Dark Before the Rising Sun (6 page)

“Do I really?” Dante asked, sounding genuinely surprised to hear such an accusation, but he was even more surprised by the sudden silence beyond the door.

“Well? Enter, or be damned!” he called out, ignoring Rhea's expression of feigned exasperation.

“Lord, 'elp us!” whispered one of the chambermaids cowering just outside the door.

“What'd Oi tell ye? A bloodthirsty pirate 'e is. Sailed from the Indies on the devil's own ship, 'e did. 'Eard tell, even, that one of them treasure chests full o' gold was filled with the bleached bones of pirates. Devil's treasure, 'tis,” her companion declared.

“No tellin' what a gent like 'im might do, then?” the first maid questioned timidly, feeling a weakness in her knees at the thought uppermost in her mind.

“Aye, and 'tis somethin' a supposedly decent miss like yerself shouldn't even be knowin' about, much less thinkin' about,” the elder of the two girls responded knowingly.

“Ooooh, but 'e is an 'andsome devil, though,” the younger girl stated, unmindful of her more experienced friend's advice while she momentarily forgot, or perhaps dreamed, about Dante Leighton and his adventurer's less-than-respectable reputation.

“Well, ye don't 'ave t'be worryin' none.”

“Ye think not? Don't reckon 'e'll be castin' them bonny eyes at either one o' us, not with her ladyship at his side,” the young maid predicted wisely, even while tidying the mobcap perched atop her russet curls.

“Such a beauty she is too. And sweet as can be, with not a mean word to anyone. Not at all snooty, either, if ye knows what Oi means. Why, just t'other day she says to me—”

“Damn the two of ye! I knew it, damned if I didn't!” roared the innkeeper as he stomped along the corridor, the two guilty maids fixed in his stare. “Knew ye'd be standin' here gossipin' while I've got customers to be fed and seen to. Don't know how a man can run a decent business nowadays, what with the wages bein' demanded and the poor service bein' given in return,” he complained as he grimly eyed the nervous girls.

“We knocked! Again and again, we did! Even pounded on the door with our fists! 'Tis the truth!” they chorused.

“But we was frightened cause a voice, soundin' for all the world like the devil 'imself, says to enter or be damned!” one of the girls said on a rising note of hysteria.

“Good! Then we'll be wastin' no more time standin' here,” the innkeeper declared, his appreciative laugh rumbling down the corridor and somewhat relieving the tension of the two young men standing at a safe distance, their arms full of carefully wrapped bundles.

Without further ado, the innkeeper opened the door and, with a hand clasped firmly on each girl's shrinking shoulder, escorted the two into the dragon's den.

“Ah, at last. I had begun to think my hearing was playing tricks on me,” the captain of the
Sea Dragon
commented conversationally.

Without his coat and waistcoat, his ruffled shirtfront parted nearly to the waist and revealing a bronzed, muscular chest, the close-fitting buckskin breeches leaving no doubt of his virility, Dante looked every inch the piratical captain half of London suspected him of being.

Sitting with a booted foot resting casually against a tapestried stool while he idly toyed with the rapier lying across his lap, his languid pose was quite deceptive, for the narrowed gray eyes raked the newcomers and missed nothing.

“Beggin' yer pardon, m'lord, m'lady, but if ye're finished dinin', then the girls here will clear the table,” the innkeeper explained at his most genial. His bonebreaker's grip was coming close to shattering each girl's shoulder as he pushed them toward the table.

“'Tis quite all right,” Dante murmured, his gaze moving to the two uneasy young gentlemen hesitating in the opened doorway.

“It was a delicious meal, Mr. Parkham.” Rhea Claire complimented him with a smile that took hostage of the gruff innkeeper's heart. “Our young friend, Mr. Brady, found the gooseberry pie especially delectable.”

“Did he, now?” Mr. Parkham said with a beaming smile. “Well, I'll sure be tellin' Mrs. Parkham about yer kind words, m'lady. Be glad t'hear it too. Ol' Nell Farquhar, proprietress of the King's Messenger, off St. Martin's Lane, claims she bakes the best gooseberry pies hereabouts, though I don't know how her customers have ever gotten a mouthful. I figure she eats most of 'em herself. A waist as round as a hogshead of molasses she has, and as mean as a—”

“If you will pardon me for interrupting, Mr. Parkham.” Dante spoke softly, yet effectively halted the garrulous innkeeper. “What business do these gentlemen have here?”

