Dark Before the Rising Sun (43 page)

“But what has me puzzled is this: Exactly what you are doing here? Last I heard, you were captain of HMS
Portcullis
and stationed in Charles Town. You threatened to warn your brother, who is also a naval officer and stationed along this coast, of my disreputable past. Had you so little faith in his abilities that you came along to help him? Surely I am not as dangerous as that?” Dante inquired of the grim-visaged Sir Morgan Lloyd.

“My brother is dead.”

There was silence, and then Rhea said, “I am so sorry, Sir Morgan.” Her anger evaporated and she began to realize why Sir Morgan seemed so changed. Dante was staring at Sir Morgan too, but with an expression of enlightenment on his face.

“How did it happen?” he asked.

“He was murdered.”

“How?”

“His ship was lured into Dragon's Cove,” Sir Morgan said, not seeming to surprise Dante.

“How do you know that?” Dante asked, his words masking Rhea's gasp. At last she knew what had happened upon that sandy shore. “Were there any survivors?”

“No, but my brother did not go down with his ship. He and several others managed to make it to shore. He died of knife wounds. He was unarmed and probably half drowned when he was attacked.”

“And you suspect me of his murder?” Dante asked, his raised hand silencing Alastair's and Rhea's protests. “Rather brazen of me, wasn't it, to wreck a ship beneath the towers of Merdraco?”

“This is outrageous!” Rhea exclaimed angrily. “Dante wouldn't do such a thing!”

“If you will excuse me for saying this,” Lieutenant Handley broke in, “Lord Jacqobi
was
accused of murder many years ago.”

“Suspected but never accused and certainly not convicted,” Rhea stated, her violet eyes glaring at a flustered Bess Seacombe, who suddenly couldn't seem to meet the younger woman's contemptuous gaze. “I should think you would be ashamed of yourself for even repeating such a rumor, Lieutenant,” Rhea chastised the man. “And you, Sir Morgan, do you believe Dante capable of cold-blooded murder?”

“Anyone is capable of murder, Lady Jacqobi, if pushed too far. If they become desperate. If, perhaps, they are cornered,” Sir Morgan said quietly.

“When did this occur? Your brother must have been alive when we returned to England with you. And Dante has been at Camareigh since he left London. He couldn't possibly have had anything to do with your brother's death,” Rhea said.

“You actually think Dante is the leader of the Sons of Belial?” Bess asked with an incredulous glance at Sir Morgan. “Lud, but that's rich, and, as her ladyship has said, Dante wasn't even here when your brother's ship sank. Besides, he is the last person who'd be—”

“One can be involved in a murder without actually bloodying one's own hands,” Sir Morgan interrupted Lady Bess impatiently. “Since arriving here, I have come to believe that there is some twisted mind behind these Sons of Belial. Although their leader has remained a mystery, I shall discover his identity and find the men responsible for my brother's death and the deaths of his crew,” Sir Morgan vowed. “And I shall consider anyone who has information concerning this smuggling gang, and who has not stepped forward with it, to be my enemy. I shall deal harshly with those individuals, whether male or female,” Sir Morgan said.

Bess licked her dry lips, thankful that she had been interrupted before saying that Dante was the last person to be suspected of leading the Sons of Belial, for Jack Shelby hated the Marquis of Jacqobi. Bess couldn't see him taking orders from Dante. Nor indeed would the Sons of Belial have vandalized Merdraco had Dante been their mysterious leader.

Those were two things the good captain had yet to discover, but until then, he would continue to suspect Dante Leighton. And that, Bess thought with a sigh, would no doubt please the Sons of Belial just fine, for they would be free to go about their business while Sir Morgan Lloyd, who wasn't as smart as he thought he was, chased shadows.

“I will take my leave now,” Sir Morgan said stiffly. “No doubt you and I shall be meeting soon, Captain,” he commented. “I am sorry, Lady Jacqobi,” he added, but glanced away quickly from those violet eyes staring up at him accusingly. Nodding briefly at the others, he turned his horse and rode back along the lane, the lieutenant endeavoring to catch up with him.

“Impertinent man,” Bess muttered, but sighed in relief as the two riders disappeared around a curve in the lane.

“It saddens me to see how much Sir Morgan has changed,” Rhea said, watching the lane as if she still could not believe that he had said those things.

“We all change, Rhea,” Dante said, his eyes meeting hers and holding them for a long moment.

