Come the Night (The Dangerous Delameres - Book 1)

by Skye, Christina

  His accomplice, a long-suffering man named Jonas, appeared at the far side of the carriage. His pistol was trained on the guard, who dropped his weapon and lay flat. The coachman followed, stiff with fear. Jonas caught up the reins and jumped to the horses’ heads, holding them steady. All the while his rifle rested over his arm, in case of any trickery.

  “Very nicely done, my friends. Now I believe I shall make the acquaintance of your passengers.” The highwayman opened his pocket. The two ferrets skittered down the saddle and jumped to the ground. Smiling, he watched their sleek bodies race over the ground and disappear into the shadows beneath the carriage.

  Only then did Blackwood ease Diablo toward the darkened coach. His pistol leveled on the glass pane. Inside, the curtain swung back and forth.

  “Open the door!”

  No answer. The curtain went still.

  “You choose to be difficult?” Blackwood backed Diablo up and trained his pistol on the coachman. “How many travelers do you carry, man?”

  “T-three.”

  “Men or women?”

  “One m-man. Others be female, sir.”

  Abruptly, shrill screams erupted from the carriage. The door was thrown open, and a very plump and much rouged female emerged, one hand clutched to her heaving breast. “A beast! A rat with snapping teeth, I tell you! Don’t shoot me, sir. I’ll give you whatever you wish, only save me from that monstrous beast!”

  Smiling faintly, Blackwood signaled the woman to the ground beside the coachman.

  In the opened doorway another woman appeared, her head ringed with feathers and her stiff shoulders covered in a fine shawl of Norwich silk. “I am unarmed, sir. Pray do not shoot me.”

  “I do not shoot innocent females.”

  The woman gave him a suspicious scowl as she clasped her reticule before her. “How do I know I can trust you?”

  “You don’t. Now on the ground with you, right beside your friend there.”

  The woman in the feathers sniffed. “Her? She is no friend of mine, I assure you. Besides, I do not care to have my gown muddied. I would prefer to stand.”

  “Alas, your preferences are of no interest to me.”

  “How dare you! Of all the horrid, insolent—”

  Without warning a black shadow emerged on her shoulder. A moment later sharp little teeth snapped the fine cords of her reticule, which fell straight to the ground. There the ferret dropped and snatched it up.

  “Well done, my pet. Over here with you.”

  Squeaking loudly, the well-trained animal streaked over the ground, shot up Diablo’s back, and disappeared into his master’s pocket.

  “You damned foul thief! I’ll have the law on you, that’s what!” The woman’s voice echoed, shrill with fury. “And when they hang you, I’ll be there laughing, do you hear?”

  Blackwood clicked his tongue. “What language for a gently bred female.” His voice hardened. “Down to the ground with you. Unless you’d care for a bullet in those proud white shoulders of yours.”

  The woman gasped. After a quick, uncertain look into the carriage’s interior, she turned. Suddenly her whole bearing changed. Her hand slid to her neck, easing back the silk folds of her shawl to display a brazen expanse of décolletage. “On second thought, perhaps we might reach some sort of arrangement, sir. I am not averse to discussing how our interests might be joined to better advantage.” One white hand settled upon her full breast, clearly outlined against the sheer muslin of her gown.

  “Indeed? And what exactly do you offer in return, madam?”

  The woman’s eyes glittered. Beneath lowered lids she surveyed the highwayman slowly, from masked head to black-clad toe. “Perhaps I should leave that up to you, my lord.”

  Blackwood felt a tug of distaste. “A thousand apologies, but I fear I must refuse your so estimable offer.” He gestured with his pistol. “Now down on the ground with you before I lose all my patience.”

  The woman’s face set into hard lines of fury. Grasping her skirts, she flounced down the carriage steps and lowered herself to the ground beside the others, muttering all the while.

  “Very nicely done. My compliments to your instructor of deportment.”

  The woman’s angry answer informed the highwayman exactly what he could do with his compliments.

