Dark Before the Rising Sun (33 page)

Because he was the dissipated young gentleman's stepfather as well as his guardian, he had been generous enough to buy up all the Merdraco lands, thousands of acres, on condition that he would sell them back to Dante when that young man realized another inheritance upon his birthday. Sir Miles had also been pitying enough to buy many of the family heirlooms, saving them being lost forever. In the opinion of society, Sir Miles Sandbourne had done more than enough for the dissolute young Lord Jacqobi.

Known only to Miles and Elayne was the truth, that Dante had been betrayed by Sir Miles. Dante himself would not learn of the treachery until his birthday. On that day, he discovered that his inheritance had been borrowed upon by his guardian. There was but a quarter of the inheritance remaining, barely enough to pay off Dante's debts, much less to buy back the family lands.

In the second week of that terrible autumn, when fog enshrouded the coastline, and the countryside had seemed so unnaturally quiet, as if it were waiting with bated breath for the tragedy that was to follow, Dante had been accused of murder. Swiftly, his fiancée had spurned him. And after an argument with his mother, who had finally spoken out against Sir Miles, Dante stormed off to London, refusing to hear the truth about the man he thought of as a father.

But the news of his mother's tragic death had sent him back to Merdraco. He arrived too late for the funeral services. Feeling it her duty to speak up, his mother's personal maid had told Dante that his mother might not have slipped while walking the narrow path along the cliff. Perhaps she had taken her own life. The brokenhearted maid—she had loved her beautiful mistress dearly—sobbed her story. Lady Elayne's disappointment in her son was not what had killed her. The night of her death, she had been horribly beaten by Sir Miles. The master had hurt her terribly. Her face swollen beyond recognition, the Lady Elayne had run from the house seeking death. The maid, having told her story, packed her belongings and left, bidding no fond farewell to the single remaining Leighton.

Confused but beginning to feel a dreadful certainty, Dante confronted his stepfather. At last he came face-to-face with the bitter truth. Sir Miles's hatred of him and all the Leighton name stood for had poured forth, shattering what little self-respect and self-control Dante still possessed. Never before had he faced such malevolence. His blood hot, he and Sir Miles fought.

But Dante, although younger, was fighting in the heat of passion, while Sir Miles had cold-blooded control. He might easily have killed Dante, but Sir Miles preferred to further humiliate the Marquis of Jacqobi. After disarming him, having wounded him in the arm, Sir Miles took his whip and beat his stepson on the steps of Merdraco. Then, his laughter ringing in Dante's ears, Sir Miles closed the great doors against him, leaving him trembling in disgrace on his own doorstep.

Time and the whims of fortune had changed many things since that infamous day. In allowing Dante to live, Sir Miles might have signed his own death warrant; for the Marquis of Jacqobi had become a determined, dispassionate man, and that was due, in part, to Sir Miles's treatment of Dante and the example he had set.

During the past few years, Dante bought back much of the land stolen from him by Sir Miles. He had always used a surrogate. Each transaction, over the years, had been carried out by a person who would not arouse Sir Miles's suspicions.

Rhea shuddered, wondering what Sir Miles's reaction would be when he discovered that Dante once again held the lands of his heritage.

“What are you daydreaming about?” the object of her fears demanded with a smile as he lowered himself to a place beside her on the blanket. His hands balanced two plates piled high with food.

Rhea opened her eyes, startled. She flushed as she tried to straighten her bodice. Kit, having appeased his appetite, was now sleeping peacefully.

“Here, let me take him so you can eat,” Dante said as he held out his arms for his son. Holding him for a moment while he stared down into the tiny face, he felt that sense of amazement at being a father sweep over him.

“I'll never be able to eat all this,” Rhea complained as she took a forkful of ham and egg pie while eyeing the cold chicken, buttered buns, thick wedge of cheese, salmon mousse, and chilled lemon pudding.

“You have to stay strong, my love. After all, we can't have the next Marquis of Jacqobi growing up to be a runt, can we?” Dante said as he helped himself to a large bite of apricot-stuffed ham. “Delicious. I hope this girl Her Grace sent along with us raided the pantry and the recipes without conscience,” Dante said appreciatively.

“If she raided the pantry, then she'd better not return to Camareigh, for I cannot see my father dining on suet roll,” Rhea advised. For just an instant she felt a deep homesickness as she thought of Camareigh and the people left behind.

“Not sorry, are you, to be going to my home?” Dante read her mood.

“Of course not. I am looking forward to seeing Merdraco, though I am sure it cannot compare with Camareigh,” she added, looking too innocently demure.

