Fire at Midnight (11 page)

“And he handed James over to you?”

“No. He called me a crude name and rudely suggested that I be on my way. I told him Brightmore had found a safer place to stash the brat, and it would be his neck, not mine, when Brightmore learned that his instructions were not carried out.”

“And he handed James over to you then?”

“No. But he agreed to take James to the new hiding place, unaware that he is taking him to my father’s London residence,” Tarry chuckled. “It may be Victor’s plan to pay the Frenchman a visit next.” Tarry relayed the last bit of information with particular glee.

“I overheard Victor say that if you were not dead, you were certainly well hidden. He said he knew of one other man who shared his determination to find you. He thought Falconer might know your whereabouts.”

“Falconer would not have aided Victor.” She said it with certainty.

“Are you mad, Rachael? Both Falconer and Brightmore want you dead. Why would they not team up and work together?”

“You do not know the Frenchman.” Sebastién was not the sort who would trust a stranger. Besides, he seemed to feel that her punishment was his alone to mete out.

“Neither do you!” Tarry said. “You called him ‘John Wyatt’ and believed he was your rescuer and charming host!”

Rachael blushed. She could almost hear Sebastién say,
“Touché”

“I
do
know that he had the opportunity to harm me, but he did not,” she said. Why had she sprung to his defense? She could never tell Tarry about what had transpired between them. Tarry would get himself killed avenging her honor, when her own naïveté had been mostly to blame.

“You sound infatuated with him,” Tarry accused. “No doubt he thinks you are quite a fool! I’m sorry I interrupted your holiday by attempting to rescue you!”

“This would be a good time to pack for your journey,” Winstanley said. He put firm hands on Tarry’s shoulders and marched him to the door. “Leave the room and take the tension with you. That’s a good boy,” he said.

Tarry glowered at Winstanley and shrugged the man’s hands from his shoulders before leaving the room in a sulk. Winstanley began to follow Tarry but paused in the doorway and turned back to Rachael with a sympathetic, insightful smile.

“Be patient with Tarry, Rachael,” he said. “He dreamed he was a brave knight on a quest to rescue his fair damsel, only to be scorched and humiliated by the dragon.”

Rachael felt safe at the center of the whirlwind that was life at court. As she attended her first public gathering, she could not help but gawk at the opulence surrounding her. Women attired in gowns of French silk, satin, damask, and brocade were ornaments on the arms of men dressed in equally stunning finery. Vivid floral patterns splashed across fabrics trimmed with jewels and gold embroidery. Even Tarry was turned out in embroidered gold satin. He tugged at the loosely knotted cravat at his throat as his eyes swept over the pageantry.

“How is James?” Tarry glanced down at the red lining peering out from beneath the scalloped tongues of his shoes rather than look at Rachael.

“James is well, thank you,” she replied. Tarry had said very little to her after she had defended Falconer. It was clear he was not in a frame of mind to forgive her for it. What had possessed her to defend a man who had abducted, deceived, threatened, and seduced her? As far as she was concerned, her breach with Tarry was Falconer’s fault, too.

The arrival of Phillip Morgan in the hall was a welcome distraction from her thoughts.

“Feet hurt, son?” Phillip asked with sympathy as Tarry winced and shifted his stance.

Tarry nodded, an expression of misery on his face. They had stood for hours, as proper court etiquette dictated. While the Queen had the comfort of an armchair, the only others permitted to sit in her presence were ladies of the rank of duchess, and then only on small stools that looked uncomfortable to Rachael.

“Rachael, you’re lovely tonight,” Phillip said. “Tarry insisted that the blue of the gown would almost match your eyes, and so it does.”

Tarry turned red, but said nothing.

“Have you had word from Eleanor?” Tarry asked.

Phillip had been a widower since soon after Tarry’s birth. Phillip’s friendship with a woman of long acquaintance had gradually blossomed into love, but just as the two had begun to plan their nuptials, the lady had suddenly vanished.

“Perhaps her son has had word from her,” Rachael suggested.

“Rachael, what an excellent idea! Eleanor’s son is probably in attendance tonight. I have not seen him in some time.”

A plump older woman draped in an exquisitely beaded gown of lavender silk made her way toward them. The drape was so confining that she called to mind a pigeon as she took tiny steps in stilted shoes. She inspected Rachael, peering through pince-nez.

“Phillip, darling,” the woman cooed, eyes never leaving Rachael, “a new companion?” Her eyes appraised the gown Rachael wore. “Where has he been hiding you, my dear?” She turned to Phillip. “And don’t you try passing her off as a distant relation,” she warned with a peal of laughter. “You’ve no cousins nearly so lovely.”

“No relation, Madeleine. A childhood friend of Tarry’s,” Phillip explained politely.

The woman’s eyes slid to Tarry, who fidgeted under her amused regard. “You’ve outgrown toy soldiers, I see,” she teased with a sly wink.

A renewed burst of color spanned Tarry’s cheeks, and the look he bent upon the woman was far from amused.

“Madeleine, Madeleine,” Phillip scolded. “You’ll have all of London simmering with rumors before the night is out. Might I engage your assistance in locating Eleanor’s son?” he asked.

“Where
is
the gracious Eleanor?” Madeleine asked. “I’ve seen that dashing son of hers, but as for the lady herself …”

“You’ve seen her son this evening?”

“Oh, yes. And so has every other eligible female present,” she laughed, fanning herself.

“I was unaware he was at court. His work with Customs usually keeps him near the waterways.”

