Dark Before the Rising Sun (19 page)

“Lucien is the only one, except for Rhea, who has met this man, but I fear that soon we shall all have the pleasure of his company,” Sabrina predicted worriedly.

“The man would actually come to Camareigh?” Lady Mary asked in disbelief, for few people of her acquaintance were so uncouth to force themselves on unwilling hosts, and she certainly knew that the man had not been invited to Camareigh. “The man must be little better than a savage. Poor Rhea Claire, to have had to suffer the man's presence for so long. And am I to understand that the man is now actually trying to further that acquaintance by coming to Camareigh? I can certainly see why you must feel quite outraged by the impertinence of the man. Cannot he be arrested? Surely he must be out of favor with the authorities? I shouldn't let him get past the front gates, Lucien,” Lady Mary advised her brother-in-law, and coming from the gentle Mary Fletcher, that sounded quite extraordinary.

“Mary, Dante Leighton is Rhea's husband,” Sabrina announced bluntly, then added hesitantly, for it was a difficult announcement to make considering the circumstances, “and is the father of the child she is carrying.”

Lady Mary choked on her tea, her cough drawing Rhea's attention. She realized that they must have just told her Aunt Mary about Dante, and for the first time since Dante had put his ring on her finger, Rhea glanced down at it self-consciously. She had been feeling awkward as she recounted again, this time for her cousins' apparently insatiable curiosity, her adventures since being abducted from Camareigh. Rather than becoming easier, the telling was far more difficult now, for she had come to expect amazement, horror, outrage, and embarrassment from her listeners. As a result, she found herself constrained to defend Dante's honor and integrity at every turn. And glancing over to where her aunt and uncle were in earnest conversation with her mother and father, she knew that they too were discussing Dante, and from the expressions on their faces, it was only too obvious that he had not made any friends among that group.

If only Dante were here. Then there would not be this tense waiting, and any suspicions they were entertaining could, once and for all, be laid to rest.

Rhea glanced over at Francis, meeting his understanding gaze while she tried to respond to her young cousins' questions. Francis's reaction to her marriage and the news of her pregnancy had surprised her, for it had been one of thoughtful deliberation, as if he were reconstructing in his mind every detail of her experience. Apparently he was not happy with his conclusion. He left her in little doubt that he thought Dante Leighton had taken ungentlemanly advantage of her.

“And were they actually pirates, Rhea?” young Stuart Fletcher was demanding, his eyes round with excitement. His cousin had always been, after all, just a girl, but now she had risen considerably in his estimation.

“There was this one man, wasn't there, Rhea, who actually knew Blackbeard and saw his chopped-off head swinging from the bowsprit of one of His Majesty's ships,” Robin chimed in, thinking he would like to have been aboard the
Sea Dragon
and met some of these pirates.

“'Tisn't true,” Stuart said with a disbelieving shake of his rusty curls.

“My father met the man in London,” Robin informed him knowingly. “His name was Longacres, and Father said he'd never seen a more bloodthirsty-looking pirate.”

Stuart's mouth dropped open in awe as he stared over toward his uncle's tall figure, for he'd always had the highest opinion of the duke, even though he was Robin's father.

“You look prettier than ever, Rhea,” ten-year-old Anna said shyly. “Are you really married?” she asked hesitantly, her freckled face mirroring admiration.

“Yes, Anna, I am truly wed,” Rhea told her, holding on to that thought as she realized she was the only adult in the room who was the least bit pleased about the fact.

“What is your name now?” eight-year-old Maggie wanted to know.

“Lady Jacqobi.” Rhea said the name then silently repeated it to herself over and over again as her thoughts drifted to Dante. What was he doing? Was he thinking of her?

“I don't like the sound of this man, this Dante Leighton,” James Fletcher was saying as he glanced at Rhea Claire out of the corner of his eye. “He doesn't sound acceptable,” he added jealously, for he had long been in love with his cousin.

“It doesn't matter what you think, James,” his elder brother Ewan told him with his usual practicality. “The deed is done.”

