Dark Before the Rising Sun (36 page)

“If he could get along with me?” Dante asked incredulously.

“Yes. And the fact that Butterick sent one of his best assistants is quite significant,” Rhea was saying as she eyed the rundown stables.

“Oh, and how is that?”

“Because if Butterick did not like the way you sat a horse, or treated your horses, he would not recommend you as a future employer. Nor would my father have made a gift of any of the horses from his stable if Butterick had not approved of you,” Rhea told a humbled Dante who had not realized how much had depended upon the opinion of Butterick.

“I am not certain, then, that I should allow Clauson to see these stables, for I fear Butterick would be scandalized at their condition,” Dante said, and although he said it in jest, there was just a tinge of underlying bitterness in his voice.

“I bet Saunders would wring his hands if he could see this garden,” Robin said.

“And who is Saunders?” Dante asked, but his eyes were trained on the main block of the house, which, with every step they took, drew closer and closer. Rhea could feel Dante's growing expectation.

“He is the head gardener at Camareigh,” Robin explained. “He really gets upset if anyone dares walk through his flowers.”

“That isn't quite true, Robin, and you know it,” Rhea corrected him. “'Twas Shoopitee he objected to, and with reason, you must admit.”

“Who's Shoopitee?” Conny wanted to know.

“He's a pony that Robin used to ride, and rather recklessly,” Rhea explained.

“I'll say. Remember when Robin knocked Lord Rendale into the lily pond, just when he was about to propose?” Francis said with a chuckle.

Dante laughed. That was something he would have enjoyed seeing. He found the man insufferable, and hoped that Caroline Winters managed to become the next Countess of Rendale. The two deserved one another.

A short flight of shallow steps led to the entrance of Merdraco. An arched, covered porch framed the carved oak door. Rhea almost expected the heavy door to resist Dante's weight when he placed his hand on the great brass door handle. To her surprise, it opened, but not without the squeaking protest of rusty hinges.

A stifling mustiness overwhelmed them as they entered the shadowy great hall with its arch-braced roof. The only light was that which slanted down through the stained glass of the oriel window high above the entranceway.

In this hallowed place of spiritual light, a desecration had taken place, and it was a scene never to be forgotten by the horrified witnesses.

All hell shall stir for this.

—Shakespeare

Dante Leighton was no longer aware of anything or anyone. He stared transfixed by the destruction surrounding him.

For the trespasser at the gates had not been content merely to steal inside in search of shelter or profit. He had, with calculated viciousness, set about ruining the great house.

With shaking hands, Rhea pulled a scented handkerchief from her pocket. Holding it to her nostrils, she glanced around the great hall in disbelieving horror. Never had she seen such filth and defilement. The odors rising from the hall were an abomination, for the stately hall had been used like a stable by both man and beast.

Piles of rubble and rotting offscourings were scattered across the filthy floor. Near the great fireplace was a disorderly stack of kindling; it was no ordinary firewood, but the splintered oak of the carved, once-beautiful furniture. The massive trestle table with its bulbous legs that Dante had spoken of as always having a vase of wildflowers gracing its surface, was no more, and the deep chest with the mythological creatures carved across its top, where Dante the small boy had hidden from his nanny, had also disappeared. The oak settle, the high-backed cane chairs, and the side tables had become powdery drifts of ash in the hearth.

Jagged strips of the carved oak paneling had even been torn from the walls, leaving gaping holes. Part of the carved balustrade of the main staircase at the far end of the hall had been ripped loose, and had most likely come to an end in the fireplace along with all the rest.

“Coooeee!” Conny's voice rang through the hall like the pealing of a bell. “This place smells worse than a privy!” he exclaimed, his face showing his disgust, and disappointment, for the lad had expected the captain's Merdraco to be a magnificent house.

The young cabin boy's contemptuous words hit Dante like a splash of icy water, waking him from the nightmare holding him spellbound in this macabre scene. Turning round, he saw the other people gathered close behind him, all standing like statues in the oppressive silence.

The change in Dante's face was more devastating than the condition of the great hall. It was as if the spirit had fled from his body and all that remained was the graven image of a man turned to stone.

“Dante,” Rhea said tenderly, drawing those pale gray eyes to her. They could have been a stranger's eyes, they were so bleak and hopeless. Rhea held out her hand to him, wanting to touch him, to comfort him somehow.

Dante stared at her. Seeing the pity in her eyes and in the faces around him, he closed his eyes. He could not face pity. Then, with a suddenness which took them all by surprise, Dante grasped Rhea's outstretched hand and pulled her over to the door. He dragged her through the door into the blinding light outside.

“Dante?” Rhea pleaded, her free hand touching his coat sleeve fearfully. “I,” she began, but there were no words. What words of comfort were there for this?

“I do not want you to enter this house again,” Dante said, breathing deeply of the sweet air warmed by sunshine. “Do you understand me, Rhea?” He held her gaze. “I do not want you degraded by that place,” he said.

