Dark Before the Rising Sun (54 page)

“And I suppose Lettie Shelby knew too much about the smugglers too?” Sir Miles scoffed, dismissing the entire theory. “Your story is absurd. We know who killed Esma Samples. Dante Leighton did. He killed once before and now he's killed again. I'll see that he is hanged this time,” Sir Miles swore, his eyes glowing.

“But you see, Sir Miles, he did not murder Lettie Shelby,” a voice called from the opened door. “He was with me that night. In my bed. And he did not leave me until well into the morning. So you see, he did not murder that night.” Bess Seacombe had made her admission at last.

Sir Miles looked ready to strangle her. “It seems strange that you did not say as much at the time,” he murmured. “Even if this were true, which I doubt, that does not explain last night. Before we entered the lodge, we checked the stables and found a horse with mud splattered on his legs and flanks. It appeared that someone did leave here last night. I should imagine it was Dante Leighton, and I am wondering where he went,” Sir Miles speculated. Finding that horse had been a fine stroke of luck.

“You are right, it was Dante who rode last night,” Bess said. “He was with me last night, and did not leave until well past dawn.” Her eyes met Rhea's startled gaze just briefly. Then she looked at Dante's for his reaction. Relief and regret, both, were reflected in his eyes. He was cleared of the murder of Esma Samples, but he was damned in the eyes of his wife.

Dante glanced over at Rhea. She was staring at him as if seeing a stranger. He wanted to reach out and touch her, but she looked away as if she couldn't bear the sight of him.

“I think we had best leave now.” Sir Morgan sighed, deeply unhappy over what had happened. Still, if all went as planned, then they would be able to reveal the truth to Lady Rhea Claire tomorrow night. “I think we have more than overstayed our welcome,” he said.

“What? Are you going to
believe
this woman's tale? She is obviously his whore, and she will say anything he wishes her to. You cannot take her seriously?” Sir Miles's voice was shrill. He had been cheated out of an easy case against Dante and he was furious.

His anger turned to amazement when Rhea spoke up. “You, of all people, Sir Miles, should know that what Lady Bess says is the truth. Dante confided in you years ago that he was with Bess that evening, yet you chose to keep silent about it all this time. It suited you to see Dante's name blackened. Lady Bess has come forward this time and cleared Dante's name of both crimes. You had better look elsewhere for your murderer and for a chance to hurt Dante,” she finished in a clear, steady voice. Her listeners were surprised by the declaration. She had been faced with his infidelity only moments before, yet she gave no indication of that fact.

“You're a fool, Lady Jacqobi,” Sir Miles spat, taking a step backward as Dante moved toward him. “He got Bess to lie for him then and she's lied again now. I did not believe his story. That was why I kept silent.” Sir Miles made a futile effort to defend his actions, but the fact that he hated Dante and would do anything to destroy him was apparent to all the others. “I insist that you investigate this matter, Sir Morgan. I have friends in London who will see that you are court-martialed if you don't do your job properly,” Sir Miles warned.

“I said, Sir Miles, that I would decide this as I saw best. Now I suggest we leave.” Then Sir Morgan added a bit of his own malice. “I will not be held responsible for what happens to you after I leave, Sir Miles.” With a slight bow, he turned on his heel and left, Sam Lascombe following quickly after him.

Sir Miles stood where he was, fuming. Then he turned and stalked to the door, throwing one last barb to Rhea. “Remember this, Lady Jacqobi. Dante Leighton cannot be trusted. He's made a fool out of you and a whore out of Bess, and may you all three be damned.”

After the three men had left, a terrible silence descended. There must have been a hundred different expressions crossing those faces. At last Rhea could not bear the strained silence any longer. With a mumbled apology she hurried to the stairs, climbing as quickly as she could while holding Kit and managing her skirts.

Rhea stared around her at the sudden emptiness of her room. Kit was in his cradle, waving his hands and feet, his baby sounds comforting her a little as she stood there, numbed.

“Rhea?”

She ignored him.

“Rhea? God, don't turn away from me,” Dante said as he came into the room. “Rhea, I beg of you, if only I could explain,” he pleaded. He tried to take her into his arms, but she was stiff and unyielding.

Dante turned, pacing back and forth as he tried to find the right words. He couldn't possibly tell her the truth. What if they failed to catch the smugglers tomorrow night and Shelby went free? How could he endanger Sir Morgan's plans and even his life? And what danger might too much knowledge mean to Rhea? No. He could not endanger her.

Dante stopped his pacing and glanced around, surprised to find her staring up at him curiously. Looking her straight in the eye, he did the best he could.

