Fire at Midnight (35 page)

Rachael did not grasp the significance of what Emerald had revealed until she glanced at Jacques. He stood white and trembling, face contorted with grief. The woman Emerald had selected to become the human figurehead of the wrecked ship had been Jacques’s tragic Adrienne. It was obvious from his reaction that he had not known the circumstances under which his fiancée had perished.

Jacques erupted into sudden motion, lunging at Emerald with a snarl of rage. The chains did not hinder the boy’s reflexes; Emerald sprang from the bench in a single lithe move and thrust out his leg. Jacques fell heavily across the bench, and Emerald leaned down and shoved him to the floor when he struggled to rise to his feet.

Bringing his manacled hands forward, he slanted the chain across Jacques’s exposed throat and pulled viciously on the length of iron as he braced his booted foot against the back of Jacques’s neck.

Everyone in the hall was so stunned by the unexpected attack that for a moment no one moved. It was Sebastién who recovered first, springing forward and seizing Emerald, forcing him to allow the chain to slacken. He lifted the boy off Jacques and hauled him a distance away, hurling him to the floor with a violent shove.

Emerald rolled toward Sebastién, gnashing his teeth and emitting growling sounds. Sebastién’s guards, their courage bolstered by the daring their prisoner had displayed, seized the boy before he could press an attack upon Sebastién.

Jacques crawled away and leaned against the wall, gasping and heaving for air. He dismissed Sebastién’s hesitant offer of assistance and struggled to his feet.

An eerily composed Emerald sat down again on the bench as Sebastién was led back to his seat. Jacques’s livid face promised retribution while he gingerly touched the angry red latticework of scored flesh left by the chain.

Jacques was silent, as if he could not decide whether to throttle Emerald or ask him another question. After a moment, he turned to Porter.

“I cannot question this monster,” he choked out in a hoarse voice. He waved a hand in Emerald’s direction rather than look at him. “He and my brother tortured and murdered the woman I loved.”

The accusation brought Sebastién to his feet in protest.

“Sir, you will sit down,” Porter instructed.

“Non.
If my brother cannot question this witness, I must.”

“Under the law, he has no right to question any witness,” Jacques objected.

“You do not need to cite the prohibition against counsel or defense for those accused of felonies to me, sir,” Porter said sharply.

Rachael leaned forward and grasped the rough wooden edges of the bench in front of her, her heart torn by the pain so evident on the faces of both Falconer brothers. A strong arm slipped around her, and she glanced up with gratitude at The Dane, whose face was creased with worry.

She followed his gaze and realized he was engaged in silent communication with Sebastién. Sebastién very deliberately shook his head. The Dane looked incredulous, even angry, and Sebastién reinforced his message with a quick, definite shake of his head. Some faces in the crowd that had been animated with purpose took on expressions of dismay.

“He refuses to save himself,” The Dane muttered under his breath. “He believes escape is an admission of guilt.”

“He will not allow Jacques the satisfaction of being able to say he sought escape because he was guilty,” Rachael said. “He will have this out, no matter what it costs him.”

The Dane glanced at her in surprise, and then nodded in agreement. “Few understand him so well,” he remarked. “But if one brother dies, so will the other.”

Rachael shuddered. Abandoning her seat beside The Dane, she quietly moved to the front of the hall where she would be closer to Sebastién.

Porter warned Emerald that any further outburst would result in punishment, and added in a low voice that Sebastién would be allowed to question the youth.

Jacques’s reluctance to yield the floor to his brother was palpable as he sank into a chair and folded his arms across his chest when Sebastién stood.

Leg chains scraped the floor when Sebastién cautiously approached Emerald. The boy’s eyes narrowed as Sebastién limped clumsily in his direction.

“Do you recall the first time we met?” Sebastién inquired.

Emerald frowned as he picked at the rough cuticle of his thumb until blood pooled around the nail.

Sebastién crouched until he was at eye level with the boy. “One would think your first encounter with such a bloody villain as I would have left a lasting impression upon you,” he said.