“But, Dante, I want to be with you. The rest of the house cannot be in such a state. It will not be easy, but I know there will be something we can save. They cannot have destroyed everything,” Rhea said optimistically, not wanting to give in to the despair threatening to overwhelm her, as she feared it had overwhelmed Dante.

“You think not?” Dante asked, his gaze straying to the adjacent wing of the house. “Damn their souls to everlasting hell. They'll pay for this. By all that I hold holy I swear they will,” Dante swore softly.

“Dante, do not go back inside,” Rhea beseeched.

“Cap'n”—Kirby approached Dante's side—“ye stay out here like Lady Rhea asks. I'll go back inside,” he offered, the tears wet on his wrinkled face. “I'll see what needs to be done. There's no need for more of this desecration.”

Dante shook his head and turned away, but before he took a step, he placed his hand on the little steward's shoulder. Kirby raised a shaking hand and placed it over that strong hand. For a moment they remained that way, then Dante strode back into that man-made hell, refusing to hear Rhea's pleas. Then came the distinctive sounds of a door being slammed shut and a bolt being shot into place.

“He's been shamed before ye, m'lady,” Kirby spoke huskily. “He's got to go back inside. He's got to face the devils that are ridin' him. 'Tis a tragedy,” Kirby said, sniffing loudly and wiping the back of his hand across his cheeks. “'Tis a damnation, that's what 'tis. Oh, Lordy, the poor cap'n. Oh, 'tis a shame, such a shame,” Kirby muttered, and, pulling out a handkerchief, he blew his nose loudly.

“Dante should feel no shame. If only he would let me share this with him, but he won't let me give him comfort,” Rhea said. Feeling Francis's arm sliding around her shoulders comfortingly, she glanced up at his face and saw that he was badly shaken. But they could face the tragedy together. She only wished that Dante would let go of his pride long enough to accept the others' sympathy.

“Good Lord,” was all Francis could find to say.

“The cap'n is a proud man, he is. I had hoped your love would take some of that stiff-necked pride out of him, but he seems to be worse than ever, maybe because he loves ye too much. He always seems to get hurt when he lets his guard down. He's been betrayed so many times, m'lady.” Kirby, who probably knew the captain better than anyone else, tried to explain. “He was so proud to be showin' ye Merdraco. He'd waited so long to return to his home and with his self-respect restored to him. And now, to be findin' this, well, he feels degraded, m'lady. Oh, 'tis blasphemy, 'tis. And if 'tis the last thing I do, I'll help the cap'n get his revenge.”

Alastair was wiping his face as he listened to the little steward's words, and silently he vowed the same. He took a deep breath of the clean air, trying to banish the remembrance of those fulsome odors.

Robin was standing beside Conny. The boys' faces expressed only too well the revulsion they felt.

“Who would've done such a thing?” Robin found his voice first, his violet eyes wide with shock.

“Animals,” Francis answered as he guided Rhea toward the low stone wall that edged one of the terraced gardens.

“Animals?” Robin demanded, not understanding how they could have chopped up and stacked the furniture, and he could have sworn he saw a half-eaten drumstick sitting on the mantelpiece.

“The two-legged kind,” Alastair explained as he walked alongside them, still disbelieving. The sweet fragrance of honeysuckle and roses filled his senses, and he wondered how that horror could be.

“Aye, reckon a couple might even have familiar names,” Kirby added as he sat down on the stone wall before his wobbly legs gave out beneath him.

“Ye think it be the smugglers, then, Mr. Marlowe, sir?” Conny demanded incredulously. He himself had been a smuggler, and no smugglers of his acquaintance had ever acted so badly.

“Aye,” Kirby said, staring down at his round-toed boots as if seeing them for the first time.

“But why?” Francis demanded. “The smugglers obviously found Merdraco a perfect hiding place because it stood empty for so long. But why destroy the house? I can find no reasoning behind it. And I am curious about something, Mr. Kirby. Was there no groundskeeper or steward left at Merdraco? I would suggest we speak with the authorities. We ought to get the local magistrate to investigate this immediately,” Francis said, thinking that would not be difficult. He was surprised to hear Kirby's chuckle.

“I beg your pardon?” Francis demanded, sounding just like the Duke of Camareigh.

“Ah, Lord Chardinall, I am sorry, but ye see, 'twould be for naught. For this smuggling gang don't fear no man, authority or not. I been talkin' to Sam and Dora Lascombe, and, although they'd not admit as much, 'twould seem this gang, these Sons of Belial, as they've taken to callin' themselves, pretty much have a free run of the countryside. Everyone is scared to death of them—and if they aren't scared to death, then they end up dead for not havin' been,” Kirby informed them. “Dora reckons they killed her brother for wantin' to quit this smugglin' gang and form his own. You do realize that everyone hereabouts is involved in it somehow or other. Although,” he added quickly as he saw Francis's outraged expression, “most be decent, God-fearin' people, and they aren't the ones goin' about terrorizin' the countryside. And, aye, there was a bailiff once, but he was fired, and the man who had been hired to watch Merdraco died a couple of years ago. Even if he were still alive, there wouldn't have been anything he could do against the smugglers. They probably would have driven him off, or killed him.”

