Dark Before the Rising Sun (28 page)

“I never forget anything you tell me,” Rhea confessed, her fingers caressing the soft, fine curls covering her son's small head. “Captain Christopher was very important to you, more so, I think, than your own father was. I thought you would like to honor him by naming your firstborn son after him.” Rhea pressed a kiss against Kit's forehead. “And I thank you for letting him bear the name Dominick too. It means a great deal to my parents. Why did you choose my family name?”

Dante shrugged, a little uncomfortable admitting to the act of generosity. “I have come to feel a…” Dante paused, searching for an appropriate word. When he couldn't find one, he simply said what he felt. “A certain fondness for your family, Rhea. And although our son is a Leighton first, I want him to feel like a member of the Dominick family as well,” Dante admitted. It was not an easy admission.

Pleased, Rhea gazed down at their son, noting the delicate fringe of eyelash covering his closed eyes. She got to her feet slowly and, walking over to the wooden cradle beside their bed, carefully placed the sleeping babe beneath the down-filled coverlet. When he stirred, she gently rocked the cradle. Soon, yawning, he drifted into that innocent sleep only the newborn know.

“You and Kit already are,” Rhea said, stretching her tired shoulders, then sighed as she felt Dante's hands massaging her tense muscles. Then the warmth of his lips was caressing the nape of her neck. Leaning back against him, she allowed his hands to slip lower, moving to cup her tender breasts beneath the parted bodice of her gown.

“Shall we stay awhile, m'lady?” he whispered against her ear, his teeth nibbling the soft lobe. Even through her many petticoats, she could feel the hardness of his ardor as he held her pressed against his hips, his hands sliding along the silk covering her thighs. “I think 'tis time we became reacquainted.”

“But they will be expecting us in the salon, m'lord.” Rhea sighed, her heart beating wildly.

“I never like to disappoint a lady,” he murmured, turning her in his arms so he could gaze down into her flushed face before his lips covered hers in a hungry kiss. “You did issue an invitation. Or was it a challenge to prove my manhood, lest you think young Christopher an accident?”

“Dante,” Rhea objected in growing embarrassment even as she lifted her lips to his, savoring the hard feel of them against hers. As she stood there in his embrace, she felt once again the trembling sensation that had the power to make her forget everything and everyone but Dante Leighton.

Dante felt her trembling response to his rising passion, and with a satisfied smile curving his lips, he lifted her in his arms and carried her to the four-poster.

“Dante, what if someone comes looking for us? What—”

But Dante silenced her with his lips. When he finally lifted his mouth from hers, she was breathless.

“Forget about everybody, for there is nothing that can come between us now,” he promised and proceeded to prove the truth of his words.

My pride fell with my fortunes.

—Shakespeare

Seawyck Manor squatted on a rise overlooking the sea. It could not be considered a pretty house, yet there was a certain charm about its gray walls and stone-tiled roof. When the sun shone, the armorial glass in the mullioned windows was highlighted and the garden stretching along the east front blossomed. But they were the only touches of color against overwhelming grayness. Toward the southwest, beyond the outbuildings and stable yard, beyond the formal gardens and the parkland grazed by deer, beyond the gently rolling hills, lay the village of Merleigh.

And directly west, beyond the woodland of beech and chestnut, planted to shield Seawyck from the cold winds blowing in from the sea, the dark towers of Merdraco rose against the horizon whenever there was no mist enshrouding the curve of coastline.

But those towers, visible or not, were never forgotten by Lady Bess Seacombe, daughter of an earl, widow of a baronet, and mistress of Seawyck. Even when the towers were hidden by swirling fog, they were a reminder that Merdraco was still there, even if its master had fled.

Lady Bess eyed the setting sun with little appreciation of its golden splendor, for it meant that darkness would soon fall and remain until dawn; for this was to be a night of no moon.

“Damn!” she muttered beneath her breath. Turning away from the window, her eye was caught by the threadbare condition of the velvet hangings. With another curse, she pulled the heavy burgundy draperies together, closing off the dramatic view of sea, and the glorious reflection of the sun sinking in a fiery ball of copper.

Recklessly, Lady Bess poured herself another sherry, carelessly banging the crystal decanter on the polished tabletop. She quickly emptied the fluted glass, thinking she had need to bolster her courage for what she had planned for this moonless eve.

“Dear Lord, how can I do it?” she whispered, her bejeweled hands shaking as she set the glass down.

“I cannot do it,” she told herself, tapping her fingertips against the mantelpiece in nervous agitation. “'Twould be madness.” Then looking up, she cast an ill-favored glance at the man in the portrait above the fireplace.

“'Tis a pity you were such a fool,” she said, eyeing him with renewed dislike. Although he'd been dead for over two years, he still had the power to irritate her. “More the fool I was in ever marrying you, Sir Harry Seacombe,” she complained. “But who knew at the time that you were in debt and had no head for business? And then, later, to invest in that Indies plantation! What rot that turned out to be, eh, Harry?” she asked the silent man whose pale blue eyes continued to stare beyond her expressionlessly, as if uncomprehending. Indeed, they had often looked that way when Harry Seacombe was alive.