“Says they be makin' a delivery, m'lord,” Mr. Parkham replied while leveling a questioning stare of his own at the two men. “And they had better be tellin' me the truth, for if I finds out that they've bamboozled me, and be here to try to sell their wares on the sly, well…” he warned, the ugly glint in his eye promising swift retribution. There was little doubt that he meant it, for Mr. Parkham was a burly man who was well used to keeping order on his premises.

“Oh, 'tis true enough, m'lord,” one of the young men quickly spoke up, preferring to address the gentleman who most likely would be tipping him. “We're from Madame Lambere. She sent us along with the clothes she finished for Lady Jacqobi. She said to be quick about it, that her ladyship needed them, and madame isn't one to disappoint a customer. The Dominicks always pay their bills, she said. Otherwise, m'lord, we wouldn't have intruded so late in the evening,” the young man explained, although his eyes, once having located the lady in question, had never moved beyond that stunning vision in white.

“'Tis true, then, m'lord?” Mr. Parkham demanded, thinking privately that this glib young gent in his finery probably did more than just deliver packages for Madame Lambere. But at his lordship's nod, he had to acquiesce, and relaxing his defensive stance, he grudgingly allowed the two young gentlemen access to the room.

“Be about yer business, then, and don't be botherin' his lordship any longer than need be. And ye two, get clearin' the table,” he ordered the two maids, who'd been standing in awed silence while ignoring their less than interesting duties. “Ye've work to see to, so quit yer gabbin' and gawkin' and get crackin'. I'll be expectin' to see them silly faces back in the kitchens by the time I've gotten there meself,” he warned them, little realizing how quickly the two would follow in his very footsteps.

The two young gentlemen wasted little time unwrapping their bundles. Spreading the contents across the wide four-poster in the far corner, they revealed a dazzling sight.

A primrose yellow damask gown embroidered across the voluminous skirt with a scattering of delicate wildflowers and butterflies, and a blue quilted satin petticoat spilled forth like a breath of spring on a winter's eve. A rose brocade with a white silk stomacher, richly embroidered in a pale green leaf pattern with small satin rosebuds, and elbow-length sleeves trimmed with a cascade of three point-lace ruffles burst into glory, next followed by a watered silk turquoise taffeta, flounced and furbelowed with Valenciennes lace and violet bows on the sleeves. A lavender petticoat tumbled out next.

But it was the last gown revealed that drew gasps from the two mesmerized maids who were now staring quite openly at the finery piled high on the bed. The gown was an exquisite, ethereal creation of gold tissue which shimmered in the firelight like dancing fairy lights in the woodlands. The sleeves and ruffled skirt were trimmed in soft, silken blond lace that resembled gold-spun cobwebs.

The pelisse of sapphire blue velvet, trimmed with ermine, went almost unnoticed, as did the assortment of handkerchiefs, some edged in lace, some embroidered, some colored. And the silk stockings in every shade imaginable, with kid gloves to match, remained carefully folded and set aside. The rose-colored satin slippers and the purple velvet ones soon became lost under the mountain of velvet and satin and lace, along with the pair made of yellow kid. The lavender silk hat with violet plumes might have captured a quick glance, but the straw hat with jonquil ribbons and the bergère with lovely sarcenet roses went unappreciated by the two bemused serving girls, their rounded eyes glued to the gown of shimmering golden threads.

“With m'lady's permission, I'll leave this package wrapped, for 'tis m'lady's chemises, stays, and under petticoats,” the more talkative of the two men suggested courteously, but the look in his eye was anything but respectful.

“How considerate,” Rhea said, ignoring the man's leering wink. “My mother and I have always been most pleased with our purchases from Madame Lambere's. We have never had reason to complain,” Rhea said, the remark sounding quite innocent, especially so accompanied as it was by a sweet smile. “Madame Lambere has surpassed herself where this gown is concerned. 'Tis truly magnificent.”

