Dark Before the Rising Sun (3 page)

Suddenly he made a great leap through the air toward the other side, or at least as far as his short legs could propel him. And just in time too, for out of the darkness clattered a coach-and-six, which rolled through the arch with a splattering of muddy water in all directions.

Had there been anyone within hearing distance, he would have been left in little doubt as to the small man's opinion of the driver of that coach. With a sigh he glanced down at his gutter-splashed breeches and very sad-looking round-toed boots. Shaking his grizzled head for what the world must surely be coming to, he scurried into the yard. But peace was not to be found there, for stable boys and ostlers were bustling about, harnessing and unharnessing teams of horses and loading and unloading luggage with little regard for the contents, sublimely ignoring anyone questioning the condition of his trunk.

Kirby sighed as he reached the comparative safety and tranquillity of the taproom, which was crowded with shivering patrons newly arrived from Bath or Bristol, or perhaps even from as far north as Edinburgh, Newcastle, or York. The weeklong journey by stage along the Great North Road was considerably easier and quicker than it had once been.

Kirby tried to elbow his way closer to the warmth of the fire blazing in the big hearth, but there always seemed to be a broad back, a wide pair of shoulders, or a muscular forearm barring his way. With an almost comical expression of disgruntlement settling on his face, he started to commandeer a small three-legged stool, thinking that this current state of affairs pretty well summed up the way most of the day had gone thus far.

But as he prepared to remove the stool from beneath a large booted foot, a voice hailed him from across the room. Glancing around, he saw two men he knew well sitting at a table within the warming glow of the fire.

Alastair Marlowe raised his arm, beckoning to the little man whose head he had been watching bob up and down in the sea of shoulders. At the same time, Alastair caught the eye of one of the busy serving girls and ordered another tray of tankards to replace the empty ones on their table.

Kirby snorted when he saw the smiling girl hustle off, knowing that an older gent like himself would not have received such quick and friendly service. Leave it to a young and handsome lad with a twinkling eye and plenty of coin in his pocket to find a table near the fire and a more than willing serving girl.

His wet coat sending up a cloud of steam from its peg near the fire, Kirby sank down onto the bench where a space had been cleared for him between the two men. The gentlemanly Alastair had helped him out of his coat and placed it on the peg, which had been just out of reach of Kirby's fingertips.

Seumus Fitzsimmons's nostrils twitched. “Damned if someone hasn't kicked over a chamber pot,” he muttered. Then as his offended senses located the source of the incredible odor, he raised a black brow inquiringly. “I do beg your pardon, Mr. Kirby, but where the
divil
have ye been?”

Kirby took a hefty swallow of his buttered ale. Heated and sweetened with sugar, cinnamon, and butter, it sent a warm sensation all the way down to his frozen toes.

“The way I figure it, Mr. Fitzsimmons, I'm lucky to be here, stench and all, considering I've been insulted and nearly run down twice by runaway coaches. Beginnin' to think I was far safer aboard the
Sea Dragon
durin' the war than I am now walkin' down the street.” Kirby scowled before he emptied the contents of his tankard.

“Sounds like we got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning,” Fitzsimmons commented smoothly.

“And since when have I been sharin' a bed with ye and one of your many lady friends?” Kirby demanded. The Irishman chuckled and Kirby nodded his thanks to a grinning Alastair, who had placed another tankard within easy reach.

Fitzsimmons shook his head, his expression of self-disgust giving way to laughter. “Ye'd think I'd have learned by now not to bandy words with the likes of him. But now that ye've brought it to mind,” he continued, apparently not having yet learned that lesson at all, “'twould have been a sight to have beheld. However, I think I'm man enough for the ladies without needin' your kind assistance.”

“Thought ye'd be talkin' revolution with some of them hotheaded Irish friends of yours in some back room of a tavern patronized by colonials,” Kirby responded curtly.

“Still plenty o' time for that talk. The night's still young,” Fitzsimmons answered with an irrepressible wink at his two uneasy friends. Such talk was heard more frequently nowadays and was far more dangerous to be associated with.

