Fire at Midnight (3 page)

Anna uttered an unladylike grunt. “That’s a comfort, right, luv? With you bein’ so
needy.”
She leaned in his direction and slid her hand over the taut muscles of his forearm, but he shifted on the seat and brushed her hand away.

The coach lurched forward, and Sebastién scrambled to catch the girl before she slid to the carriage floor. He moved to the opposite seat, braced himself against the sidewall of the coach, and with an inaudible oath drew the slumbering girl into his lap, enfolding her in his arms in an effort to hold her steady on the seat.

His nose wrinkled in distaste. She was filthy, and if he’d had a bottle of cologne in his possession, he would have doused her with it. He scowled and squirmed beneath the dead weight of the sleeping girl while his companion fanned the air and laughed at the pained expression on his face.

She shifted without awakening and nestled her head against his shoulder, half-burying her face in the soft fabric of his coat. Sebastién lifted his head and turned his face away.

“I should have left her with the innkeeper.”

“Afraid you’ll ruin your reputation?” Anna chided softly. “Pirate turned nursemaid?”

“Privateer,” he amended curtly. “Pirates are criminals. A pirate would not be chivalrous, nor would he find himself in such a ridiculous situation.”

He stared down at the blond head pressed into the crook of his shoulder. What had happened to the young man and his sister on the roadway? Why were they being followed? By whom? The girl was not merely traumatized and covered with road grime; she was either ill or drugged, or both. She bore no odor of alcohol.

Annoyed that he had been moved to pity, Sebastién reminded himself that a young female informant like the girl he now coddled in his lap had already cost him a great deal and might yet cost him his life. Rumor had it Rachael Penrose was somewhere in London, and he intended to flush the fox out of her hiding place. It was the reason he was on the coaching road to London in the middle of the night instead of crossing the channel to safety in France.

“How far is Newbury?” he asked.

“Why? Have you more urgent business than putting Land’s End behind you?”

“Oui,” he replied stiffly. “My ship and cargo are forfeit; my men are dead or jailed. I shall not leave England until I have had my revenge upon Rachael Penrose, the English bitch responsible.”

“If her ladyship is wise, she’ll have gone into hiding, Sebastién.”

“No matter. She cannot hide from me.” To remain in England was the same as thumbing his nose at the hangman, but finding the woman responsible for the misfortune of so many had become an obsession.

The girl moaned and huddled closer against him, one hand clutching his collar in a death grip. Distracted from his thoughts, he smoothed the hair back from her brow, and frowned when his fingers touched moist, heated skin. If his luck held true, she probably carried the plague.

He lowered his arm and leaned his head against the upholstery. “I should have left her with the innkeeper,” he said again.

“Aye, you should be safely in France by now, instead of tending some English girl.”

His hand closed over the girl’s small, fragile hand and tugged, but he could not dislodge her grip from his collar.

“Ah, the English,” Sebastién muttered under his breath. “Damn them all.”

Tarry Morgan responded to the pounding on his front door by grabbing a lamp from the desktop in his study and dashing down the stairs. Startled servants scurried out of his path.

“John!” he exclaimed as he threw open the front door. “I’ve been expecting—”

He froze. It was not John Wyatt at his door, but a tall, scowling, dark-haired stranger. The stranger’s gaze lingered on the blood-soaked bandage wound around Tarry’s forearm. Tarry silently noted the expensive cut of his visitor’s clothing and the handsome coach resting in the oval driveway.

“
Monsieur
Morgan?” the man inquired. His fingers rested on the hilt of the dagger strapped to his thigh.

“So, Victor found a French assassin to do his killing for him.”

The man’s eyes narrowed to slits. “If I had made the journey to kill you, you would be dead.” He indicated Tarry’s bloodied arm with a slight inclination of his head. “If you wish to see more of your blood spilled, I can oblige.”

Tarry winced as he shifted his injured arm and cradled it against his chest. “If bloodshed is not your intention … what, then?”

“To discharge my duty and be on my way.”

“Your duty?”

“Oui,” the Frenchman said. “A delivery.” He turned and moved in the direction of the coach.

Curious and cautious, Tarry trailed the tall foreigner, hanging back when the man opened the door and leaned into the carriage. Tarry shouted in surprise when he glimpsed the occupant then ran forward and roughly elbowed the Frenchman aside.

Entering the coach, Tarry used his good arm to gently ease Rachael upright against the upholstered seat. Her head lolled, giving her the look of a broken doll. He pressed her cheek to his own, rocking her and smoothing his hand over her hair, struggling not to weep in the presence of the impassive stranger.

“So you do know her.” The Frenchman nodded, his expression guarded. “Bon.”

Tarry lifted his head and peered beyond Rachael into the dim interior of the coach, where he spied a woman whose face glowed eerily white with paint. The luminous effect of the cosmetic transformed her skin into a shining beacon that glowed with reflected light. When she bobbed her head to acknowledge him, the sight was unsettling.

“Where is John?” Tarry asked Rachael. “What became of John?”

Rachael closed her eyes and moaned, as if in pain. “Victor has James.” Her teeth chattered.

“There is little we can do about that at the moment, sweetheart,” he said. “What of Wyatt? Did John escape?”

His words propelled the Frenchman in his direction, and Tarry stole an uneasy glance at the man when the Frenchman’s hand drifted toward his weapon.

