Fate's Fortune

By Laurie Carroll

Love and revenge on the high seas . . .

Five years after a tragic shipwreck, Meghan Windgate finally understands the reason for her terrible nightmares. In her dreams, the ghost of her murdered father is calling her to avenge him and her twin brother. But her father's enemy is powerful, very powerful. What can a young woman like Meg do to win back her legacy and bring peace to her father and brother's restless souls?

Hugh Stevens has returned to England after spending twelve years in America to right a terrible wrong and recover two priceless family heirlooms. Meg Windgate was eight years old when he last saw her. Now she's a woman grown. And Hugh finds himself strongly attracted to the daughter of one of the men he was sworn to ruin.

When Hugh discovers he and Meg have a common enemy, he suggests pooling their resources. She refuses. Instead, she goes to sea to pirate their enemy's ships and bring down his empire from afar. Hugh, convinced Meg and he are fated to be together, strives to help her in any way he can.

But he doesn't know the secret she keeps from him. A secret that could destroy both of their lives . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: BelleBooks
• Release date: Nov 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781933417998

Book preview

Other Books by Laurie Carroll from ImaJinn Books

A War of Hearts

Writing as Laurie C. Kuna

Some Practical Magic

That Old Black Magic

Fate’s Fortune

by

Laurie Carroll

ImaJinn Books

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

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Ebook ISBN: 978-1-933417-99-8

Print ISBN: 978-1-933417-37-0

ImaJinn Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

Copyright © 2009 by Laurie Carroll

Printed and bound in the United States of America.

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Dedication

To Linda K. for hanging in there with me.

One

Dartford, England May, 1730

THE DAGGER! IF I reach it, I can fight him.

The weapon fell from his belt as he lunged at her. Her fingers clawed across wooden planks, but she came up inches short of her goal when he leaped on her. Rage erupted in an anguished cry, and her fists beat against his back and shoulders, to no avail . . . An interminable time later, he rose to straddle her violated body, laughing as he adjusted his breeches, a sneer twisting his devilish features.

Freed from his pinning weight, she fought through shock and pain to make a quick grab for the blade, unsheathing it just as he pointed a pistol at her head. With speed borne of desperation, she slashed upward, blindly swinging at his manhood. She missed, but the blade cut deeply across his inner thigh from knee to crotch. Blood gushed. Her attacker screamed, his face twisting in agonized fury.

Then the pistol roared, and her world went black….

Meghan Windgate awoke drenched in sweat, bedclothes twisted around her body and mangled in her hands. The pulse hammering in her ears slowed as she realized she was safe in bed, far removed from a ship’s cabin. Now fully awake, she was forced by her still-racing heart to employ her training to calm herself. Several controlled breaths slowed her pulse, but naught could calm her whirling mind.

The dream had come for the sixth time in as many nights—a suffocating montage of violence and brutal violation. Shaky and sweating, Meg squeezed her eyes shut in a futile attempt to block the remnants of the nightmare. But was it fantasy, or a forgotten reality? Each previous night, a man’s voice accompanied the dream. Familiar, yet lost to her faulty memory. But as Meg lay trembling in the pre-dawn darkness, she didn’t hear it. Yet she knew the simple, chilling words by heart:

Find your strength. Then avenge us.

Reflexively, she raised trembling fingers to her left temple. Though the scar had caused no pain for several years, it burned now, its raised welt rough beneath her fingertips. If she glanced in the mirror she’d see the white hair that marked the scar’s path, a stark plume amidst the ebony of her cropped tresses. She held no recollection of being wounded. Rubbing her index finger along the puckered flesh, she pondered the dark command in her recurring nightmare. What strength? Avenge whom? What did the dream mean? She quelled a frustrated moan, the result of constantly searching a mind that revealed not a single clue to her past.

Memory for Meg had begun five years before, when she awakened in the cottage of a Cornish family who’d rescued her from a shipwreck. She recalled nothing of wreck or rescue, indeed, nothing of why the ship sank on Cornwall’s jagged coastal rocks. Nothing of her life prior to waking in a seaside cottage with a battered body and a head wound.

Then Henri Gaston had arrived. The white-haired Frenchman with the broadest shoulders she’d ever seen had ridden to her rescuer’s house a month after the shipwreck. She hadn’t recognized him, yet something in his manner—perhaps the compassion in his black eyes—immediately put her at ease.

