Dark Before the Rising Sun (31 page)

Alastair frowned, then shook his head emphatically. “I do not think it will be necessary to inform His Grace. Let us wait a few minutes more,” he suggested, hoping that either the duke's son would find the courage to climb down, or…

But he didn't have to wait for long, because Conny was suddenly climbing back up the tree, this time to help his bitter rival. Alastair nodded. He hadn't misjudged the lad. Or perhaps it was the thought of the Duke of Camareigh standing here looking up at his son that had stirred Conny.

Several silent minutes passed before they caught sight of Conny's small figure nearing the place where Robin roosted.

“Aren't you worried that Conny'll get stuck up there too?” Stuart asked.

Alastair glanced down at the redheaded lad, then at the other two redheaded children, their expressions mirroring genuine concern for the two boys. “No, Conny has climbed to comparable heights since he was breeched. He's like a monkey. You'll notice that he took off his shoes. 'Twill give him better footing. Besides, Conny has no fear of heights. He'll bring down young Lord Robin,” Alastair said reassuringly, but if they had glanced behind his back, they would have seen his fingers crossed.

“Lord Robin?” Conny said, standing on a thick bough just below Robin's booted feet.

There was no response. “I was thinking that I was wrong. Ye certainly might make a sailor. Not many of the mates like to climb up so high. In fact, they have to be ordered to by the cap'n. Well, reckon I'm headin' down now. Figure Mrs. Peacham might have some more of them hot tarts comin' out of the oven,” Conny said. “If ye be comin', then I'll wait for ye. Here, sit down on that limb, and I'll give ye a hand down to this one. Could use a hand, myself,” Conny lied, thinking that Robin wasn't going to budge, and then they'd both be in trouble with His Grace.

Conny was about to give up when Robin moved his foot, and then his legs were dangling down. With his hand in Conny's, Robin slid down beside Conny on the lower branch.

Robin pulled his gaze away from the tilting sky and met Conny's dark blue eyes. He stared at him for a moment. Finding no derision or gloating in Conny's expression, he said, “Thank you. You didn't have to come back up, but you did. So I figure you win, Conny Brady.”

Conny was startled. He had not expected so generous a remark, and certainly not a capitulation from someone he'd thought to be little more than a spoiled brat.

Conny smiled self-consciously. “Reckon ye did real well considerin' ye'd never climbed the riggin' before. Wish I could say I'd done as well on horseback.”

The two boys made their way back down the tree, moving slowly this time. Gradually faces below became more than just blurs. And as the two climbed down to the lowest branches, Robin paused to catch his breath.

“Reckon those tarts might still be warm?” he asked.

“Aye, reckon so,” Conny replied.

“Actually, you've been doing quite well, considering you've never ridden horseback before.”

“Ye think so, Lord Robin?” Conny asked, surprised and pleased by the compliment.

“Aye, I reckon so,” Robin grinned, and it was the first time he had looked upon Conny with anything but dislike. “Butterick is the best. He'll have you riding so well that by next week you'll be able to jump the yew hedge in the south gardens,” Robin predicted.

“Ye really think so?” Conny asked doubtfully, thinking he'd be satisfied just to stay on the horse's back.

“Well, I see you both made it back down without incident,” Alastair commented, eyeing the two boys as they dropped to the ground from the lowest branch.

“Oh, aye, Mr. Marlowe, 'twas nothin' to it, eh, Lord Robin?” Conny asked with a wink.

“Nothin' to it,” Robin replied stoutly, much to his cousins' amazement and admiration.

“Weren't you scared, Robin? You sure looked green in the face from where we were standing,” Stuart wanted to know. “I thought you were going to get sick.”

“I thought you were going to fall,” Anne said, thinking Robin was very brave indeed.

“And I thought you were going to land on top of us,” Maggie chimed in.

But Robin maintained his calm demeanor while he explained the intricacies of his climb in detail. Now that he was safely back on the ground, he described most glowingly the wonderful view he had seen from on high.