“I hate to intrude, but I must be going,” Bess said tartly. This had turned into a miserable day, and she was beginning to feel a migraine coming on. “Dante, I—” Bess began, but what she might have said, even she was not certain, for Dante merely shook his head.

“Good-bye, Bess,” he said wearily. Taking Rhea by the arm, he turned and walked away.

Bess continued to sit on her horse for a moment longer while staring at Dante and his loyal and loving wife, their young son held in his arms, as they disappeared inside the lodge. She wasn't even aware of Alastair as he drifted away, his farewell acknowledged by her daughter Anne, whose cheeks blushed like a wild rose as she watched his tall figure striding away.

“Welcome back to Merdraco, Dante,” Bess whispered. Never before had she felt quite so alone.

Men should be what they seem.

—Shakespeare

The streets of Merleigh cascaded down the hillside toward the sea like a wild moorland stream flowing with cobblestone. Crowding close along the banks were half-timbered, bay-windowed shops and cottages, each with steeply pitched, stone-tiled roofs. A multitude of stone chimneys stood above the picturesque jumble of rooftops, but rising above all was the tower of the parish church. From its lofty perch at the steep end of Merleigh's main thoroughfare, its bells pealed the day of the month with precise strokes after the church clock had struck five and nine of the morning and evening. As darkness fell, it chimed the curfew for any who would have wished to carouse after eight o'clock, as it had in medieval times. Nowadays the curfew law was no longer enforced. The bells also served to remind any forgetful parishioners of the Sabbath.

But it was market day, and the narrow, cobbled streets were filled with people. A heavily laden dray pulled by stout-chested oxen made its slow, creaking way up the lane, passing a team of pack horses loaded down with neatly cut sections of dried peat. The moorland vagabond leading the sturdy ponies did not have far to look for customers, for peat was cheap and made a good fire on chilly nights. Half doors opening onto Merleigh's High Street allowed the passerby a quick glance of the busy shoemaker or tailor or baker within.

At the base of the hill, where the cobbled lane ran into the sea, was a quay stretching out to the small curve of a peaceful bay. The masts of numerous fishing boats swayed to and fro with the tide, their crews mending nets spread out on the sands or standing by their day's catch while the fishmonger and matrons from village and farm surveyed the catch, preparing to haggle.

It was this scene, one that had changed little over the centuries, that met the gazes of the riders approaching the small coastal town.

“This is Merleigh,” Dante said, his hand outstretched to encompass the hamlet, which seemed to have spilled over the edge of the cliff and tumbled down to the sands below.

“'Tis quite a lovely town,” Rhea said, urging Skylark along the high road which led into the village about midway in its descent into the sea.

“Hasn't changed much since I last saw it,” Kirby commented from the back of his little moorland pony, his narrowed gaze raking the gable-fronted shops. He studied the villagers wandering along the lane as if seeking faces he remembered.

“You were born hereabouts, weren't you, Kirby?” Alastair inquired, trying not to notice the curious stares they were receiving.

“I was born at Merdraco, not Merleigh. There's a big difference,” Kirby said proudly. He was no simple villager or fisherman. “Merleigh ain't even a very old town. Used to be over by the castle, it did. That's how it got its name. 'Twas on Leighton land, then. In those times, the villagers needed to live close to the castle 'cause, not bein' fightin' men, they needed a place to run and hide when the enemy approached,” Kirby commented with a contemptuous glance around. “But when the land became settled, they moved the town here, where they had a better bay for fishin' and shippin'. Dragon's Cove was too much of a challenge for them. Always thinkin' of their purses, these merchants. No respect for the past,” he said, forgetting that the Leighton family, with more regard for their comfort than for their heritage, had moved into better quarters and abandoned their ancient castle.

Francis grinned at Rhea. He had come to like the tart-tongued little steward and enjoyed the grumbling comments Kirby continually made.

“Looks like ol' Tom Morcombe's been busy,” Kirby said as he eyed a short, swaggering man being followed by a tall, thin, harassed-looking woman. She held a baby, and another child held tightly to her skirts. Behind them came a line of children from about three to fifteen years old, the varying degrees of height making them look like a moving staircase. “Didn't think he had it in him,” Kirby said with a sniff.

“Bet you could show them how to sail those ships,” Robin told Conny, who was holding on for dear life as he bounced up and down behind the second son of the Duke of Camareigh on the small moorland pony rented from Bishop's Grave Inn.