Meghan! He’d looked past her brave rescuer, Cal Daniels, and straight into her eyes. But his unbridled joy at seeing her turned to sorrow when he saw she didn’t recognize him. He reached out to gently touch the still-healing wound at her temple. Oh, my dear girl! I mourn at your pain. I am Henri Gaston, your uncle. I rode from Dartford as soon as I heard of the shipwreck.

From pure reflex, she’d greeted him in French. Delight lit his eyes, and he commended her impressive command of his language. Then in English, "But of course, you suspect me. Let me ease your mind. The Lady Katharine, a three-masted cargo ship, was your ill-fated vessel. Its figurehead, the image of your mother, Katharine, was a black-haired, blue-eyed woman in a scarlet gown and gold sash. From an inside pocket, he pulled documents, handed them to Daniels. The cargo list. As you can see, I am a primary investor. He turned back to Meghan. Come home with me, Niece. Where you belong."

After examining the documents herself and having Gaston sign his name so she could compare signatures, Meg had agreed. Then, in profound gratitude for saving her life, she had hugged Daniels, his wife and their four children, promised to return to visit, and left Cornwall . . .

MEG LAY BACK in bed in the cool pre-dawn air. It was May Day, traditionally a time of rebirth, but she felt no such renewal. Instead, she felt suspended in time. Now, a lurid dream haunted her. That it might be memory terrified her, but she could not upon her life remember having endured such a trial.

Yet it was possible. After taking her to Dartford, Gaston told her the truth. First, he wasn’t her uncle but her father’s best friend. Next, her father and brother had been with her on that fateful voyage. That she remembered naught of Nathan or Robert Windgate, her twin and their father, respectively, brought her bitter tears. It was assumed both had died in the wreck, and she knew in her heart they were gone. Gaston suspected foul play, especially given that her head wound looked as though a pistol ball had caused it. Fearing she was still in danger, he’d been extremely careful to protect her identity.

Five years removed from the vulnerable girl he’d, at her insistence, trained in the military arts, she’d never until this past week heard a disembodied voice urging her to vengeance. Could these disturbing dreams have something to do with her history? With her desire to learn fighting skills?

Find your strength, then avenge us.

Apparently, she’d already begun the search. Driven to learn to ride, fence, and shoot—to gain control of her life—she’d taken to Gaston’s training with a Crusader’s zeal. And he’d completely indulged her. Burning determination overcame initial physical weaknesses and gained her a level of expertise women rarely, if ever, achieved. Was her near fanatical drive related to this dream? How, and why now? Wouldn’t such a nightmare have come when she was so vulnerable to the terrors of night? That thought plagued her as she removed the dagger from beneath her pillow. Though she’d no remembrance of acquiring, she’d been clutching it when Cal Daniels rescued her. Since then, she was never without it. Perhaps fittingly, it had been in each one of her nightmares. A frisson of heat met her palm as she grasped the ornate handle, but she dismissed the sensation as the aftermath of the dream.

Troubled, Meg rose to prepare for the day’s challenges. Something stirred in the wind. Unknown. Unsought. Irrepressible. Intuition hinted that her life was about to change dramatically. A poignant dart of sadness pierced her heart. She’d learned over the past five years to trust her instincts, and because of them realized her training with Gaston would end soon. Thus she would work hard to glean as much knowledge as she could in the time remaining with the brilliant sword master. Soon, she would have to rely upon herself.

Five years before, she’d taken to heart Gaston’s warning of danger and sworn a solemn vow to never be helpless again. She would do all she could to uphold that vow.

BEND YOUR KNEES when you move. Fight stiff-legged and die the same way! Use your wrist! Balance . . . balance. Again. Again. Again!

Meg chuckled as she strode past the grounds where six of Gaston’s newest pupils fenced. Five years before, she’d been in their place—striving to meet the demands of the brilliant Frenchman who gave no quarter regarding his high expectations.

You asked me to train you, Gaston boomed in his rumbling baritone, and now, when you find my demands wearisome, you have lost interest?

He’d asked her that exact question three months into the regimen she insisted on following. In her mind’s eye he again stood on the fencing grounds, arms crossed over his chest, foil in hand. Those three months of incredible exertion had seemed a lifetime. Mentally and physically exhausted, sore in muscle and sinew, she’d been on the precipice of defeat. But somehow, she’d dug deep and continued.