Leading his horse, Alastair walked alongside the little group as they made their way back to the big house. He didn't mind the company, for he had been apprehensive of approaching the home of the Duke of Camareigh, even though he had a proper invitation tucked safely away in his coat pocket.

“This is Mr. Marlowe, Lord Robin,” Conny made the introduction. “He was the supercargo aboard the
Sea Dragon
, and is probably the cap'n's best friend. And a finer gentleman ye'll not be findin' anywhere, says Mr. Kirby,” Conny boasted, thinking Mr. Marlowe looked quite the gentleman in his fine gray frock coat and breeches, his boots as shiny as new guineas and three times as expensive, Conny guessed.

Alastair looked embarrassed when seven pairs of curious eyes were suddenly trained on him. “Well, that is very kind of you, Conny, but I certainly make no claim to being the captain's best friend. I just did my duty while serving aboard the
Sea Dragon
,” Alastair said modestly.

“Mr. Kirby says Mr. Marlowe never takes full credit for anythin' unless 'tis some mistake, then he's ownin' up to it like a decent man oughta,” Conny stated. He proceeded to regale the awestruck Fletcher children with some of his former shipmate's more daring exploits.

“Did you really find a sunken galleon, Mr. Marlowe?”

“Did you really swim in the sea?”

“Did you see any sea monsters?”

Alastair was still trying to satisfy their curiosity when he first set foot inside the hallowed halls of Camareigh, passing beneath the noble coat of arms of the Dominick family. The arms were emblazoned with the motto, “Yield Not Truth, Valor, or Purpose.”

Alastair, who had faced many a bloodthirsty foe while serving aboard the
Sea Dragon
, was almost sorry to see the children leave once they had entered the hall. It was crowded with liveried footmen, who were standing under the critical eye of a very haughty-seeming old man called Mason, who had probably been the butler at Camareigh for close to a century, or so Alastair surmised. Escorted into the Chinese Room, Conny having scurried off to tell the captain that Alastair had arrived, Alastair anxiously awaited the arrival of his host and hostess. Never before had he been in such exalted surroundings, and he expected that already half of London was here for the Grand Ball held in honor of the duke and duchess's daughter and son-in-law.

“Alastair! You've come!” Turning around, Alastair smiled into that violet-eyed gaze.

“Lady Rhea Claire,” he murmured, thinking that his memory had played him false, for dressed in a gown of rose brocade trimmed with lace, she was more beautiful than he had remembered, and he found himself staring dumbly at her.

“'Tis wonderful to see you again,” Rhea said, holding out her hands in welcome. “Alastair?” she spoke again, her smile fading. “Is something amiss? You're not ill?”

“Forgive me, Lady Rhea Claire,” Alastair apologized as he took her outstretched hands in his, “but the sight of you brought back so many memories.”

“I know. I often find myself thinking of those days,” Rhea confided.

“The crew would be pleased to see that you are wearing their gift and that they have not been forgotten,” he said as he spied the jeweled brooch gracing the white satin of her stomacher.

“Never,” she promised. “Have you seen any of them since we parted in London?” she asked. But before Alastair could respond, the door opened and a tall figure strode toward the two people standing so close together, their hands still clasped.

“Alastair. I thought you had forgotten us,” Dante said. Holding out his hand, he watched the quick unclasping of their hands and the slightly guilty look on his former supercargo's face. But then, he had always known that Alastair was in love with Rhea.

“Captain, 'tis good to see you looking so well, and I—”

“Not ‘Captain.' Have you forgotten that I am now respectable?” Dante asked, sliding his arms around Rhea's waist.

“You were always quite respectable in our eyes, m'lord,” Alastair said quite seriously.

“I am not ‘m'lord' to my friends. Please remember that,” Dante ordered, his voice sounding like an echo from the days aboard the
Sea Dragon
. “And I seem to remember a time when you thought me not respectable enough to pursue Rhea. Since you are slightly more respectable than I am, did you harbor thoughts of engaging the lady's affections yourself?” Dante asked with a smile.

“Dante, really.” Rhea laughed, wondering what had gotten into Dante.

