The Winds of Fate

  The Winds of Fate Reviews:

  The Winds of Fate “…captivating romance that takes us to the world of seventeenth-century London...Sexual tension and legal and familial intrigue ensue with the reader cheering on the lovely pair.”

  −Publishers Weekly

  The Winds of Fate “has everything…full of passion, betrayal, mystery and all the good stuff readers love.”

  −ABNA Expert Reviewer

  “Original…strong-willed heroine…I love all of it…the unlikely premise of a female member of the aristocracy visiting a man who is condemned to die and asking him to marry her.”

  −ABNA Expert Reviewer

  Elizabeth St. Michel

  The Winds of Fate by Elizabeth St. Michel. Copyright © 2014. All rights presently reserved by the author. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Elizabeth St. Michel.

  ISBN: 1500772496

  ISBN 13: 9781500772499

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014914267

  CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform

  North Charleston South, Carolina

  For Edward

  All these years after you first took my hand in yours and still the magic grows.

  CONTENTS

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Part II

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  About the Author

  London, 1685

  “Why would you want to marry a condemned man?”

  Claire Hamilton’s thoughts echoed her cousin, Lily’s. Out of breath, Claire clutched Lily’s hand and raced toward Newgate Prison. She didn’t want to get married, especially to a criminal, yet her survival and her cousin’s future depended on it.

  “What has provoked this lunacy?” Lily pleaded.

  “Trust me.” Rarely did Claire give into an impulse, but the past twenty-four hours had precipitated a desperate plan to forestall impending disaster.

  At the corner of Old Bailey, Claire stopped, her eyes fixed on pure bedlam. Around the prison, crowds amassed in staggering chaos to witness the next round of gallows-bound felons. London’s lowly and highborn readied to commence their sordid recreation. Men hawked meat pies. The smoke of roasted chestnuts curled through the air. A minister prayed over his well-thumbed Bible, accompanied by a chorus of women crooning a psalm, their hands crossed over their hearts. Street urchins erected miniature gallows and played at hanging dolls. The bawdy remarks of men, shrill laughter of unkempt women, and discordant screams of children playing “hunt the hare” rent the air.

  The wealthier classes haughtily bordered the fray. Claire narrowed her eyes in disdain at the irreverence of her own class. Ladies of fashion in their carriages conferred with bucks on horseback. No doubt, she fumed, to ease their boredom.

  “I never dreamed my wedding day would be this way.” Claire laughed bitterly over her shoulder. She had lived an unremarkable existence in a modest home on the edge of London town. “Lucky me, having the unfortunate circumstance of running into Uncle. Now I’m being sold to the highest bidder.” Despite her show of indifference, Claire seethed with frustration and rebellion.

  “You would have a nice house and servants aplenty,” Lily offered.

  No. Claire would never wed the duke to enrich her uncle. She shivered at the memory of the Duke of Hawthorne, the hunched, emaciated knight with balding pate and ancient enough to be her grandfather, his fingers gnarled and rough against her hand when he bowed over it with lecherous greed. His eyes when he had signed the agreement to wed her held the penetrating cold of a reptile. She swallowed against the remembered scratch of his hand on hers. No. She would never commit herself to such a fate. To be sold into that kind of slavery would be worse than a living death.

  “He is the oldest excuse for a man I’ve ever known,” Claire said. The nightmare of her past shifted before her eyes, the year of living in constant fear. The image gave sudden rise to hot, angry, impotent tears. Never would she be vulnerable again. She poked her furled parasol to dislodge the crush of bodies in front of her. “Thinking about him makes my skin crawl.”

  “I don’t like the duke, either,” Lily admitted. “There must be another way.”

  “I’ve already tried and failed. When Uncle learns of my humiliation and the ensuing scandal that is firing through London as we speak, he’ll expedite my marriage to the duke.”

  “What scandal?” Lily halted and pushed up her spectacles. “What else have you done?”

  Claire turned to stare at her. Telling Lily the whole truth would mean a long conversation, and she wanted to spare her cousin the worry. “My whole life, I’ve lived by all the rules, and I’ve fallen from grace due to one stupendous error. Now, I’m picking up the pieces to make things right.”

  Through backstairs information, Claire had learned that a noblewoman could marry a condemned man for his name, so that the legal rights of her widowhood would protect her from being forced into an unwanted marriage. She had attempted to confirm this with her solicitor, but he was not in London. With the dreaded engagement to be announced tomorrow, she had no time left. The last convict of Newgate was to be executed this eve.

  “But at what cost? Lily cried. “Marriage to a condemned man? What about love?”

  Claire snorted. “There’s no knight in shining armor to come to my rescue. Your romantic notion of love comes with chains. There is no freedom. That kind of love is what society dictates and it’s not for me. I like my independence.”

  “What about your uncle’s wrath?”

  Claire squared her shoulders. Ever since her uncle arrived in London from Jamaica, she had been thrown into a whirlwind of dressmakers, fittings, and other entrapments to snare a wealthy husband. She had been transformed, according to Lily, from plain to devastating. Claire dismissed Lily’s notion of her appearance. There was nothing in the world she could do to change her unobtrusive and ordinary attributes. She cared not one whit how she looked. She was content with herself.