“Rhea, I asked you before to trust me. I also asked you not to believe what might seem the truth, stories which make me out to be a liar and a cheat. You must believe me that it is truly not as it seems. I was with Bess this morning, but nothing happened. Nothing. I swear to you, Rhea.” Dante spoke softly, his eyes turned a stormy gray in desperation to make her understand.

“Dante,” Rhea said, but he held up his hand to silence her.

“I love you with all my heart. There is nothing dearer to me than you, Rhea. You are the most precious thing in my life. You are my love, my wife, the mother of my son, and my friend. I trust you as I would no one else, and I think you have trusted me too. I would never do anything to destroy that trust. Believe in me, Rhea. I know it is asking a lot of you, but please do, Rhea. I don't think I can survive unless I know I have your love,” Dante said, bowing his head in anguish.

“You will always have my love,” Rhea said simply. “And if you tell me that nothing happened between you and Bess, then I believe you. I have to. If I could not trust you, Dante, then I could not go on loving you. And if I could not go on loving you, then I could not go on living. It is as simple as that.” And taking his face in her hands, she pressed her mouth against his.

After a moment she said, “Whatever it is you must do, then know that I shall always be here waiting for you,” she promised. With her gentle kiss sealing their love, with her unselfish, unquestioning loyalty, Dante knew that he would triumph.

There sighs, lamentations, and loud wailings resounded through the starless air, so that at first it made me weep; strange tongues, horrible language, words of pain, tones of anger, voices loud and hoarse, and with these the sound of hands made a tumult which is whirling through that air forever dark, as sand eddies in a whirlwind.

—Dante

Under cover of darkness, the smuggling sloop was once again running contraband ashore. Two flashes of light followed by three had signaled the all clear and, boldly, the sloop had come within three miles of shore, delivering her cargo into the small waiting boats.

On shore, a group of silent men stood waiting, ready to sling the brandy, tea, and tobacco from the boats and make the long, hard climb back up the cliff. From there, they would tramp along the narrow, rutted lanes to a nearby farmhouse or inn and unload their casks and crates onto the backs of horses. That was the plan.

But at sea, things were going wrong. The smuggling sloop found herself under chase by a revenue cutter that had sailed out of nowhere. The cutter tried to eat her out of the wind by sailing so close to the wind that the sloop dropped to leeward. All her canvas set, the cutter gave chase. After firing shots across the sloop's bow, she caused the lesser armed ship to heave to, and the cutter's troop of armed marines took the smuggler's crew into custody without so much as a stubbed toe among them.

On shore, the waiting smugglers found the beach invaded by troops of marines and dragoons. Many of them carrying torches, the troops swarmed onto the beach from hiding places among the rocks, their muskets firing warning shots into the air and sand.

But the smugglers on shore were better armed than their counterparts at sea. Their muskets firing back at the King's men, they stood their ground. They had nothing to lose. Soon clubs were brandished, and torchlight glinted on sharp-edged knives. Cutlasses swished through the air with deadly accuracy.

Dante knew he was dreaming, for he could see Rhea's pale face drifting in and out of focus before him. That long, golden hair was floating around her bare shoulders like seaweed on the tide, a phantom, sometimes there and sometimes not. But the violet eyes never disappeared. He could feel them staring at him, drawing him away from the darkness threatening to overtake him.

Gulping for breath, he felt cool water lapping against his face and choked on the salt water. Suddenly he felt a hand gripping his shoulder and, with a desperate strength, he knocked the arm away and rolled over. His knife flashed in a murderous arc, but he stopped in time to recognize Sir Morgan Lloyd above him.

“Don't forget, we are on the same side,” Sir Morgan yelled over the roar of voices, some raised in pain, others in rage, but most unintelligible, ringing out around them.

Dante shook his head to clear it, realizing that Sir Morgan had been standing guard over him until he regained consciousness. He had probably saved Dante from being clubbed to death or drowned. Beside him, however, one of the smugglers hadn't been so lucky. He was floating facedown in the water, arms outstretched while his blood seeped into the sea. Dante wondered if it had entered Sir Morgan's mind that this particular smuggler might have been the one who had murdered his brother.

“Are you all right?” Sir Morgan demanded, his gaze probing.

“Yes.
Thank you
,” Dante said and coughed, struggling to rise, his feet slipping out from under him as the tide rushed out. When he glanced up again, Sir Morgan was engaged in a wrestling match with some unfortunate smuggler. Sir Morgan would be invincible that night, Dante thought, for he had his chance to avenge his brother's death.

