Dark Before the Rising Sun (11 page)

On the other hand, thought Kirby, Alastair Marlowe was already a gentleman. But now he had a gentleman's means. What he would do, where he would ultimately settle, even Alastair was not yet certain. He planned to pay a visit to his brother and the family home before making any decisions.

Kirby narrowed his gaze, fixing it on a dark head bobbing up and down in the crowd around Longacres. The little steward was still pondering the orphaned cabin boy's future when he caught sight of the captain standing in the doorway.

Aye, now the captain was a fine-looking man indeed, Kirby nodded approvingly as he noted the fine cut of the captain's frock coat and the snug fit of his pale buckskin breeches. And his riding boots still had a nice shine to them, while his stock was still neatly folded, yet Kirby knew the captain had been on the docks and in the streets of London where it was only too easy to befoul one's shoes.

The man who had accompanied Dante into the taproom soon held Kirby's rapt gaze. It was none other than Sir Morgan Lloyd himself, captain of HMS
Portcullis
.

The little steward had begun to push his way through the patrons when another toast brought an ear-shattering cheer from the group. It was probably the first and last time the health of an officer of the Crown had been toasted by smugglers.

“Never did I think to see the day,” Sir Morgan commented with a good-natured smile as he accepted an overflowing tankard from the outstretched hand of one of the crew of the
Sea Dragon
. He could not help but remember another time, in Charles Town, when he would have worried about moving through a group of smugglers, thinking his back too easy a target.

“To your health, Captain,” Dante repeated the toast, raising his own tankard toward his former adversary.

“And to yours, Captain,” Sir Morgan responded politely, but as their eyes met above the gleaming pewter their glances were measuring ones.

“You will be staying in London for a while longer, or will you be returning to your station in the Carolinas?” Dante asked casually while adjusting the lace of his cuff.

“I shall remain in London for only a few days longer. One never quite seems to finish making reports to the Admiralty. Then I shall travel to Portsmouth on official business. But, perhaps, after my duty is done, I shall be able to take leave and return home to Wales.” Sir Morgan spoke matter-of-factly, yet there was a note of longing in his voice which he could not conceal, nor may even have been aware of.

“You have a family there?” Dante asked curiously, for although he had played a dangerous game of cat-and-mouse with Sir Morgan for many years, he knew virtually nothing about the man's personal life.

Sir Morgan smiled. It was rather a sad smile. “No wife or children, but I do have a home, and a young brother I would like to see again. It has been far too long. It seems a lifetime ago that we wrestled in the gardens, much to my mother's despair. I fear we were too quick to get ourselves in trouble, and my widowed mother endured quite a lot before we received our commissions.”

“Your brother is a fellow naval officer?” Dante inquired.

“Yes, he followed in my footsteps, much to my mother's disappointment. She would have preferred keeping at least one of her sons by her side, and I cannot blame her.”

“My peace of mind would have been greatly disturbed, Sir Morgan, had I realized that I might well have had two of you crossing my bow,” Dante told him with a disarming grin, privately thinking it would have been no circumstance for jest.

Sir Morgan laughed in appreciation. “You need not have worried, Captain. My brother captains a revenue cutter on patrol in Bristol Channel. That was, at least, one small comfort for my mother. She managed to see him once in a while. He was here to handle the funeral arrangements last year. I was, as you know, otherwise occupied.”

“How fortunate, then, that I have forsaken smuggling,” Dante remarked easily. “For I suspect this brother of yours is making quite a nuisance of himself to the local smugglers, if, of course, he is anything like his elder brother.”

Sir Morgan's gaze narrowed thoughtfully as if a sudden thought had struck him. “I had forgotten. You are from the West Country, are you not, Captain?”

Dante smiled. “Yes, from Devonshire. On the north coast,” Dante informed him further, saving him having to ask.

“Ah, yes,” Sir Morgan murmured, but Dante had the distinct impression that the man had always known. “I do believe that particular stretch of wild coast is part of my brother's station. Are you familiar, perhaps, with a village known as Westlea Abbot?” the captain of HMS
Portcullis
asked as he glanced casually about the room. He did not miss the slight start of surprise Dante was unable to suppress.