Exhaustion is no excuse, she mimicked, approaching the stable as Gaston let his temper scald his pupils. "Do not say you cannot. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Caught up in memories, she perfectly aped the sword master, Mais non! Stand upright. The foil is not a chicken to strangle. Hold it gently but firmly… Sang-Dieu! The motion is in the wrist. Be strong and flexible in the wrist. She pictured him demonstrating as he spoke. Move fluidly. Wild slashing tires you, leaves you vulnerable to riposte. And stand upright!"

Her mimicry ended at the stable. Having spent the morning working on her sword skills, she looked forward to a hard ride. Though her training with rapier and pistol was kept secret from Gaston’s pupils, he did not restrict her riding with them. So she rode out each afternoon. And since she wore her shoulder-length hair clubbed back like the men, dressed in breeches and waistcoat like the men, and had a better seat than almost all of them, the majority accepted her presence as a matter of course.

AN HOUR AFTER setting out, Meg and four of the men returned from a rugged steeplechase. Since Gaston had no stable boys, the riders were expected to groom their school mount before departing for their homes. As usual, the men’s banter was lively and risqué, but she ignored it. Oblivious to her companions, she mentally rehearsed the new defensive moves Gaston’s assistant, Antoine, had shown her that morning. She lived with Gaston and had only to cross the grounds to the cottage, so took her time with the currycomb. Regardless of the frustrations of her training on any particular day, tending to her horse always settled her. So, in no hurry to return to the house, she was soon alone in the stable.

Are you deaf, lad? I told you to see to my horse.

A large hand gripped Meg’s shoulder and spun her around. A tall, very handsome, and extremely annoyed stranger stared her down, hazel eyes blazing. Too stunned to reply, she watched in abject mortification as his expression changed from angry to bemused to frankly appraising. He didn’t release her while his gaze slowly moved down her body, pausing a long moment at the level of her breasts.

Aghast at the heat radiating through her from his nearness and his touch, she managed to whisper breathlessly, I’m not a stable boy. Her voice certainly didn’t carry any of the haughtiness she’d intended, and she felt her cheeks flame even hotter.

A dark brow tilted upward as his gaze again met hers. I can see that. Now.

That intense stare weakened her knees, tightened her chest. Panic rose. What’s happening here? I can scarce draw breath because a stranger stares at me!

She’d heard the men talking about missish women and wondered if she’d just become one. Next thing she knew, she’d be succumbing to a fit of the vapors. At least that’s what she thought such women did. Fortunately, anger saved her from such an embarrassing condition. This man’s bold perusal goaded her to the point that she wished to strike him. But he wore a rapier and she only her dagger, giving him the advantage in weaponry. And it really wasn’t his fault he’d mistaken her for a lad. After all, she was nearly six feet tall, dressed in male attire, and at a combat school.

Despite this logic, however, his mistake stung her pride. In contrast to her wish for retribution, though, her training demanded she ignore emotion and coolly assess the situation. Given he was better armed and she had no true quarrel with him, she determined that this was a good time for a strategic retreat. To that end, she started back out of his grasp. But his gaze locked on hers, freezing her in place as his expression went from burning intensity to complete shock. For a moment, it appeared that he’d seen an apparition, but the look was gone in a flash. Had she not been standing so close, she likely wouldn’t have noticed it.

With a shake of his head his bemusement cleared, and he abruptly released her. I beg pardon, Miss. My behavior was completely inappropriate. Please forgive me.

He looked so chagrined, she started to assure him he’d caused no offense. Then caution gave her pause. Silenced her. The recognition in his eyes caused shivers of awareness to snake up her spine. A memory tugged, but no tangible image surfaced. Frustrating, but certainly not surprising. Yet it was also frightening, for this man truly recognized her, he could pose a threat.

Thus, it was crucial to shift his attention from her. If you’ve come about training with Henri Gaston, he’s in his cottage. Her voice was still far more breathless than she liked, so she cleared her throat before adding, He doesn’t take just anyone, but I’m certain he’ll at least speak to you.

The smile he flashed her was all devastating charm. Thank you. I’ll go meet him. He eyed her breeches. Are you his pupil, as well?

Meg chose her words with care, both for caution’s sake and because she was suddenly very aware of her clothes. I’m his ward, but he lets me ride with the men. She looked down at her breeches-clad legs. And ‘tis far easier to take a fence astride than sitting side-saddle.