Dante staggered through the tide, moving his leaden legs out of the water until it was just swirling around his ankles. He stumbled up the beach, his step steadying as he searched for one particular face. So far, the man he wanted more than anybody else had managed to elude him.

* * *

Jack Shelby stared through the peephole in the paneled door that opened into the dark hallway of the lodge where Dante Leighton and his family had been living. He was breathing heavily, for it had been a long climb up to the cave, then a tiring walk through the dark, narrow tunnel that winded away from the beach, from that hellish scene of betrayal and death.

Shelby's yellow eyes were glowing with madness that precisely reflected the scene he had fled. Torches had glowed eerily, and the tide roared like thunder, drowning out the sound of pistol shots. And through it all he had seen one figure, a man who strode toward him, the pale gray eyes searching only for him.

Dante Leighton was like the devil after his soul, Shelby thought. In his mind Shelby suddenly saw his beautiful Lettie, so full of life. She had been so young when all that vitality had been stilled forever.

But Dante Leighton was still alive. Dante Leighton still walked the earth. Dante Leighton still laughed and took his pleasures. Dante Leighton still breathed, while his Lettie rotted in the ground.

Dante Leighton had returned a wealthy man, and once again he was lording it over all the land, destroying others. His own men had thrown down their weapons and had fallen to their knees begging for mercy. Aye, they'd been that cowardly lot from Merleigh and Westlea Abbot. They had either stood there watching, putting up no fight, or joined the King's men and turned their clubs on his best men from Bristol and London. Well, he'd get even with them all, Shelby vowed, just like he'd get even with Dante Leighton.

A slow smile crossed his face as Jack Shelby quietly opened the panel and stepped into the hall.

Time's glory is to calm contending kings,

To unmask falsehood, and bring truth to light.

—Shakespeare

Sitting at her dressing table, Bess Seacombe stared at her reflection in the gilt-edged mirror. She didn't like what she saw, and that shocked her. She had always rather liked herself, but now she stared hard at herself, and the more she saw, the more she disliked herself.

“Damned if I'm going to play the harlot or the bitch any longer,” she muttered, dragging the comb through her long dark hair. Until she had gazed on hair the color of molten gold, she had always been pleased with her black-as-night tresses.

Tilting her head sideways, she eyed the firm line of her chin, patting it just in case, noting the softness of her skin. Try as she might, she couldn't find any wrinkles or even laugh lines—but then, there hadn't been much to laugh about lately.

Bess avoided the dark eyes staring back at her. She couldn't forget the stricken look on Rhea Claire Leighton's face when she heard Bess's declaration. Damn it all, the woman was her rival. Why should Bess care how her ladyship felt?

Bess turned her back on the mirror, staring at her big, empty bed, the one she had slept in alone for two years. She took a deep breath. It would probably be easy to cause trouble between Dante and his young bride. But she remembered Dante's face when he saw Rhea's hurt expression. With a woman's true instinct, Bess knew she had lost him. Never had she seen such a tender, caring look on Dante's face. Or on any man's face, for that matter.

And try as she did, Bess couldn't dislike the duke's daughter Dante had brought back to Merdraco. Bess knew his golden-haired bride was head over heels in love with Dante. Too, there was a sincere, honest quality about the chit that even Bess had to admire.

Taking her hair in her hands, she twisted it into a chignon, pinning it firmly, then got to her feet. She risked one last glance in the mirror. This time, however, she didn't have to look away when she met her own eyes. She knew what she was about to do, and though some might call her a fool, Bess Seacombe had found respect for herself at long last. She was going to make certain that Lady Jacqobi knew that nothing had happened the other night between Dante and his
former
love. Bess glanced at the clock. It was late, but she'd be damned if she was going to lose another night's sleep fighting her conscience. Late, and uninvited, she was going to Merdraco.

* * *

Jack Shelby waited in the shadows of the hall, a terrible look in his eyes as he watched the people sitting before the hearth in companionable silence. He smiled. They were completely unaware of danger. It was a shame, he thought, eyeing the beautiful new mistress of Merdraco with regret. But the best way of hurting his enemy would be to deprive him of the thing he loved the most, and that was his beloved lady wife.

She was sitting there so innocently, gazing into the flames, waiting for her loving husband to return. And all the while, his lordship assumed that she was safe.

Shelby stared at the fire burning so brightly in the hearth. He could almost feel its warmth from where he stood, out of sight in the hall. He glanced around at the beams rising high above his head and at the fine wood paneling and then at the wood floors and the heavy oak furniture. It would all burn so brightly.

With a smile which would have made the devil himself uneasy, Jack Shelby crept back along the corridor.