“Hounds and horses, Harry, that was all you ever knew or cared about,” Lady Bess accused him. “You had your nerve marrying me under false pretenses. I was highborn, not that I blame you, for I was a beauty, eh, Harry?” she demanded of him. As she caught sight of her reflection in one of the wall mirrors, she had to admit that she still cut quite a fine figure, even if she was past thirty and had given birth to two children. But the bloom was gone from her cheeks, and she had gotten too thin, she thought with critical assessment of her décolletage and the firm, perfumed flesh so temptingly revealed above the lacy edge of her corset.

“You cheated me, Harry. Not only were you in financial trouble, but you weren't even a good lover, not like…” Lady Bess's words trailed away and, with a sigh, she turned away from her mirrored reflection and the portrait. They both brought back too many unpleasant memories of a time when she was younger and had made the biggest mistake of her life.

“Mama?” a young voice sounded. “Mama? Where are you?” The girl's voice grew shrill, rising to a note of fear. “Mama?”

“In the salon, Anne,” Lady Bess answered reluctantly, unwilling for the moment to relinquish her dreams. The present was a discouraging place to be without some manner of escape.

“What are you doing sitting in here in the dark?” the girl demanded. Although only fifteen, Anne Seacombe was already developing into a beautiful young woman. She bore, in fact, a remarkable resemblance to her mother at that same age. “Shall I light the candles?”

“No, 'tisn't worth the expense. I shall not linger long, my dear,” Lady Bess told her.

“Then shall I have Janey light a fire? 'Tis still too chilly not to once the sun has set,” she offered, inadvertently reminding her mother of approaching eventide and all that would follow the darkness.

“No, she has enough to do in helping her mother in the kitchens. Besides, I do not want the house to look as if we were awake,” Lady Bess said, more to herself than to her daughter. Anne's puzzled expression gave way to an unhappy one as she realized what her mother meant.

“I forgot. There is no moon tonight, is there, Mama?”

“Whatever do you mean, child?” Lady Bess demanded.

“Oh, Mama, you needn't pretend you do not know. And I am no longer a child. Why, Lucy Widdons was wed by the time she was my age, and had a babe suckling at her—”

“She was years older and fortunate she made it down the aisle at all, so rounded with child was she. Besides, she is a common village girl, not a Seacombe,” Lady Bess reminded her restless daughter.

“I don't see how being a Seacombe makes any difference these days, for we seem to have as much trouble putting food on the table as the poorest villager,” Anne said. “I know that is why you let those smugglers use our horses. 'Twould just about kill Father if he knew how they were being abused, having to haul kegs through the countryside. He wouldn't have allowed it.”

Lady Bess opened her mouth to speak, to deny the charge, but just as suddenly she shut it. There really wasn't much point in lying, especially now that she had made up her mind to change things. “Your father, my dear, would have sold his soul for a keg of untaxed French brandy, but he will rest easy tonight, for I am not going to let the smugglers have our horses. In fact, I am going to sell several of them at the fair in Westlea Abbot on Saturday.” Lady Bess spoke confidently, though her insides were quivering.

“But, Mama, you can't. Don't you remember what happened last year to the Webbers' farmhouse? Charles said 'twas because they wouldn't give the smugglers their horses,” Anne told her mother in a breathless voice.

“How many times have I told both you and Charles not to listen to gossip?” Lady Bess said harshly, for of course she did not need to be reminded. “Charles does not know what he is talking about. Besides, no one would dare trespass here at Seawyck. Who do they think we are? Common folk? Easily terrified?” Lady Bess demanded scornfully, swallowing her fear. “And if there was one thing your father was accomplished at and had the good sense to teach me, 'twas shooting. I can load and shoot a pistol as well as any man. Let them dare raise a torch at Seawyck,” Lady Bess promised.

“I hope you are right, Mama,” Anne said, her eyes drifting toward the drawn window hangings, wondering if that could truly keep a determined intruder at bay.

“Of course I am,” Lady Bess reassured her, forcing a smile. “Now go and tell Mrs. Bickham to start dinner, for we shall be dining earlier than usual tonight,” Lady Bess informed her daughter, determined that they would all be safely tucked away in their beds when midnight visitors arrived.

“Mama?”

“What now, Anne?” Lady Bess demanded sharply, for her nerves were bad despite the two glasses of sherry.

“I think I heard the door knocker.”

“Nonsense. Who would be calling at this hour?” Lady Bess asked. A moment later, Bickham, their butler, coachman, gardener, and gamekeeper, announced quite grandly, “Two gentlemen to see you, m'lady.”

“Their names, Bickham?”

“Captain Sir Morgan Lloyd and Lieutenant Handley, m'lady. Shall I tell them you will see them?” the butler asked, noting the unlit candles with disapproval.

“Oh, very well, but give me a moment,” Lady Bess ordered, and as the door closed on the ancient retainer—he'd been at Seawyck Manor half a century when Lady Bess had arrived as a young bride—she hurried to the escritoire against the wall. After fumbling inside one of the drawers, she held out her hand to her daughter. “Here, light some candles.”