“Madame will be most pleased to hear your praise. Of course, m'lady has excellent taste. And, if I may be so indiscreet to say so, I knew the moment m'lady walked into madame's that this gown could be for none other than her. In fact, madame had quite often confided in me that the Duchess of Camareigh is her very favorite client. And, if I may be so bold, one of the most beautiful ladies in all the realm, as indeed is her daughter. How very fortunate a man His Grace is to have two such beautiful women gracing his home. Ah, and could there possibly be a more perfect setting for such unequaled beauty than the lovely perfection of Camareigh? To quote madame,
C'est magnifique
!” the young man exclaimed and kissed his fingers to his lips. His accent was atrocious, despite the eloquence of the gesture.

“Madame has told me how
extraordinaire
an estate Camareigh is. I believe madame traveled to Camareigh just last year to sew many new creations for Her Grace and m'lady? Yes, indeed, His Grace is a most fortunate man,” he added, his eyes lingering on Rhea's décolletage as if his fingers itched to take in a tuck or two along that entrancing curve of seam.

“Very perceptive of you to have noticed,
m'sieu
, but as I am the gentleman being billed for these garments, and not His Grace, you will in future kindly address any such remarks to me,” Dante's cold voice interrupted the tête-à-tête and left the young gentleman from Madame Lambere's with little hope that his lordship would be generous about a tip. Indeed, as he risked a glance at the notorious captain of the
Sea Dragon
, he wondered if he might consider himself lucky to be leaving the room in one piece.

He was in fact edging toward the door with that very goal in mind when one of the serving girls let out an ear-piercing scream that must surely have raised several of the dead. Then, her tray of china scattered across the floor in shards, she fled the room, her cries of terror echoing along the corridor. Her squealing companion was not far behind.

The two young men were frozen in their tracks, denials of their guilt, whatever the offense may have been, quivering on their lips when Dante began to laugh. And since there was no apparent reason, his laughter did little to set either young man's mind at rest. Neither had any trouble envisioning Dante Leighton standing on the bloodied deck of his pirate ship, his demonic laughter ringing out while he urged some poor soul to walk the plank.

The lady, oddly, did not seem concerned. She glanced around the room, and then suddenly her gaze halted and she stared in fascination at the mound of blue velvet on the bed. It was moving like some beast awakened from slumber, its pale green eyes blinking open and glowing wickedly with firelight.

Each young man, although neither would admit to it later, felt the hair on the back of his neck rising.

“Jamaica,” Rhea Claire murmured softly, her expression one of indulgence as a streak of orange bolted from hiding and landed in her outstretched arms. “Here you are, silly billy,” she chuckled, scratching the cat on the back of his head until his purrs could be heard clearly across the room.

“Thank your mistress for delivering these gowns so quickly. And here is something to compensate you gentlemen for the fright you've had,” Dante said, counting out a more than generous tip for both bemused young men. Their gushing thanks barely said, they disappeared from the room.

“Well, I daresay you now have as bad a reputation as I have, my dear,” Dante commented with a grin of satisfaction. “Of course, I shall have a devil of a time keeping you from being burned as a witch, and ol' Jamaica from being thrown into the Thames as your familiar.”

“He is not black,” Rhea replied, unconcerned.

“Ah, but some might claim that you have cast a spell over him and over the captain and crew of the
Sea Dragon
. The men already think you are an enchantress, and I would have to swear that you bewitched me,” Dante said provocatively, the look in his eye causing a blush to spread across Rhea's pale cheeks.

“Little daffadilly,” he murmured softly, thinking of the exotically bright, at times discordant colors of the Indies, and how like an English garden Rhea had seemed by comparison. Even her scent was reminiscent of spring flowers for it was a delicate fragrance with a tantalizingly elusive hint of piquancy.

“I do not need to be my Aunt Mary to know what your thoughts are,” Rhea said enigmatically as she pressed her cheek against Jamaica's head.

“Indeed? And what would this Aunt Mary of yours be able to tell you of my thoughts?” he asked. “She is not a soothsayer, is she?”

“Indeed she is,” Rhea responded, her smile widening at his expression of surprise. “However, she is also very much a lady, and I doubt whether she would feel it quite proper to put your thoughts into words.”

“My feelings exactly. Why waste breath talking about something when you can be doing it instead?” Dante queried softly, and started across the room toward her. There came another demanding knock.