  Blackwood laughed softly and then his mouth hardened. “Now for our last traveler.” His pistol nosed toward the shadowed door. “Outside with you! I grow unamused with this little drama.”

  A man’s face appeared in the doorway. His frock coat screamed Weston and the gleam on his new boots hinted at champagne used in their blacking. His face was long and haughty, its thinness emphasized by his chiseled nose.

  He sniffed, waving a square of Belgian lace languidly as if to ward off noxious odors. But there was nothing languid about the dark eyes that scrutinized Blackwood and the four people lying on the ground. “So I finally meet our great highwayman.”

  Blackwood made an ironic bow over Diablo’s head. “And whom do I have the honor of addressing, sir?”

  “I do not think my name need interest you,” came the frigid reply.

  Metal glinted in the moonlight. “There we differ. I repeat, whom do I address?”

  “Renwick, damn you. Lord Renwick.”

  Blackwood’s mouth lifted in the ghost of a smile. “I perceive I am meant to be impressed.” He eased back in the saddle, all insolent ease. “Very well. You will now join your companions on the ground, Lord Renwick.”

  The man scowled. His right hand moved toward his pocket.

  An inch of smoking lead drilled through the carriage wall beside Renwick’s head. “An unfortunate decision, my lord. Should you make another of the same, my next ball will find its mark more painfully and you will never move again. You should also note that the longer you make me wait, the worse my mood becomes.”

  “Very well.” With icy disdain the aristocratic traveler made his way to the ground as directed. Under the watchful eye of his compatriot, Blackwood swung down and made his way into the carriage. He ran his fingers over the cut velvet seat cushions, but found no hiding places. And then from the shadows came a shrill, excited squeak.

  “What is it, my little one?”

  A small, furry face nudged his hand, then darted back to the floor. Slowly Blackwood followed the wooden seat frame with his fingers and was rewarded with the outline of an inset panel. “Well done! Can you open it?”

  For answer the ferret scratched at a piece of metal jutting out from the floor. With a faint scraping sound the panel receded, revealing a cubbyhole set well back beneath the seat. Inside it Blackwood found two loaded pistols, a leather satchel, and a purse that clinked with the sound of gold sovereigns.

  The satchel was what interested Blackwood most. Renwick had Admiralty connections and access to military information. Should Blackwood ever need to bargain for his life, that information might prove very useful.

  But there was no time to examine the satchel’s contents now. With a grim smile the highwayman pocketed the lot, then smoothed his ferret’s sleek pelt. “In with you, too, rascal. Wouldn’t want you to terrorize our guests.” The highwayman eased the black ferret down into the opposite pocket from the animal’s mate.

  Only then did Blackwood make his way back outside.

  Renwick eyed him coldly. “You’ve nothing to show for your pains, rogue. I am not so foolish as to carry my wealth on my person.”

  “Quite right.” Blackwood shrugged. “I can see exactly how clever you are, my lord. Yes, you have flouted me neatly. I can see I will have to be more inventive in the future.”

  He sketched a deep bow and was just turning to remount when a warning shout came from his compatriot.

  He swung about as a shot whined over his shoulder. Instantly another hissed from the second barrel of the miniature pistol Renwick had been concealing up his sleeve.

  Fire burned along Blackwood’s ribs. Cursing, he loosed a ball of his own and sent Renwick’s we
apon spinning off into the darkness. “Most ill-judged, my lord.”

  “The only ill-judged thing was my aim, you scum! Had I another pistol, you’d feel more of the same!”

  Blackwood’s lips curled. Without a word he held up the purse he’d taken from the coach. Metal clanged brightly against metal.

  “Damn you, how did you find it?”

  “I cannot take the credit.” Two pointed faces appeared at the mouth of Blackwood’s pockets, whiskers quivering, bright eyes agleam. “Take a bow, my beauties.”

  “By the devil, what are those?”

