Till Dawn Tames the Night (7 page)

Lord Josiah Peterborough, seventh Viscount Blackwell, was a stunningly handsome man. Though he was well into his forties, his dark brown hair had yet to silver, and he possessed a most arresting pair of brilliant green eyes. With title and wealth, he was one of the most sought-after peers in London. That he cut a rather joyless figure was easily forgiven, attributed to the fact that he'd been tragically widowed at a tender age. If anything, his melancholy stance only endeared him further to an already adoring society. His female admirers in particular viewed him with sympathy—well-tempered, of course, with a generous dose of erotic infatuation.

His conquests were many. At Melbourne House, Lady Melbourne had quickly declared him intriguing and insisted always that he dine next to her. The patronesses of
Almack's
labeled the evening a success whenever the viscount chose to attend. Lord Blackwell was accepted everywhere, even at Carlton House, and the Regent had even seen to it that he was among the guests invited to a weekend or two of debauchery at the Marine Pavilion. But though the cream of the peerage had long embraced him, there were still three things about him most did not know.

The first was his shame-filled past as the poverty-bound, untitled son of a barley merchant. Because of his complete lack of funds, Lord Blackwell's future had once looked so bleak that he'd been sent off to Heidelberg at the tender age of twenty-three in the hope that he might earn a living as a physician. Though he never finished his studies, even now, decades later, Josiah Peterborough still possessed an intimate familiarity with the human body, coupled with a horrifying knowledge of surgery.

The second was simply the fact that his heiress wife had not taken that overdose of opium, lo, these many years ago, without assistance.

And lastly, no one quite knew the exact source of his wealth. It was naturally assumed that it had come from the title that had ironically landed upon him right after the death of his step-brother. His pitifully short marriage was also a point of speculation concerning his income, for his late wife had been endowed with a fortune. But alas, neither was so.

While the Blackwell estate did bring in some funds, the viscount had become greedy during his years of penury in Heidelberg. To make money, he had turned to illicit dab-
blings
in certain "trades." These ventures had soon proved so profitable that his lust for their income only grew
more fierce
. Now his empire was enormous: He owned a fleet of ships, all pirated off the seas from their legal owners; he was a crafty smuggler of Cantonese goods; he sold art purloined from the broken aristocracy of Paris; and he peddled flesh, of any and all kinds, in London's wretched Spitalfields. In short, there was not a whole lot the Viscount Blackwell would not do to make a gold coin as long as it was done discreetly. And he had been doing it all rather discreetly for a number of years.

Only of late had things become more difficult. Tonight was no exception.

The viscount was just readying to leave his London town home for Drury Lane when the missive arrived in his study. The letter was from Ireland and even before he broke the seal—a wax seal consisting of two dragons
regardant
—his face had already taken on a harsh expression.

"Is it from him?"

Peterborough looked up and found his new business partner, a young man named Asher, standing in his study door. Asher was slim, blond, and immaculately kempt. Some would place him in the dandy set, for he sported the most fantastic carmine waistcoats on an unnaturally corseted torso, but the viscount seemed unimpressed with this
inscrutable.
Asher's tendency toward the feminine quite obviously annoyed him. Even now the viscount looked as if he wanted to throttle the man.

"I thought I told you never to visit here," Peterborough snapped. "When we began our business arrangement, I made it quite clear you're to leave a message and I'll meet you."

Asher made a moue,
then
entered the room nonchalantly. "Yes, yes. We wouldn't want the proper folk to think you've got bad taste in friends." Without another pause, he eased himself down on a rose damask armchair and carefully crossed his legs.

"Your news had better be worth your insubordination," the viscount stated. "We've only been doing business for a few weeks, and I can make sure that that's all there is to it." Finished with the letter, he crumpled it in his hand and vehemently threw it into the burning hearth.

"I see you've heard from Vashon," Asher said as he watched the letter flame.

"Yes" was all that Peterborough offered. His green eyes hardened and his fists visibly clenched.

"I suppose he's still taunting you with that emerald?"

"He wrote to say he's still in Ireland and getting closer to the Star all the time."

"Well, he's not in Ireland."

Peterborough stiffened.

"In fact, he's been here for some time."

"Why
was I
not informed of this!" the viscount demanded.

"I sent messages."

"I've been busy! You should have been more explicit!" Asher shrugged.

Peterborough lost all patience. "Damn you! Is that the news you have tonight? If it is, you can take your leave! I'll deal with Vashon tomorrow—in the meantime I've got theater tickets and—"

"I've heard of rumors around
Queenhithe
," Asher interposed. "Vashon has changed tack. Some say he's found a girl, a Miss Dayne, to be exact. Does that name have any special significance?"

Upon this news, the viscount's eyes nearly bulged from their sockets. "You jest . . ."

"That is the rumor." Asher studied his nails.

"Then has Michael Dayne been found too? He disappeared with her."

"No, Michael Dayne has not been found."

Numbly, Peterborough lowered himself to sit on the edge of his desk. He mumbled to himself, "Then he didn't run away with his daughter. He left her here, right under my nose. And now Vashon has her.
And with her the Star and all its power."

Hearing him, Asher released a dramatic sigh. "My God, this will always seem like a fool's quest. Why don't we forget about the Star—surely we've enough to occupy us in Spitalfields. I know I can do without this blackguard Vashon whipping at our backs."

"It's not the Star's wealth I'm concerned with." Peterborough's face took on a faraway expression.
"The Chronicles of
Crom
Dubh
tell of its power. Whoever possesses the emerald, it is said, will see his enemies die. I've come to believe that possessing the Star is the only way to destroy Vashon."