Alastair eyed his former captain nervously. He had seen that glint in the narrowed eyes too often not to heed its warning. “How can any man not be half in love with so beautiful a lady? However, since the lady is spoken for, there can be nothing for me but to compose lovesick poems and adopt an attitude of abject despair,” Alastair jested.

“I do seem to have the devil's own luck, do I not?” Dante said and smiled.

“Aye, Cap'n, that ye do,” Alastair said, breathing easier. “And may I extend my deepest and sincerest felicitations on the birth of your son? I heard the news when I was in London. I am afraid that gossip is still rampant where the captain of the
Sea Dragon
is concerned,” the sensitive Alastair admitted, his face flushing with anger when he remembered some of the more outrageous remarks he had overheard.

“Thank you.” Dante spoke softly, his eyes meeting Rhea's and mirroring that extraordinary pride he had felt upon seeing his son for the first time.

“I must admit I was surprised. I had no idea,” Alastair said, glancing between Rhea and Dante.

“I should hope not, since I only heard the glad tidings on the day Rhea left London.”

“Had the crew known, I am afraid Lady Rhea Claire's departure would have been delayed so there could be many more toasts,” Alastair said and laughed.

“You have been in London recently, then?” Alastair nodded, and Dante, who still felt a deep sadness about the disbanding of the crew, asked, “Have they all left, then?”

“Aye, I think so, although I did meet up with Cobbs. He was newly arrived from Norfolk, where he had bought that manor house. He was in the process of buying out all of London. Nothing but the best for Squire Nabobs, he said, and proceeded to buy half the tavern several rounds of drinks,” Alastair said.

“Speaking of which, you must be thirsty and tired. We have kept you talking here for far too long,” Rhea spoke quickly, for she hadn't missed that faraway look in Dante's eyes when he had asked about his crew. She wondered if perhaps, deep down inside, he would prefer to be standing on the deck of his ship.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am rather fatigued. And I shouldn't wish to appear in polite company without changing out of these dusty clothes,” Alastair said, embarrassed as he became aware of the dried mud spotting his boots. “I only hope the coach I hired is not too far behind me. I rode on ahead. I'm afraid that sailing for so many years has made me dislike closed-in places, so you'll not catch me inside a coach. Nor could I have put up with the incessant chatter of my valet. I hired the fellow in London, or I should say that Barton condescended to become my valet. A more disapproving and snobbish man I've yet to meet. He'll have a paroxysm when he sees these boots,” Alastair said and sighed.

“You came straight from London?” Rhea asked. “I thought you might have come from the South, where your family lives.”

Alastair hesitated awkwardly before answering. “Shortly after you left London, Captain, I did too. I went home. Only, it wasn't really home anymore. My brother is master there, and he has a wife and seven children. I felt like a stranger. And I am afraid that my brother's opinion of me hasn't changed over the years. My parents are long dead. They died after I left to sail with you. So, except for my memories, there was nothing to hold me there,” Alastair said slowly. Rhea's heart went out to him, for he had spoken with such longing of returning home. But time had not stood still while he sailed the seas.

“I am sorry, Alastair,” Rhea said, touching his arm lightly.

“'Twas my own fault for thinking that, perhaps, since I returned a wealthy man, they would welcome me. But they have their own lives, and I am no longer a part of that world.”

Rhea glanced at Dante. He was standing so tall and proud, but she couldn't help but wonder what reception he would receive when he at long last returned to Merdraco.

The prince of darkness is a gentleman.

—Shakespeare

Bedazzled and bewitched by the resplendence shimmering like a thousand captured suns, the eye blinked, only to find a brilliant reflection of the scintillating light within the carved and gilded frames of the mirrors adorning the gold and white walls of the Great Ballroom of Camareigh. The muraled ceiling, with its clouds swirling around mythological scenes, soared fifty feet above the floor, while the sparkling crystal chandeliers seemed like stars, with Hesperus and Aldebaran burning brightest of the heavenly lights. Melodious strains of chamber music drifted from the minstrel gallery at the far end of the great hall, mingling with the sound of voices. Even Bacchus would have envied the feast prepared for that evening's revelry. Against the far wall, several long banqueting tables had been set up and were surely groaning under their burdens.