I imagine it is. He gave her another long look, as if still wondering whether they’d met before.

Despite no memory of him, his emotional pull completely scattered her thoughts. If missish women reacted this way to handsome men, she wasn’t entirely sure she minded it. Just then, Antoine entered the stable. She’d never been happier to see Gaston’s assistant.

Using this chance to break eye contact with the stranger, she turned to the young Frenchman. This gentleman— she slid a glance at her unidentified companion.

Hugh Prescott. He bowed slightly to Antoine.

Master Prescott wishes to speak with Gaston.

The assistant smiled broadly. "Oui. He gestured to the stable door. Come, please, sir."

As the two men walked away, Meg abruptly realized her dagger, carried as usual in her boot, had heated enough to almost singe her. She stifled a cry, pulling it from its sheath and nearly dropping it when it heated even more in her hand.

Saints protect us, she whispered, making the Sign of the Cross.

The welling of tears caught her by surprise, followed directly by a cheek-burning flush. Prescott had thought her a lad, while she’d reacted to him like a cow-eyed schoolroom miss. And though he’d quickly corrected his error, it stung. More so because her unusual height and male garb did nothing to enhance what little femininity she possessed. Five years prior she’d accepted that her chosen path required her to bury everything womanly in her and learn combat disciplines. But accepting and enduring were not the same thing, and having a handsome stranger mistake her for a stable boy had irrevocably driven that point home.

Needing to suffer this indignity alone, she re-saddled her horse and rode out once more.

An hour later, she’d done nothing more than tire her mount from a hard ride. There was naught to do but unsaddle and groom it. And hope the repetitive actions would soothe her as usual. But today the routine failed to calm her, and sudden need to throw the currycomb at the wall had her turning to the pudgy youth just leading his gelding inside.

Randolph, tell Antoine I rode into Dartford for the evening.

Although Randolph Poole looked more like a seat cushion than a combatant, he was a good duelist and an uncanny marksman. His extreme good nature drew Meg to him.

Dartford, Meg? Are you certain? He pushed sandy hair back behind his ear, friendly eyes concerned. It’s near dark. And town’s not safe at night, especially for women alone.

Who’d even know I’m a woman? she thought bitterly. I’m meeting friends. And I’ll take a rapier. Because Gaston kept her combat training secret, Randolph and the other students had no idea she could fight as well as most of them. Knowing that, she ignored his tolerant smile.

That should be all right, I suppose, he said solicitously. Take care, though.

Rest assured I will. Swallowing a melancholy sigh, she strode to the small armory off the tack room to select a rapier and hangar, then tucked her hair under a cap. Mannish height made the charade plausible, and in moments she’d set off down the road at a pace as inconsistent as her troubled mind.

Why had Prescott affected her so much? Gaston had many handsome pupils, several far more so than he. Self-centered dandies, one and all. Yet Prescott’s well-made clothing lacked the lace and ruffles dandies favored. Functional, the clothes complimented his looks and enhanced his masculinity.

None of Gaston’s pupils paid her much mind, partly because she brought as little attention to herself as possible, and partly because she looked as manly as half of them. Up until this afternoon, that hadn’t bothered her in the least.

Until Hugh Prescott.

She doubted he’d noticed her physical attributes to the extent she’d noticed his. Admittedly, her attributes were few. And well concealed beneath shirt, vest and coat. Had they met at a London ball, might he have treated her differently? Of course, she’d be dressed differently. Sudden tears burned her eyes. With no memory of ever attending such a gala event, she had little idea of how women acted at them. And at her own insistence Gaston certainly didn’t treat her as a demure young lady. Not for the first time, she wished she could remember her real family. Remember when she’d been feminine.

Prescott occupied her thoughts the entire league to Dartford. His handsome features—hazel eyes, straight nose, strong jaw, white teeth, and broad, broad shoulders—had immediately struck her. Groaning softly, she feared for her mind. In moments, it seemed she’d become obsessed. Given she’d hardly noticed the physical attributes of any of Gaston’s pupils, her reaction to this stranger confounded her.

He’s not a stranger.

The voice in her head—the exact one she’d heard in her dreams—startled her so much she yanked back, hard, on her horse’s reins.

Who are you? she cried to the air surrounding her. What do you want from me?