  “Meet Lord Renwick, little ones. And you, my lord, meet Stand and Deliver, two of the finest felons in all Norfolk.” The scar at Blackwood’s mouth gleamed coldly for a moment. “Next to myself, of course. And now I believe we shall require the use of your carriage.” Blackwood looked across at his companion. “Tie your horse behind and take the reins.”

  “B-but you can’t!” the woman in the red feathers sputtered. “We — we’ll be stranded out here for hours. Maybe all night!”

  “I should think it highly likely, madam,” came the cool reply. “Few people venture onto Blackwood’s heath after light fades. Few honest people at least.”

  But blood was oozing down his ribs and pain tore at his side. A wave of tiredness washed over him. He had to make haste. “A pleasure to have met you. I trust you will have a diverting night.”

  Renwick’s hands closed to fists. He cursed savagely as the highwayman remounted. “I’ll find you, swine! I’ll not stop until I do. This time you’ve gone too far, for you’ve tampered with official Crown business. But you’ll live only long enough to regret it, by God!”

  “I trust you are wrong, my lord,” Blackwood said silkily. “Meanwhile accept my hopes that the chill of the ground does not worsen your gout.”

  “Worsen my—” Renwick inhaled audibly. “What do you know of my gout, swine?”

  “Everything there is to know, I should imagine. And many other things you might prefer to keep secret. But the moon is rising. It is time for me to bid you adieu.” A lady’s reticule went flying through the air and landed at Diablo’s feet. “I do not stoop to pilfering trinkets from females. Especially when the jewels are worthless paste, madam.”

  Renwick shot his companion a furious look. The woman reddened. “What does he know? They are all there, my lord, exactly as you gave them to me. Check them yourself.”

  “Oh, but I intend to, my love. You may be very certain of that,” Renwick said coldly.

  Blackwood’s assistant, meanwhile, had climbed onto the seat to set the team into motion.

  “Ladies. My lord.” The scourge of the high road bowed with exaggerated courtesy. “Enjoy the beauties of the Norfolk night. I have heard it said that the sky here seems to go on forever. I trust you will not find it quite so far as that to the next hamlet.”

  Blackwood was smiling as he nudged Diablo into a gallop.

  ~ 5 ~

  Silver sighed and brushed back a wayward strand of russet hair. Before her ranged two dozen bottles of lavender oil. They gleamed in the lantern light, pale gold and of excellent quality. They would fetch a fine price from the dozens of superior London establishments whom Lavender Close Farm kept supplied with product for restorative salts, tonics, dusting powders, and perfume.

  Outside the polished glass walls of the conservatory the purple tide of twilight washed up the valley.

  Silver stared out into the darkness, watching lights play along the high road. A carriage, perhaps, or a rider with a need to light his way.

  With a sigh she turned back to the cluttered desk before her.

  She and Tinker had already begun taking precautions against the return of the four men who had swaggered over her fields that afternoon. Next time they would not find Lavender Close undefended!

  But now Silver was bothered even more by the sense of something unfinished here at Lavender Close. Something overlooked. Something that was terribly important.

  She studied the beautiful workroom where her father had carried out all his tests and distilled their first vats of fragrance oil. Here, too, William and Sarah St. Clair had blended their first samples of the haunting perfume that came to be known as Millefleurs.

  Why would such a meticulous man leave behind no records of any sort for his children?

  Silver ran her hand over her father’s burled oak desk, just as she had done a hundred times before. She had searched it drawer by drawer but had found nothing beyond a sprinkling of dust. Where were the careful notes? Where were the lists of essential oils and rare resins he had experimented with in creating Millefleurs?

  The magistrate had had a simple answer. He’d shaken his head, saying that St. Clair had been a secretive man who trusted no one with his discoveries. But Silver couldn’t believe it. There had to be some other explanation.

  For a moment anger coursed through her. Even with the year’s fine yield it would be nip and tuck. The cost of fuel had grown and experienced workers were hard to find. And now with these threats…

  Silver stared at the creamy petals of a camellia, fighting back fury. No matter what, she would not allow Sir Charles Millbank to interfere. That snake would never have Lavender Close! She’d die before she’d let that happen.