Alastair was as awed as the other guests were. Never had he seen so many people enjoying themselves with such abandon. Taking a sip from his goblet of wine, which was never allowed to go empty, he glanced around the crowded ballroom. Guests had been arriving continuously for the past hour, and Alastair knew he would be fortunate to remember even his own name by the end of the evening and certainly not the countless names and titles which had been so impressively announced by the stentorian-voiced majordomo standing guard at the double-doored entrance.

Alastair's bemused gaze rested on the small group standing just within the entrance. He was thinking what an attractive couple the Duke and Duchess of Camareigh were. The duchess was dressed in scarlet velvet, and her black hair left unpowdered, as the Queen herself had been doing recently, was arranged in soft curls and threaded with pearls. Around her neck hung an exquisite pearl necklace with a pearl and ruby pendant. It sparkled with a warmth that was a mere reflection of the welcoming smile on the duchess's delicately featured face.

As Alastair observed the Duke of Camareigh, he told himself that his memory of that stern-visaged gentleman had served him well. The man seemed as much the imperious patrician as he had the first time Alastair met him, perhaps even more so. Dressed in gold Italian silk embroidered in a delicate floral pattern, he was indeed a gentleman of distinction and lord of a noble household.

The former supercargo of the
Sea Dragon
smiled slightly as his gaze rested on the elegant, eminently respectable figure of his former captain. The gentleman was presenting himself with so dignified and gentlemanly a demeanor that Alastair suspected he was a great disappointment to those guests who had expected a bloodthirsty, snarling pirate.

Alastair wasn't even aware of the obliging footman who replaced his empty goblet with a brimming one, for his eyes were held captive by the stunning vision in gold standing beside Dante. Suddenly he found himself remembering his captain's words of earlier that day, and he had to agree that Dante had the devil's own luck. Lady Rhea Claire was the most spellbindingly beautiful woman in the room.

Dressed in a gown of gold tissue and lace, her golden hair sparkling with diamonds, she was more beautiful than Alastair thought any woman could be. And she belonged to Dante Leighton.

Alastair sighed. Would he ever have Dante's luck? His eyes lingered almost sadly on that golden figure, and then they drifted down the receiving line to where Francis Dominick, Marquis of Chardinall, stood, looking very much his father's son. He was a handsome young man, and already he possessed that air of quiet dignity and even arrogance which only the born aristocrat exuded.

Beyond Lord Chardinall stood General Sir Terence Fletcher and his wife, Lady Mary. She seemed almost insignificant in her sky-blue silk, until one gazed into those remarkable gray eyes. Alastair had had the strangest sensation from Lady Mary, as if she knew all about him. Standing next to Sir Terence and Lady Mary were three handsome young men, introduced to him as the Fletcher brothers.

Alastair gaze traveled the room, pausing with interest on one person and then another, but when he saw a buxom young woman approaching, dressed in pale pink, an enormous rose-tinted feather bobbing in her powdered hair, he ducked behind a crowd and hoped he had not been spied.

With a sigh of relief he watched Caroline Winters sweep past, a determined glint in her eye. For once he was thankful he had no title to fire that glint further. Too late, he had been warned about Caroline Winters. The unfortunate experience still vivid in his mind, Dante had shared with his friend the details of suffering through several days of Miss Winters's company. Unable to get around because of his broken ankle, he had found himself being waylaid far too many times by that insufferable young woman.

Alastair, after having found himself with yet another brimming goblet of wine, was beginning to enjoy himself. A feeling of well-being spread through him. He nodded politely to a bejeweled lady eyeing him seductively from behind an undulating feather fan, and was about to address her when, as if in a nightmare, he heard the majordomo announce, “Sir Miles Sandbourne!”

Alastair spun around, his sudden action leaving the bejeweled woman smiling at his broad back. But he had forgotten her. His attention was centered on Dante, who looked as if he had been turned to stone. Dante stood staring at the man he hated for what seemed an eternity and had once vowed to kill when he returned to England.

