Dark Before the Rising Sun

by Laurie McBain

  Conny was young enough to learn the ways of a well-bred gentleman, and since the lad had become his ward, Dante intended to see that Conny never had reason to be ashamed of himself or to bring disgrace on his name through ignorance. When the duke and duchess invited the former cabin boy to dine with their family, Dante insisted Conny accept, telling him that, as his ward, Dante would expect the same obedience he had maintained while serving aboard ship.

  “Is she goin’ to die, Cap’n?” Conny demanded just then, startling Dante. Standing beside his captain, his small shoulders slumped dejectedly, he eyed the man who had always been able to give him a straight answer. “Is she?”

  Dante gazed helplessly down at that dark head and wondered what he could possibly say.

  “Of course she isn’t,” Lady Mary said softly, her dove-gray eyes full of compassionate understanding. “First pregnancies always seem the most difficult, but Rhea Claire is young and healthy and wants this child very much. You must be patient,” Lady Mary said in her always soothing voice.

  “She will be all right, won’t she?” Dante asked her, but he was asking for more than mere reassurance, and Lady Mary knew it.

  She smiled slightly, and Dante was reminded again of the woman’s serene beauty. Although her face was Madonna-like in its purity of line, it was the gentle spirit of the woman more than anything else that made her so beautiful.

  “I do not always understand what I have seen in a vision,” Lady Mary began, her smile widening as Conny’s mouth dropped open, “therefore I prefer to keep them to myself, unless telling about a vision is necessary in order to help someone.”

  “You have seen something, then?” Dante demanded, his lips whitening.

  Lady Mary’s smile faded and she reached out and touched Dante’s clenched fist. “You must learn to have more faith, Dante,” she said, and her eyes suddenly seemed silvered with mystery. Dante felt a slight shiver going through him as he wondered what she might be seeing.

  “Now is not the time,” she said softly, her head tilted slightly, as though she were listening to something. “But someday I shall tell you of my vision of wild thyme and blackthorn, and of clouds edged in sungold. And I will tell you about the sun and the moon and the sea.”

  Dante frowned. Although sincerely fond of the woman, he was beginning to think her deft. But just then the double doors of the private drawing room opened, and the duchess came rushing in, her face pale and drawn. Lucien reached her first, taking her in his arms as she swayed. She leaned against his body, drawing strength from his touch.

  “Rhea?”

  Sabrina looked up from her husband’s shoulder and managed a tired smile. “Rhea is fine. And you, Dante Leighton, are the proud father of a very noisy son.”

  * * *

  Reverend Smalley found himself back behind the pulpit, sooner than propriety dictated, for the christening of Christopher Dominick Leighton, Earl of Sandrake and first grandchild of the Duke and Duchess of Camareigh. Kit, as he had already been nicknamed, was a beautiful baby, with thick chestnut curls covering his small head, and a lusty cry that reverberated throughout the small chapel, causing the good reverend to wince. He couldn’t even hear himself speaking.

  His duty done, the reverend was pleased to return to the great house, Lord Sandrake’s outraged cries not nearly so piercing in the high-ceilinged entrance hall or the charming Chinese Room. The reverend was not displeased when the young lord’s mother excused herself and took the demanding Kit for his feeding. The reverend was then able to sip his sherry in peace while considering the prospect of an early retirement.

  Disengaging himself from conversation, Dante followed Rhea and caught up with her by the stairs. He took their son from her arms. Holding the now quiet baby easily with one arm, he held out his other for Rhea. Together they climbed the grand staircase.

  “Did I thank you for our son?” he asked, his eyes lingering on the tiny profile just visible inside the lamb’s-wool blanket.

  “Many times, my lord,” Rhea responded.

  “And did I tell you how breathtakingly beautiful you are?”

  “Many times, my lord,” Rhea said, and smiled.

  “And did I tell you how happy you have made me?” he asked.

  “With much frequency, m’lord,” she answered, her smile widening.

  “And did I tell you how much I love you?” he queried further.

  Rhea’s eyes lowered. “Many, many times, m’lord, although ’twould be far more believable if you showed me,” she said, startling him with the provocative statement. It had indeed been quite a few months since they had made love.