“Aye, reckon so, Lord Robin,” Conny admitted, wondering why he'd never felt seasick on board ship, but now felt green as a head of cabbage.

“Robin,” the young lord reminded his friend. “There's no need for the title between friends.”

“Aye, your nibs,” Conny said with a wide grin.

“Aye, yourself, spouter,” Robin said, chuckling as he sent the little pony even faster down the steep lane, much to Conny's dismay and Rhea's unease. Robin had a penchant for sending ponies into places where they shouldn't be.

Francis was reading her mind, grinning and thinking of the time Robin had sent his pony Shoopitee through the gardens and knocked Lord Rendale into a lily pond. But he kept a wary eye on the lad lest he send his pony through some farmer's penned chickens.

The strangers were beginning to draw a crowd of interested spectators. So many riders, mounted on such fine horses and dressed as only gentry could, were a rare sight in Merleigh Towne.

“I'll leave you here with Kirby, Rhea. He doesn't seem to think Hallie made up a proper list for the greengrocer,” Dante remarked. Although Hallie had assumed control of the kitchens, Kirby could be found close by with words of advice, words too often given and never requested.

“I am certain that Kirby's expertise will be most appreciated,” Rhea replied diplomatically, and a wide, satisfied grin spread across the little steward's face. Dante shook his head. There'd be no living with him now.

“I will not be long, Rhea,” Dante said as they halted their horses at the edge of the marketplace. Dante dismounted and lifted Rhea from the saddle. “I am going to the tavern up on High Street. It is just a short way up the hill. If you need anything, that is where I'll be, and where I hope to find most of the unemployed men of the village. I want to let them know there are jobs for them at Merdraco and that I am paying a day's wages for a day's work,” Dante explained abruptly, for he wasn't certain of his reception. The Sons of Belial might have influenced the villagers against working at Merdraco.

“Can you use some company?” Alastair inquired, for he knew little about selecting vegetables and poultry.

Dante nodded. After guiding Rhea through the milling crowd, he turned on his heel and left her standing before several open crates of freshly picked berries, a frowning Kirby and an amused Francis standing guard on either side of her. Robin and his grinning cohort Conny had already disappeared into the crowded square, mischief, no doubt, uppermost in their minds.

The tavern Dante sought was squeezed between a wigmaker's shop, which advertised combing, cutting, and shaving, along with bloodletting for those suffering all manner of physical disorders, and an apothecary's genteel establishment. Situated next to a public house, the apothecary had an appropriate location for a thriving business.

Dante came to a halt before a small, two-storied building with ornately carved gables and long, narrow mullioned windows. Descending beneath a carved wooden sign that creaked with the sea breeze, he took the several steps down to the entrance, but then Dante paused and went back to stare at the sign, an enigmatic expression on his face as he looked up at it.

Alastair nearly bumped into that broad back when Dante stopped so abruptly. Following his gaze, Alastair glanced up and he drew in his breath sharply.

The wooden sign was carved in the shape of a woman. She was dressed in a flowing white gown, and beneath the phantom shape was the name of the tavern: The Pale Lady of the Ruins.

Alastair swallowed nervously. But Dante said nothing. He just stared at the sign a moment longer, then walked down the steps into the tavern. Alastair followed his captain into the shadowy hall beyond. A small staircase filled the space at the end of the narrow hall and led to the second floor and whatever rooms the tavern had for overnight guests. Following the sound of voices, Dante turned to the right. The coffee room was filled with men sitting and standing as they drank ale and talked of the weather.

Seemingly oblivious to the men and to the awkward silence which had fallen over the garrulous group, Dante walked across the room, coming to a halt at the counter. An aproned man stood behind the counter beside a large keg, from which he filled a tankard.

“Afternoon to ye and welcome to the Pale Lady,” the man greeted them. “What's your pleasure?” he asked while eyeing the two well-dressed gentlemen curiously. He didn't know them, but he suspected they'd have plenty of coin. “Ye be strangers to Merleigh?”

“No, not really,” Dante replied, ordering two ales.

“Oh? Well, ye might have noticed then that the tavern be under new management. Used to be called the Royal Oak and Ivy, but when I bought the place—I'm from Barnstaple—I changed the name. Changed the serving girls too. Skin and bones, the others were. Can't be workin' the roses out of their cheeks, eh?” he confided with a chuckle as one of his buxom young maids threaded her way through the crowded room, much to the appreciation of the patrons. They stopped her to place more orders, and the cunning innkeeper grinned.