“Then these smugglers must be apprehended.” Francis said.

“A man can't be doin' it alone. 'Twould take most of the decent smugglers turnin' against their leader, and other folk helpin' 'em.”

“Well, from what I know of my brother-in-law, I would say the Sons of Belial have made a dreadful mistake in trespassing at Merdraco. They have made an enemy of Dante Leighton, something
I
would not care to do,” Francis said wisely. “I should think the Marquis of Jacqobi had enough power and influence to see that justice is done. If I were Dante, I would get that magistrate out here to see the damage and then go after these swine.” Dante was a member of his own family now, and Francis was deeply offended.

“Ah, m'lord,” Kirby said with a tired shake of his grizzled head, “I wish it were as simple as that.”

Alastair rubbed his chin reflectively, wishing the old crew of the
Sea Dragon
were sitting there. The captain could count on them to back him up in whatever he did. “Reckon we're sailing into dangerous waters, Kirby,” Alastair speculated.

“Aye, Mr. Marlowe, that we are, only ye don't know the worst of it,” Kirby said, and sighed. He wasn't going to keep them in the dark. “Maybe ye might want to be headin' back to London before the goin' gets rough. There's a good chance we'll be founderin',” he advised the younger man.

Alastair's face turned dark red with anger. “I'll forgive you that, Mr. Kirby, but never again suggest that I would abandon the captain.”

“Aye, I'll remember, lad,” Kirby said, pleased by the quick denial. He'd always considered Alastair Marlowe a gentleman.

“You had better be telling us the worst,” Alastair said quietly.

“Yes, please do, Kirby,” Rhea said, startling the men, for they had almost forgotten she was sitting beside them, and neither one wanted her to know how bad things were.

“Well? I shall be here at Merdraco too, so do you not think I should know exactly what danger Dante is facing?” Rhea demanded. Her reasoning could not be faulted.

“From what I gathered from Dora and Sam Lascombe, the leader of the Sons of Belial is none other than Jack Shelby,” Kirby told them. The name meant nothing to Alastair, Conny, or Robin, but Francis and Rhea understood the significance.

“He is the father of Lettie Shelby, whom Dante was supposed to have murdered,” Rhea explained.

The whispering that had been going on between Robin and Conny halted abruptly as they stared at Rhea.

“Coooeee!” Conny said, a long, drawn-out whistle coming from between his pursed lips. “Oh, m'lady, ye've got to be wrong. The cap'n would never do such a thing,” Conny argued hotly.

“Of course he didn't murder the girl. But her father thought Dante had,” Rhea explained, realizing now why Kirby seemed so worried. “That is why the smugglers tried to destroy Merdraco, isn't it, Kirby? Because Jack Shelby is their leader and he hates Dante.”

“Aye. It has me worried plenty, m'lady,” the little steward said with a sigh. “If he did this to Merdraco while it stood empty, what is he likely to do when he finds out that its master has returned? And if Jack Shelby
is
the leader of this smugglin' gang and the magistrate has not stopped their activities, then I don't think we can look to him for help. The Sons of Belial are a mighty powerful organization. So, once again, the cap'n will find himself standin' alone.”

“That is what you were alluding to at Hawke's Bell Inn when you said that some people might not have forgotten the past.” Alastair remembered Kirby's warning.

“Aye, and 'twill be worse when Sir Miles discovers that Dante has managed to buy the lands Sir Miles lost for him,” Kirby predicted. Privately he thought he would give half of his own fortune to see Sir Miles's face when he discovered that fact. “Sir Miles, who is a powerful man and who could help rid the area of the smugglers, will just sit back and watch. There's nothing he would like to see more than Jack Shelby and Dante Leighton at each other's throats,” the little steward added, looking more woeful than ever as he anticipated that reckoning.

“Rhea?” Robin's voice broke into his sister's thoughts. “Conny and I are going to look around the grounds. Is that all right?”

Reluctantly, Rhea looked away from the house and to Robin's small, heart-shaped face watching her so expectantly. “Yes, but don't go far,” Rhea told him worriedly, wondering what other unpleasant surprises they would find.

* * *

Dante carefully righted a tumbled-over, defaced table, his hands lingering over its scarred top. He placed it gently against the wall where it had always been, and in his mind's eye he saw his mother's delicate leather gloves resting against its shiny surface. A velvet upholstered chair, its cushions slashed into strips, was toppled beneath a window, but he could see his mother sitting in it, rocking her young son to sleep. The velvet hangings that had once been pulled against the cold darkness of a winter's eve had been torn from their supports. The windowpanes were broken into a thousand pieces of splintered glass and wood, and these had been ground underfoot into the muddied carpet.