  Dante glanced over at her, noting her fiery cheeks. “Aye, m’lady. ’Twould seem as if I do too much talking.”

  “Aye, m’lord,” she agreed, coming to a stop, out of habit, as they passed beneath the portrait of the Elizabethan.

  “He must be jealous,” Dante said as he eyed the adventurer of old, then glanced down at their son.

  “No, I think he would be pleased,” Rhea disagreed. Silently she bid farewell to her young girl’s fantasy, her eyes lingering on her husband’s beloved profile as they walked on down the gallery. They paused before another painting, this time because Dante wanted to.

  “You seem fascinated by that portrait,” Rhea commented, thinking how many things in her life had changed since the day her family stood for the portrait.

  Dante smiled, his eyes on the painted violet eyes of the Duchess of Camareigh, before moving to stare lovingly at Rhea’s image. “Someday I shall tell you about a young man’s dream, and how all that he had wished for has come true and then some. I have no regrets about anything I have done, Rhea,” he said with tantalizing obliqueness. Smiling down at her puzzled expression, he continued along the gallery.

  Rhea laughed, nodding toward their son. “’Twould be a little late now to have any regrets, m’lord. Now you have a wife and son to support.”

  Standing before the windows of their room, Dante gazed out on the terraced gardens, past the clipped yew hedges and the roses and the lily pond, toward the open parkland in the distance. He sighed. Seldom had he known such peace. He understood why Rhea loved Camareigh so. Hearing her soft voice behind him, he turned around, staring at her while she sang to their son. Her golden head was bent low over the chestnut head of the baby suckling at her breast. His small hands were kneading against her while he received the nourishment from her body. Perhaps he was even aware of the loving strength surrounding him.

  “And did I thank you for naming him Christopher?” Dante asked. “I was surprised.”

  “I never forget anything you tell me,” Rhea confessed, her fingers caressing the soft, fine curls covering her son’s small head. “Captain Christopher was very important to you, more so, I think, than your own father was. I thought you would like to honor him by naming your firstborn son after him.” Rhea pressed a kiss against Kit’s forehead. “And I thank you for letting him bear the name Dominick too. It means a great deal to my parents. Why did you choose my family name?”

  Dante shrugged, a little uncomfortable admitting to the act of generosity. “I have come to feel a…” Dante paused, searching for an appropriate word. When he couldn’t find one, he simply said what he felt. “A certain fondness for your family, Rhea. And although our son is a Leighton first, I want him to feel like a member of the Dominick family as well,” Dante admitted. It was not an easy admission.

  Pleased, Rhea gazed down at their son, noting the delicate fringe of eyelash covering his closed eyes. She got to her feet slowly and, walking over to the wooden cradle beside their bed, carefully placed the sleeping babe beneath the down-filled coverlet. When he stirred, she gently rocked the cradle. Soon, yawning, he drifted into that innocent sleep only the newborn know.

  “You and Kit already are,” Rhea said, stretching her tired shoulders, then sighed as she felt Dante’s hands mass
aging her tense muscles. Then the warmth of his lips was caressing the nape of her neck. Leaning back against him, she allowed his hands to slip lower, moving to cup her tender breasts beneath the parted bodice of her gown.

  “Shall we stay awhile, m’lady?” he whispered against her ear, his teeth nibbling the soft lobe. Even through her many petticoats, she could feel the hardness of his ardor as he held her pressed against his hips, his hands sliding along the silk covering her thighs. “I think ’tis time we became reacquainted.”

  “But they will be expecting us in the salon, m’lord.” Rhea sighed, her heart beating wildly.

  “I never like to disappoint a lady,” he murmured, turning her in his arms so he could gaze down into her flushed face before his lips covered hers in a hungry kiss. “You did issue an invitation. Or was it a challenge to prove my manhood, lest you think young Christopher an accident?”

  “Dante,” Rhea objected in growing embarrassment even as she lifted her lips to his, savoring the hard feel of them against hers. As she stood there in his embrace, she felt once again the trembling sensation that had the power to make her forget everything and everyone but Dante Leighton.

