Fire at Midnight (19 page)

“Away from the window,” The Dane said at once. “It is not safe.”

Sebastién steered her away from the window and tried to ease her down into the chair, but she clung to him, sobbing against his shoulder. He stepped backward by inches until he leaned against the wall, resting her body against him. Then he looked at The Dane in bewilderment. The Dane retrieved the letter from the floor and held it out in front of him so he could scan its contents.

Dr. Elliott Macaulay had written a letter for the purpose of ending his association with Victor. The letter stated the murder of John Wyatt as his primary reason, but then proceeded to chronicle his deadly partnership with Victor. Elliott recounted the plot to kill Tarry by razing his home, Rachael’s abduction and confinement at Bedlam, and the plan to poison James.

One additional revelation was contained within the document. Elliott expressed his concern over Victor’s plan to eliminate three members of the same family using a single method, which the doctor felt was too risky.
The poison was a solution where Anne was concerned,
Elliott had written,
but to avoid suspicion, different methods should be used on her children.

Sebastién closed his eyes and gathered Rachael into his arms. Unable to remain still, he tapped the wall behind him with the back of his head as he stared up at the ceiling.

“My father was a fairtrader turned merchant,” Rachael said, her voice muffled by his cloak. “Two years ago, he left to establish a spice trade. He had been in the Indies two weeks when he contracted a fever and died. Soon after, my mother learned that she expected another child. It was a difficult birth. Uncle Victor brought us to Helston and confined Mother to bed, saying she was to be attended by his personal physician, Dr. Macaulay.”

“The good doctor,” The Dane rumbled.

Rachael sank into the chair, twisting her hands in front of her as she spoke. “During the first few days, she seemed to improve. Then Dr. Macaulay came to visit and brought a vial of medicine. Every morning, Victor would give her one drop of the medicine mixed in a glass of water.”

She glanced up at Sebastién, eyes brimming with tears. “She grew worse, weaker each day, and Victor suggested that the dosage of the medicine be increased.” Rachael buried her face in her hands. When she spoke again, the men had to strain to understand her words. “One day, I walked into the room as he was adding drops of the medicine to a bowl of broth. She had already had her medicine that day. He told me that she had gotten worse.”

Her voice was still almost a whisper. “Victor left for several hours, and when he returned, Elliott was with him. But it was too late.” She paused. “My father’s will states Victor will inherit if there are no surviving heirs.”

Sebastién folded an arm around her as The Dane quietly exited the room.

“Do not think me callous,
ma chère,”
he said softly, “but this is an old grief. I cannot bear to see you suffer it again.” He pressed his lips against the honeyed silk of her hair.

The Dane reentered the room. His mouth turned up at the corners when they self-consciously broke apart, but he said nothing. He bent to stack the ledger with the scattered letters and wrapped the materials in a length of oilskin.

Sebastién thumped the cabinet. “What other evidence was there?”

“I do not know,” The Dane said. “Brightmore’s home had already been ransacked. Someone had dragged this cabinet across the room and broken the lock. Either the contents held no interest for the thieves, or they were interrupted. Only the man who broke the lock knows what else the cabinet might have contained.”

He handed the oilskin bundle to Sebastién, who tucked the package under his arm.

“Hide it well, and quickly,” The Dane advised. “Do not entrust it to anyone.” His instruction drew a probing glance from Sebastién. “You were being followed by two of Brightmore’s wreckers. Brightmore was at the pub. He saw you; I saw him. He sent two men to follow you; I sent two men to follow his men. His men were picked up by soldiers scouting the moors.”

Sebastién reflected on his activities during that time and pulled a face, certain that his friend was aware of everything that had transpired from the moment he and Rachael had left Tor Pub.

“An odd time for a swim,” The Dane joked, confirming Sebastién’s suspicion. His face settled into somber lines. “Brightmore knew you were moving west.”

“He will assume we are responsible for ransacking his home.” Sebastién groaned.

“I do not know what else was taken, or by whom, but he will think you have all the evidence in your possession. The ledger must be kept safe; you may need it to bargain for your lives.”

Sebastién eyed Rachael with an open expression of concern. “I should send you to Morgan for safekeeping.”