"Whatever did you do to him, anyway? I've heard his vengeance gets worse as the years go by. And as his own wealth increases, so does his bloodlust for you."

Peterborough ran a hand through his fashionably cropped hair. Belligerently he stared into the fire.

"Well?" Asher prompted. "What did you do? Kill his mother? Rape his sister? What?"

"Vashon is my half brother."

With this news Asher looked as if he might slide to the floor. He gripped the pink brocade arms of his chair and stared dumbstruck at the viscount. "This cannot be . . . your own brother?" he finally whispered.

"Oh, it can be and it is," Peterborough confirmed. His face grew hard. "Blackwell's son is still alive."

"How—how did this come about?"

The viscount's cheeks flamed in anger. "Vashon has plagued me from his very conception! Can you imagine how I felt, left to rot in private school while my mother remarried and gave birth to a son—a child who would have wealth and title—all the things I did not!"

"Did you kill the boy's father too?"

Peterborough spat, "Of course not. I had no designs on the title then. I just couldn't bear the position imposed upon me by my birth, and when old Blackwell died of that fever I suddenly saw that the only thing standing between me and the
viscounty
was a thirteen-year-old boy."

"Your brother."

"My
half
brother."

"So what became of this babe?"

"I was duped. I meant for him to be killed but the task was botched."

"You thought to kill your own brother?"

"I tried to tolerate him. And until the boy was thirteen years of age I did tolerate him. But those years I'd been sent off to Germany hardened me. I couldn't endure it any longer. That some sniveling, pampered boy was taking everything that I deserved was more than I could bear. I crept back from Heidelberg and snatched the boy from his home."

"How did he escape you?"

The viscount turned grim. "I meant to kill him, but when it came to the final moment . . ."

"You could not," Asher whispered, finishing for him. There was a definite note of relief in his voice.

"No!" Peterborough abruptly denied, piercing Asher with one of his deadly stares. "I could have killed the boy!
And without a day's remorse!"
In frustration he slammed his hand on the mantel. "But he challenged me! That goddamned wretch challenged me to kill him so that he could come after me from beyond the grave. And do you know what? I faltered! Out of fear! I was afraid of a boy's curse!"

There was a silence as Asher took in this news. Then the viscount continued.

"He played easily upon my superstitions, so I thought to have two hirelings do the job. But Vashon was an extraordinarily handsome boy and when they realized they could get even more money selling him to a slaver in Algiers, they told me they had killed him. I only realized Vashon was alive ten years ago . . . when he showed up at my door."

Asher finally found his tongue. "He showed up—
here!"
he exclaimed in amazement.

Peterborough nodded. "He asked about our mother. When I told him she had died quickly, he seemed almost comforted."

"Did you—did you—?" Asher stuttered.

"Don't accuse me of matricide. She died in a theater fire. Don't you remember when the Alcee went up?"

Asher almost looked relieved.
"So Vashon came for his title.
However did you escape relinquishing it?"

"He didn't want the title. He said he'd come to tell me of his past. All that had happened to him since I had last seen him."

Asher made no comment so Peterborough continued.

"It seemed Vashon somehow survived his ordeal in Algiers. He took great pleasure in telling me of the men he had killed. Though he had still been a boy, he had killed the first man who had tried to . . . touch him." He paused. "He explained that one to me in great detail. He only did it to see the terror in my eyes."

"But how did he make such a fortune running the streets in Algiers?" Asher asked.

"He had found his way among the pirates of the
Casbah
. When he came to see me, even then he claimed he was quite wealthy—and he looked it."

"So Vashon cares nothing for the title.
Instead he wants to ruin you, is that it?"

Peterborough nodded. "That's why we need that emerald. And God save us if it falls into his hands. My blood runs cold when I think of how he must have killed that man in that brothel. Vashon was but a boy, but even then his retribution was swift."

"For everyone but you, eh?"

Furious, Peterborough looked away. "For everyone but me," he repeated.

Asher watched him a moment, moved by the man's frustration. Hesitantly he reached out to touch him. Peterborough saw none of this. Not the soft, trembling hand, not the young man's eyes, suddenly filled with a strange kind of longing. But before the viscount turned his head again, Asher thought better of his actions. He pulled back his hand, and once more his eyes took on that indifferent gleam.
"Buck up, my dear viscount.
It's clear to me Vashon could have killed you at any time. So surely you've proved yourself craftier than he. You're still alive, aren't you?"

Peterborough put his head back and laughed. "But that's his torture, don't you see? He wants to drive me insane looking for that emerald. He knows about
The Chronicles of
Crom
Dubh
.
And he's just taunting me into racing him for it. If he gets it before I do, my life will come to an end without him even raising his hand." He groaned. "Oh, that cursed stone. I wish I'd never heard of it. How I'd like to feel Michael
Dayne's
neck crushing within my hands! He was the beginning of my misfortune. That wretched thief told me about the Star in the first place and then lured me into hiring him to steal it from
Inishmore
Castle. But I had no idea he'd be tempted into keeping the thing for himself. And now because of that stupidity, I'm fighting Vashon for my very life!"

"Yet still, your venom is equal to Vashon's—or don't you remember the men of the
Leviathan
?
I daresay those few who survived certainly speak your name in hushed tones."

"That Jew, Isaac Corbeil, was the owner of the
Leviathan.
Vashon didn't own that ship then, so the demise of its crew proved nothing to him. As for my venom being as strong as his, I only know one thing and I know it as certainly as I know the feel of my mistress's thighs." The viscount's voice lowered to a whisper. "If that pirate wanted me dead, I would
be
dead."