“Did the girl’s husband not precede us here?” the Frenchman asked.

Tarry avoided his gaze. What story had John told in his desperation to see Rachael to safety?

“Answer me!” the Frenchman demanded.

“Perhaps he was delayed,” Tarry suggested.

His answer did not have the calming effect he had expected. The Frenchman drew himself to his considerable height, stance rigid, eyes gleaming with anger.

“The man claimed to be her
brother,
not her
husband,”
he informed Tarry. “But you are agreeable to any
tale, n’est ce pas?”

He drew his weapon in a flash of steel and motioned Tarry out of the vehicle then crooked his head at the carriage behind him.

“Shall I guess,
monsieur
? I would say the young
mademoiselle
has implicated me in her escape from Newgate.”

“Newgate?” Tarry said, his own anger rising. “Your suggestion is offensive, sir.”

“I have spent several hours closeted in my carriage with her. Do you think I am blind to her condition? She has the appearance of one who has been incarcerated.”

“She is no criminal,” Tarry insisted. “Her rescue has been brought about for a just cause. That is all I can tell you.”

“Escape is a just cause to anyone awaiting the gallows.”

“That is not the case.” He would not trust this arrogant Frenchman any more than he would Victor Brightmore. “I regret you were involved, of course—”

“Bien sûr!”
The Frenchman spat the words back at him. “You have only begun to regret it.”

Sebastién hesitated, glaring at Tarry before he opened the carriage door and vaulted inside. Tarry had one more glimpse of Rachael before the compartment door swung shut with finality. She had appeared to be either blissfully asleep or unconscious.

Tarry ran to the carriage and tried to pry open the door, but the Frenchman’s knife at his throat stilled his hand. “What do you mean to do?” he cried in alarm, voice breaking.

“You have involved me in some sort of mischief. I already have difficulties of my own with the English authorities. I require some form of insurance. I will not share her punishment if you have made me party to a crime. I shall return her to you when you have told me the truth.” He thought for a moment. “And have compensated me for my inconvenience.”

“You mean to ransom her?” Tarry was shocked and indignant.

“Non,”
he said mildly. “If she is a criminal, I will hand her over to the authorities in exchange for leniency in my own case. If you can prove she is not, I require only the cost of her upkeep from now until the day I release her to you.”

“The day you … Free her now, and I shall tell you everything!”

The Frenchman’s face was resolute; there was undeniable ruthlessness in the man’s expression.
“Non, enfant,
you had your chance. I do not abide lies, and I would not believe you now. You will gather proof of your story, present it to me, and I shall return her to you unmolested.”

Was it his imagination, or had the man placed deliberate emphasis on the word
unmolested?

“Proof?
How will I obtain proof?”

“You would know that better than I.”

The Frenchman withdrew inside the coach and thumped against the side wall. The carriage slowly pulled out and Tarry stumbled after it.

“How am I to contact you?” he shouted. “I don’t even know who you are.” He added a curse, but it was lost when he ran to keep pace with the carriage.

“Make inquiries and you’ll find someone who can lead you to me,” the voice drifted back to him. “Ask for Sebastién Falconer.”

The name hit Tarry like a brick in the chest. His legs suddenly buckled under him and he pitched forward onto his knees. He looked on in horror as the carriage disappeared from sight.

The white cottage surrounded by thorny brambles and scattered primroses crowned a high hill. The dwelling was inaccessible but for a haphazard, snaking path that coiled around the moors. Sebastién relished the irony of a French smuggler owning property on the Cornish coast, although the cottage had been purchased in the name of a local parish priest, preventing ownership from being traced to him.

A light drizzle dampened the southern coast of Cornwall. Opaque mist drifted inland in patches, enveloping the modest cottage of coarse, lichened stone until the white exterior appeared a dour gray.

The journey to Sebastién’s secluded property had been arduous. He was numb with fatigue, and his “guest” was feverish and incoherent. He would have ordinarily roused his housekeeper and placed the responsibility of the girl’s care in Mrs. Faraday’s capable hands, but he decided to keep this vigil himself.

He would be there the moment the girl’s delirium lifted. He would pry the truth from her before she could apply defense or deceit, before she was able to discern whether he was friend or foe. Even her incoherent ramblings might prove useful, so he slid his chair closer and inclined his head toward the girl lying on the bed.

Sebastién considered the delicate, heart-shaped face captured by the glow of a single candle. Her breathing was shallow and ragged. Her fair hair clung to her damp face.
What mischief have you and your young friends been up to?

Banishing the pinprick that might escalate into pity if he allowed it, Sebastién withdrew the silk handkerchief from his vest pocket and dabbed at the girl’s moist brow then tucked the covers more closely around her. She moaned and curled into a tight ball, writhing as if to escape demons as the fever fanned over her fragile body.

His plan for a ruthless interrogation evaporated into self-loathing. Was he so much like his grandfather he would browbeat a sick young girl when there might be others who could yield the answers he sought?

A low moan drew his attention back to the girl, who dozed fitfully. She had kicked away the covers, and he looked on with a bemused frown as her fingers plucked at the drab gown she wore.

Sebastién leaned in to still her restless limbs and grunted in surprise when she struck him squarely on the nose, bringing blood. He muttered in florid French and raised his handkerchief to staunch the flow of blood.