“Yes, 'tis a small village which lies on the coast, southwest of Merdraco, my home.”

“Ah, I see.”

“Indeed? And may I inquire as to your interest in an insignificant fishing village?” Dante asked, suddenly on guard, although the expression in his eyes would have led one to have believed him to be quite bored with the conversation.

“The village was mentioned in a letter I received from my brother not more than six months past. He also mentioned a village called Merleigh. It seems the locals, who are not overly friendly to the King's men, do a bit more than fish nowadays,” Sir Morgan commented wryly. “You wouldn't happen to know about that?”

Dante's smile widened, and to Kirby, who had finally managed to edge his way close, the smile boded ill.

“It is a quaint coastal village lying northeast of Merdraco. It was named for the castle, and in honor of my family name, Leighton. Of course, that was long ago.”

Sir Morgan was silent for a moment. “How very interesting, for it would seem that Merdraco lies in a direct path between two villages under suspicion of harboring a notorious smuggling gang. Had I any doubts of your future intentions,
my lord
, I would certainly feel it necessary to inform my brother of your former unlawful activities. You are far too dangerous a gentleman to be ignored,” Sir Morgan said, lifting his tankard in a silent toast to the well-known smuggling skills of the captain of the
Sea Dragon
.

Dante's laughter drew the attention of several grinning seamen, who thought it yet another remarkable trait of their captain that he would stand drinking and laughing with an enemy.

“I shall indeed rest easier knowing you are safely back in the colonies, Sir Morgan,” Dante replied. “I am already considered infamous enough to the villagers of Merleigh and Westlea Abbot without having my more recent past brought to light,” Dante protested, his gaze meeting Kirby's for a single meaningful moment.

“What was it the villagers so fondly called me, Kirby?” he demanded of the little steward, who had been avidly listening while pretending not to hear.

“Now, now, Kirby,” Dante cajoled. “You needn't spare my feelings. We both remember the endearment. I was known as the ‘dragon's spawn.' And do not be mistaken, Sir Morgan,” Dante warned him, “it was, for the most part, well deserved.”

“Cap'n, sir!” Kirby finally found his tongue. “The both of us knows ye didn't do half of what ye was accused of doin' by them villagers,” he corrected him, unwilling to allow the captain to blacken the Leighton name in front of Sir Morgan. “Even to this day, I'm still believin' 'twas a bit of carefully planted malicious gossip which stirred up them villagers.”

“Always the true and loyal friend,” Dante murmured, thinking he truly did not deserve such devotion. “So you see, Captain,” he continued, “when I return to Merdraco, I shall have only enemies to welcome me home, not a circle of fellow conspirators.”

“Time, of course, will tell.” Sir Morgan spoke quietly, telling himself that he should never be surprised by anything Dante Leighton might do. The man remained a puzzle.

“I can see that I have not completely allayed your suspicions. Once a smuggler, always a smuggler?” Dante asked with a low laugh. “I fear that the villagers around Merdraco feel much the same, only for them 'tis, ‘Once a murderer, always a murderer,'” Dante said, a cynical smile curving his lips as he noted the look of stunned surprise crossing Sir Morgan's face. Had he glanced at Kirby, he would have seen the little steward's forehead disappearing in a deep set of disapproving wrinkles. “I am surprised you had not already guessed my dark secret, or heard rumors concerning my past.”

“'Twas suspicion, never proof!” Kirby spoke angrily, but whether the anger was directed at those responsible for such an accusation, or at the captain for repeating it, only Kirby knew.

“If I may be so impolite as to inquire?” Sir Morgan asked, his gaze drifting between the worried-looking steward and the indolent-seeming captain of the
Sea Dragon
. “Whom were you accused of murdering?”

“A young woman.” Dante's voice shattered the awkward silence that had followed Sir Morgan's blunt question. “They say I took her out on the moors, seduced her, then strangled her.”

For perhaps the first time in Sir Morgan Lloyd's life, he was ill at ease meeting another man's stare. With a sigh of relief he felt the pale gray eyes shift from him when Alec MacDonald drew Dante Leighton's attention.