* * *

“I really don't understand you sometimes, Rhea,” Francis said softly, wishing not to disturb Alastair, who was sitting nearby, reading.

“Why?” Rhea asked, glancing up from the embroidery she was trying to keep her attention on.

“Why?” Francis repeated, raising his voice without meaning to. “Because you are so damned trusting. That's why!” Exasperated, he ran his fingers through the curls that were the same shade of gold as his sister's.

“You mean Dante?” she asked.

“Of course I mean Dante. Here you sit while he runs off again, and I suppose Bess Seacombe will show up soon to claim he has been with her all night,” Francis said hotly, then shook his head in regret. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring that up, Rhea.”

“I understand. But I'm afraid that you don't understand, Francis,” Rhea said calmly. “You have never been in love. One day you will be, Francis, and when you are, you will understand that unless you trust fully, you cannot love fully. The one cannot exist without the other,” Rhea explained as if talking to a child. “Dante asked me to trust him, to have faith in him. If I claim to love him as much as I do, then how can I not believe in him? How can I be true to myself if I cannot be true to him?”

Francis was mystified.

“One day you will understand, Francis,” Rhea said. “Although Dante has not told me as much, I fear that he is involved in trying to track down these Sons of Belial, and that causes me far more worry than a possible rendezvous with Bess Seacombe. At any rate, Dante denied that anything happened between him and Bess, and I believe him,” she said. Also, she had the memory of his lovemaking on that evening, and she knew he could not go from her to another woman like that.

“Why he was with Bess Seacombe, I do not know. But when he can, Dante will tell me,” Rhea said serenely. Francis stood up and kissed her on the cheek.

“You are too good, my dear. I only hope that you are right about Dante. I really hope you are, for I have come to like him quite a lot,” Francis admitted, grinning as he settled himself back into the chair across from her. Glancing over at Alastair, he was surprised to see that gentleman staring thoughtfully into space, as if pondering what he had overheard.

Francis's smile widened. Resting his head against the back of the chair, he closed his eyes for a moment. But then he opened them, thinking that the fire was smoking a great deal. Francis sniffed, growing concerned. There was little smoke from the fire, yet it seemed the whole room was filling with a smoky haze. Then he saw flames licking at the windows all along the front of the lodge.

“Rhea! Oh, my God!” he screamed hoarsely, jumping to his feet just as the fire, with a shattering of glass, spread into the lodge.

Alastair jumped to his feet, incredulous. How could any fire spread as fast as this fire was spreading? The flames were already eating away at the west side of the lodge. In a minute, unless they got out through the kitchens, they would be completely surrounded by the red-hot flames.

Rhea had already started for the stairs, for Kit and Conny and Robin were all in their beds.

“I'll warn Kirby and the servants,” Alastair cried as he ran toward the kitchens, where a small corridor led to the several rooms tucked away in back.

Francis had hold of Rhea's arm as they stumbled up the stairs together, choking for breath. The upstairs was already filling with smoke.

“I don't understand how the fire could become so hot so quickly!” Francis yelled. “I just spotted it less than a minute ago. How could it already be here?” he asked. They could see flames climbing up the second-story windows.

“Oh, Francis, I'm scared,” Rhea cried as she hurried along the smoky corridor. She could see smoke seeping out from under her door, where Kit was.

Francis stopped at Conny and Robin's room. “I'll be right there, Rhea!” he called out to her as her figure disappeared down the hall. He threw open the door and shook the boys, one after the other.

“W-what's wrong?” Robin mumbled groggily.

“Too early,” said Conny.

“Get up!” Francis hollered, shaking him until he thought he heard Conny's teeth rattling. He reached across and pulled Robin from beneath the blankets.

“Francis, leave me be!” Robin yelled at him, thinking his brother had lost his mind.

“The lodge is on fire! We've got to get out of here!” Francis cried, grabbing each and pulling them from the room after him. “Wait here. Don't move! I've got to get Rhea,” Francis was saying when she appeared farther down the hall, a bundle wrapped up tightly in her arms as she hurried toward them.

“The only way out is through the kitchens. Alastair must have gotten the maids and footmen out by now,” Francis cried as he led the way down the hall, trying not to jump backward when he saw how close the fire had traveled in only minutes.

“Coooeee!” Conny coughed his favorite saying, his eyes terrified. The flames stood taller than he, and they raced along the floor of the hall where the family had dined that evening.

Robin was blinking his tear-filled eyes, his hand tightening painfully on Francis's. As they neared the base of the staircase, they could feel the heat of the fire like a blast from an oven door. “Francis!” Robin screamed when his hand slipped from his brother's grasp. “I can't see! Where
are
you?” he cried.

