Fire at Midnight (5 page)

Sebastién had come with one objective in mind: to learn as much as possible about the woman who believed herself a guest in his home, unaware she was, in fact, a prisoner awaiting his judgment.

Why had she risked her life to ruin one Frenchman and a gang comprised of her own kinsmen? Even if she opposed smuggling on principle, her actions would not impede the commerce of the fairtraders who operated up and down England’s coast; there were too many involved in the trade.

How had Morgan received his injury? What had happened to the man called Wyatt, who had placed Rachael in his care? Were these simple acts of reprisal by the kin of the men she had betrayed, or was there more to it?

The inn was as spare and silent as morning. Rough plank tables and sturdy oak chairs littered the floor of the common room. Funnel-shaped wall sconces diverted light from musty corners, and the air was acrid with the smoke from tallow candles.

The public house was the greatest underground dispatch in all of England, as well as the premier meeting place for smugglers wanting to arrange for the profitable distribution of goods. He chose a table in a corner and sat down to wait.

After several minutes, a blond, giant of a man with a pitted face and rheumy blue eyes approached him. Grasping a chair with one huge hand, he heaved a muscular leg over the seat, straddling it.

“Falconer,” the man boomed in a thunderous voice.

The snaggletoothed vipers etched in red and blue-black ink upon his muscular forearms rippled when the giant gripped Sebastién’s hand and shoulder. Distinguished by his impressive size, his Nordic pallor, and the striking artwork a Chinaman had skillfully wrought on his skin, he was known by all as simply “The Dane.”

He folded his arms across his massive chest. “We do not proceed until I see the mark.”

Sebastién exhaled in a noisy hiss as he divested himself of his coat and vest, his hands swift with impatience. He jerked the sleeves of his shirt down over his arms, tearing the fine lawn garment as he bared his upper torso.

“I have only to witness your temper to be certain of your identity,” The Dane chuckled.

He seized Sebastién’s right arm and raised it high, revealing a small, well-executed
fleur-de-lis
in permanent blue-black marking on the underside of Sebastién’s upper arm. The same mark was found on the arm of every man who belonged to Sebastién’s group of fairtraders.

Satisfied the artwork was not recent, The Dane nodded and released his arm. “We agreed no information would be given to a man who could not reveal the mark. I am only following your rule,” he scolded.

“Why cling to formalities? It seems a poor joke when our compatriots languish in the gaol or hang from gibbets along the highway,” Sebastién said bitterly as he pulled on his shirt.

“You still have enemies. You must be on your guard.”

Sebastién nodded and shrugged. “Has anyone made inquiries about me?”

The Dane pushed back his shock of bright hair, revealing his face, which was swollen and mottled with livid bruises.

“What happened?”

“Your brother sought information of your whereabouts. I would not provide it.”

“I am sorry,
mon ami.”

“The men sent by your brother look far worse than I,” The Dane said. “It was no more than exercise to me.”

“And my brother calls
me
criminal,” Sebastién grated.

“There are those who believe you spy for the Crown,” The Dane said carefully. “Some are curious to know why you do not keep your men company in the common cell, or join them on the roadside gibbets.”

“These English are never satisfied! My English brother is obsessed with gathering evidence to hang me, while my French grandfather wields his influence to protect me from my brother. I am caught in the middle and condemned by both sides!”

“I’ve never known brothers who owe their allegiance to different countries.”

“I do not claim Jacques as my brother,” Sebastién replied. “He is an Englishman, and as such, he is my enemy.”

Sebastién and his brother had been estranged for as long as he could remember. Their mother had escaped to England twenty-five years earlier with only Jacques, leaving Sebastién behind in France. Sebastién had been raised with an iron hand by his grandfather Hugh, who had schooled his grandson in the Falconer traditions, a hatred of the English among them.

Sebastién had taken over the Falconer merchant and shipping business at his grandfather’s insistence. When France and England once again began to view each other through hostile eyes and the talk of war escalated, he had obtained a Letter of Marque and Reprisal from King Louis XIV and hoisted the flag of privateer above his ships.

He had then proceeded to organize and lead a band of fairtraders on English soil, only to discover his brother held a position of high rank within the English Customs House. His relationship with his brother was a simple one: Jacques enforced English Customs laws, and Sebastién broke them.

“Beyond the stranger born brother to me, who else searches for me?”

“Your grandfather’s solicitor has been sent to urge you to return home.”

Sebastién rolled his eyes at that news. “Who else?”

He expected a description of Tarry Morgan to follow, but the man The Dane described was not familiar. He frowned. Morgan should have begun making inquiries about him by now.

“The man I expect to try to contact me may not know how to go about it. Perhaps I should visit him,” Sebastién said.

“Describe the man, and I will find him for you.”

“I know where he lives. I prefer that he find me.”

“Is he dangerous?”

“Non,
a puppy. He owes me a debt. I withheld his property as security.”

Sebastién rose and donned his coat. “You will overlook my temper,” he instructed. It was as close as he would come to an apology, and both men knew it.

The Dane grinned. “As always,” he replied.

Tarry Morgan sat upon the frigid ground with his knees drawn to his chin and stared at his father’s house. It had been reduced to a blackened skeleton of charred beams and glowing embers.

He watched the clouds of sticky black smoke dissipate, a brown blur across the overcast sky. His eyes stung, and he closed them. The smoke burned his throat and made drawing breath painful. He rested the palms of his hands flat against the ground to steady the trembling of his body.