“So that’s what he … a Customs officer,” Madeleine said, filing away the tidbit. Her eyes strayed to the crowd as she hid her broad smile behind a fan. “I do believe the man you seek has spotted you, or I should say, he’s trying to catch a better glimpse of the young lady,” she informed Phillip.

Madeleine’s fawning enthusiasm was such that Rachael had to resist the urge to turn and gawk as the man approached.

Phillip greeted Eleanor’s son warmly. “Tarry, I should like to introduce you to Eleanor’s son Jacques, who will be your brother one day.”

Rachael caught a brief glimpse of each face surrounding her when she turned to watch as Tarry was introduced to Eleanor’s son. Madeleine’s face was puffed with pleasure, and Phillip’s thin countenance glowed with pride.

It was Tarry’s reaction that caused alarm to ripple through her. He went white, and his eyes grew enormous. His breath hitched and he stepped between Rachael and the man when she turned toward Phillip and the subject of his introduction.

She gave a shallow gasp and backed away, shaking her head in disbelief at the familiar black hair, tanned skin, white teeth, and green eyes. Even without the mustache and the stubble of beard, the contours of that face were ingrained in her memory. Phillip’s voice floated to her as if from a great distance.

“I would like you to meet Jacques—”

“Falconer!” Tarry exclaimed in a loud voice.

“Falconer,” Rachael whispered in dismay.

“Falconer,” Phillip finished, his expression puzzled as he looked from Tarry to Rachael.

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance,” Jacques Falconer said in a cultured voice. He smiled, his widely set, jade-colored eyes resting on her face. She could detect no recognition in them.

“Pardon me?” Her voice had soared an octave.

“I said I am pleased to meet you, Miss …?”

She knew then what had made her want to hear his voice again. His speech was clipped, the English accent pronounced. There was no hint of the Frenchman’s fluid, mellifluous vowels and absence of consonance.

He extended a well-groomed hand to her, and Rachael recoiled from it, feeling heat flood her face. She felt trapped and desperate, pinioned by the crowd.
This is what it must feel like to be insane.
She turned and bolted, clawing her way through the horde of onlookers.

Rachael’s shocking public reaction to Sebastién Falconer’s twin created a scandal, and Jacques refused a third-party apology. He insisted that she agree to a private meeting with him. No doubt he shared his brother’s obstinate nature, she reflected as she knocked at the library door of Phillip’s London apartment.

“Come in, Miss Penrose.”

He was seated in an overstuffed chair near a wall of bookshelves. Although the shadow of dusk had descended over the room, she could see his features plainly enough and was dismayed by the flood of emotion the familiar face awakened within her.

His eyes held a haughty light that marked him different from his brother, but his generous lips turned up at the corners in the same way, and nature had sculpted the fine bones of his face with the same loving hand.

He met her look of appraisal with one of his own, and Rachael diverted her eyes to the books behind him. He startled her with an unexpected laugh, and rose from the chair, extending his hand to her. His eyes sparkled when he smiled, but with a frosty light. Beneath his decorum she sensed a will every bit as strong as his brother’s, and the same sort of ruthless purpose.

“You looked for a moment like a small mouse contemplating a gluttonous cat,” he commented. “I assure you, I am nothing like my brother. I was sorry to learn that you had suffered at his hands, as I have.”

“You, sir?”

He looked at her, the achingly familiar eyes exploring her face as if seeking something kindred there. She was spellbound, fascinated by the uncanny physical resemblance to Sebastién. Jacques indicated two plush chairs near the marble fireplace, guided Rachael to one, and then took the chair opposite.

“My brother would not be satisfied with plunging a rapier through my heart, or felling me with pistol shot. He wants to destroy me fractionally, from the inside out. I must endeavor to destroy him first. With you to aid me—”

“Mr. Falconer,” Rachael said, “I am in danger because your brother believes I betrayed him. To participate in a plot against him now would be imprudent of me, to say the least.”

He had started to speak over her words, but held back, impatience and irritation flickering over his face.

“He means to kill you, Miss Penrose.” There was a roiling tension just beneath his surface. “One would assume you might object. I had hoped you would be willing to aid us again. After the vital information you provided about Prussia Cove—”

“Prussia Cove!
So that’s it. You and your brother share the same misinformation,” Rachael said with an exasperated shake of her head. “I had nothing to do with the betrayal of your brother’s gang, Mr. Falconer. It was not I who aided you.”

Jacques stared at her. “How can that be? The messages received by the Custom House all bore your signature.”

“I have enemies as well. Your brother was not among them until recently.”

“You have it in your power to help me rid England of a menace. I cannot comprehend why you would refuse, particularly when he abducted and abused you.”

“I know nothing of your brother, except that he believes I betrayed him. I certainly do not wish to continue to court his enmity.”

“If you do not act, he will go unpunished.”

“The wheels of justice will spin without a turn from my hand,” she replied with a weary sigh. “This has been a nightmare, and I want it to be over.”

His answering stare was glacial. “If you are unwilling to help stop this fiend, you are no better than he.”

She had not come to the interview expecting a verbal attack and started to rise from her chair, but Jacques stood with her, an implicit threat in his stance.

“Sit down,”
he growled.

She sank back into her chair, eyes fixed on his face.

“Let me tell you about my brother,” he said. “I want you to know all about the man you are so eager to protect. Were it not for this undeniable physical link, I might be able to deny that I have a brother at all.