Fire at Midnight (12 page)

“Soon after my appointment as a revenue officer, Sebastién began to transport illicit cargo. He delights in jeopardizing my livelihood by preying wherever I have been assigned, bribing those under my authority, and flaunting his connections whenever I manage to bring him before the Court of the Exchequer.” He fastened his gaze upon Rachael. “Pranks, you might say? A harmless rivalry between brothers?”

Jacques laughed, and the sound chilled her. He approached her and leaned forward as she shrank into the chair. A shiny lock of his black hair tumbled forward, and he brushed it back with the palm of his hand. The muscles of his hand were knotted, the knuckles white. He locked eyes with her.

“He is not just a smuggler, Miss Penrose. He is also a wrecker.”

Her mind flashed back to the wrecking she had witnessed. Had Sebastién been a part of it? She recalled him walking up the steep path, outfitted with a sword, his clothes damp. She had seen him pocket a piece of jewelry. Had it been payment for his participation in the crime? She made a sound of distress and closed her eyes against the disturbing memory, not wanting to believe it of him. If it was true, he was no better than her uncle.

“That is why you cannot consider yourself safe. I do not act out of blind hatred for my brother. I seek justice for those who have met their deaths at his hands and at the hands of men like him. I seek justice for one young woman in particular, who was to be my wife.”

Rachael felt as if she had been gripped about the throat by an invisible hand. The boundless grief in his voice could be measured on his tortured face, that face so like his brother’s.

“I had closed down an enterprise of his that ran tea from the French coast to the basement of a Bodmin pub. My brother vowed that if I ever interfered with him again, I would regret it. I ignored the warning, never realizing those I loved were in jeopardy as well. I might have known the coward would make a young woman suffer in my stead.

“One week later, my fiancée, Adrienne, was aboard a ship bound for England from France when my brother and his crew of cutthroats urged the vessel farther inland than was safe. The ship was smashed to kindling upon the Eddystone rocks. Her crew and passengers were slaughtered.”

Rachael’s slender fingers gripped the collar of her cloak. “How can you be sure your brother was responsible?”

“He was eager for me to know the deed had been his.” Jacques’s fingers dipped into his vest pocket, and he withdrew a small locket. “I had given this locket to Adrienne. It was returned to me after the wreck. The envelope containing the locket also bore a brief message: ‘Greetings, dear brother.’”

A ragged sound escaped her, and Jacques’s attention was torn from the pendant to her face.

“Don’t fancy yourself safe here at court. My brother is extraordinarily well connected, or I should say our grandfather has influential friends and Sebastién makes good use of them.”

He hesitated, eyes moving over her face as if trying to read her expression. “If you are still considering refusing to help me, I must inform you that I am aware of your difficulties with your uncle, including your holiday at Bedlam.” He shrugged at her look of astonishment. “If you cooperate with me, you will find yourself under my protection.”

“And if I do not?”

“I will not lift a finger to help you.”

“There are others who would speak on my behalf,” Rachael argued, outraged by the threat.

“Who? A lovesick boy and his doting father? There were many who witnessed your reaction when we met,” he reminded her. “The impression you gave was not one of stability.”

There was no argument for that. She remembered all too well how she had reacted.

“You will be rewarded for your assistance. Your case against your uncle would benefit from the support of a man of my rank. If you refuse to assist me, you leave me no choice but to implicate you in my brother’s crimes. Or, you could just as easily be returned to Bedlam.”

The threat rang in her ears. All options had been removed from her. If she did not manage to remain free, her brother would die. “What is it you want to know?”

The cold light flickered in his eyes. “How many stay in that cottage Sebastién is fond of hiding himself away in?”

“What do you mean?”

“He must have part of his gang in hiding there, or nearby. His home is too easily defended, which is why it will be necessary to lure him away. I won’t take my men into a hornets’ nest.”

“I saw only Sebastién, and the housekeeper, Mrs. F—”

“I have no interest in his staff,” Jacques said curtly. “What about The Dane?” At her blank expression, he added, “A blond bear of a man. Tattooed.”

“I saw no one else,” she repeated. “And he would not have shared information with me. He does not trust me.” She winced at her words.
He does not trust me.

Jacques rubbed his chin, and an unbidden memory came to her of Sebastién pulling at the edges of his mustache when deep in thought. “Do you think he would come to you if you were to summon him?”

“Why?” She felt the cold dread of premonition.

“You seem to be his favorite bait.”

Rachael stared at him, aghast. “Why would he come to me here in London? Why would he meet me anywhere, for that matter? We did not part on the best of terms.”

“You would meet him on the coast, in his own territory, where he has a false sense of security.”

Rachael shook her head. “He would recognize it as a trap. You’re asking me to risk my life.”