“Excuse me, but is that
the
Sir Miles Sandbourne of Wolfingwold Abbey, Devonshire?” Alastair demanded abruptly of the tall, pompous gentleman standing before him.

The gentleman glanced down with imperious disdain at the vulgar upstart who had dared engage him in conversation. But upon eyeing him closer and ascertaining that the fellow's tailor was reputable and his breeches without wrinkle, he deigned to reply. “Quite. Though I confess I am surprised to see him here. There used to be bad blood between Sir Miles and Lord Jacqobi. But I s'pose they've buried the hatchet,” he drawled with a bored sigh.

“Most likely in each other's backs,” Alastair murmured and, without begging leave, walked away. But as he did, he caught sight of that plump figure swathed in pink and heard the shrill cry, “Wesley! There you are!”

With a feeling of apprehension he'd not experienced since his first battle at sea, Alastair moved closer to his captain's side.

Rhea Claire was unaware of the turmoil. Sir Miles Sandbourne was just another guest as far as she was concerned. But the name must have struck a chord in Lucien Dominick's mind, for he glanced quickly at his son-in-law's paling face, then back again at the smiling face of the gentleman standing before him.

“Your Grace,” Sir Miles spoke in that beautifully cultivated voice. It was the second thing a person noticed about him. The first was his extraordinarily handsome face. Although the man was at least fifty, he did not look his age. And he exuded a great sensuality.

“Sir Miles,” the duke responded stiffly, trying to sort his confused thoughts.

Dressed in black velvet, with lace ruffles and frills a startling contrast to the overall darkness of his figure, Sir Miles Sandbourne was the epitome of elegance and grace. He lifted a delicately scented handkerchief to his lips in almost an effeminate gesture. But it would have been a mistake for anyone to dismiss his masculinity, and the look in his dark eyes was lustfully appreciative as he gazed at Sabrina Dominick.

“Your Grace,” he said softly, his eyes caressing her, lingering on the soft curve of décolletage. “As always, your unparalleled beauty leaves me quite speechless.” He bowed low, his breath warm against her gloved hand.

“Not quite speechless, Sir Miles,” the duchess responded with a slight smile. She had never really cared for Sir Miles and had long suspected that there was a hollowness and insincerity beneath that facade. But his charm entranced people, and her opinion of Sir Miles placed her in a minority.

Although there had once been rumors of corruption and depravity where Sir Miles's conduct was concerned, nothing had ever been proven. Even had it been, people would have been hesitant to close their doors against Sir Miles. It was never wise to make an enemy of such a powerful gentleman.

“Witty as well as beautiful,” Sir Miles murmured with that twisted smile. “I suffer perpetual envy of His Grace's good fortune in having carried you away from London before I had a chance to woo you. I can guarantee that he would not have had so easy a time of it had I been on the scene,” Sir Miles pronounced.

“You underestimate me, Sir Miles,” the duke remarked coldly. He was never patient when it came to watching another man lust after his wife.

Lucien caught a look of anticipation, almost of excitement, in Sir Miles's eyes when he moved past Sabrina and stood before the pale-eyed Dante Leighton.

The two men, of a similar height, gazed into each other's eyes. Whatever thoughts were passing behind those expressionless faces remained unreadable. Neither man moved, nor blinked, nor even seemed to be breathing.

Rhea glanced worriedly between the two men. What was the matter? She had seen that cruel, pitiless look in Dante's eyes only a few times, but those had been the times he talked about the man who had betrayed him. Rhea's eyes widened as she stared at Sir Miles Sandbourne.

“Well, well, what have we here?” murmured Sir Miles, oozing honeyed sarcasm while he eyed the younger man from head to toe with contemptuous thoroughness. “I wonder if 'tis indeed true, as Shakespeare said, that the smallest worm will turn being trodden upon.” Sir Miles's smile included not only his long-ago victim, but also others.

Dante smiled. It was a hard smile. “Only time can tell, Sir Miles. But then, time is something I have plenty of. Do you?” Dante inquired with just enough doubt in his voice as to leave a listener wondering if Sir Miles were already on his deathbed.