“But I didn't think you wanted to light any—”

“Oh, Anne, do not question me now. Just light the candles,” Lady Bess told her. “What the devil do they want? Who is this Sir Morgan Lloyd? The name sounds familiar. Do we know him? I know that weasel Handley.”

“No, Mama,” she replied as she moved around the room, an illuminating glow following in her footsteps.

“Damn. Of all nights. If they are seen coming here, there will be the devil to pay, let me tell you,” she fretted, thinking of what had happened to others unfortunate enough to have been suspected by the smugglers of being informers. “Lud, just what I need, two officers of the Crown sitting here taking tea!”

Carefully she spread out her skirts on the settee, successfully hiding the darned spot in the silk cushion. “Now run along, dear, and have Bickham show our guests in,” she told her daughter.

“Mama? They haven't come to arrest you, have they?” she asked tremulously.

Lady Bess choked. The thought had not entered her mind until her daughter kindly mentioned it. “Of course not,” she hissed, but she eyed the imported lace adorning her gown with less pleasure for it had come from smuggled cargo. “Now do as you were told. Our guests have been kept waiting too long, and I'll not have it said that Lady Bess Seacombe is ill-mannered.”

“Very well, Mama,” said Anne. She hurried through the entrance hall, her breathlessly spoken words to the butler barely heard by the old gent. She risked a quick glance at their two visitors, but when she caught sight of them, she wished she hadn't. Never had she seen so stern-visaged a man as was the taller and older of the two officers. She was suddenly thankful that she had been sent from the room, and she pitied her mother having to face that man and tell lies.

Lady Bess was thinking much the same thing as the two men entered, and she met the steely-eyed gaze of the older officer. “Gentlemen? Please sit down. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” she asked politely, managing a welcoming smile while noting that there was something tantalizingly familiar about the tall naval officer. Undeniably, he was a handsome man, but his blue eyes were cold and assessing, and his well-shaped lips were drawn together in a grim line. This officer, unlike his subordinate, was no weak-willed fool.

“'Tis not on pleasure that I have come to call, madam,” Sir Morgan Lloyd responded, his directness confirming her speculations.

“Indeed, sir?” Lady Bess said, her tones becoming frigid. “Why, 'pon hearing that two officers had come to call, I suspected that some of my cows must have gotten loose again and strayed off our property. But since my cows cannot swim, and you, sir, are a naval officer, I must have been mistaken.” She met Sir Morgan's gaze with haughty arrogance. “Or, has the navy taken to milking cows?”

There was no flicker of humor in those icy-blue eyes. Neither Dante nor Rhea Claire would have recognized the man who, only months before, had drunk to their good health. He was a changed man. “I have come merely to introduce myself to you.”

“Oh?” she asked in a tone which implied that he would have gone beneath her notice otherwise.

“Madam, I am now the highest-ranking officer in this area, and as such have been invested with special and full authority to deal with any crimes against the Crown which result from the illegal smuggling of goods—by order of the Admiralty, the Board of Customs, and His Majesty King George himself. And I am giving you, as well as other members of the community, fair warning that I shall rid this coastline of its infestation of smugglers.”

Even though Lieutenant Handley had been privy to this dialogue before, he seemed just as startled as Lady Bess was while listening to it. “I am indeed impressed,” Lady Bess murmured, thinking the man must be extraordinary to have been given such powers. “And, you, Lieutenant? You answer to the good captain too?” she asked innocently enough, never having cared for Lieutenant Handley. He was too humble, too fawning and subservient. She never had been able to stand sniveling, servile people. Too often a toadying attitude hid a mean streak.

“Naturally, m'lady, I have assured Sir Morgan that he will have my complete cooperation. I can only hope that I will be able to be of some small service to him.” Lady Bess did not miss the look of disgust which passed across Sir Morgan Lloyd's austere face. He must have suffered much of the lieutenant's lickspittle humility.

Lady Bess asked, “But, Captain, what does your assignment have to do with me? I am but a grieving widow, with two young children to raise. I am hardly likely to cross, ah, what is that charming saying?” She paused, looking thoughtful. “Ah, yes, to cross bows with you.”

“Whether that possibility is likely or not, madam, I have yet to discover, but I am also thinking of those people who have been living in fear because of this smuggling gang,” Sir Morgan explained.

“In other words, sir, you would look kindly upon an informant?”

“I beg to differ on the appellation, for I think that any man or woman would be doing a great service by giving me information. It could also save his life.”

“And
I
beg to differ there, for I am certain 'twould ensure his death. However, as I know nothing of this gang's affairs, I cannot see how the matter concerns me,” Lady Bess said.

“Forgive me then, madam, for taking up your valuable time,” Sir Morgan murmured. The contempt in his voice flicked Lady Bess like a whiplash.

“Not at all, Captain. May I offer you gentlemen a brandy? Or perhaps you would care to share a pot of tea with me? I have longed for a cup for quite some time,” Lady Bess asked courteously. Her face reddened with embarrassment when the captain's narrowed blue eyes lingered on the sherry bottle and then returned to her.