“You would be in no danger,” Jacques assured her. “You would meet him in a public place. What reason could you give for wanting a meeting with him?”

I’m to be dangled before a hungry shark.
“I may be your pawn, Mr. Falconer,” Rachael said, “but how you trick your brother into meeting me is your own affair. I hope you lose sleep over it.”

She sprang from her chair and hurried to the door. When she reached it, she spun to face him again, and was taken aback by the impression that his eyes had never left her.

“You’re wrong on one point,” she said. “You are, indeed, very much like your brother.”

Jacques’s hands clutched the arms of the chair, and Rachael could see that they shook with anger. She slipped through the door and ran down the empty hall. In the distance, she heard a faint, muffled curse and the shattering of glass.

P
ublic coaches were not available for night excursions, so Jacques hired a private vehicle for their journey. Once he had formulated his plan, he had been anxious to see it carried out.

His prolonged silence as they made their way south did nothing to calm Rachael’s anxiety about the role she was about to play in Sebastién’s capture. She had not asked for details. The sooner the deed was done, the more quickly she could begin to forget her own part in it, although she doubted she would ever forget.

The thought of meeting Sebastién in some rough pub near the Devon mainland filled her with anxiety. She had insisted she was innocent of any conspiracy against him, yet here she was, about to betray him. He would never believe her now, and she could not blame him, although he might not live long enough to ponder her treachery. Somehow, that thought lent new depth to her misery.

Tarry was pleased by her participation only because she had said nothing to him about Jacques’s threats. If he knew, it would drive a wedge between the two men who would one day be related by marriage.

The carriage rolled to a stop in front of Winstanley’s home, where Rachael would lodge until departing for the meeting with Sebastién the following night. Winstanley’s place was not monitored by the wary legion of smugglers, so it had been arranged that she would sleep there.

Winstanley ushered Rachael and Tarry into the house while Jacques remained outside to patrol the narrow lane. Henry Winstanley was a talkative host, chatting as he led them to their rooms.

Outside, Jacques huddled against the chill as two riders on horseback approached. He cast a furtive glance at the house before motioning them to meet him a few yards away.

“Is it done, Matt?” Jacques asked of the middle-aged man who had extended his hand for payment.

“Aye,” the man replied.

Jacques withdrew a pouch from his vest pocket and tossed it to him. Matt hefted the bag in his hand, then slipped it inside his threadbare coat. He urged his horse into motion and departed without a word or a backward glance at Jacques.

“Did he earn his pay?” Jacques asked the man who remained.

“We delivered a baby.”

Jacques nodded, satisfied with the reply. “I half-expected old Matt to double-cross me. I’ve sent several of his relatives to the gaol. There’s a purse of equal size for you, and your task is simple,” Jacques said as he handed the man a wax-sealed envelope.

“A trip to the penny post at this hour?”

Jacques shook his head. “You’re to deliver this to the house at the end of the row,” he instructed, indicating Winstanley’s home. “Ride out and return in four hours.
Ride hard.
I want to see lather on your horse.”

Jacques stood alone in the narrow lane long after the rider had departed. He lit a cheroot and gazed up at the starless sky.

A clock somewhere within the house chimed an early hour. Unable to sleep, Rachael gathered her dressing gown around her and made her way down the hall. Light flowed from a small workroom where Mr. Winstanley labored.

As she passed by, he glanced up and beckoned her into the room where he sat pouring over sketches of the lighthouse he had constructed near the Eddystone rocks.

“Are you hilla-ridden, child?” he asked, using the Cornish term for “nightmare.”

“My worst nightmares seem to occur during my waking hours,” she confided.

Winstanley frowned, turning from his work to face her. “I wish I knew of a way to help you.” His eyes strayed to the lighthouse sketches and he eagerly began to riffle through the contents of his desk drawer. His hand closed over a large key, which he dropped into Rachael’s lap.

“That is a spare key to my greatest creation, the Eddystone Light. If you are ever in need of a safe place, go there. The lighthouse has enough provisions to last for several weeks. It has withstood many storms; you’d be safe there. My greatest wish is to be on the reef during the greatest storm that ever blew under the face of heaven,” he said. “Perhaps you’ll agree to a tour after this business in Devon is finished?”

Rachael nodded, unable to keep her mind from dwelling on the impending meeting with Sebastién. She could not shake the feeling that she was being forced to participate in a game missing several key players and one with no clear set of rules.

When the rider appeared, his cries roused everyone from their beds. They stumbled disheveled and bleary-eyed toward the entryway.

“What is it?” Tarry exclaimed.

With a flourish, the rider produced the letter Jacques had given him. Tarry snatched the paper from the man’s hand and Rachael peered over Tarry’s shoulder as he ripped open the envelope. Her eyes followed the words as Tarry read them aloud.