  A muttered oath hissed off Silver’s lips as she gave the fine old writing desk a very unladylike kick.

  And then her eyes widened. Was it her imagination or had the desk tilted? Frowning, she bent closer.

  Sure enough, the left rear leg was aslant.

  Pushing aside a spray of jasmine, Silver ran her hand along the back of the desk, but found nothing beyond polished wood. It was only then that the realization hit her. It wasn’t the desk that was awry at all. It was the floor.

  Her angry kick must have dislodged one of the flagstones.

  Breathlessly, Silver shoved the desk toward the wall and tugged at the piece of slate beneath it.

  A moment later she was staring down into a six-inch hole.

  Goose bumps rose along her neck. Was she finally about to have answers to the thousand questions that had haunted her since her father’s death?

  An oilskin bag was the first thing she found. Next came an ebony box inlaid with ivory. It had been shoved to the back of the hole and was covered with a layer of dust. With trembling fingers Silver opened the oilskin bag.

  Seed reports and planting records, all in her father’s careful script, tumbled down onto the floor, more precious to her than any jewels might have been. There had to be ten years’ worth here! But no formula for Millefleurs, she thought, frowning.

  And then Silver’s gaze fell upon the box. Dust streaked the fine wood and grime darkened the brass hinges.

  Carefully she slid back the latch. Inside, nestled on a cut velvet cushion, lay a small book. The leather cover was cracked with age and the pages had turned the color of weak tea. Her father’s diary!

  How often Silver remembered watching him frown over some page, quill clamped between his teeth.

  Her pulse began to race. Opening the heavy, tooled cover, she turned to the first page and began to read.

  Midnight.

  Outside the moon is waning.

  I write from my desk where I can hear the wind sigh, playing through the lavender. I have opened the workroom doors so I can smell the lush, velvet fragrance of the night. Before she died, my beloved Sarah liked to sit here. She could name every flower in bloom, my Sarah.

  Now I try too. There is the sharp sweet tang of lavender along with the clear beauty of violets. There are jasmine and honeysuckle and even the dusky scent of oak moss from the stream.

  But I am no good at this game. Ah, my Sarah could say which variety of seed and even what week the buds were in. She could tell stoechas from augustifolia or dentata, and whether the lavender had come from Hitcham or Provence or even from the faraway hills of Greece.

  Dear Lord, how much I miss her, with the smell of summer all around me. Sweet flowering orange, jasmi
ne, and rosemary all remind me of what I’ve lost.

  They killed her, you see. I realize it all so clearly now that it is too late. They killed my beloved Sarah because I would not do the things they wanted. I was a fool, head over heels in love, and convinced I was invincible. Oh, I told myself I could protect her.

  But I could not.

  And now they are coming again. Last week I found another letter…

  The script ended in a stark slash of black ink. There was no date.

  Silver stared down, frozen, the letters blurring before her eyes. So her father had been in danger. He had been so secretive in those last months, always on edge, yet trying to conceal the worry from her and Bram.

  Then he had taken his final trip abroad for lavender. When he’d come back, he’d seemed so much more calm, the way he used to be when her mother was alive.

  Except that he wasn’t. Not really. His body had been found in the icehouse barely two weeks after his return. His stiff fingers had held a terse note of apology for his children. In the magistrate’s view it was a clear case of suicide.

  Silver hadn’t believed that for a second. How she missed him, with his nonsense and eccentricities. He had known every vine and branch growing on these hills, and he had loved every one of them.

  Now she knew the grim truth: both of her parents had been killed, murdered by criminals who needed William St. Clair’s help in some sort of illicit scheme. The thought was nearly too much for Silver to bear. She brushed away a tear. Now she would have a chance to prove her suspicions. Maybe she and Bram could find the formula for Millefleurs, locate her parents’ murderers, and—

  A creak came from the far wall of the workroom. Quickly she shoved the box down into its hiding place, replaced the piece of slate and slid the desk back over it.