“What's troubling you, Kirby?” Alastair asked, changing the subject as easily as he had his tankard of ale.

“Aye, thought a man as rich as yourself wouldn't have a worry in his head. Thought ye'd be fair to splittin' your seams with ideas on how to be spendin' your share of the treasure,” Fitzsimmons asked curiously. His share of the treasure was already destined toward a ship of his own, to be bought when he returned to the colonies.

“Reckon most the mates might have a sovereign or two left once they finish celebratin' here in London,” Kirby said as he eyed a couple of familiar figures at another table. He might not have recognized any of them. Their fancy clothes were new and out of character.

“'Tis especially interestin' when ye consider that none of us has even gotten his hands on any of that treasure yet,” Fitzsimmons commented dryly, thinking of his own new finery into which the tailor had been only too happy to fit him with the expectation of his customer's forthcoming riches.

“We've only been in port a few days now,” Alastair reminded him. “The captain's got to clear himself of that warrant for his arrest before we can all sit down and have a proper accounting of the treasure. Then we can divide it up.”

Kirby snorted loudly, nearly choking on his ale. “With the rumors goin' around about the cap'n, his reputation's blacker now than 'twas when he left London all them years ago. And no thanks to certain people I could name,” Kirby said as he eyed a crew member who was holding court at a table close to the conviviality of the hearth.

Longacres's outrageously lurid tales of pirates and highly exaggerated stories about the captain of the
Sea Dragon
were spreading through London like wildfire. And the old coxswain, in his loose-fitting breeches, square-cut jacket, and scarlet bandana, a pistol stuck in his broad belt, certainly looked the part of the bloodthirsty pirates of legend. The costume did little to damage his credibility. And the fact that this colorful old character was also a very wealthy man only added to his popularity.

“Reckon some folk don't know when to keep their mouths shut.”

“He's harmless enough, Kirby. Just enjoyin' bein' the center of attention. Though I do wish he'd be buyin' himself some new clothes, or at least a new pair of breeches. He looks like he's still sailin' a ship flyin' the skull and crossed bones.” Fitzsimmons grimaced.

Alastair had been silent while studying the play of emotions across the little steward's face. He thought how much more complex a man Houston Kirby was than most people knew. “You're still troubled about something, aren't you, Kirby?”

For one of the few times in his life, Kirby didn't have anything to say.

“If you're worrying about the captain getting those charges against him dropped, I wouldn't. He is, after all, a marquis, and a very wealthy gentleman now. I doubt whether even Their Honors will question him overmuch. 'Tis strange how another man's title and wealth can influence someone. And yet we all know the finest title Dante possesses is the one he bears as master of the
Sea Dragon
. Besides, he is innocent of any wrongdoing where this warrant is concerned,” he added loyally, putting all their previous smuggling activities out of his mind.

“And when did that ever save a man from the gallows?” Fitzsimmons was curious to know. “But ye be right about one thing, Mr. Marlowe. Them fine and most respectable bewigged old gents ain't goin' to hang no wealthy marquis. No matter what he's done.”

“At least not this time,” Kirby muttered into his ale, his shoulders slumped as if he carried the weight of the world.

“I hope you're not forgetting that the captain also has two very respectable witnesses to testify in his behalf. I doubt very seriously whether a duke's daughter or one of His Majesty's own officers would be suspected of perjury.”

Fitzsimmons laughed heartily. “Aye, the captain's got the divil's own luck for sure. To think that Captain Sir Morgan Lloyd himself would be the character witness for our captain! 'Tis strange enough to have me and all of London believin' everythin' ol' Longacres is spoutin' off about.”

The sad little steward hung his head even lower.

“Here, look alive, mates,” the Irishman declared as the serving girl arrived with a heavily laden tray of succulent dishes. “All ye need, Kirby, is some of this venison pie fillin' your innards. That'll get ye back in good spirits,” he promised as he eyed first the many platters being positioned on their table, then the décolletage of the smiling young serving girl.