“I refuse to be separated from you until my brother has been safely returned to me,” she said.

He dreaded any discussion regarding her brother. The Dane knew that he did not hold James hostage; they had shared a pint of ale and a hearty laugh over Jacques’s incompetence. His old friend knew the workings of his mind and no doubt had guessed there was strategy involved, or Rachael would already know her brother was safe.

“She might be safest in your company,” The Dane suggested. “We do not know who can be trusted. Do you believe Morgan can protect her?”

“But the letter proves I am innocent,” Rachael said, “just as the ledger proves that Sebastién is not guilty of the crimes attributed to him.”

“Ja,”
The Dane agreed, “but men like Simon will kill you and then look at your evidence.”

“Oui,” Sebastién concurred. “You are not safe, even among fairtraders.” He did not voice his doubts about Morgan’s ability to protect her. She was loyal to the people she loved. Would she ever see him as worthy of such loyalty?

“I won’t be a burden if you take me along,” Rachael promised. “In fact, I can be useful to you.”

Sebastién regarded her with a dubious, amused smile. “
Oui?
What did you have in mind?”

With The Dane in the room, he refrained from mentioning the uses that immediately came to mind for her, but she seemed to guess the direction of his thoughts. An appealing blush crept over her face, as if he had voiced his lascivious thoughts aloud.

“I know of a secure place to hide that bundle,” she said, indicating the package under his arm. “And you will need my help to do it.” She gave him a saucy smile and left the room.

He stared after her as The Dane rumbled with laughter.

“Be glad she is not your enemy,” The Dane said. “You may have met your match, my friend.”

Sebastién wandered to the window and looked out at the neighboring cottages framed by the barren landscape. The letter they had recovered supported her claims. He would have to come to terms with the shame he felt over his treatment of her, but a more immediate problem loomed. The time was fast approaching when he would have to admit he had lied to her about James, and she would hate him for it.

T
heir destination was the harbor south of Rame Head on the Devon mainland. For a fortnight, Britain had been battered by Atlantic gales of such force that nothing in memory compared with them. Ships homeward bound had been swept into port in advance of their arrival dates, while hundreds of outbound ships had been forced to return to the teeming, dangerously congested port. The density of craft was such that the harbor itself had lost definition.

Rachael looked beyond the broad mouth of the channel to the Eddystone Lighthouse reposing on its broad stone base fourteen miles off the Plymouth coast. Its polygonal tower rose eighty feet into the air. The functional light loomed forty feet high, reduced to slightly more than a speck in the distance.

Three reefs of ragged red rock tagged “the stone of the reeling waves” sat astride the entrance to Plymouth harbor. The sea eddied continuously around the central rock, as if stirred by some evil hand. The water churned among the reefs and spewed immense curtains of spray while the rocks took the full blast of the westerly winds.

They approached a grizzled man who whistled as he loaded provisions into a small rowboat.

“This tub isn’t for hire,” he replied when Sebastién inquired about transport to the lighthouse. “I’m the only man with any reason to be heading out there. I’m Paxton, keeper of the Eddystone Light.”

“We are friends of Mr. Winstanley’s,” Rachael said. “He said we could lodge at his lighthouse.”

“Mr. Winstanley wouldn’t say such a thing,” the old man replied with conviction.

As a member of the French aristocracy, Sebastién was unaccustomed to having to repeat a request, let alone have one denied by the likes of a commoner like Avery Paxton. As he took an angry step forward, Rachael reached out and tugged at his arm. “She has a key,” Sebastién said with significance.

“I’ve never known Winstanley to give a key to anyone. May I see it, miss?”

“Of course,” Rachael replied.

Her fingers had gone to her throat before she remembered she no longer had the key and watched as Sebastién made a ceremony out of handing it to Paxton.

The light keeper withdrew his own key from a frayed pocket, along with a smudged pair of spectacles. He donned his glasses and squinted as he compared the two keys, brown eyes owlish through the lenses.

“Extraordinary,” Paxton said. “You
do
have a key.”

Sebastién grunted and Rachael laughed with such coquettish charm that Paxton’s eyes flicked in her direction and he stared, frowning but silent.