“A villainous deed,” James maintained stoutly, thinking he would certainly give the man the cold shoulder should he dare to show his face at Camareigh. Francis had filled them in on the man's unsavory reputation. “Isn't there
anything
that can be done?” he demanded, his youthful jealousy riding high.

“You could always call him out, Francis,” George commented, still impressed by his cousin's showing that day when the duke had been attacked. “There's only one of him. You should be able to deal easily enough with the blackguard,” he said eagerly.

“From what I've heard about the man from my father, the man's a former privateer and smuggler, and he wouldn't be alive today to be troubling us if he weren't a cunning devil. No, he is safe, for Rhea Claire would never forgive any of us if we did him an injury,” Francis informed them, disappointment only too evident in his flat tone.

“We could arrange an accident,” James suggested hopefully as he met his brother George's appreciative grin.

“James, go and get yourself a creamed bun,” Ewan told his younger brother in exasperation.

“Well, I think 'tis a good idea,” James grumbled. But he decided to get the bun when he saw Rhea, his youngest brother John's hand clasped firmly in hers, head toward the tray.

The three cousins continued to stand in silence, and when Francis Dominick's speculatively narrowed blue-gray eyes met the thoughtful gaze of Ewan Fletcher, whose eyes shifted to meet the shrewd stare of his brother George, no words were necessary among the three. The cousins knew that if they had their way, they would see that Dante Leighton never set foot on the hallowed grounds of Camareigh, or ever again saw Rhea Claire.

“We could always waylay him on the road. Give him something to think about.”

“Send him off, with a flea in his ear, eh?” George agreed.

“How about buying him off? I've quite a bit of my allowance still.”

“Won't do, that. He's filthy rich,” Francis regrettably informed them.

“Didn't marry Rhea for her fortune, then?”

“You could always put on one of your father's old wigs and, pretending to be the duke, scare the man off. Threaten him with dire consequences.”

“He's a marquis. 'Twouldn't impress him.”

“Damn it all, anyway. Isn't there anything we can do?”

“S'pose we'll just have to be rude to the man. Nothing else for it.”

“I could wing him. Hide in the bushes. That'd scare him,” George suggested.

But, alas, calmer thoughts prevailed and the three dissatisfied cousins accepted the fact that there was little they could do. Only no one made certain that James understood there was nothing to be done about Dante Leighton.

* * *

That afternoon seemed to set the pattern for the days that followed, and soon a week had passed. Dante Leighton had yet to arrive at Camareigh. The days seemed unnaturally long for Rhea, even though each hour was filled with the happiness of being with her family.

But every so often her eyes would stray to the tall windows and the vista beyond, in search of that figure approaching the great house. Or she would suddenly still, listening for the distinctive sound of coach wheels rolling up the drive. But day after day she was disappointed. Finally, however, visitors arrived at Camareigh. But Rhea Claire was not standing at one of the tall windows overlooking the stately drive, and so she did not witness the arrival of the coach as it pulled up before the wide steps.

Rhea was in the Long Gallery, standing before the portrait of her great-grandmother, her father, and his twin cousins. Her thoughts were troubled as she stared at the two fair-haired children sitting beside a very young Lucien Dominick. To think that such evil had existed behind those two angelic faces, that so much grief had resulted from Kate and Percy's insane hatred and enviousness. Rhea's glance lingered for a second on the late dowager duchess, Claire Lorraine Dominick, whose purpose in living had been to see that the Dominick family continued to survive and that Camareigh remained forever great. In her desire to see her wishes come true, she had become obsessive. Because of her single-mindedness, she was partly to blame for Kate and Percy's own obsessions. She had neglected the cousins on the distaff side of the family, for they could not perpetuate the name of Dominick, and so those cousins had come to hate Lucien for being heir to the Dominick name, title, and fortune.

As Rhea Claire, victim of their madness, stood before that portrait, she couldn't help but think of Dante's obsession to return to Merdraco and, apparently, to wreak revenge on somebody he held responsible for all of the misfortunes that had come his way.

Rhea turned away from the portrait with a shiver of premonition that Mary Fletcher would have understood and hurried along the gallery, away from all that unhappiness.