“'Tis from local legend, the name,” the innkeeper continued conversationally while he filled their tankards and then handed them across to the tall, gray-eyed gentleman and his friend, who was looking on the peaked side. “Seems as if this highborn lady, from a great family she was, even named the town after them, they did, well,” he continued, glancing around just in case anyone was eavesdropping, “she jumped off the cliff over by the castle ruins. Merdraco, 'tis called. Well, they say she was so brokenhearted over her blackguard son, and him a marquis, that she took her own life. But what's got everyone scared senseless is that her ghost has been seen wanderin' along that cliff, cryin' and moanin' fer her son. Figure namin' my tavern after her was a wise business move. No one will be forgettin' the name, that's fer sure,” he said with a widening grin of satisfaction. But it didn't seem the gentleman found his story amusing, and it was only then that he became aware of the silence in his usually noisy coffee room.

Glancing beyond the two figures, he frowned thoughtfully, wondering what was amiss. It seemed all his regular customers were staring at the two strangers, and at the tall, gray-eyed one in particular.

The innkeeper cleared his throat nervously. Something was wrong. “Ah, don't believe I caught the name,” he said. “Like to greet my guests proper like, I do,” he added, his uneasiness growing when the gray-eyed gent smiled slightly before turning around to face the curious patrons of The Pale Lady of the Ruins.

Taking a sip of his ale, Dante eyed the men who had been watching him so intently. “Some of you may know who I am. If not, then allow me to introduce myself. I am Dante Leighton, Lord Jacqobi. I have returned to Merdraco. But in my absence, the house and estate have fallen into disrepair.”

That was putting it mildly, thought Alastair as he took a hefty swig of ale.

“I will hire anyone interested in working. There's good, honest money to be made,” Dante told the group of silent men.

“Reckon I'm one of them who remembers ye, Lord Jacqobi. Only then ye wasn't one to be payin' your debts,” a weathered-looking man commented from a table directly in front of where Dante was standing. “Dunno as how I have any reason to be believin' otherwise today, although I'll be admittin' ye've got courage in comin' back here. Figure there might be some folk hereabouts who haven't forgotten ye, or what ye was accused of doin'. Ye didn't leave many friends around these parts, milord.”

Alastair wiped the back of his hand across his lips and decided to keep a close eye on the surly man who had questioned the captain's honor.

But Dante surprised Alastair. He merely nodded acquiescence to the impertinent fellow's remarks. Then his hand disappeared into his coat pocket and, a second later, a small leather bag landed dead center on the man's table. “Open it,” Dante said, sounding like he had when barking an order to the helmsman aboard the
Sea Dragon
. The man picked up the bag, albeit gingerly. Untying the cord, he poured the contents of the bag onto the table, the sound signaling only one thing—money.

“Every man who comes to work for me will be paid daily for the work he does. There will be no promise of money. There
will be
money. But do not be lulled into thinking that this will be easy money, for I shall expect any man who works for me to carry his fair share. I worked hard for this money, and so I shall expect you to work hard for yours. Anyone who does not, will no longer work for me,” Dante warned them. The man who remembered the dissolute young lord who had squandered away his fortune couldn't believe that this was the same Marquis of Jacqobi.

This was a man who seemed accustomed to speaking his mind without fear or hesitancy, William Brownwell thought as he eyed the tall, muscular man with the bronzed face. He liked to think he judged another man accurately by the look in his eye. As he met Dante's pale-eyed stare, he saw something he liked. The eyes didn't slide away. They continued to meet his squarely, and William Brownwell read a sense of purpose in Dante Leighton.

“Should anyone doubt my word that I can pay you well for your services, then you have my permission to talk with my bankers. A large sum of money has been deposited in the bank here in Merleigh, as well as the banks in Westlea Abbot and in Bristol and in London, where my solicitor would be pleased to respond to your inquiries.”

“I can assure you, gentlemen,” Alastair heard himself saying, “that Dante Leighton is indeed a man of his word. I was the supercargo aboard the
Sea Dragon
, a privateer that engaged the enemy on countless occasions, and never turned tail and ran because her captain, Dante Leighton, would never admit defeat. And I can promise you that he had the respect and admiration of all his crew. You may rest assured that if the captain makes a promise, he keeps it,” Alastair concluded, the light of battle in his eyes. He was embarrassed at being outspoken, but the time sometimes came when a man had to say what he felt.