“Here I am. Don't worry,” Francis said, and choked. He wondered where his next breath would come from. The smoke had become so thick. “Rhea? Are you all right?” he demanded, for he had lost sight of her.

“I'm here,” she said, and suddenly she was right next to him, Conny close against her side as he hung on to her waist. “Francis, where is the hall? I can't see!” she cried out.

Francis stared at the wall of flame approaching them, then turned around to stare at the flames licking up behind them, closing off the stairs. He was sure he was going to pass out.

They were trapped.

* * *

Bess saw the flames as she approached along the lane to Merdraco, Bristol Boy snorting and shying nervously when he smelled the smoke. But Bess became iron willed as she saw the fire. Even from there, she could see that it was an inferno.

As she drew close to the gatehouse, a figure in black jumped out and grabbed hold of her reins. Big hands grabbed her and pulled her to the ground.

She tumbled, lying there stunned for a moment. But when she glanced up and saw Jack Shelby pulling the sidesaddle from Bristol Boy's back, she struggled to her feet. “You bastard!” she spat, hatred and terror of this man consuming her.

“Goin' to see your lover, Bessie?” he snarled. “Ye'll be findin' him down on the beach. Maybe he survived without gettin' a hole through that black heart. If he did, he's goin' to wish he were dead when he finds his wife and brat have been burned to cinders.” His harsh laughter echoed through the night.

“You trapped them in there? In that lodge?” she cried, her heart pounding sickeningly. “My God, why?” she cried. “What have they done to you?”

“He loves them, that's why. Just like I love my Lettie, who was murdered by him,” Shelby said. “Let him know the hell I have known all these years. Let him cry for his dead, as I have cried for mine. He'll never see that pretty wife or son again,” Shelby bellowed as he climbed onto Bristol Boy's back.

“You fool! You blind fool!” Bess screamed, and he paused for just a second. “Dante Leighton didn't kill Lettie. He was with me that night. He was with me!” she yelled again just to make certain he understood.

“Ye're lyin', tryin' to save his neck. One of these days, I'll get him. I'll come back for him,” Shelby said.

“I'm not lying. For once in my life I am facing up to the truth. But it's too late. I am responsible for this,” she cried, and something of her despair seemed to reach Shelby, for he remained where he was, staring down at her as if truly seeing her.

“The truth, woman,” he growled suddenly, and Bess looked up to see the pistol pointed directly at her head.

“The truth, Jack Shelby? All right. But you won't like it, because when I tell you, you won't have anything to hate anymore. Certainly not Dante Leighton,” Bess told him, staring up unblinkingly into that pistol barrel.

“Dante Leighton was with me the night Lettie was murdered. He stayed with me the whole night, and did not leave until morning. But the next day, when we learned of her death and learned that he had been implicated, I said nothing. I said nothing because I was selfish, because I had learned from my grandfather that Sir Miles had been to see him and had told him that Dante was in debt. When Dante fell under suspicion, I wasn't about to risk my reputation by saying that I was his mistress. I was young. I wanted a good match. I couldn't risk the scandal. And Dante said nothing about us. He allowed me to keep my spotless reputation while he lost his own. He was run out of Devonshire.”

“You could still be lying,” Shelby thought wildly, trying to put everything together and make it look the way it always had.

“Yes, I could be, but the woman found murdered on the moors yesterday was killed in exactly the same fashion Lettie was killed. This time I gave Dante his alibi, for suspicion was cast upon him again, but I—”Shelby interrupted her.

“What woman?”

“Don't you know?”

“No. What murder?” he asked again.

“Esma Samples. And I find it strange that you didn't know about her, for if her family is to be believed, then she was murdered because she knew too much about your smuggling gang,” Bess told him. “But don't you understand? If Dante didn't kill Lettie, and if another murder was committed in exactly the same way yesterday and he didn't do it, then someone else killed both Lettie and Esma Samples. You saw Dante at Seawyck last night. You know he didn't kill Esma Samples.”

“He could have done it after he left you. Or before he got there,” Shelby stated.

“No. You see, Sir Morgan Lloyd was there as well, and Dante and Sir Morgan were together the whole evening. Dante is not the man who killed either Lettie or the other woman. Why would he make it look like Lettie's murder?” she continued, ever aware of the pistol pointing at her unwaveringly. She had his full attention, and she rushed on. “I was talking to the man from Merleigh who found the body. It's unbelievable, but that man also found Lettie's body. What he remembered was the strange shape he saw on Esma's body, a bruise. It reminded him of another bruise. He's going to take the information to the authorities tomorrow.”