Dark Before the Rising Sun (24 page)

“Why, I can't believe he is as handsome as all the maids declare him to be,” Caroline continued. Casting a sly glance at the earl, who was absorbed in handling one of his host's pistols, she added, “Certainly not as handsome as Wesley. Wesley! You did hear what I said, didn't you?” she teased, but her voice was sharp. “Isn't it just like a man not to acknowledge a compliment,” she said with a tight smile, for despite all of her wiles over the past fortnight, Wesley Lawton still had yet to appreciate her.

“The man's been ill with a fever since last week. Besides, it is difficult for someone with a broken ankle to get about. 'Twould be next to impossible for the gentleman to climb the stairs,” Sir Jeremy explained patiently. “You know how much difficulty I have getting around when I'm suffering one of my attacks. Why, just the other day I—”

“Papa, what was it you heard in London about Rhea's husband? I've been trying to remember all day long.” Caroline sighed, wishing she could recall that tantalizing snippet of gossip.

“It had something to do with his past. Of course,” she added with a knowing look at Rhea, “I s'pose he's told you everything about why he left England so suddenly? I don't s'pose you have any secrets between you.” She tried to bait her friend.

Lord Wrainton, only brother of Mary and Sabrina, glanced up from his book and, peering over the tops of his spectacles at Caroline, quoted, “‘The secret of being a bore is to tell everything.' You might remember that, for it could serve you well someday,” he advised, but her scowling attention was centered on the three Fletcher brothers and their cohort, Francis Dominick, who had rudely guffawed at the remark, their game of cards temporarily forgotten as they eavesdropped on the conversation. Their Uncle Richard always seemed to find something witty to say.

“Well, I think 'tis a bore to be too smart, and always quoting nonsensical things from dusty ol' books,” Caroline said, still smarting from having apparently been the butt of the joke, even if she hadn't quite understood it. “Anyway, as I was saying…” She tried to continue despite the renewed laughter—even from her own father, she realized in outraged indignation.

“Uncle Richard,” Rhea said softly, “you're being a bully, picking on someone who could never understand you in a thousand years.”

“I know,” he said, “but she does irritate me so. Besides, you will not defend yourself against her remarks. 'Tis the privilege of your uncle to do that,” he said with a boyish grin as he eyed his niece fondly. Rhea was holding his firstborn child, Dawn, in her lap, playing with her. “Now tell me again about this man aboard the
Sea Dragon
who actually knew my grandfather. 'Tis amazing the way life evolves. I have often wanted to chart the migrations of certain races, peoples, and families, and through the study of events, come to conclusive evidence supporting cause and effect. The one determining the other,” Richard Verrick explained, his bluish-gray eyes glowing. “Do you not think it would be interesting?”

Rhea smiled. Her Uncle Richard was such a dear person. He had been only about Robin's age when her mother and father married, and, being an orphan, he had come to Camareigh to live. He had always been bookish, her mother said, as well as nearsighted. At times he seemed to live in his own world. He wasn't stuffy, though, and had always been happy to amuse his nieces and nephews, and had seemed more like an older brother than an uncle. Because he had always been close to their whole family, he had remained a contented bachelor until meeting Sarah Pargeter, the orphaned ward of his sister Mary's husband, General Sir Terence Fletcher. Richard Verrick, his myopic vision sharpening rapidly, fell in love with the quiet young woman who made no effort to attract the eligible young gentleman. He was a very wealthy marquis who could not only claim a rich duke as a brother-in-law, but who also possessed several estates of his own as well as a castle in the Scottish Highlands.

Rhea stared down at the child cradled in her arms. She liked the feel of the baby snuggling against her breast. Soon, soon she would know the warm feel of her own child's body.

“Oh, of course! I remember now!” Caroline exclaimed, glancing around for a proper show of appreciation of her mental prowess, but no one seemed to be paying her any attention. “Rhea Claire's husband was accused of murder!” Caroline cried. Satisfaction was hers, for she had succeeded at last in gaining the shocked attention of everyone in the room. “Why, Rhea Claire, I do believe you are surprised. You mean to say your husband never told you he was suspected of the brutal murder of a young girl?” Caroline asked.