Sir Morgan continued to gaze at the haughtily aristocratic and classical profile of Dante Leighton. The man was more the devil's spawn than any dragon's. He was charismatic and intelligent; and cunning had kept him alive these many years. The captain of the
Sea Dragon
was a dangerous man. As Marquis of Jacqobi, he was also a very powerful one. And Sir Morgan found himself wondering how many more men the enigmatic Dante Leighton might be.

“Beggin' your pardon, Cap'n,” MacDonald began, his thumb and forefinger nervously smoothing the curling ends of his moustache. “We—that is, the crew and me—was wonderin', now that we be disbandin', if we could pay our respects tae Lady Rhea Claire. We figure we will never again see her ladyship, and we all wanted her tae know how honored we have been tae have had her aboard the
Sea Dragon
on her most important voyage,” the Scotsman concluded, his face ruddy with embarrassment.

“Aye, her ladyship brought us luck, she did!” a voice piped in from somewhere behind the broad shoulders of the Scotsman.

“Here's to Lady Rhea Claire! May she be forever fair of face!” someone called out, and Kirby would have bet he caught a tinge of an Irish brogue in the slightly slurred words.

“And forever happy!”

“Aye, and may her bonny eyes be forever smilin' and—” another voice cried, but was cut off by loudly approving ayes and cheers and tankard banging, followed by further toasts to the lady's beauty, goodness, and grace.

Kirby puffed out his chest and placed his hands on his hips while he glared around the room at the familiar faces, leaving them in little doubt of his disapproval. He didn't care to have the lady's name bandied about a common taproom by common sailors, or by any other riffraff or rabble off the streets who had joined the celebration.

But Dante was not offended. He grinningly accepted their good-natured tribute, for chants of his name had joined the toasts. He glanced upward, wondering if Rhea could hear the tumult, and he knew that she would be honored rather than offended by the crew's genuine affection for her.

“I believe, Captain, that you also expressed a desire to pay your respects to the lady? Perhaps this would be an opportune moment?” he suggested as he noticed for the first time the heavily laden trays being carried in by several serving girls. Under the watchful eye of Mr. Parkham, the girls moved between the tables, the aromatic dishes piled high on the trays effectively quieting the group which had seemed, just moments before, an unruly mob bent on destruction of the taproom of Hawke's Bell Inn.

“Mr. MacDonald,” Dante turned to the
Sea Dragon
's former sailmaker. “I shall carry your request to the lady, and I am certain she will be honored to meet with the crew.”

“Thank you, Cap'n,” MacDonald said simply. Nodding briefly, he turned away. His moustache was quivering, however, as he grinned widely at his mates, giving them the thumbs-up signal as he settled down to enjoy his luncheon.

Dante turned back to Sir Morgan, who had been waiting patiently while finishing off his tankard of ale. “Captain?” he inquired courteously of the King's officer while he set his own empty tankard down on a nearby table. “Shall we go? Now that you are aware of my unsavory past, you will, no doubt, be reassured to find Rhea is still alive,” Dante told him, his pale gray eyes coldly amused, for he was well aware of Sir Morgan's unease at encountering his gaze. “She will, of course, be pleased to see you, since you are partly responsible for saving me from rotting away in Newgate.”

“You are certain that I shall not be disturbing the lady? I would not wish to intrude,” Sir Morgan said with frigid politeness, although he would have been greatly disappointed not to have the opportunity to greet Lady Rhea Claire.

“Kirby?”

“Lady Rhea Claire was concluding her toilette when I knocked not more than a quarter of an hour past,” Kirby told him, hoping her ladyship had indeed completed dressing, for he'd not care to have Sir Morgan catch her
en déshabillé
. Kirby suspected Sir Morgan of having more than a friendly interest in her ladyship.

Kirby stood for a moment longer watching the two men climb the stairs. Then, with a shrug, he returned to the taproom and his own place at the table, but he heard little of the gossip circulating.

There was a strained silence between the two men as they made their way along the corridor, and it intensified when one of the serving girls who had been so terrified the night before scurried past like a frightened hare, her eyes round with fearful apprehension when she recognized the lean figure of the captain of the
Sea Dragon
. It seemed he was stalking her.