Unhappy with her rough treatment and the sudden burst of noise, her horse danced sideways, tossing his head, snorting his displeasure, and forcing Meg to abandon all thoughts but those of calming her mount before he threw her from the saddle.

Her riding skill proved more than a match for a restive beast, however, and in moments they were again on their way. And thoughts of ghostly dictums and the man she’d met in the stable that afternoon again tormented. Was she going mad? Though familiar, she had no recollection of having heard the voice, and her mind provided no help there. As for meeting Prescott, she couldn’t say. Gaston told her she’d been fifteen when he brought her from Cornwall. In that five-year interval, she’d never once seen Prescott. So, if in fact they’d been acquainted before, it preceded the shipwreck. Or it was during that ill-fated voyage…That possibility frightened her, until she recalled the disembodied voice’s last words.

She knew the man, no more, no less. The tone had not been commanding as in her nightmares—Find your strength . . . It had rather been a statement. Meg’s fear eased somewhat.

She recalled the shocked recognition that had flashed in Prescott’s eyes then disappeared behind courtesy. At the time, however, his thinking her a boy so humiliated her that she’d hardly paid attention to the look on his face. Had we truly been acquainted before? Damn my mind, why can’t I remember?

Suddenly, Meg felt more alone than she had in the time since awakening in a strange place with absolutely no recollection of her identity or how she’d come to be there. How could she resolve these troubles—a voice that called to her in nightmares, a stranger who set her heart spinning? She wanted nothing more at that moment than to disappear. Fearing Gaston would blame these flights of fancy on over training, she’d not told him of her dream. Now, she regretted keeping that secret. Then a handsome stranger had hurt her pride, and she’d worsened the situation by haring off to Dartford in a fit of pique.

But she couldn’t return to Gaston’s just then. Recent events had left her too raw, too bewildered to face her mentor. How would he react to hearing that a voice urged her to some unknown revenge? That her feelings had been hurt by mistaken identity? No, before she spoke to Gaston, she had to sort out her own mind. Or find a way to write the truth of memories on a blank page.

Disconsolate, she pulled her hat down lower over her eyes and entered the Red Lion.

HUGH SAT AT the dining table in Henri Gaston’s cottage and accepted a snifter of brandy. The white-haired Frenchman sitting opposite appeared to be threescore years old, but the intensity in his black eyes warned that he was no one’s fool. Indeed, from the moment Hugh had entered, Gaston had watched him as if he might steal the silver. Schooling his features into blandness, he raised his glass in salute.

What brings you to Dartford, Monsieur . . . Prescott?

Hugh didn’t miss the deliberate hesitation in the man’s question. Tread carefully here. I’ve been living in the Colonies for a decade, he began affably. Came to London on business, and thought to visit the Windgates. Distant relatives on my mother’s side. He didn’t have to feign the shock he’d received at Wind Song the previous day. I’d not heard of Robert and his family passing. Could the servant have lied? For I’d stake my life that I just met Meghan Windgate in the stable.

A tragedy. Gaston’s eyes glowed. But answer my question. What brought you here?

I fear my distress so alarmed the Wind Song cook that the dear lady told me of you. At least this was truth. But the Frenchman’s reaction indicated suspicion. He was practically on point. Hugh continued affably, She said you were a close family friend. That if I wished to learn more of Robert Windgate’s tragic demise to seek Henri Gaston in Dartford. Thus, here am I, and here are you.

"Sacristi, do not toy with me, the Frenchman spat. You are not who you claim to be."

Unfortunately, Hugh had thought to feign nonchalance by taking a sip of brandy. At Gaston’s words, he gulped a large swallow then had to clamp his mouth shut to keep from spewing the burning liquid across the table. His body went completely rigid, but he forced his expression to remain neutral. Having to clear his scalded throat before speaking completely spoiled his ruse, though. Wh-whatever do you mean, old man?

Gaston bristled. "If you are Hugh Prescott then I am Louis Quatorze. Before Hugh could deny it, the Frenchman stunned him to silence. You are the image of your father, Manfred Stevens."

Hugh made to rise from the table, but Gaston’s lightning-quick move had a rapier point at Hugh’s throat before he was halfway from his seat. Idiot! I just went like a lamb to slaughter. Eyes locked on the black intensity of the old man’s gaze, he carefully sat back down.

Explain yourself, Gaston demanded.

