Ring of Secrets (10 page)

He growled, inched forward with hands balled at his sides. “You are nothing but a low-born wench, better suited for mucking out stalls than dancing at balls.”

She folded defiant arms over her chest. “You will hear no argument from me.”

Such agreement only made him growl the louder and fling out an accusatory finger toward Freeman. “You will not spend your time with that Negro, not so long as you are eating at my table and clothed in gowns paid for with my coin!”

Fire burned deep inside, scorching and consuming until it blackened every crevice of her being.

No, not blackened. Purified. Rid her spirit of the chaff to refine the gold within. She lifted her chin and let the fire blaze. “So be it. I will change back into my homespun and leave your table for good.”

His roar filled her ears, joined a moment later by a strange ringing, one that shot arrows of pain through her face, over her skull, and down into her shoulder. Not until she saw his hand fall did she realize he had struck her.

She felt Freeman charge even before she heard his “Winnie!”

“No.” Arm up to stop him, she prayed he would obey. Free or not, her grandfather considered him a slave, and if he dared retaliate it would mean a whipping. Unto death, knowing Grandfather.

He halted, his chest heaving. His rage pulsed from him, compounded with fear and love.

It bolstered her, shored up her spine when the pain in her face and the anger radiating from Grandfather would have doubled her over.

Slipping into her social mask, she lifted a hand to the corner of her mouth and dabbed at the blood there with all the concern she would have given a stray dollop of jam. Then she wiped it on the detestable gown he had purchased with his precious coin.

His eyes narrowed to two frozen slits. “How far do you think you can push me?”

A question she had asked herself time and again over the past year, as he twisted and bent her into his mold, uncaring how many times she cracked or broke. Always, she came back to the knowledge that she must walk a careful line to protect Freeman, to preserve her own
life so there would be a Winter left when Father returned. And then, so she could aid Robbie and the Patriots from the safety of this house.

But there would be nothing to preserve, no way to pass along any information, if she let him take this last shred of her past from her.

She settled her hat back on her head. “One might ask you the same question, sir. I obey you to the letter in everything else. I do only, exactly, what I am instructed when in company. But you will
not
take from me the only family I have left, the only moments of peace I can steal.”

His lips curled back from his teeth. “Or what?”

“Or,” she said slowly, lowly, with a sugar-sweet bat of her lashes, “I will let all of the New York elite know every secret, every hidden shame of the Hampton family. Simple Miss Reeves would certainly be believed if she accidentally let slip, for instance, that information I stumbled upon last month about a certain affair with your friend's wife.”

Though his fingers fisted again, the bob of his Adam's apple said he took her threat seriously. After clenching and releasing his jaw a few times, his nostrils flared and he relaxed his hands. “You have six months from today to decide on a husband and get out of my house. Or I swear to you, Winter, you will take up residence with all the other harlots in Holy Ground, and I will tell the world you are dead.”

He stalked away. Only once he was gone did she let her sobs rise up. Only then did she lift a hand to her throbbing cheek. Only then did she collapse into Freeman's waiting arms.

He folded her in and bent his head over hers. “Father of mercies, hear me for Jesus' sake.”

The familiar words soothed over her like a balm, interrupting her tears with gasps of solace. “Giver of all graces, I look to Thee for strength to maintain them in me, for it is hard…” Her voice broke, but she swallowed and forced the words out around the tears. “For it is hard to practice what I believe.”

Freeman held her tight. “He shall sustain you, Winter. And if that man ever raises a hand to you again—”

“It hardly matters.” She pulled away, sniffed, and lifted her chin. Not because she felt ready to do so, but because Freeman needed to see she could. “I will have to be away from him within six months anyway.”

He shook his head. Strange how eyes dark as midnight could shine brighter than the sunniest day. “Your daddy will never forgive it if I let you marry some Tory you cannot even like all because he isn't here to protect you from it.”

“I see little help for it.” Though her shoulders wanted to sag under the weight of a future that hardly seemed worth living, she held them straight. And, cheek still shooting with pain, she strode toward the house.

She could only hope that she looked purposeful, determined. That he couldn't see the new fractures upon her spirit.

She could only pray the Lord would show her some safe path through this field of briars and snares.

Ben surveyed the coffeehouse from what had become his usual seat over the past five weeks. In this dim corner he could watch the comings and goings of the shop's patrons, enjoy a cup of strong coffee, and hide behind his books and newsprint like many another man here.

All of the usual customers he now knew by face, and most by name. Passing conversations with them had told him that most were either well-respected members of society or, as their red coats declared so boldly, officers in His Majesty's service.

And where there were officers, there was gossip. Sometimes sensitive enough that they ought not bandy it about so carelessly.

The two men at the next table over were talking of the condition of the fleet. But for the life of him, Ben could detect no one but himself paying undo attention—and he was fairly certain
he
was not the one feeding information to Washington.

He didn't seem all that good at finding whoever was, though. Perhaps he ought to have left this clandestine task to someone else. Which he may have done, had he known anyone else he trusted enough in these matters.

