Now Murray alone of the original triumvirate remained, and when the boat came for him, he would leave. Although he felt a twinge of regret at the thought that he would never see either Ian or Caroline again, his conscience did not bother him in the least. They had made their plans carefully, and the other two knew that the boat was due shortly and that it would rendezvous two miles out with the frigate that was to take them to the Isle de Cuba. If the Duchess and her chamberlain should miss the boat, it was too bad—for them.
Lord Murray did not intend to suffer because of the negligence of someone else. As a matter of fact, his own future would be far more comfortable alone, for he would have no need to share the funds so carefully deposited in the strongbox of a seemingly respectable merchant in Habana. That money would be all his now, and it would assure him a pleasant income for many months to come. During that time he could chart his future, perhaps arrange to go over to the side of Louis, the French Sun King, when the next war broke out between him and the English. Louis always prized English recruits, particularly when they were noblemen.
It would be a blessed relief to get away from the tropics, Lord Murray told himself as he wiped his face with a square of Irish lace. The heat was bad enough, and this earthquake had been damned inconvenient. The boat was already a quarter of an hour late, though the fisherman who owned it had been given only enough of his fee to whet his appetite. No doubt the quake had delayed him, but Lord Murray was annoyed. He himself was never late for an appointment, never permitted anything to stand in his way, and he'd let the fisherman know what he thought of him, perhaps even cut the size of the purse he had promised the fellow.
A tiny patch of sail showed far out to the right across the glaring Caribbean, and Lord Murray allowed himself the luxury of a small, tight smile. It was his fisherman at last, and in a few minutes he would be on his way to safety and freedom. He would not be sorry to see the last of Jamaica.
As he looked out to sea, an incredible phenomenon took place before his eyes. In a second the calm surface of the sea was broken and a huge wall of ugly gray-green water rose high into the air, seemingly from the very floor of the Caribbean. Before Lord Murray could move, it bore down on him. At last he turned and tried to flee, but it was too late. As the tidal wave engulfed him, sucked him under, the light, cynical smile was at last gone from his lips.
Port Royal lay in ruins. The area close to the waterfront had been totally destroyed. Public buildings, homes, and shops were no more, and people—those who still lived—were fleeing up the long neck of the Palisadoes to the comparative safety of the island mainland. Away from the waterfront it was a trifle better, though only a trifle. The High Street was virtually deserted save for the dead and dying, but the tidal wave had not penetrated this far inland, and the road, what was left of it, was still dry.
A figure moved out into the sunlight from the shadows of a tumbled, abandoned two-story house and moved slowly up the length of what had once been the town's proudest avenue. There was a native turban wound around the woman's head, effectively hiding her long wheat-colored hair. Her gown was in rags, and a welt on her shapely thigh showed through a jagged tear in the fabric of her clothes. There was a broad smudge on her face, and her hands were dirty, her nails grimy. She walked slowly, with an exaggerated stoop, and only if one happened to notice her alert, clear blue eyes would one know that this survivor of the quake was Caroline, Duchess of Glasgow.
She seemed to be looking for something as she made her way up the street, and every now and again she paused, peered at the ruins of a building, then continued calmly, as though the lack of whatever it was she was seeking did not matter to her. At last she came upon the remains of the House of the Caribbean, the most notorious brothel in Port Royal. She laughed lightly and stepped over the crushed timbers of what had once been a stout, heavily guarded door. The entire building had collapsed, and Caroline made her way carefully across the field of ruins, her eyes probing carefully. Here and there she saw the twisted, lifeless body of one of the inmates of the establishment, but the Duchess wasted neither time nor emotion on them as she continued her systematic hunt.
Finally she found what she had been seeking, and again she laughed, this time joyously. A large trunk had fallen from the second floor of the building, and in landing the top had burst open and the contents were scattered across the remnants of broken timbers and smashed furniture. The box had contained the wardrobe of one of the trollops who had made her home in the establishment, and Caroline was in need of new attire.
Her composure was gone now, and she pawed hastily through the mounds of expensive fabrics, her eyes critical and appraising. Some garments she discarded because they were unsuitable, others because their colors were wrong for her type of beauty, but when she came upon a gown of pale green silk, exquisitely embroidered with gold thread, she uttered a cry of triumph and held it up to her body. It was going to be an even better fit than she had dared hope, and her smile broadened.
With her foot she kicked open the shattered side of the trunk and beheld piles of shoes and, in a tumbled mass, layers of underclothing. Bending over, she explored her found treasure with delicately probing fingers, quietly congratulating herself. A lady needed to look her triumphant best in order to get along in the world, and she needed a keen mind to guide her; Caroline was sure that few other women would have thought of such a means of replenishing a wardrobe.
Her fingers came upon something hard, and she dug out a small metal box. She opened it carefully, then almost dropped it into the debris, so great was her delight. Inside was a supply of cosmetics, unguents, and perfumes, and beneath the jars and pomades was a small leather purse. She knew even before she tugged it open that it contained a sum of money.
Neither the failure of her carefully plotted rebellion nor the unexpected blow of a catastrophic earthquake could conquer her. She knew it as she glanced at her reflection in a tiny mirror of burnished metal set into the lid of the cosmetics box. The blue eyes that met her gaze were wise and strong, sure and purposeful, joyously triumphant. . .
Chapter Twenty
THE MOST wicked city in the Western world was no more. Five days after the earthquake, when the survivors had assessed the damage, there was no doubt in the mind of anyone that Port Royal's days of glory were over. More than three quarters of the buildings in the town had been destroyed, and not a tavern, not an inn, not a brothel still stood. Only King's House and the tiny church of Reverend Pennywell were intact; the old parish church had disappeared into the sea, as had numerous other structures located within a square or two of the waterfront.
Now a great exodus was taking place, and the living were fleeing with what remained of their household goods and possessions to the opposite side of the Bay of Jamaica. The fisherfolk of the tiny village of Kingston had offered the hospitality of their land, and plans were already being made for the building of a new town there. The governor general and Lady Bartlett announced their intention of moving the seat of government to Spanish Town, where they had an auxiliary palace, and the army was surveying sites for a new garrison nearby. Meantime King's House itself had been converted into a hospital for the injured and was the scene of the busiest activity in the shattered community.