“Good Lord,” murmured the Earl of Rendale. He'd not known. “Is it true?” he asked.

Rhea's cheeks were turning a pale pink as she felt the embarrassing disquiet spreading through all the people in the room. She was thankful at least that her mother and father and her Aunt Mary and Uncle Terence were not present, for she had no answer.

“Can it be that you are actually wed to a murderer? Oh, my dear, it's just too awful. I should think you would be scared to death to be in the same room with him. I mean, if he does have an uncontrollable temper, why, he could do it again, couldn't he?” Caroline asked. Her feigned pity was almost unbearable, Rhea thought as she met the girl's gloating expression. “Or,” Caroline went on, “it could have been a calculated murder. Why, he might already be planning your death in order to get your inheritance.”

“Caroline! This time you have gone too far. I am ashamed of you,” Sir Jeremy spoke harshly, his face turning beet red with shame. “Please, Rhea Claire, accept my deep apology on behalf of my daughter. She forgets herself.”

“Oh, Papa, really!” Caroline pouted. “After all, you are the one who told me the story,” she went on, hardly endearing herself to her father.

The Fletcher brothers and Francis had left their card game and were gathered behind the settee, on which Rhea and Richard were sitting quietly. Even the gentle chuckles of the baby had stopped.

When Caroline saw the unfriendly faces staring at her, she said huffily, “Well, I don't know why you should all be staring at me like that.
I'm
not the one accused of murder!”

“No, but you've repeated a piece of gossip you know little about, and with the express purpose of causing offense,” Richard said, his voice unexpectedly harsh. His family glanced at him in surprise, for Richard was the soul of discretion and courtesy. “‘Gossip is mischievous, light and easy to raise, but grievous to bear and hard to get rid of. No gossip ever dies away entirely if many people voice it…'”

“Oh, you and your damned quotes and your damned red hair!” Caroline rudely interrupted. His unruly red curls had always bothered her. If not for them, she would gladly have determined to become the next Marchioness of Wrainton, but she just couldn't see being married to someone with red hair, or living in a moldy old castle in Scotland.

“Caroline! Apologize this very instant. Your behavior is outrageous,” Sir Jeremy ordered.

“Well, how dare he speak to
me
in that manner?” she demanded, her cheeks puffing out with anger.

“I only wish I'd had the intelligence to take a switch to your derriere years ago, young woman!” Sir Jeremy roared. Struggling to his feet from the comfortable armchair he'd been resting in, he looked as if he intended to set the record straight right then and there, company or not.

“Oh!” Caroline wailed. Setting her half-uneaten dish of rice and apple pudding down on the table with a small bang, she jumped to her feet and stormed from the room, her skirts swishing as she threw open the doors.

Sir Jeremy was too embarrassed to stay. Politely excusing himself, he limped to the door. The Earl of Rendale, despite his curiosity to learn more of this scandalous incident concerning the Marquis of Jacqobi, decided it would be better to make his excuses as well, and with his usual gentlemanly show of manners he bowed and left the room. Francis watched his stiff-backed, retreating figure, surprised that for once the man realized he would have been de trop had he remained.

Walking around to the front of the settee, Francis squatted in front of his sister's still figure. “That was an unpleasant surprise for you, was it not?” he asked softly, his blue-gray eyes understanding. “I am sorry. I could strangle Caroline sometimes.”

With a smile for the outraged-looking James, he added, “But I shall refrain from doing so, and I trust you have not taken my words seriously, James,” he warned, little realizing how much like the duke he sounded. He wanted no repeat of the episode which had very nearly cost Dante Leighton his life.

“We're keeping an eye on him,” Ewan reassured his cousin while dodging a carefully aimed elbow from his hotheaded younger brother. For although James had been disciplined by both the duke and the general, he had a dangerously short memory.

“I wouldn't do anything to her. Or to him,” James denied. “Honestly I wouldn't, Rhea. You do believe me, don't you, Rhea?” James asked in growing concern lest his cousin become displeased with him again. He had agonized more over her disapproval of his act of recklessness than even his father's, which had been only too predictably severe.