Dante laughed. “You will be speechless when you see Merdraco for the first time.”

“I hope not completely so, for I shall wish to make the obvious comparisons between my home and yours.” Rhea smiled. She was surprised by his abrupt change of mood.

“
Our
home, Rhea, always remember that. You are a Leighton now. You belong to Merdraco,” Dante said, his pale gray eyes suddenly remote, and Rhea knew that he was no longer there beside her, but was traveling the miles to Merdraco.

Dante Leighton had returned home from the sea and, soon, Merdraco would once again know the sound of its master's footsteps along the corridors long unused. With a deep dread, Rhea found herself wondering if Merdraco remained the same. Or had it changed, as its master had changed?

The night that hides things from us.

—Dante

Bishop's Grave Inn was so named because, a hundred years before, a bishop lost his way in a snowstorm. His frozen body was found three days later just outside the archway leading to the stable yard of the old coaching inn. At that time, the inn was called Ye Goode Knight's Reste. It is still believed that there were no complaints when the name was changed.

Bishop's Grave Inn was approached from the deeply rutted, sunken lanes converging at Merwest Cross. The inn was an unassuming two-story building of gray stone aged by centuries of lichen and moss covering its surface in velvety clusters. The place did not give an impression of offering great welcome until, on a stormy night, one caught sight of the lights shining from its small mullioned windows. Seeking shelter beneath its gabled roof, the thankful traveler would discover a great hearth in the dining room. While warming himself before the fire, he would sip a syllabub, a heady mixture of cream and mulled cider Dora Lascombe had become famous for brewing.

Sam Lascombe, the genial host, would seat his guest at one of the oak tables crowded close to the warmth of the fire, his beaming smile taking in the shining brass candlesticks on every table. His glance would be brightest when it encountered the brass chandelier he'd ordered from Bristol not more than a year past. The much-admired fixture hung from one of the great beams crossing the room, its candles illuminating Dora's prized earthenware in a corner cabinet and capturing the gleam of pewter lining the mantelpiece.

The weary traveler might ease his hunger with pea soup, buttered shrimps, mullet pie, jugged celery served with roast venison or hare, hash of lamb in cider, peas, and scones served with clotted cream and strawberry jam.

Safe and snug inside that stone-walled inn, the traveler would retire for a night's rest after gratefully accepting a mug of warmed, spiced brandy from his affable host. Climbing the stairs to his room, he would find that the quilted coverlet had been turned back and a warming pan placed in that cavernous cold spot lying in wait between the sheets.

As ill chance had it, that night in early April was a night of wrathful storms. By the time the clock on the inn landing struck twelve, it would become a night long remembered, and not just because of the storm venting its fury over the steeply slanted roof of the Bishop's Grave Inn. It was the night Dante Leighton came back to Merdraco.

It was the kind of night that lent credence to the old legend, especially the one about the Demon Hunt. The villagers, their imaginations fueled by the howling winds and flashing lightning, almost believed they heard the Dark Huntsman's horn and the baying of his yeth hounds as they raced from the moors in search of lost souls.

You'd not catch any sane folk out of doors on a conjuring night, for should anyone have the misfortune to see one of the Dark Huntsman's headless hounds, he would have died within the year. Everyone knew there was truth to the tale, for hadn't two fishermen drowned after seeing the Pale Lady a month before? And there was Dora Lascombe's brother, Ted Samples, who had told everyone who'd listen about seeing that spectral figure while he was prowling the cliffs near Merdraco. He had disappeared soon afterward.

On that blustery April night, Bishop's Grave Inn was locked up tight against the cold wind-blown rains. The roads could be little better than quagmires, and any traveler out on a devil's night like that one would have a difficult time in getting as far as Merwest Cross.

Yet a small caravan of coaches had reached Merwest Cross, and with a rumbling that echoed the thunder overhead, the coaches rolled into the empty stable yard of Bishop's Grave Inn. Following the coaches were the wagons, laboring under the weight of their loads and with mud coating the big spoked wheels. Swinging open the door to the first coach, Dante peered inside. The coach lamps had long ago expired, and all was darkness within. “Are you all right, Rhea?” Dante demanded of the shadowy shapes inside and was rewarded by the loud wail of his son's voice in angry response.

“'Tis a bit chilly,” Rhea said, her teeth chattering.

“I'm freezing,” Robin declared, sneezing.

“Aye, 'tis colder than winter in the Mid-Atlantic in here, Cap'n,” Conny contributed.

“Where are we?” Rhea asked as she glanced past Dante into the darkness. The sound of the wind had lessened, but rain still pelted against the coach.

