“No, I’ll be able to manage. And I can always wait and have Dante assist me,” Rhea said, thinking Dante would be far more efficient than the giggling and gawking serving girls if they could even get one to enter the room after their scare of the night before.
“Very well, m’lady. But if ye be needin’ anythin’ at all, just send one of them servin’ girls to fetch me. After I post this letter, I’ll be downstairs in the taproom. The cap’n wanted the crew to meet there and begin discussions on the dividin’ of our riches. Good thing the cap’n’s an honest man, for with the groggy heads from the night before, he could swindle us out of our breeches. Beggin’ your pardon, m’lady,” Kirby said gruffly, mortified at his slip. “Well, guess I really had better get goin’,” he added, sounding as if he’d rather be dangling by two fingers from a yardarm than meeting downstairs with his mates. He even looked as if he were walking the plank as he made his way to the door.
“Thank you, Kirby,” Rhea called after his departing figure.
“I don’t s’pose that no-good, flea-bitten tom is around here anywhere? Maybe masqueradin’ as m’lady’s slipper or her fur muff?” he asked casually as he lingered in the doorway, his glance suspicious as he peered beneath the bed.
Rhea laughed. “So you heard about that?”
“Aye, m’lady, talk of the taproom, ’tis,” he said with a grin of appreciation.
“Jamaica disappeared earlier, but I suspect he’ll return in time for luncheon,” Rhea told the little steward, who didn’t seem a bit surprised at the news.
“Aye, reckon so, m’lady. A blind man would know we was havin’ fish for luncheon, so figure ol’ Jamaica will be hotfootin’ it this way before long,” Kirby agreed with a sniff that attempted to discount any appearance of concern for the cat.
Then bowing elegantly, he left the room.
Rhea continued to stare at the closed door for a moment longer, her thoughts concerned with something which had happened earlier that morning, soon after Dante had left. She had already begun to suspect as much, and now she was almost certain that she was with child. Rhea wrapped her arms around herself protectively. She prayed that she was right, for she wanted Dante’s child. But as suddenly as a cloud drifting across the sun, her mood darkened as she wondered if Dante would be pleased. There were still too many things they did not know about one another. Their time together had been so brief.
A few more minutes passed while Rhea stood there deep in thought, but since nothing could come of speculation, she turned away and put her mind to more practical things. The thought that Madame Lambere might have to let out the seams in the newly purchased gowns was uppermost in Rhea’s mind as she held the primrose gown against her waist and speculated a little sadly on how rotund she soon would be. But then came an even more disturbing thought. What would be Dante’s reaction to that? Soon he would not be able to hold her, Rhea realized, her spirits plummeting.
An imperative, staccato knocking intruded on Rhea’s thoughts and she hurried to answer the door.
With a welcoming smile, she swung the door wide. Only Jamaica, who sailed through the opening, heard her cry out.
Downstairs, in the crowded taproom of Hawke’s Bell Inn, the sound of voices raised in song was drawing a deepening frown from the innkeeper, who was afraid that the exuberance of his guests would lead to trouble. And he certainly did not want any confrontations between the boisterous colonials and any Redcoats who might happen by and take exception to what they overheard. It did not lessen Mr. Parkham’s worry any when he heard the out-of-tune voices chorusing yet another stanza of that unfortunate song:
Yankee Doodle came to town
Upon a little pony,
He stuck a feather in his hat
And called it macaroni.
Yankee Doodle, keep it up,
Yankee Doodle dandy,
Mind the music and the step,
And with the girls be handy.
Mr. Parkham shook his head. Pity it had such a catchy tune. He had caught himself humming it, even after severely scolding the serving girls for singing it. He could have sworn he caught that damned Irishman’s tenor drowning out the other voices. It was bad enough that the man was a handsome and glib Irishman, but to be a colonial, and a rich bastard as well. It was a damned shame to waste good English sterling on one of them misfits talking revolution.
With another shake of his head lest anyone mistakenly think he approved of such tomfoolery, Mr. Parkham returned to the kitchen, determined to advance luncheon before this bunch drank him out of all his ale. Of course, thought Mr. Parkham while slowing his pace considerably, at least the rowdies did have plenty of money to pay for it, and a hardworking fellow like himself couldn’t always be too choosy about where his profits came from.
For the past few days, the profits for Hawke’s Bell Inn had been coming out of the deep pockets of the thirsty crew of the Sea Dragon. Gathered together in the taproom, where an almost visible air of expectancy hung over the noisy group, the exulting sailors were celebrating what had turned out to be a most providential end to their association.
“And here’s to sailin’ before the wind!”
“And to fair weather!”
“And to havin’ yer sails rappin’ full!”
“Aye, and here’s to every wee bonny lass who ever bid a sad farewell to her laddie buck! And here’s fair warnin’ to any landlubber who’s been holdin’ her hand—I be back in town!”
“Aye, and here’s to every hell-raisin’ jack-tar here, may your course always run smooth, at least till ye’ve got three sheets in the wind like meself,” Seumus Fitzsimmons toasted his mates before sitting abruptly back down as his legs crumpled beneath him.
“And here’s a toast to that fine, upstandin’ gent, Bertie Mackay, and his scurvy crew of loose fish aboard the Annie Jeanne, may they all end up in—” But the rest of the toast was drowned in laughter as several interesting destinations for the rival smugglers were voiced.
Kirby, sitting a little apart so he could keep an eye out for the captain’s arrival, pushed his wig off his brow, where it had slipped while he’d tried to see his way clear of the milling crowd.
Aye, they were all here, he thought glumly, wondering if any of them would be able to come to their senses once they got their hands on their fortunes. How many would find happiness, the little steward worried, still feeling responsible for their well-being.
Some of them would do all right, Kirby decided as he glanced over the room, spotting familiar faces. Longacres was once again holding court near the fire, where he was surrounded by the usual spellbound listeners. Kirby figured that the old sea dog had been around so long that not much more could happen to him that hadn’t already. He was planning to sail back to the Indies where, on St. Thomas, he would open a tavern. It would be the perfect setting for the wizened buccaneer and his hair-raising tales of piracy. Cobbs, the bos’n, had been dreaming of returning to Norfolk ever since he had left as a boy. Now he could return as a wealthy man and become the country gentleman of his dreams. Most of the mates were already referring to him as Squire Nabobs.
Kirby spied Alec MacDonald, the Scotsman, by the bluish haze hanging over his head from the pipe that was never far from his lips. He planned to open a shipyard along the banks of the Chesapeake. His future was in the colonies. And with war always on the horizon, he would probably become even wealthier. Certainly a far cry from his fellow clansmen who continued to live a hand-to-mouth existence in the Highlands of Scotland.
Kirby reckoned the jack-a-dandy, Barnaby Clarke, would play the London gentleman for a while and then return to Jamaica where, no doubt, he would live out his life as an indolent planter. Trevelawny, the ship’s carpenter, who never said much and smiled even less, was going to invest in mining in his native Cornwall. And if he kept as tight a rein on his purse strings as he did his tongue, he would most likely own half o
f the West Country by the turn of the century.
And, of course, there was Seumus Fitzsimmons. Houston Kirby eyed the flushed face of the dark Irishman whose jokes and ready wit kept his mates laughing. Kirby suspected that the facetious Irishman was looking forward to war between the colonials and the Crown, for he intended to purchase a schooner and carry on the fine tradition of the Sea Dragon. Aye, Fitzsimmons might be the one to set the table roaring, but once he had a crew and a ship of his own, he would make a fine captain. And, just maybe, he would turn into a fairly decent gentleman.
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.
Dark Before the Rising Sun Page 9