“James, please do not trouble yourself any further, for I know you were only trying to help me. Dante will recover, and he forgives you. I know you would never do anything so reprehensible again,” Rhea told her young cousin for the hundredth time. Turning to Francis, she said, “I was shocked, but only because I was unprepared to hear such a thing about Dante. Of course I do not believe it, and hope that no one else at Camareigh will either,” Rhea said, her voice tremulous, for she was badly shaken.

“I think you should ask Dante about it,” Richard advised, thinking that Francis had certainly matured in the past year, far more so than his younger cousins, he thought with a frowning glance at the two younger ones, who were about to come to fisticuffs as they argued about whether or not James could be trusted. “You should hear his side of the story, Rhea.”

“I know, and I shall. 'Tis strange, but Dante warned me that I might hear unpleasant gossip about his past, and he made me promise that I would come to him for his explanation,” Rhea said, remembering also how nervous he had seemed about it.

“He was expecting this?” Francis murmured, for he had heard nothing bad about the man, and had secretly begun to respect Dante, who had left his home and family and led so adventurous a life. And from what he had come to learn, her husband was genuinely in love with Rhea and treated her well.

Rhea placed a gentle kiss on the top of Dawn Verrick's red curls. Carefully, she handed the child back to Richard's waiting arms.

“You're going up to him?” Francis wanted to know.

“Yes, but if you are concerned, I shall have one of the footmen follow me just in case Dante decides to attack me,” Rhea said with uncharacteristic sharpness.

“Rhea, I didn't mean that, really I did not,” Francis denied. Rhea closed her eyes, then smiled apologetically.

“I am sorry too. I do not know what has come over me of late. I feel so snappish sometimes. Please forgive me, Francis.”

“Always, you know that,” her brother said, but he looked worried as he watched her leave the room, and he wondered why loving someone always seemed to make you less happy than you were when
not
in love.

* * *

Beyond the tall windows of the Long Gallery, lightning illumined the blackening skies. The sudden, blinding flash highlighted the lone figure standing so still before one of the portraits. In the golden glow from one of the wall sconces, its flame flickering, the painted figure looked almost medieval. The reds were Venetian; the yellows aged like antique gold; the greens as dark as a huntsman's cloak; and the blues of wild woad.

Dante stood staring up at the Elizabethan, wondering what manner of man he had been. His eyes were black as a raven's wing, as was his hair, the curls framing a boldly staring face. The lips curled in a slight smile, while the eyes remained coldly assessing, wary.

This was the Dominick who had so fascinated Rhea Claire. Dressed so finely, in embroidered doublet and lacy ruff, his bejeweled hand holding a pair of gauntlet gloves while the other rested on a decorative sword belt, he did not look much like an adventurer.

A deafening clap of thunder sounded overhead, followed by another flash, and then a rumbling shook the room. The crystal chandeliers tinkled melodically. A thunderbolt hit with an earthshaking reverberation, and then rain hit the windows in cascading silver sheets.

Dante glanced at the painted image one last time, then hobbled toward a high-backed, tapestried chair set against the wall, the crutch Kirby had managed to produce for him keeping the weight off his ankle.

Resting the crutch against the paneled wall, he relaxed against the chair back, his eyes roving the darkened gallery as he wondered how many times Rhea Claire had walked along it, perhaps dreaming of her swashbuckling ancestor, little realizing that one day her own life would become entwined with an adventurer's.

Dante Leighton, former captain of the
Sea Dragon
, smiled as he sat there in the darkness. He had made it past those forbidding wrought iron gates into Camareigh. He remembered the first and only time he had spoken to the duke while under his roof. The arrogant Lucien Dominick had actually apologized to him, reassuring him that no similar incident would occur. Then, much to Dante's surprise, the duke escorted two subdued, uncomfortable-looking boys into the room. Dante's gaze had gone first to the taller of the two. A redheaded lad, his face had turned nearly as red as his curls while he made a muffled, though sincere, apology. But when Dante's eyes encountered the violet eyes of Robin Dominick he had been mystified. There had been something so tantalizingly familiar about the lad with the curly black hair and strangely tinted eyes. Of course, the eyes were like Rhea's eyes, but still…there was something else about the small boy who made his apology with such stiff-backed pride and defiance.