  Yet more than anything else, Claire wanted to go back to her quiet existence at the edge of London, and the freedom it allowed her. Dealing with her greedy uncle would be another matter. “I’ll incur his wrath for a short time. There will be nothing he can do to enforce the engagement.” Her scheme would solve all of her problems, freeing her from her uncle’s control and preventing her marriage to the duke. “I’ll be married today and widowed tomorrow.”

  “You sound so cold.” Lily’s voice raised an octave.

  Claire cringed. Right now she was too anxious to make excuses to Lily’s unfailing principles. “Don’t worry. I have matters thought out. No man will ever dictate to me again.”

  “What if he refuses to marry you?”

  Claire dragged her cousin to the entry and knocked. She stared at the mild
ewed and menacing door and shivered, wondering what ghastly crime her intended had committed to merit a hanging. Yet Lily’s question tore at her insides. Would he reject her? “That’s a ridiculous consideration, Lily.” But her voice sounded high, near hysteria.

  The day itself grew gray and cold and the rawness penetrated into the prison office of old Newgate. Mr. Goad, Newgate’s master gaoler, greeted them with a bow. He was a large, scarred guard with a bottom lip that protruded far enough to hold a saucer, and a countenance sallow enough to look as if he had been hanged the week before.

  “It’s to meet your betrothed, I expect. I received your message this morn. It’s a matter of expenses, beggin’ your pardon.” He came forward, palm up.

  “I understand.” Claire dropped some coins into his hand. He stuffed them away like a squirrel stowing nuts. “Before we begin, I have a few requests,” she said in a controlled voice.

  “The preacher’s coming later. Anything else fancier will cost ye more.” He swiped a horny hand across his mouth.

  “You’ve already profited.” Despite her knees shaking, Claire maintained an air of distinction. “I wish to speak with my betrothed alone before the ceremony. I also wish to have a sheet dividing us.”

  He studied her with a gimlet eye. “You quality always have strange requests and that one, I’ll be denying. Going it alone with the ruddy bastard will not sit well if something happens to you, and I gets the blame. A regular devil he is, took six extra guards to get the bloke in his cell. ‘Tis said after his judgment come down, he outfought a dozen o’ the King’s Guardsmen.”

  Claire gripped her cousin’s hand like a drowning woman to a life rope. The shouting outside was muffled by the thick greasy walls of Goad’s office.

  “You cannot go through with this,” Lily squeaked.

  Of course, the Master Gaoler wanted to frighten her. He let Claire simmer a few moments longer while he examined a broken fingernail. Prepared for such an event, Claire produced another precious coin. “I believe this will do, Mr. Goad.” Claire looked down her nose, using her presence of the highborn she hoped would kindle a sense of inferiority in Mr. Goad.

  “Your servant, m’lady.” He grabbed for the coin.

  Claire snatched it back. “You’ll have a neat little profit after my requests have been granted. It’s a matter of negotiation.”

  His sallow face puckered as he heaved a sigh through rotted teeth. “Very well, wait here while I get your betrothed ready for his weddin’ day.”

  Devon Blackmon’s cell was not a cheerful place. Moisture dripped down gray stone walls blackened with splotches of mold. The odor of dampness mingled with a stink, rivaling the worst of London’s sewers. The furnishings lay sparse−a chamberpot and filthy straw strewn in the corner for a pallet to sleep. One small barred window yielded a view of the prison-yard, where Devon observed a drunken banquet to celebrate his departure into the unknown. Since dawn the street had been packed with people hoping to catch a glimpse of the damned. Unable to see their quarry, they were content to enjoy a vicarious thrill from the snatches of song and squeals of happy laughter that rose over the dreary walls.

  His eyes roved over a sheet dividing his cell placed by orders of the master gaoler. Weighted down by additional chains, he squinted through swollen eyelids. Mr. Goad had arrived accompanied by two guards to hold Devon down. They claimed he needed a lesson in manners for a visitor. For their effort, one guard had received a broken nose, and the other, a pair of cracked ribs. If Devon’s stomach had been properly filled, the damage to them would have been worse. Chained to the wall with little room to maneuver, he slid down on his pallet and resumed his pastime of late, picking lice.

  Under sentence of death, there were no advantages, Devon reflected wryly. No last meal or priest to comfort him. He was dressed in the clothes he’d been arrested in six months before, torn from the beatings he received from his captors. The lack of water to wash and shave created dismal grime far from the cleanliness to which he was accustomed. For the past three days he’d dined on nothing but a moldy slice of bread. God, he was hungry. Unable to stop himself from dreaming, he pictured a fat roasted goose baked crisp with all the trimmings: gravy, potatoes, and fresh baked bread with butter.… He dropped his head to his knees, feeling nauseous. His stomach, so empty, he could feel its sides clamping together, gave a harsh growl followed by a dry heave. He forced his mind away from the treacherous subject of food.

