s muscular shoulders effectively separating the fallen Duke of Camareigh and his would-be murderers. The actions of his sons had given the duke the precious time he needed to draw his sword, and he quickly took the offensive against his adversaries. But in the back of his mind, etched there forever, was the image of his son Robin standing with short legs planted firmly apart, both hands wrapped around the butt of a pistol half the length of his arm, and pointing it with murderous intent at his father’s attacker.
The surviving Porter brother was the first to feel the cold fury of the Duke of Camareigh; as he struggled to draw his own sword, the ringing clash of metal already sounded a death knell in his ears. Tom Porter had known, from that first, easy parrying of his thrust by the duke’s sword, that he would be no match for this deft swordsman, who not only had an unequaled skill on his side but seemed to possess an almost inhuman strength—for he never faltered, despite the blood seeping through his coat sleeve and dripping down onto the grip.
Teddie Waltham was not having an easy time of it, either. And the worst of it was that he was being beaten back by a cub half his age—and one who wielded his sword like an expert. No doubt he’d been taught by one of France’s finest fencing masters, Waltham thought bitterly, feeling a grudging admiration for this snarling pup who must surely be the son of the Duke of Camareigh. The resemblance had been startling at first and had given Waltham the discomfiting feeling that he was seeing double and that his prodigious consumption of spirits had finally taken its toll—and at the most inopportune of times.
And things were not getting any better, he thought grimly as he heard a sudden cry, then saw Tom Porter stagger and fall, his sword dropping harmlessly to the ground. Waltham gritted his teeth, for here was a lad of not more than sixteen, fighting with all of the finesse of a well-seasoned duelist. Every parry and riposte, with intricate variations, which he had tried, had been only too easily fended off by his youthful opponent. The young lord’s footwork was flawless and his timing impeccable, but it was the deadly accuracy of his unrelenting sword point that finally captured Waltham’s respect and convinced him that a hasty, if cowardly, retreat would be the only way to stay alive.
Having made this decision, Waltham was somewhat surprised to feel the point of that young buck’s sword penetrate deep into his shoulder. With a look of disbelief, which eclipsed the strange expression on Francis Dominick’s boyish face as he drew another man’s blood for the first time, Waltham sucked in his breath as the steel drove deeper into his flesh. He staggered back, expecting to feel the coup de grâce, but this boy, who fought with the expertise of a master, was not bloodthirsty and did not follow up his advantage. In fact, after effectively disabling his opponent, he seemed more concerned with the fate of his father than the pitiful plight of the wounded Teddie Waltham.
Waltham might have been outclassed by a mere youngster, but he was no fool and he knew a chance to escape when he saw it. Besides, the odds were growing uncomfortably high against him. He was no gentleman of honor who would stay and fight to the death—especially when he saw the Duke of Camareigh heading toward them with a murderous look in his eye boding ill for one Edward Matthew Waltham, unless he turned tail and ran.
Standing in the safe shelter of the trees on the hillside, Kate gave a guttural scream of rage when she saw the second hireling fall to his knees, then crumple into a senseless heap on the ground. How could it possibly be? What the devil had happened to her carefully laid-out plans? Boys! Boys had ruined the revenge she had already been savoring. She could scarcely believe her own eyes. That little squirt had actually shot Teddie Waltham in the foot, while the other young man, the one she recognized as Francis Dominick, had ridden into the middle of the scuffle on that beast of a horse and was now actually dueling with Teddie Waltham.
“Damn him! Damn his soul!” she cried as she saw the intrepid and stouthearted Waltham parry one last time, then turn on his heels and stumble up the hill, his progress hindered by his toeless left boot.
Pounding her fists against the tree trunk, Kate glared down at the travesty of her dreams. Lucien had escaped her again. Lucien should have been hers. But always, always he managed to squirm out of her grasp. He should have been on his hands and knees before her, begging for mercy, but instead he was free. And those fools had bungled everything. It was not fair!
Waltham was experiencing remarkably similar thoughts as he struggled up the hillside. His feet were slipping in the mud, which made him seem to lose more ground than he was gaining. And it certainly didn’t help matters that he may well have lost his big toe, he thought, limping along, looking more disreputable than he ever had before in his life. His shoulder felt as if the fires of hell were burning in it. Certain that the hounds of that nether region were on his heels, he glanced back but was temporarily relieved to see no one in hot pursuit.
Waltham made his way slowly up the hill, losing his footing time and time again, then falling, then crawling, until panting, he finally neared the top, only to find her ladyship standing there watching. He held out a hand, falling again, but she never moved. She just continued to stand there silently.
“Y
ou failed. You fool. You oaf. You dullard. Y-you imbecile. You radoteur!” Kate spoke softly, her anger barely held in check as she approached her bloodied mercenary and stared down at him dispassionately. “You have destroyed all that I had hoped for. With your milksop courage you have managed to make a mess of everything. I should have kicked you out on your ass the minute I laid eyes on you! If it were not for your amateurish bungling, I would have Lucien here before me now, begging on his hands and knees like a sniveling cur.”
“You’re stark staring mad, woman! That man would never have gone down on his hands and knees before you or no one. And I’m beginning to see why he got rid of you all of those years ago,” Waltham yelled back at her, his patience with this lunacy having expired with his courage. Now, whatever fears he’d had of her were quickly draining out with his lifeblood.
“I dunno what happened between you and the duke,” he continued, “but it apparently kept you and that Percy fellow out of the country and out of the duke’s hair for a good many years. And I say,” he added, pulling himself to his feet and weaving slightly from the strain, “more power to him. He obviously knew what he was doing when he sent the two of you packing. God, woman, you make the inmates of Newgate look like martyred saints. And as for myself, not being of a saintly disposition,” Waltham declared, relishing his next words, “I shall bid you adieu, m’lady.”
“What do you mean? What the devil are you blathering about? Where are you going, you fool?” Kate screamed, watching in disbelief as Teddie Waltham turned his back on her.
Her silken skirts hissing as she hurried after him, and a rage born of frustration and hatred began to consume her, leaving her senseless and blind to calmer thought. But Kate had only taken a couple of steps in pursuit of her errant knight, when he turned suddenly and grabbed her wrists, wrestling the pistol from where she’d hidden it in the folds of her skirts.
Chance the Winds of Fortune Page 37