“You must forgive my companion’s churlish disposition,” Rachael said. She rolled a smile to the corner of her mouth as Sebastién communicated his ire through a subtle narrowing of his eyes. “You know how the French can be.”

“Do not offer apologies on my behalf,
mademoiselle
.”

Paxton looked up from his examination of the pair of keys. “But why must you lodge at the lighthouse? There are any number of fine inns …”

“Nowhere else is safe,” Rachael replied. Sebastién pursed his lips in clear condemnation of her candor.

“Safe from what?” Paxton asked, a little too eagerly.

Rachael foundered. She simply wasn’t a good liar.

Sebastién had no such failing.

“Come now,” he said, “there are times when we gentlemen must be discreet for the sake of our ladies,
non?
Must you embarrass the young
mademoiselle?”
His jade eyes gleamed.

Rachael balked at the innuendo. His tight-lipped smile told her that this was reprisal for her remark about the French.

Paxton appeared unconvinced.

“Ah, then, if you must know the truth,” Sebastién sighed. Rachael gave him a leery sideways glance as he casually wrapped an arm around her shoulders and hugged her. “The young
mademoiselle
and I seek a trysting place safe from the jealous rage of my bride-to-be. My fiancée is wealthy and often has me followed. The lighthouse promises privacy. I am only trying to be discreet,
mon ami.”

Paxton looked embarrassed but nodded. During the awkward silence that followed, Rachael decided that she would prefer Paxton know the truth, no matter what the consequences.

“The Frenchman certainly does not lack imagination,” she said dryly. “In truth, we need to hide—”

“Oui,”
Sebastién quickly broke in, “we must hide from my bride, who suspects that I have a less than faithful nature. I promise you, we shall not bring scandal to your revered tower. I must say a proper farewell to my
chérie.”
The easy smile formed by his lips did not reach his eyes when he looked at her.

Paxton cast an appraising eye over Rachael. “Why not keep the lady as your mistress?” he suggested, trying to be helpful.

Rachael looked from Paxton to Sebastién. Canting her head in anticipation of his reply, she tapped her foot, waiting.

Sebastién snapped up the gauntlet with devilish glee. Stepping aside, he motioned Paxton into his confidence, although when he spoke it was with particular care that Rachael hear every word.

“The upkeep of such sport is quite costly, and I have yet to be convinced that the goods are worth the purchase price.”

Her jaw dropped, and the look she leveled at him promised a reckoning.

“If Mr. Winstanley does not object, I certainly cannot. To your use of the lighthouse, I mean,” Paxton said, flushing. “May I ask a favor in return?”

Sebastién nodded, expression wary.

“I ask that you row out to the tower with these provisions and maintain the light while I spend time with my family. You will have complete privacy and you will be safe. The lighthouse has been equipped to resist invasion. There is a chute that projects downward from the gallery rail that can be used to scatter rocks in defense of the landing place.”

“Are such precautions necessary?” Rachael asked.

“Mr. Winstanley once had a bad experience, and he designed the Eddystone to be immune to attack,” Paxton explained. He noticed her look of alarm. “I’ve never had a spot of trouble.”

“What happened to Mr. Winstanley?” Rachael asked.

“I don’t know the details,” Paxton replied. “All I can tell you is that Mr. Winstanley was manhandled by a group of brigands. French privateers, they were—” He suddenly seemed to recall to whom he was speaking, and stopped in mid-sentence.

Rachael laughed out loud at the affronted look on Sebastién’s face while Paxton squirmed, avoiding the Frenchman’s cold gaze. Sebastién took her by the arm, scowling down at her as she silently shook with laughter.

“These French lack a sense of humor,” she told Paxton, who wisely said nothing.

“That is not true,
ma chérie,”
Sebastién disagreed. “I have tolerated
you
with good humor.” He extended his hand to Paxton. “We agree to your request,” he said.

Paxton took the proffered hand, and a firm shake sealed their agreement. “You’d best be off. The Eddystone rocks are red devils after dark.”

Rachael settled into the little rowboat and Paxton helped Sebastién ease the craft toward the first cresting wave. Sebastién pulled himself into the boat and straddled the bulk of supplies.