  Dante felt her trembling response to his rising passion, and with a satisfied smile curving his lips, he lifted her in his arms and carried her to the four-poster.

  “Dante, what if someone comes looking for us? What—”

  But Dante silenced her with his lips. When he finally lifted his mouth from hers, she was breathless.

  “Forget about everybody, for there is nothing that can come between us now,” he promised and proceeded to prove the truth of his words.

  Twelve

  My pride fell with my fortunes.

  —Shakespeare

  Seawyck Manor squatted on a rise overlooking the sea. It could not be considered a pretty house, yet there was a certain charm about its gray walls and stone-tiled roof. When the sun shone, the armorial glass in the mullioned windows was highlighted and the garden stretching along the east front blossomed. But they were the only touches of color against overwhelming grayness. Toward the southwest, beyond the outbuildings and stable yard, beyond the formal gardens and the parkland grazed by deer, beyond the gently rolling hills, lay the village of Merleigh.

  And directly west, beyond the woodland of beech and chestnut, planted to shield Seawyck from the cold winds blowing in from the sea, the dark towers of Merdraco rose against the horizon whenever there was no mist enshrouding the curve of coastline.

  But those towers, visible or not, were never forgotten by Lady Bess Seacombe, daughter of an earl, widow of a baronet, and mistress of Seawyck. Even when the towers were hidden by swirling fog, they were a reminder that Merdraco was still there, even if its master had fled.

  Lady Bess eyed the setting sun with little appreciation of its golden splendor, for it meant that darkness would soon fall and remain until dawn; for this was to be a night of no moon.

  “Damn!” she muttered beneath her breath. Turning away from the window, her eye was caught by the threadbare condition of the velvet hangings. With another curse, she pulled the heavy burgundy draperies together, closing off the dramatic view of sea, and the glorious reflection of the sun sinking in a fiery ball of copper.

  Recklessly, Lady Bess poured herself another sherry, carelessly banging the crystal decanter on the polished tabletop. She quickly emptied the fluted glass, thinking she had need to bolster her courage for what she had planned for this moonless eve.

  “Dear Lord, how can I do it?” she whispered, her bejeweled hands shaking as she set the glass down.

  “I cannot do it,” she told herself, tapping her fingertips against the mantelpiece in nervous agitation. “’Twould be madness.” Then looking up, she cast an ill-favored glance at the man in the portrait above the fireplace.

  “’Tis a pity you were such a fool,” she said, eyeing him with renewed dislike. Although he’d been dead for over two years, he still had the power to irritate her. “More the fool I was in ever marrying you, Sir Harry Seacombe,” she complained. “But who knew at the time that you were in debt and had no head for business? And then, later, to invest in that Indies plantation! What rot that turned out to be, eh, Harry?” she asked the silent man whose pale blue eyes continued to stare beyond her expressionlessly, as if uncomprehending. Indeed, they had often looked that way when Harry Seacombe was alive.

  “Hounds and horses, Harry, that was all you ever knew or cared about,” Lady Bess accused him. “You had your nerve marrying me under false pretenses. I was highborn, not that I blame you, for I was a beauty, eh, Harry?” she demanded of him. As she caught sight of her reflection in one of the wall mirrors, she had to admit that she still cut quite a fine figure, even if she was past thirty and had given birth to two children. But the bloom was gone from her cheeks, and she had gotten too thin, she thought with critical assessment of her décolletage and the firm, perfumed flesh so temptingly revealed above the lacy edge of her corset.

  “You cheated me, Harry. Not only were you in financial trouble, but you weren’t even a good lover, not like…” Lady Bess’s words trailed away and, with a sigh, she turned away from her mirrored reflection and the portrait. They both brought back too many unpleasant memories of a time when she was younger and had made the biggest mistake of her life.

  “Mama?” a young voice sounded. “Mama? Where are you?” The girl’s voice grew shrill, rising to a note of fear. “Mama?”

  “In the salon, Anne,” Lady Bess answered reluctantly, unwilling for the moment to relinquish her dreams. The present was a discouraging place to be without some manner of escape.

