Till Dawn Tames the Night Page 5

  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."

  Chapter Four

  Aurora stared back into the fiery red eyes. The dragon mesmerized her. She had wandered to the front of the ship only to discover the ship's handsome yet fearful fig­urehead—a green Chinese dragon—lashed to the prow. She marveled at it for a long while, admiring its intricate details. Each green scale seemed to ripple with move­ment; even its painted vermilion mouth seemed to breathe fire. It stared back with a malevolent gaze, and it appeared so real that she thought if she should touch it, it would writhe beneath its lashings. The figurehead seemed to have nothing at all to do with the name Seabravery, but for some reason it reminded her of the ship's owner. He too was handsome yet fear-inspiring.

  A week had passed and Aurora had yet to see the ship's mysterious owner again. It was quite a feat to avoid a person in the confines of the Seabravery, yet somehow she had managed to do it. Her trips to the decks were rare simply because the weather had turned stormy, and she found even her pelisse was hardly enough protection against the cold blasts of Atlantic winds.

  So she had mostly stayed in her cabin or visited with Mrs. Lindstrom. She had eaten with the other passengers in the roundhouse while the captain and the ship's owner had been served in the owner's cabin. In many ways it had been easy to avoid the dark, dangerous-looking man across the passage from her. And avoiding him certainly seemed the safe thing to do, even if it was rather cow­ardly.

  "Quite skillfully carved, isn't it, Miss Dayne?"

  Aurora turned around and found Miss Cordelia Gid­eon standing next to her. Miss Gideon was the nanny of a child, Hester Rune, who had been orphaned. Hester, she had found out, was to go live with her uncle in St. George's, and Miss Gideon was taking her there. Despite the child's good prospects, Aurora had found Hester a sad little thing, much like the children who first entered the Home. Her pity only grew more with each passing day for she discovered the child's nanny was sore com­pensation for Hester's loss. Miss Gideon was a haughty and cool woman who ordered Hester about as if she were a half-wit. The woman seemed to possess no patience at all, and she was a poor choice for governess for a fright­ened young girl. Aurora's heart went out to Hester every time she saw her.

  "Why, good afternoon, Miss Gideon, Hester," Aurora finally said. "I was just exploring the ship and just now discovered the dragon."

  "The dragon scares Hester," Miss Gideon stated sourly. "But every day I bring the child to it so she will no longer succumb to these ridiculous fears."

  Aurora burned with suppressed ire. She looked down at Hester, and the child was desperately trying not to look up at the dragon. Instead Hester's gaze was riveted to the deck, her face frozen in a terrified frown.

  "The child is only five, Miss Gideon," Aurora re­minded her. "Surely you don't expect her to behave as an adult? Why, even I felt a shiver or two run down my spine when I first saw the carved dragon—"

  "The girl is an orphan, Miss Dayne," Miss Gideon answered brusquely. "And being such, Hester cannot af­ford such childish whims. She's alone in the world now. She must expect no coddling."

  Aurora stared at the woman. How well she knew state­ments like that. A retort was just on the tip of her tongue but she bit it back. She knew firsthand what an orphan could or could not afford, and unfortunately the answer was always, not much. They were the castaways of soci­ety, these abandoned children, and in reality Hester was far more fortunate than most. Hester, at least, had an uncle she could live with, and perhaps, later in life, earn her board as a companion to his wife. Most others were tossed to the street, only to find an end not nearly as auspicious as their beginnings.

  Gently Aurora bent to Hester and touched her frock. The child was dressed solemnly in lavender today, the color of half mourning, and Aurora was glad to see it. She found nothing more dreadful than seeing a little girl swathed in black.

  "Aren't you pretty today, Hester," she said. "Now tell me, how do you like this big ship? Much better without the dragon, I wager."

  Hester tentatively looked up but she still did not speak.

  "Tell me, Hester, do you like nursery rhymes?" Aurora continued, determined to see the child smile once before the voyage was over. "I do," she added, "and I know scores of them. Would you like to hear one? My father taught me this one and it's my favorite."

  Slowly Hester nodded. Her eyes grew wide and she waited in anticipation.

  Aurora smiled. "Now you have to follow everything I do. Can you do that?"

  Awestruck, Hester nodded again.

  " 'An angel from heaven came tumbling down.' " Au­rora fluttered her hands downward. When Hester hesi­tantly imitated her, Aurora smiled her encouragement.

  " 'And asked the way to Aran.' " She pointed north. Hester followed, pointing her tiny finger in the direction of Aurora's.

  " ' "I've come to find my long lost star!" ' " She put her hand to her eyes as if shielding them from the sun. Hester did likewise.

  " ' "Can you help me with my errand?" ' " She put her hands together and rested her cheek on them as a cherub would. Hester followed, then began to giggle.

  Aurora clapped her hands and hugged her. It was probably the first time the child had laughed since her parents had died, and the sound was delightful. "Oh, you're terribly quick, Hester! I can see you're going to be an apt pupil!"

  "That's enough of this silliness, Miss Dayne," Miss Gideon remarked, rather rudely. For some reason she looked rather uncomfortable, and her gaze kept darting to a spot behind Aurora. "It will only excite the child, and then she'll be impossible to deal with. Come along, Hester, it's time for tea." With that Miss Gideon took Hester's hand and began dragging her away.

  "But—but—" Aurora stammered helplessly, looking at Hester's forlorn backward glance. There's another verse! she wanted to say, yet it was too late. Before she could utter a sound, the sour-faced Miss Gideon and her melancholy charge were gone.

  Slowly Aurora got to her feet. Irritated, she brushed the wrinkles from her pelisse. She released a huge sigh. The woman was impossible, and the worst part of it was that Hester was the one to pay for it in the long run. Feeling almost de
pressed, she turned back to the dragon. To her dismay, less than three feet from her the ship's owner stood by the the far rail. He was staring at her, an odd expression on his face that looked strangely like tri­umph.

  He smiled then, and for some reason that smile made her fingers instinctively reach for the comfort of her locket, but she couldn't find it, hidden as it was under her woolen pelisse.

  "Mr. Vashon," she began uneasily.

  "Miss Dayne." He nodded his head, another ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "Must we be so formal?"

  "Whatever do you mean?"

  "Simply that I'm called Vashon. I've no other name. So it's absurd for you to pin a title upon it."

  She looked at him. He had no other name. She knew perfectly well what that meant. Yet it was no surprise that this barely civilized man was born on the wrong side of the blanket. The only amazing thing was that being so lowborn he'd still been able to amass such a fortune. And that was easily enough explained away simply by uttering the word "pirate." Her eyes locked with his, and again the sense came over her that he cared not a whit for society and its rules. His bastardry probably concerned him less than would a hangnail. He unsettled her. She was not such a conformist that she had been ready to embrace John and all his ideologies, yet she was not such a renegade that she refused to acknowledge her own place in society as this pirate did.

  "I was pleased to find you out here, Miss Dayne." He stepped toward her. "I hadn't seen you and feared that you were confined to your cabin with seasickness. Frail women on these voyages tend to get struck down like that."

  "I don't consider myself frail, Mr.—" She colored from anger and embarrassment. It wasn't proper to call him "Mr." any longer. Yet calling him "Vashon" seemed completely too intimate.