As a result of his home having been deliberately razed, Tarry was now certain Victor Brightmore had no knowledge of Rachael’s whereabouts. It was ironic Falconer had probably saved Rachael’s life by abducting her.

Whatever the Frenchman had intended, Tarry doubted rescuing Rachael from an act of arson had been a part of it. Tarry at least knew where Rachael was
not,
and that gave him an advantage over her scheming uncle.

He was hesitant to make inquiries to locate the Frenchman, fearing Victor would learn of it. He did not want to provide Victor with clues concerning Rachael’s whereabouts. But now, he had no choice. Victor was desperate to silence Rachael. Tarry would have to find her first.

Tarry rose to his feet, dusting off his breeches while his father sped toward him. Phillip Morgan was an officer in Queen Anne’s army, and had served as ambassador to France. Away on a diplomatic mission, his father had not been at either of his residences recently.

Another rider trailed at a distance behind Phillip, and for a moment, Tarry thought the two traveled together until the other man abruptly turned down a neighboring lane.

Phillip Morgan was a seasoned version of his son, with the same warm brown eyes and urchin features. Phillip slid from the horse’s broad back and stared at the ruin of his once grand home. He reached out and placed his hand against the shoulder of the horse to steady himself.

“No one was hurt,” Tarry said. “None is without shelter. The servants have been placed among our neighbors.”

Phillip drew a deep breath and poked at the rubble with his walking stick, as if too stunned to consider the soot threatening to spoil the hem of his gray silk long coat. Yards away, a timber fell, raining a shower of sparks, like hundreds of tiny red sprites. He tugged at the white neck cloth around his neck.

“What happened?”

“If I told you a maid was careless with a candle …”

“I would wonder what would give you cause to lie to me.” Tarry bowed his head at the sharp rebuke. Phillip sighed. “It appears one of us has made an enemy.” He continued to survey the area where the house had stood. He shook his head and wiped away the tears brimming in his eyes.

“I will rebuild,” Tarry asserted.

“No. You will provide names, and I will see that the culprits are apprehended and punished.”

He knew what his father would do if he told him he suspected Victor was responsible. He would demand to know what motive Brightmore could possibly have, and Tarry would be forced to reveal what had transpired.

Tarry had attempted to bribe a nursery maid in Brightmore’s household to gain access to James, only to learn Rachael’s brother had been moved to another location undisclosed to his staff.

If his father organized a search for Rachael while she was still in Falconer’s custody, there was no telling what the Frenchman might do. He didn’t want to force Falconer into a desperate action. If anything happened to Rachael, it would seal her brother’s fate as well. No, he had to use discretion, or he would endanger them both. He had to do this alone.

“I do not know the identity of the central villain,” Tarry lied. “I have only suspicions about the identities of those who aid him. I need time to make sense of all this. ‘Twould accomplish nothing to pull the weeds and leave the root intact.”

“Once you are certain of their identities, I will be the one to purge the garden of its weeds.” Phillip’s soft tone was encased in steel.

“Yes, of course, Father.”

“You shall have one week to conduct your investigation. Then you will reveal your conclusions to me and retire to a safe location while I … tidy the garden.”

With a nod and a murmur of thanks, Tarry excused himself to arrange for a horse from a neighboring stable. He glanced back at the charcoal rubble that had once been his home and saw his father stiffly mount his horse and slowly ride away, looking older than Tarry had ever seen him. A lump rose in his throat. He had never lied to his father before.

Before the fire struck, Tarry had asked a scullery maid if she knew how one might contact Sebastién Falconer. She had appeared shocked by the inquiry, but had nevertheless been accommodating. Tarry was on his way to Nag’s Head Inn in Holborn to arrange a meeting with a fairtrader known only as “The Dane.”

A cloaked, hooded Sebastién Falconer emerged from behind a nearby cottage and turned down the alley, facing the ruins of the once impressive Morgan home. He surveyed the destruction, squinting against the residual heat of the blaze and the scattering of ash. Morgan had an enemy, that much was obvious, but did this have anything to do with Rachael Penrose?

He had been about to confront Tarry when the elder Morgan had arrived to join his son. From the brief conversation he had overheard, Sebastién guessed the younger Morgan entertained the foolhardy notion of rescuing Rachael alone.

With a shout, he urged his horse into a gallop, consumed by the thrill of speed and the rush of cold air coaxing the heat from his face as he raced to return home in advance of Morgan’s arrival.

C
onvalescence was a journey over unsteady terrain for Rachael. Mrs. Faraday was kind, but their conversation was stilted and limited to pleasantries. Not wishing to jeopardize her own safety or the safety of her absent host, Rachael avoided revealing any personal information.

She spent most of her time gazing out the upstairs bedroom window at the hills carpeted in brown heather that curved below the cottage. From this vantage point, she could see all the way to the sea. Although the panorama was breathtaking, the long idle days had left her feeling isolated and wretchedly alone.

Her recollection of her escape from Bedlam remained hazy. The man who had freed her from Bedlam and deposited her here had been lost to her in all manner of detail. The only enduring memory she had was from a fever dream. She was haunted by the image of a man whose masculine beauty was offset by the coldness in his brittle, gold-flecked eyes. It was not the face of anyone she knew; in fact, she was certain he did not exist.