Movement ahead of him caught his attention, and his eyes focused upon two sets of boots descending from the private rooms above stairs.
The first man to come into view was a rough-looking character, not at all the usual clientele of Rivington's Coffeehouse. He wore trousers of coarse, stained linen, topped with a patched jacket rather than the waistcoat and greatcoat or cloak that was to be expected in this establishment.

A sailor, Ben would guess, given the style of hat and the scent of brine and fish that wafted his way. A whaleboater, perhaps? The idea made him sit up straighter. Now that warships occupied the harbor, the fleet of whalers had turned to pirating and smuggling more than honest fishing. Everyone he had spoken to with cause to travel across the sound told him of the terror wrought by these maritime menaces.

And his information said it was highly likely that a whaleboater took the messages from the ring of spies in the city to Long Island. Could it be this very man?

The sailor stepped to the side, and the second man came into view. Ben's breath stopped mid-inhale. George? What the deuce was
he
doing with such a companion?

As the two bent their heads together again and exchanged a few words too low for him to hear, Ben's knuckles whitened on the table's edge. He had come here almost daily, but rarely had George ever darkened Rivington's door. Upon being asked why, his friend had informed him with no little distemper that some of them must spend their days at work rather than at play.

Yet there he stood, speaking with a miscreant and having been in a private parlor with him.

No. Ben forced his fingers to relax, his breathing to resume. There was no cause to assume the worst. This could be an honest fisherman, one in need of a weapon to protect himself from the whaleboaters.

Why, then, would he not have gone to the Knight's Arms like a normal customer?

Blast it all. He would not suspect his dearest, oldest friend. 'Twas utter rot to even consider, and he would never had done so had Mrs. Shirley not planted questions about the Knights in his mind.

Still. He hid behind his
Royal Gazette
until George had strode by him and left the coffeehouse. Then rested his forehead in his palm. He ought to have hailed him and let the man explain himself.

But then, what would be the point? If George really were involved in espionage and meeting with a contact at a place such as Rivington's, he would have a lie prepared for anyone he came across.

And for that matter, why the blazes would he set up a meeting in the establishment of a loudly Loyal newspaperman?

On the other hand, where better? No one would ever look for traitors here.

Other than Ben, of course.

Disgusted with himself, he slapped the
Gazette
onto the table and stood, gathering his books and the sack of contraband apples he had purchased earlier. He never should have let himself get involved in this ridiculous spy hunt. Who did he think he was, anyway? A master agent of espionage? A dedicated code breaker, to find and solve the most sophisticated ciphers?

Hardly. Unless the code were a chemical formula, he'd have no idea how to manage anything he
did
find.

He tossed a few shillings on the table to cover his coffee and slung his cloak over his shoulders. It settled upon him like a weight of lead. If only his day were done, and he could escape from all the lies surrounding him. If only he could go home and not have to wonder about George, or whaleboaters, or loose-lipped officers.

But no. He could return home only long enough to change into appropriate dress and head to Hampton Hall, where another of New York's finest liars would smile sweetly up at him, dangle a hint of intriguing truth under his nose, and then snatch it away again.

“Well, well, well. If it isn't Mr. Bennet Lane.”

The voice was not familiar, but when he turned, Ben recognized Colonel Fairchild easily enough. He was without question one of the most noteworthy officers in the city, what with his educated speech and height that overshadowed other men. The way he stood now, one hand on his hip holding back his brilliant coat, his bearing shouted his aristocratic heritage.

Ben had never been more aware of his homespun cloak. “Good day to you, Colonel.”

“I would ask you to join me in a cup, but I see you are on your way out. No doubt to prepare for your evening with the Hamptons.” Oddly,
Fairchild's words rang not only with mild challenge, but with amusement, and he gave Bennet a friendly enough smile.

Blast it, the man had dimples. Perhaps that was what made the females swoon so over him. He probably didn't even consider Ben a threat to his suit of Miss Reeves.

Well, and perhaps he wasn't. Perhaps he didn't want to be. Perhaps, if she expected him to believe that she cared nothing for thinking, then he would cease giving her any of his thoughts, and so cease to care.

'Twas about as likely as creating gold from lead. Possible in theory, but it would require a bit of magic to achieve it.

He dug up a returning smile. “I am afraid you are correct, sir. Though another day I would be delighted to join you.”

“A shame. I have met your brother, you know—and despite that, I look forward to becoming better acquainted with you.” Fairchild took a seat at the table Ben had just vacated and hooked an ankle over the opposite knee. “Perhaps tomorrow then, an hour earlier.”

The insinuation about his brother hardly even struck him, so keen was the relief that stole through the tension wracking Ben's shoulders. Tomorrow seemed a fine time to deal with this. “Excellent. I shall await you here.”

“Until then, Mr. Lane.”

Well, that had not been so bad. Ben smiled, nodded, and turned.

“Oh, Mr. Lane?”

And sighed. He ought to have known better. “Colonel?”

Fairchild pushed the other chair out with his foot. “One moment, if you please.”

Rather than looking petulant through hesitation, Ben simply sat, making sure his expression was affable. “Certainly.”