Permit me to reach under my shirt, Hugh said calmly. I’ve no weapon, merely something you must see. His gaze flicked to the rapier. Besides, I’d be dead where I sit before I could attack you.

The blade point withdrew a handsbreadth. Keep that in mind, and move very slowly.

With a nod, Hugh carefully retrieved the leather-bound journal, gently stroking the cover before giving the old man a cold look. Considering your closeness to Robert Windgate, I should have guessed you knew my father. He did nothing to quell his bitterness. That whoreson destroyed my family.

You know nothing. Antoine entered just then, and Gaston shot off a spate of French too fast for Hugh to follow. The assistant promptly left. We’ll not be disturbed, Stevens. Speak your mind.

Hugh excelled in business due in part to an infallible sense of timing. He took a slow sip of brandy, sat back, and waited a moment for the tension to build. Windgate held the collateral on a loan my father had against his share of their joint business venture.

Gaston nodded. Manfred lacked the finances his partners had, but he worked hard to honor the name Stevens of Clarke, Stevens and Windgate Shipping.

Although his heart warmed at the compliment, Hugh didn’t acknowledge it. Father’s hard work was for naught. He was thrown into debtor’s prison when Windgate withheld the loan. To pay the forfeiture, my family was indentured and sent to America. Noting his white-knuckles, he carefully loosened his grip on the journal. My sister died on the passage over. Mother’s heart broke, and she died three years later. Father’s body took six more years to realize his soul had died with Mother. Hugh’s gaze sharpened. I returned to England to exact revenge and reclaim my legacy. Yet, the man who ruined us is dead. And until this morning I thought both of his progeny were as well.

Shaking his head, Gaston laid his weapon down near at hand. I am sorry for your tragic loss. But Robert Windgate didn’t cause it.

Why should I believe you? Hugh sat rigid with anger. You and Windgate were best friends.

A Gallic shrug lifted broad shoulders. Our friendship does not change the truth. Robert had naught to do with your father’s imprisonment or your family’s deportation. He and his children were touring the Continent. You were gone before they returned home.

Rich men seldom do their own filthy deeds. They hire agents to carry them out.

The old man took sipped brandy as his troubled gaze studied Hugh. I was here in Dartford, so knew nothing of the intrigue until Robert discovered it himself after the fact. He was enraged, and suspected Clarke. To help compensate your family’s losses, Robert sent a goodly sum to the Colonies.

This differing account shocked Hugh, but he kept all reaction from the elder’s keen gaze. His mind scrambled to recall a memory over a decade old . . . His family had suffered just a year of servitude before being freed from their indenture. His father had never revealed the source of their boon, and Hugh suspected he hadn’t known for certain. With the leftover monies, Manfred had immediately bought a small ship and started a freight business. They rarely spoke of their time in England.

Reluctantly, he admitted this story could be true. But a more bitter memory cut off whatever charity he’d been willing to extend Robert Windgate: His mother had been lost to him and his father the moment Hugh’s sister died. Grief had slowly killed her body, but it crushed her spirit instantly.

Again, that’s your word.

Gaston’s jaw clenched. Out of respect for your father, I will ignore that insult.

Hugh mentally reminded himself that Gaston could prove a fount of information, not only about his father but about the Windgates. But that meant treating the old man with respect, not insulting him. He dipped his chin.

Beg pardon. And, out of respect for my father’s memory, I’d ask a boon. Please read this. He opened the journal and pointed to a detailed sketch of two ancient-looking artifacts. Directly across from them, a neatly written narrative filled the right-hand leaf. This amulet, he indicated the topmost sketch, had been in my family for two centuries. Father used it as collateral as it was worth far more than the loan he took with Robert.

He paused as the Frenchman read of Druidic lovers who’d forged timeless love tokens—an amulet and a dagger—a millennium before. The tale related that the holders of those tokens were destined to be together forever.

As the sword master read, something flickered in his eyes. But he shrugged. A wildly romantic story. Especially appealing to a Frenchman such as myself. He tilted his head back, contemplative. Robert once mentioned the amulet. Called it a magnificent piece he was safeguarding for your father. However, he gave no further explanation and never mentioned it again.

Hugh digested this. Could he have taken it with him on his last voyage?