  “What are you doing sitting in here in the dark?” the girl demanded. Although only fifteen, Anne Seacombe was already developing into a beautiful young woman. She bore, in fact, a remarkable resemblance to her mother at that same age. “Shall I light the candles?”

  “No, ’tisn’t worth the expense. I shall not linger long, my dear,” Lady Bess told her.

  “Then shall I have Janey light a fire? ’Tis still too chilly not to once the sun has set,” she offered, inadvertently reminding her mother of approaching eventide and all that would follow the darkness.

  “No, she has enough to do in helping her mother in the kitchens. Besides, I do not want the house to look as if we were awake,” Lady Bess said, more to herself than to her daughter. Anne’s puzzled expression gave way to an unhappy one as she realized what her mother meant.

  “I forgot. There is no moon tonight, is there, Mama?”

  “Whatever do you mean, child?” Lady Bess demanded.

  “Oh, Mama, you needn’t pretend you do not know. And I am no longer a child. Why, Lucy Widdons was wed by the time she was my age, and had a babe suckling at her—”

  “She was years older and fortunate she made it down the aisle at all, so rounded with child was she. Besides, she is a common village girl, not a Seacombe,” Lady Bess reminded her restless daughter.

  “I don’t see how being a Seacombe makes any difference these days, for we seem to have as much trouble putting food on the table as the poorest villager,” Anne said. “I know that is why you let those smugglers use our horses. ’Twould just about kill Father if he knew how they were being abused, having to haul kegs through the countryside. He wouldn’t have allowed it.”

  Lady Bess opened her mouth to speak, to deny the charge, but just as suddenly she shut it. There really wasn’t much point in lying, especially now that she had made up her mind to change things. “Your father, my dear, would have sold his soul for a keg of untaxed French brandy, but he will rest easy tonight, for I am not going to let the smugglers have our horses. In fact, I am going to sell several of them at the fair in Westlea Abbot on Saturday.” Lady Bess spoke confidently, though her insides were quivering.

  “But, Mama, you can’t. Don’t you remember what happened last year to the Webbers’ farmho
use? Charles said ’twas because they wouldn’t give the smugglers their horses,” Anne told her mother in a breathless voice.

  “How many times have I told both you and Charles not to listen to gossip?” Lady Bess said harshly, for of course she did not need to be reminded. “Charles does not know what he is talking about. Besides, no one would dare trespass here at Seawyck. Who do they think we are? Common folk? Easily terrified?” Lady Bess demanded scornfully, swallowing her fear. “And if there was one thing your father was accomplished at and had the good sense to teach me, ’twas shooting. I can load and shoot a pistol as well as any man. Let them dare raise a torch at Seawyck,” Lady Bess promised.

  “I hope you are right, Mama,” Anne said, her eyes drifting toward the drawn window hangings, wondering if that could truly keep a determined intruder at bay.

  “Of course I am,” Lady Bess reassured her, forcing a smile. “Now go and tell Mrs. Bickham to start dinner, for we shall be dining earlier than usual tonight,” Lady Bess informed her daughter, determined that they would all be safely tucked away in their beds when midnight visitors arrived.

  “Mama?”

  “What now, Anne?” Lady Bess demanded sharply, for her nerves were bad despite the two glasses of sherry.

  “I think I heard the door knocker.”

  “Nonsense. Who would be calling at this hour?” Lady Bess asked. A moment later, Bickham, their butler, coachman, gardener, and gamekeeper, announced quite grandly, “Two gentlemen to see you, m’lady.”

  “Their names, Bickham?”

  “Captain Sir Morgan Lloyd and Lieutenant Handley, m’lady. Shall I tell them you will see them?” the butler asked, noting the unlit candles with disapproval.

  “Oh, very well, but give me a moment,” Lady Bess ordered, and as the door closed on the ancient retainer—he’d been at Seawyck Manor half a century when Lady Bess had arrived as a young bride—she hurried to the escritoire against the wall. After fumbling inside one of the drawers, she held out her hand to her daughter. “Here, light some candles.”