“Is this Merdraco?” Conny demanded, disappointed. He couldn't see much of it in the darkness, and he wanted to see those towers the cap'n was always talking about.

“No, we'll never reach Merdraco in the darkness, or in weather like this. We have arrived at the inn at Merwest Cross. There is no other inn for miles, not until you reach either Merleigh or Westlea Abbot, and we can't travel farther on these roads tonight.”

“Everyone accounted for, Cap'n,” Alastair reported as he came up beside Dante, forgetting for a moment that he was no longer aboard the
Sea Dragon
. “Everyone shipshape here?” he asked. The past few miles had been arduous. “Lady Rhea Claire?”

“We're fine, Alastair, but you must be like ice, and I imagine you are soaked to the skin,” Rhea said. The door of the coach was opened and the icy rain was striking her directly in the face.

“Tell them to rest easy while I see if I can rouse the landlord from his bed. I doubt if he was expecting guests this evening,” Dante said as he held out his arms to take Kit from Rhea. Holding him with one arm, he reached out and hooked his other arm around Rhea's waist and swung her safely down from the coach. “He's bound to have stable boys who'll see to the horses. I want to check that last team. One of the leaders seems to be limping.”

“Aye, Cap'n,” Alastair said without thinking.

With his cloak held protectively over both Rhea and Kit, Dante hurried them toward the entrance, prepared to pound against the door until he received an answer. But suddenly a stream of welcoming light shone through the open door.

“Here I was thinkin' there wasn't a soul out on a night like this, when I suddenly thought I heard coach wheels and voices. Dora said 'twas probably just a ringin' in my ears, but I felt certain we had visitors,” a gruff voice greeted them. Holding wide the heavy door, Sam Lascombe led his tired guests inside, thinking that the storm he had been cursing earlier was a blessing. It had brought him so much trade. With a look of disbelief he saw that his stable yard was packed full of coaches and wagons. Later, however, he was to wish that he'd listened to Dora and kept his door closed against the night, and what had come out of it; which in his mind had been the devil and his gang of demons.

But for now Sam was glad to have the unexpected business and, with a gleam in his eye, he led his guests into the darkened dining room. Without wasting time on conversation, he laid a fire and then went to fetch Dora. His guests were sure to be hungry, and many rooms would have to be prepared. These folk weren't going anywhere else tonight, he thought with a satisfied grin as a deafening clap of thunder rattled the windows.

“If ye'll be excusin' me now, I'll get my wife to fixin' ye somethin' good and hot. I'll bring ye some cider, or wine, or ale, whatever the gentlemen will be wantin',” Sam stated, noting with approval the two young gentleman who had just entered the room and were shaking out their wet cloaks. Though their breeches and boots were splashed with mud, the quality of their apparel was not lost on his critical eye.

A small, cloaked figure bustled past Sam, and with a cursory nod to the fellow, Sam continued on down the hall. But then he paused and, glancing back, he looked for the small figure. But the man had disappeared. There was something tantalizingly familiar about the little man, but Sam put the thought out of his mind. He had work to do and hungry guests to see to and Dora still to coax out of her warm bed.

Bleary-eyed, Dora Lascombe trudged downstairs, gray wisps of hair escaping from beneath her hastily arranged mobcap while she struggled with stiff fingers to tie the ribbons beneath her chin and felt one of her stockings unrolling down her calf.

Soon, however, a cup of steaming coffee laced with brandy had wakened her. She had the two scullery maids set the fire, and within a few minutes the big kettle swinging over the flames was sending a cloud of steam into the room. Pouring the boiling water over the loose tea on the bottom of the pot, she set it aside to steep while she arranged a tray with one of her best sets of cups and saucers. Sam had said there was a fine-looking lady of quality traveling with the group. Dora knew she would welcome a cup of hot tea while the men enjoyed their wine.

Dora picked up the tray and made her way to the dining room. It seemed as if Sam was already seeing to the gentlemen's needs, effectively emptying the hall of its newly arrived guests.

“Good evening, m'lady.” Dora smiled as she entered the room, for Sam had told her he'd caught sight of a crest on the door of one of the coaches. “Thought ye could be usin' a bit of tea, seein' how ye must have been on the road for quite a while now.” Dora set the tray down on the table where the young lady was sitting, warming herself before the fire.