Rachael heard the sarcasm and barely controlled fury in his voice, but she still jumped in reaction when he suddenly slammed his fist down upon the bench next to Emerald’s chained thigh. The boy quaked and his upper lip drew back.

“You would do well to search your memory,
enfant terrible,”
Sebastién warned in a gravelly voice. “Mine may be the last face you see in this life. It is likely that we will hang together.”

“There is one difference between us,” Emerald said. “You are afraid to die. I am not.”

Sebastién was left momentarily speechless. He considered the boy, a mixture of pity and disgust on his face.

“Perhaps,” he softly conceded. “But I have the courage to tell the truth.” He leaned toward Emerald. “Do you?” He straightened and moved a distance away, the pale eyes following him. “My guess is that you and Simon have been promised your lives,” Sebastién said, tone casual. “But was anything said about freedom? After all your splendid cooperation, will you still be led away in chains and kept in a cage for the rest of your life?”

Emerald cast a wary look at Jacques, who languished in his chair, face turned away from the youngster’s perceptive gaze.

“No matter what you say here, your fate will be the same,” Sebastién said. “You have nothing to gain by lying. I think you know that.”

Emerald’s eyes traveled over the crowd and fixed upon Rachael, who had taken a seat in the front row. She looked back at him without flinching, her face taut with tension.

“Then I will tell the truth,” he said simply, with an apathetic shrug. He sighed and looked directly at Sebastién, eyes half-closed as if against painful light.

Sebastién glanced over his shoulder at Jacques, who leaned forward in his seat with a look of alarm on his face.

h
o led the wreckers?” Sebastién asked.

“Victor.” Emerald said the first name as if the last was unnecessary. “Brightmore,” he added in a bored tone, when the crowd continued to look at him eagerly. Emerald smirked at Sebastién’s dumbfounded expression. “I thought you wanted the truth.”

Emerald spilled secrets with the same élan he had spilled blood. He had seen the ledger, and confirmed that Sebastién had never been part of the gang of wreckers. Victor’s interest in Falconer had been as a scapegoat, and as the man who would eliminate his niece for him.

Sebastién’s jaw tightened in anger when Emerald related how Victor had channeled the Frenchman’s wrath toward Rachael. The tip that resulted in the arrests at Prussia Cove had been Victor’s doing. He had been delighted to learn that Jacques Falconer’s intended bride had been aboard a ship they had wrecked. It had added fuel to fire the hatred between the brothers, and directed suspicion away from him.

Jacques’s chair scraped the floor when he came to his feet with a shouted objection.

“The ravings of a madman!” Jacques exclaimed. “We may as well move these proceedings to Bedlam!”

“He was your witness only moments ago,” Sebastién reminded his brother. “He was credible then,
non?
”

“He’s the lowest form of criminal,” Jacques balked. “No doubt he’s been paid for his aid.”

“Do you really wish to discuss bribes?” Emerald asked him in a low, nasty voice. Jacques grilled him with a look of loathing, and Emerald smiled. “Didn’t think so.”

“What of the other charges?” Jacques asked Porter. “Do we assume he is innocent of all charges simply because the boy lied about the wreckings to spite me?”

“Of course not,” Porter replied. He looked at Sebastién. “Will you admit to smuggling, sir?” he inquired.

“Admit to running tea and spirits?
Oui,”
Sebastién readily agreed. “I do not deny smuggling. I have already been punished for it. The record will show that my ship, cargo, and crew were seized as payment.”

“It does not serve justice to punish a man twice for the same crime,” Porter said thoughtfully. “Unless, of course, you’ve committed new offenses.”

Sebastién had not had the opportunity to smuggle one pound of tea, one bolt of lace, or one barrel of brandy since meeting Rachael.

“Non,”
he earnestly admitted. “I’ve been too busy.”

Laughter rippled through the crowd. Porter suppressed a smile, jowls broadening with the effort.

“There is still the matter of the kidnap and murder of a child,” Jacques interjected with desperation.

“Not true! The child he speaks of is my brother,” Rachael declared.

Sebastién whirled around, startled by the nearness of her voice. The chains tinkled in a gentle reverberation of movement.