With Fitzsimmons's attention fully occupied in flirting with the comely maid, Alastair took the opportunity to inquire softly of the little steward.

“You're worried about what the cap'n might be up to now that he's back in England to stay, aren't you, Kirby? You're worried because the cap'n has become a powerful man and is now in a position to settle an old score.”

Kirby stared into his ale as if he might be able to divine the future in its mirrored surface. “I've lived too long with the fear of this day.”

“But Kirby, everything is different now,” Alastair told him with an encouraging smile.

“Is it?” Kirby asked doubtfully. “Ah, lad, I wish I could believe that, but I know the people involved too well to be easy.”

“The cap'n is wealthy now. Indeed, he is far richer than he probably thought he'd ever be. That can mellow a man's need for revenge. The cap'n can now forget all the unhappiness of the past. He has returned to England a successful man, even a hero in the eyes of some. He can start anew. After all, Kirby, the cap'n was just a young man when he fled England, and that was years ago. He has lived most of that time out of this country. Don't you think he might feel differently now? London is not the same town he left, and I'll wager that Merdraco isn't the same place either, nor the people living around there. Everybody changes. And anyway,” he added quietly, “have you forgotten Lady Rhea Claire? Would the cap'n risk losing her?”

The Lady Rhea Claire. No, she was certainly not someone you would forget. Even the mere mention of her name conjured up a vision of breathtaking grace and beauty in the minds of both men. Kirby sighed. Although he was not given to romantic or poetic ramblings, he couldn't help but compare Lady Rhea Claire to a dawn sky. Her hair was as pure a gold as the first streakings of light in a morning sky. Her lovely eyes were a violet blue. And in Kirby's opinion,
she
was the true treasure that the captain had brought home to England, a far more priceless treasure than the Spanish gold the captain had discovered.

Of the chance of fate that had sent Lady Rhea Claire seeking refuge aboard the
Sea Dragon
that rainy afternoon in Charles Town, or the one that had put that treasure map in the captain's hands, well, he didn't know which was stranger. Neither story needed any high coloring in the telling, even in Longacres's tales, which came as naturally to the old pirate as breathing, especially when he had a full tankard of rum at his elbow.

Of course, thought Kirby, he might be wrong about the notoriety being created by Longacres's babblings. The stories might just benefit the captain, for, in Longacres's high-flown telling of the tale, the captain and crew of the
Sea Dragon
had saved the beautiful Lady Rhea Claire from certain death at the hands of murderous villains. The beloved daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Camareigh, she had been brutally kidnapped from the family's country estate and shipped to the colonies to be sold as an indentured servant.

Half dead from the deprivations she had endured during the long sea voyage to the colonies, Lady Rhea Claire had been fleeing her captors along the docks in Charles Town when she sought refuge aboard the
Sea Dragon
. Quite naturally enough, the good captain and crew of that fine ship had taken the poor wee thing to their hearts. Had they not taken pity upon her, taking her with them when they'd sailed for the Indies, she most likely would have died either at the hands of her former kidnappers or of the fever, for she had collapsed soon after boarding the
Sea Dragon
.

By the time they dropped anchor in St. John's Harbour, Antigua, Lady Rhea Claire had not only made a full recovery, she and the captain had fallen in love. In fact, according to Longacres, it had been love at first sight, so the charge of kidnapping the lass from Charles Town was as false as dicers' oaths, and by that Longacres would have sworn. And if justice was to be done, Longacres had been heard to declare, then the crew of the
Sea Dragon
ought to have been knighted for their uncommon act of kindness, and certainly not questioned like criminals.

Actually, Kirby remembered the affair in a slightly different manner. For one thing, the first encounter between the captain and Lady Rhea Claire had been anything but love at first sight, and although the voyage to Antigua had been fraught with nothing more dangerous than sun-filled, balmy days, the atmosphere on board had been stormy.

Of course, he couldn't truly blame Longacres for his wrong assumptions, for the coxswain hadn't been privy to certain information. And now that Kirby thought about it, he would just as soon not have known the real story himself.