Highly unlikely. Gaston rose and placed his rapier on the sideboard then filled his pipe and lit it. He drew in deeply before sending a cloud of smoke into the air. Robert had no claim to the amulet, thus he would have no reason to transport it anywhere. Bryan Clarke, the only surviving partner of Clarke, Windgate and Stevens, could have it. If he has located Robert’s safe and managed to open it.

Ruthless men with power and money are capable of a great many things.

Gaston nodded. And Clarke is that. After the Windgates died, he purchased Wind Song without having to secure a loan. ‘Tis likely your family’s heirloom, is still at Wind Song.

At the mention of the Windgate estate, realization dawned. Bryan Clarke owns Clarke Shipping! He gaped. His fleet is the largest in England. Only King George owns more ships.

Frowning, the old man spat, Five years ago, ‘twas half that size. Seven years prior, one-third.

Even as he carefully slid the journal back beneath his shirt, Hugh’s head snapped up. Unaware for the first time ever of the journal’s warmth—as if its leather were somehow the skin of a living entity—he stared at Gaston. You think Clarke disposed of both my father and Windgate.

"Est possible. The partnership was not amiable. Robert admired Clarke’s ambition, but didn’t trust him. And hated his utter ruthlessness. Gaston slid the brandy bottle to Hugh. His misgivings supported my own. Clarke is calculating and totally cold. A mechanism, not a man."

On a grimace, Hugh recalled, Father said minions carried out Clarke’s tasks, particularly the more mean or menial. But though he strongly believed you should closely watch men whose underlings do their work, he kept his thoughts private. The disadvantage of being the third partner, I suppose.

In a business as precarious as shipping, partners are a necessary evil. Gaston frowned. I fear Clarke was more evil than necessary. Unfortunately for both Manfred and Robert.

Hugh rolled the brandy on his tongue, swallowed. My sire was a great judge of character.

"Mais oui, he was. He knew Clarke’s bent toward treachery. He married a rich spinster who died mysteriously soon after the nuptials. He never remarried and is known to abuse women, both mistresses and prostitutes. When he became sole owner of Clarke, Stevens and Windgate Shipping, he began manufacturing military ordnance and munitions. Something neither your father nor Robert would have ever condoned."

Bastard, Hugh exclaimed. A despicable source of income. Another thought sprang into his head. You believe Clarke planned all along to take over the shipping company, by any means necessary.

Black eyes glittering, Gaston nodded assent. For a long moment, he studied Hugh. So now you know the truth of things, what will you do?

Hugh stared moodily back at the Frenchman before lifting his glass in mock salute. I’ve little idea at present, but whatever it is will involve recovering my family’s amulet.

Having such a valuable token would go far toward assuring your financial stability.

The comment hit Hugh like a slap. Mouth tight, he carefully set down his snifter. The amulet is not a mere bauble. And it will never be sold. It is my family’s heart.

Gaston smiled as if Hugh’s reaction had answered an important question. He nodded once. "Pardon. I intended no insult."

I’m uncertain whether or not to believe you.

Another shrug. Think what you please. There is no profit in insulting you, particularly as we are in agreement about a certain unscrupulous London merchant.

If half what you say is true, Clarke owes me a reckoning. And apparently, Gaston, he robbed you of a good friend, after all. Hugh’s eyes blazed as he leaned toward the Frenchman. Can you help me recover the amulet? Exact some sort of revenge on Bryan Clarke?

Two

ALAS, I’VE FEW resources to aid you. A heartfelt sigh. I invested modestly in Robert’s ventures, but when he died, I stopped. His jaw clenched. I’d not make Clarke wealthier. And as I come from a lower social circle than he and Robert, I have no helpful connections for you. He stared at his broad hands. "Though my heart tells me that batard destroyed both your family and Robert’s, I have no proof. And even with irrefutable evidence, ’tis dangerously foolish to challenge that kind of power."

I must, Hugh stated. I will. And I’ll accept any help you can give.

Gaston set aside his pipe. I will assemble a list of employees who worked for Clarke, Windgate and Stevens Shipping. And a list of each partner’s peers. Begin your inquiries there. But be extremely careful, Hugh. Discreet. You’ve no idea who could be aligned against you to keep you from the truth.

Hugh nodded soberly. I’ll tell my crew we’re staying. Shall I call here tomorrow afternoon?

By all means.