“My brother is alive. He was not abducted or harmed by this man.” She looked at Jacques. “If only you had read the ledger,” she told him. “One day, you will realize what you have tried to do, and it will destroy you. What you are attempting here is murder.”

“I challenge the integrity of this witness,” Jacques said loudly. “She has spent most of her time in my brother’s company. And, no doubt, in his bed.”

The crowd tittered, and Rachael flushed in embarrassment.

Sebastién leaned toward Jacques with a look of entreaty on his face. “I saved your life earlier,” he said. “I do not ask you to spare mine, only that you do not cheapen Miss Penrose in front of this crowd. Leave her out of this, and I will not oppose you.”

“No!” Rachael protested. “My silence will not be the instrument your brother uses to destroy you.”

Jacques frowned, and his eyes searched his brother’s face. He nodded in agreement.

“May I be permitted to speak, your lordship?”

Rachael cringed at the familiar voice and turned to face the back of the hall. The tall, sandy-haired man brought a flood of unpleasant memories of dank, musty cells, draughts laced with bitter substances, and threats of death.

Elliot Macaulay kept his eyes averted. His hands twisted the cocked hat he held as Phillip Morgan roughly hauled him forward by the front of his cape.

Morgan addressed Porter directly. “Your lordship, please pardon my untimely entrance. I would have arrived sooner, but I’ve been tracking this ignoble coward.”

“I will excuse the interruption if you’ve come to shed light on this case,” Porter replied.

Elliott stood before Porter with his head bowed.

“My son, Tarry, and I recently came into possession of property belonging to Victor Brightmore,” Phillip said.

Phillip produced a paper and waved it before the crowd. “My solicitor has prepared an itemized list.” He turned to Porter. “Brightmore owned a set of Customs seals that lack sanction and authenticity. His home concealed illegal goods. He kept a ledger that supports the conclusion that it was he and not Sebastién Falconer who led the wreckers.”

Sebastién stared at Phillip’s narrow back as Morgan told of having read the letter Elliott wrote to Victor detailing Victor’s plan to murder Rachael and James, and Elliott’s participation in having Rachael committed to Bedlam.

Jacques leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. When Phillip paused, he opened his eyes and looked at Porter as if trying to gauge his mood.

“Can you produce the letter?” Porter asked.

“I can do better,” Phillip blithely replied. “I can produce its author.”

It took no more than being pointed out before the crowd to provoke a confession from Elliott.

“Yes, it’s true that Victor planned to do away with his niece and nephew. Rachael was confined to Bedlam while Victor tried to work out a way to be rid of them both without attracting suspicion. He could not use poison after she revealed Victor’s plot to young Morgan.”

“This has nothing to do with the Frenchman’s crimes,” Jacques objected.

“Victor kept meticulous records.” Elliot sniffed. “You have only to read the ledger for yourself.”

Jacques tugged at his cravat, as if he suddenly found the room oppressive. Rachael shook her head at the irony. He would not dare admit to having destroyed the ledger.

Porter leaned forward, his brown eyes bright. “We can no longer dispute the existence of the ledger when so many claim to have seen it,” he said. “I am tempted to suspend these proceedings until the ledger can be found.”

Rachael heard Sebastién’s shocked intake of breath as Phillip Morgan reentered the hall, trailed by Eleanor, who held an infant in her arms.

Sebastién took a faltering step toward his mother and stopped. He was angry, so angry that his eyes glittered and his lean jaw tightened with wrath. Rachael grasped his arm and he started at the contact, eyes drawn from his mother. He blinked and placed an arm around her, as if to absorb her calm.

“Give James to his sister,” he said coldly. “I’ll not see him abandoned in some back alley.” Eleanor obeyed, her grim face as white as parchment.

“Sebastién,” Rachael soothed, “please try to understand how difficult this is for her.”

“One kind act does not mitigate the past and she knows it.”

“If that is what you believe, then thank God I was not raised by Hugh Falconer,” Jacques said.

“Had you been mine to rear, you would have been drowned in infancy,” a stern, authoritative voice bellowed from the back of the hall.