She slowed her pace as she saw a gangling figure approaching. Unconsciously she felt for her golden chain and locket with the miniature portraits of her mother and father inside. The remembrance of the day she had lost it was only too hauntingly vivid, but thanks to the girl standing before her, a wide smile of contentment on her plain face, she once again possessed one of her treasures.

“Good morning, Alys,” Rhea greeted her friend affectionately, remembering their heartfelt reunion.

“Ah, 'tis a lovely mornin', m'lady,” Alys declared, oblivious to the rain cascading against the windowpanes. “Now that ye've returned home, why, no day can be bad.”

“You do like living here at Camareigh, Alys?” Rhea asked, though the look in the girl's bright blue eyes was answer enough.

“Oh, m'lady,” Alys said, her grin widening, “'tis all ye said it was. I never expected to be seein' it, though.”

“I hear you've been learning a great deal from Rawley.”

“Oh, aye, a fine woman that Rawley is, but,” Alys said, lowering her voice confidentially, “Her Grace says I'm to start helpin' O'Casey soon with the twins. Look forward to bein' with the little ones. Always have liked babies. But I don't believe in coddlin' them too much.”

“I have a feeling that Andrew and Arden are in for a surprise,” Rhea predicted, thinking that Robin had had it far too easy with O'Casey and that the twins were beginning to get out of hand as well, but with Alys Meredith as their nanny, they would find not only love and affection but a firm hand as well.

“M'lady?” Alys began awkwardly. “I never got the chance to thank ye proper like for keepin' your promise about not forgettin' me.”

“It was my mother who asked you to stay here,” Rhea protested. “I only wish I could have helped you that day we were torn apart in Charles Town.”

“Oh, ye did ye best. I guess ye faced even worse later on, and here I was comin' to your home with ye still missin'. Didn't seem fair. But Their Graces were so kind, and when they asked me what I wanted to do with me life, well,” Alys said with a shy smile, “I said 'twould suit me just fine to stay here at Camareigh, if they didn't mind, that is. Told them I'd be happy scrubbin' the scullery, but Her Grace, well, she wouldn't have anythin' to do with that. Says I'm a friend of her daughter's, and I could live here as a guest forever, but, well, I'm not one for bein' idle. Like to think I'm payin' me way. So Her Grace says I'm to work at whatever I want.”

“I told you they were wonderful.”

“Aye, m'lady,” Alys agreed, her tone reverent.

“When I was in the Indies, everything was so perfect, except that I didn't know what had happened to you. Then Sir Morgan Lloyd informed us that you had returned to England and were most likely at Camareigh. I knew then that everything would turn out for the best. I was not surprised to find you still here, and happy, and now that I am with my family, I have no more worries about anything,” Rhea stated, convincing herself that everything
would
work out; it had to.

But Alys, for all her unworldliness, was not convinced. She had overheard too many hushed conversations, seen too many worried faces, to believe that events would evolve exactly in the manner Lady Rhea Claire seemed to think they would.

“A pity 'tis raining, for I would like a walk in the gardens,” Rhea said wistfully, and looking beyond the rivulets of water glistening on the windows, she imagined the yew-hedged walks that led to the sunken gardens where her passage would be reflected in the shimmering surface of the lily pond. She would not have lingered long, however, and soon would have left behind the neatly trimmed topiary gardens, for her destination was the natural beauty of the parkland, where a gently sloping meadow descended to a lake where swans drifted peacefully in the quiet.

“Oh, m'lady.” Alys gasped. “I nearly forgot! There be visitors newly arrived. They be down in the—”

But Rhea waited to hear no more. With a rustling of her skirts and a discreet flash of silken ankles, she was through the gallery and quickly to the Chinese Room, the first-floor salon where visitors were usually greeted.

Past the liveried footmen she sped, stopping only once, to glance quickly into one of the tall pier glasses before she entered through the double doors of the Chinese Room.

A man was standing with his back to the doors, talking with her father. Her eyes on that tall figure, Rhea did not notice the other occupants of the room. “Dante!” she cried, stopping in her tracks when the man turned around.