Sir Miles's smile seemed a great effort for him, and Lucien reflected that when Sir Miles had first seen Dante, the older man seemed taken aback. Had he been unprepared to meet so dignified a gentleman, one who possessed such a steady, calculating gaze? For in Dante, Sir Miles saw a man who could not be easily baited, as a younger man might have been.

“My, my, some things don't change, do they?” Sir Miles asked conversationally. “When I arrived in London, all I heard were stories about Dante Leighton, the Marquis of Jacqobi—or, as he was more often called, the captain of the
Sea Dragon
. I was not surprised to learn of your rather felonious profession. You always did enjoy taking risks, whether you were gambling or attempting seduction. I fear you will always be notorious,” Sir Miles predicted with an understanding sigh. He had aimed his remarks at the duke and duchess, as though commiserating with them about their son-in-law. “I suppose,” Sir Miles asked kindly, “you
have
told them
everything
in your shadowy past?”

“If you are referring to that slanderous murder accusation, then, yes, we know everything about Dante's past.” Rhea spoke quietly, but her voice was shaking with fury, and she wondered how Dante could control himself.

“Ah, Lady Rhea Claire, how lovely you look,” Sir Miles responded easily, the dark eyes missing nothing. “It was most distressing to learn of your kidnapping. How extraordinary that you should meet up with Dante.” He laughed softly as he eyed the two. “Going from bad to worse, eh? You have my sympathies, my dear.”

“Please keep them to yourself, Sir Miles,” Rhea told him. “I am very much in love with my husband.”

“How noble of you. But then, one must keep up appearances,” Sir Miles said with a pitying look. “Of course, I doubt you had any choice in the matter, knowing Dante as I do. Ah…I did hear, did I not, that you recently became a mother? As I said before, some things never change, do they?”

But Dante appeared untouched by Sir Miles's snide innuendoes. “Some things change, Sir Miles. You would be wise to remember that,” Dante spoke softly, and the calm, self-assured tones irritated Sir Miles. The dark eyes narrowed as he dabbed at his lips with his scented handkerchief.

“Do they?”

“Yes. You will discover that soon enough,” Dante added enigmatically, and he eyed the older man pityingly.

“You seem very sure of yourself, Dante. I have heard of your great fortune, but you should remember that even though you possess considerable wealth, some things may still remain out of your reach,” Sir Miles reminded him.

“Perhaps,” Dante said evenly. “Of course, I may already possess everything I desire. I planned carefully for my return. You may not be as cognizant of certain facts as you think, Sir Miles.” Dante was baiting him.

Sir Miles became silent, evidently trying to fathom Dante's meaning. He was a man with secrets and felt a chill of premonition that Dante would reveal them and destroy him.

A muscle beside his mouth twitched as he continued to stare at Dante with those narrowed dark eyes. “I suppose you will be returning to Merdraco?”

“Naturally. I am still master there,” Dante pronounced the words he knew had the power to infuriate Sir Miles, “as all Leightons have been masters there for centuries.”

But Sir Miles did not react quite the way Dante expected. A guarded look entered Sir Miles's eyes, and a twisted smile curved the thin mouth. Dante began to feel a growing uneasiness.

“It has been a long time since you were last at Merdraco. And as I warned you before, many, many things may have changed since you ran away. Had you remained, instead of being a coward, we might have been able to work something out. But as it is”—he threw a mocking glance at Dante—“I am afraid I have had to sell the lands that once belonged to the great estate of Merdraco. I fear 'tis not the magnificent estate the noble Leighton family has always believed it to be. Of course, you have only yourself to blame, for you are the Leighton who lost it all by gambling. And there is no way you can get your hands on that land. Even if I still held deed to it, do you think I would sell it back to you? I can truly pity you, for you may be master of Merdraco, but you will never achieve the greatness of your forebears, for you will have no land around your birthplace. You possess merely a ruined castle high on a hill. A place for dreamers, eh, Dante?” Sir Miles charged.