  He sat huddled on the rough stone floor, arms wrapped around his drawn-up knees for warmth. His added chains clinked. One of the new indignities he received from the grinning guards who savored to beat and taunt him. The words, degrading and dehumanizing, were something he preferred not to think about, reminding him of the starved, half-crazed, filthy wretch he’d become. Oh, well, he thought with an attempt at black humor, he wouldn’t have long to worry about his misfortunes. His time was near.

  What did keep his mind alive were contemplations entertained on wonderful bits of vengeance on King James and England’s aristocracy− for he was an innocent man.

  Devon raised his head. His eyes drifted over the sheet, dividing his cell. He wondered what new humiliation the guards contemplated. They mentioned a visitor. All his relatives were dead. He’d join them soon enough. He bowed his head.

  “Stand clear,” Mr. Goad shouted. The door swung open. The sun had set, and in the darkness the Master Gaoler hooked a lantern on the ceiling, light flowing into the shadows. Goad’s florid face appeared around the sheet. Cautious, until he saw how far Devon’s chains stretched, or rather, if Devon could get his hands upon him, he nodded, apparently satisfied his men had cinched him tight enough to the wall.

  “Take heed,” said Devon. “It’s my rest you’re disturbing.”

  Mr. Goad stood not amused. “Odds blood! Ye think I’m to bow to the likes of you rebels? There’s gallows awaiting you at Tyburn Tree with an audience to give their approval.”

  “Faith, you mean it’s not time for my bath and bread-pudding?”

  Mr. Goad considered him with a kindling eye then cocked his head, listening to the clangor of church bells. “I’ll not cater to the likes of you, you haughty traitor. Hear them bells? The bellman of St. Sepulchre’s never fails to sound the bells on the eve of execution day.”

  “If your wit were as big as your voice, it’s the fine man you’d be.” Devon sneered, his fury dissolving into grim resignation.

  Claire saw Mr. Goad’s jaw work up and down, listening to his dispute with the prisoner. She had waited hours with Lily in the prison office. Mr. Goad’s way of letting her know who remained in charge. Her nerves raw, she had been led down a maze of dark, clammy corridors. The rotting smells were so horrible she clamped a perfumed handkerchief to her nose. Almost worse than the smells were the sounds−heart wrenching moans of pain joined sobbing cries of misery. Her throat closed up, and her heart despaired for the humanity locked with these walls. Thank goodness she had left Lily in Goad’s office and spared her this ordeal.

  “You may find me fine enough to hang you myself.” Goad’s scowl deepened. “It would be a great pleasure to stretch yer bloody neck.”

  Something scurried over Claire’s foot. She squelched a scream and stepped into the cell. Was it a rat? She wished Goad and the prisoner would stop their bickering. She desired to marry the condemned man and leave.

  “Certainly you have the manners and appearance of a hangman,” said the prisoner to Goad. “None but a fool or a savage would merit such an occupation.”

  Despite the prisoner’s reckless defiance, a subtlety of intelligence lay defined in his tone and speech. Irish wasn’t it? With all the ferocity of a winter squall, he dared to quarrel with the Master Gaoler. Claire reversed her initial opinion. The prisoner was either insane or half-witted.

  Her head jerked up at the sound of something hard hitting flesh. The Master Gaoler’s cruelty had struck her like a physical blow, forceful enough to rattle her bones.

  “Enough of your b
luster. Keep your bloody mouth shut,” Goad ordered.

  “Stop.” Claire’s voice broke. She could not bear the thought of any man beaten. “Leave us, Mr. Goad.”

  “I’ll not leave. Not ‘til this animal learns who his betters is.”

  Mr. Goad’s obstinance rang eloquent. Claire took the hint, opened her purse and produced another coin. “Do not make me speak again.”

  Mr. Goad wavered between his petty revenge and the coin dangled in front of him. The gaoler’s greed won out. He snatched her last precious coin like a cock at a worm, slammed the door and locked it. “It’s your neck, milady.” Goad pressed his face against the bars and laughed. “Don’t beg for me when ‘e gets his hands on you. I’ll pretend not to hear what he does to you.”

  A cold knot formed in her stomach. Mr. Goad’s fear of the prisoner, and the fact that it had taken twelve of the King’s good men to hold him down caused her to rethink what she had just done. She glanced at the locked door then stared at the thin sheet between them. She had asked for the sheet because she did not want to see the prisoner’s face. She wanted no memories of him or his horrible demise to burden her future.

  As Goad’s footsteps echoed down the hall, Claire bit her lip. Would the chains secured around the prisoner be enough? She hoped the bonds would not be tested. To invite the gaoler to return would result in unwanted intrusion. She desperately needed to talk to this man alone.

  Beyond the sheet the prisoner rested, cast in stygian darkness. Did he think the arrangement strange? He did not indicate his thoughts. Claire closed her eyes to fight her panic. Her fears came in an onslaught of images. Visions of the terrors of her childhood caused her sides to trickle with perspiration, the tragic death of her parents, her near demise in St. Giles.

  The image of a new hell awaiting her emerged. She laid in a bed, naked, the duke’s cold bony hands pawing at her breasts. The rumors surrounding the duke’s former young wives and their mysterious deaths plagued her.