“Oh, and aren't ye the pretty one,” she blurted out, for Rhea had removed her cloak. In the glow of the firelight her hair looked like burnished gold, and the heat from the fire had brought a rosy tint to her cheeks. “Why, I haven't seen hair as yellow as yours since the Lady El—, well, ye wouldn't be knowin' about her, and may her poor soul rest in peace one of these days, but I guess it won't if people keep seein' her ghost,” Dora said. At Rhea's look of fascination, Dora said quickly, “Beggin' your pardon, m'lady. Guess I'm still half asleep,” Dora apologized.

“Thank you for the tea. It was very kind of you, and I am sure it will taste quite delicious,” Rhea said. “I can already smell something mouthwatering coming from the kitchen. My husband tells me that Devonshire scones are the sweetest in all of England.”

“Oh, well, m'lady, right he is about that,” Dora agreed with a beaming smile, thinking that the lady certainly had nice manners. “Your husband be a Devonshireman, then?” she inquired, wondering if he was from anywhere nearby.

“Yes, but he has been away for a long time,” Rhea said quietly, wondering what the woman's reaction would be when she discovered the identity of her guest.

“Oh? If ye don't mind my askin',” Dora continued conversationally, forgetting the bubbling pots in the kitchen, “what is your husband's name?”

Rhea hesitated. “I am not certain you would know it.”

“Oh, I've lived hereabouts for nigh on fifty years now. Reckon I've known or heard of most folks from around here,” Dora told her.

“His name is—” Rhea began, but Kit's timely cry interrupted her and drew the attention of Dora Lascombe. “There, there, Kit, Mama's here,” Rhea murmured softly, gently rocking her son in the small wooden cradle Dante had brought in.

“Oh, now isn't he the darlin' boy,” Dora said with a wide smile. “Your son, m'lady?”

“Yes,” Rhea said, her attention centered on the chuckling baby, whose tears had miraculously vanished.

“Well, who would've guessed, ye look so young and innocent,” Dora commented, forgetting herself again. “He's a healthy-lookin' lad. Takes after his papa, I bet, with those chestnut curls.”

“Yes, Kit does resemble my husband, much to Dante's delight,” Rhea said, but her voice was muffled as she kissed the tip of Kit's tiny nose.

Rhea sat down again and gratefully accepted the cup of steaming tea.

Dora glanced around curiously as two small boys came hurrying inside, their cloaks dripping. Shrugging out of them, they left them hanging on the pegs near the door and came forward, rubbing their hands together.

“The cap'n said this was for Kit's cradle,” Conny said as he folded the sable rug across the end of the cradle, winking down at the wide-eyed baby staring up at him.

“Is he coming?” Rhea asked, glancing nervously from Conny to the landlady, who was watching the proceedings with avid interest.

“In a minute, m'lady. He said he wanted to check the last team of horses,” Conny informed her, his glance resting on the steaming teapot while he blew on his cupped hands.

“Here you are, Conny. Robin,” Rhea said, holding out brimming cups of tea, both heavy with cream and sugar.

“Thank you, m'lady,” Conny said as he squatted down close to the fire, the cup held gingerly between his linked fingers.

Robin accepted his cup gratefully but couldn't help but notice the tray was bare of any food, and his stomach was beginning to growl with embarrassing loudness.

“Aye, young fella, there's an ovenful of scones bein' warmed now,” Dora told the dark-haired lad, for she had seen that wistful look on her own grandchildren's faces too many times not to guess its meaning. “Well, I'd best be gettin' back to the kitchens or those two girls will set fire to my best pots,” Dora said with a worried look.

“Would you see that our maids, and Nora and Betsie here, are served some tea?” Rhea told the landlady as she saw the two girls enter, hovering uncertainly near the door. “Come closer to the fire and warm yourselves. You're shivering,” Rhea exclaimed. Mason would never forgive her if anything happened to his granddaughter. For the first time, Rhea began to feel the responsibility of having servants of her own.

“We was just makin' sure that the proper trunks were unloaded and put in the right rooms, m'lady,” Nora said, wishing she were in her own narrow little bed, the same one she'd slept in all of her life, snuggling beneath her warm quilt back at Camareigh. This didn't seem at all a hospitable country.

“Aye, m'lady, I'll get a couple of more cups,” Dora said. She had started toward the door when a tall, cloaked figure entered. As he removed his hat and turned down the high collar of his cloak, Dora gasped. She remembered only too well those pale gray eyes. And the demoniacal effect wasn't lessened any when a bandy-legged little man carrying a cat in his arms, the feline's slitted green eyes glaring malevolently at her, came scurrying into the room. Dora had never forgotten his face either. At one time, when she had been just a rosy-cheeked girl without a gray hair, she had hoped to have him court her.