His plot for revenge had changed dramatically, but Hugh felt more at ease than he had in months. More in control, not acting impulsively on emotion and instinct. Clear-headed. His thoughts turned to the girl he’d thought a stable boy and his suspicions of her true identity. Would the crafty sword master tell him the truth? By the way, who is the young woman I met in the stable? She said she’s your ward.

Not a single expression crossed Gaston’s face when he answered smoothly, Indeed, she is.

And now for the gamble. When last I saw her, she was eight. All black hair and big blue eyes.

The sword master’s gaze flickered. You met my ward in America? How is that possible?

He almost laughed at the man’s inscrutability. Do you think me a fool? he repeated Gaston’s earlier words. She and her twin, Nate, accompanied Robert Windgate everywhere. I was thirteen and apparently a source of awe to them. They followed me like puppies. And both were very bright. Hearing something once, they remembered it. At Gaston’s considering look, a surge of triumph filled his veins.

I didn’t realize you’d recognized Meghan.

As it has been twelve years and she’s a woman grown, I didn’t trust my instincts. Especially since she was supposed to be dead. Thoughts of startling blue eyes made him smile. Then it faded. Either she didn’t recognize me, or she’s become an excellent actress since last I saw her.

She has no memory of her first fifteen years. In bleak tones, Gaston told of the shipwreck that had taken the other Windgates’ lives. I suspect foul play, and that Clarke at least masterminded it. But again, I’ve no of proof of my suspicions, and no power to look for such proof.

Hugh’s heart gave a hard thud. How terrible for Meg to have lost her past. To no longer be able to see loved ones in her mind’s eye. Regardless of how painful much of mine was, at least I have it. "You could be right. Some instinct made me loathe Clarke when he was Father’s business partner. I think because he so obviously despised children, I avoided him when I could. Even after I’d become a youth.

Windgate, on the other hand, loved his children. Indulged them, but never coddled them. In fact, he treated Meg the same way he did Nate, with a father’s casual affection and fierce pride. Memory brought a wry smile. A wild little urchin, she did as she pleased. Ran everywhere, usually barefoot…But never cruel or calculating, just… He sought an apt description. Just blissfully unaware of Society’s expectations for young misses. And she was a charmer even at eight.

Very true. Crossing his arms, Gaston leaned back. Always asking questions. Climbing trees and fishing in the pond when she wasn’t reading a book. Gazing off into the distance, he laughed. She kept six live frogs in her bed chamber. When Robert’s housekeeper discovered them and threatened to quit if they weren’t removed, Meghan released them in the pond. For the rest of that summer, she went every morning to the pond, rain or shine, to look for them.

He loves her as if she were his blood. For some unfathomable reason, that realization brought Hugh a sense of rightness. Of relief. Despite the loss of her family, the charmingly uninhibited child he’d known so long ago was not entirely alone in the world. She was a precocious young miss.

Gaston smiled widely. And is much the same now.

Hugh’s chest tightened. The woman Meg had become appealed to him on many levels, and to think she might have been targeted for murder froze his blood. Just then, for reasons he couldn’t fathom, her safety became important to him. Very few people know Meghan is alive, yet you fear she’s still in danger. Why?

Because Clarke still lives, Gaston retorted, tone harsh.

I had feared you’d say that.

"Oui. Thus, I have strictly guarded her identity. Antoine came from France four years ago and knows little of Meg. He believes she is my niece. My other pupils know only her first name."

Very wise. And do you trust me to keep her identity safe? Hugh couldn’t believe he was holding his breath in anticipation of Gaston’s answer.

I would expect nothing less of Manfred Stevens’s son.

Hugh felt a blush stain his cheeks. He’d noted Meg’s anger at his earlier treatment and had likely wounded her pride. I regret to say I was a bit insufferable in the stable.

Did you dishonor her? Gaston turned at once from amiable host to fierce protector.

Not at all. Hugh straightened in his chair. I mistook her for a stable boy, and I’m sure insulted her. But ‘twas completely unintended. I apologized profusely and did in no way disgrace her.

The Frenchman nodded slowly. "Bon. I would have to kill you if you had."

This stark declaration took Hugh aback. Then he looked into Gaston’s eyes. You’re serious!

"Oui. Stay away from Meghan unless your intentions are honorable."

I don’t deal falsely with women. If I treated Meg thus, I’d expect you to keep your promise and run me through. He rose from the table and bowed. I must find my crew. I’ll return tomorrow.

The Frenchman rose as well and walked him to the