Ring of Secrets (20 page)

He strode toward the room Fairchild used most often and caught sight of him at his desk. Another man was on the other side of it. Fairchild looked up, smiled, and held up a hand to signal he would be only a minute more. Ben nodded and moved out of the way.

A painting caught his eye, so he positioned himself in front of it. Though after a moment, he gave it no thought. Would Winter persist in her stubbornness indefinitely? Until he gave up?

Yet how could he? Even as she dismissed him, her conflict had shone through. She did not
want
to be what the Hamptons made her, but obviously she did not want to be honest with him, either, or she would let down her walls when they were alone.

The way she had done so briefly on Christmas. Or on the night she had learned of her home's destruction. Those times he had gotten a tantalizing glimpse of the mind beneath the mask.

Where had that Winter gone in the past three months? He had begun to think she had died away entirely. Begun to despair. But then the jesting today…

“I'm telling ye, Fairchild, something must be done about those blazing whaleboaters.” The voice from Fairchild's office was unfamiliar and bore the cadence of a lower-bred British man. “They attack rebel and British ships alike, which makes it nigh unto impossible to carry out our missions on the sound.”

Fairchild sighed. “Would that I could solve this dilemma, but I am at a loss as to how. You have more experience on the sound than I do—”

“Aye, but little good it does me. I no sooner think I have an enemy in my sights than those pirating scoundrels descend.”

The sound of fingers drumming on wood came into the hall. “You have had no luck of late determining who may be ferrying messages to Long Island?”

Ben's ears perked up.

The other man let out an exasperated breath. “For all the good it does me. I be all but certain one Caleb Brewster of Setauket is involved, but the man's a slippery fish. I no sooner get a tip that he is at sail than he has disappeared again or the blasted pirates get in me way.”

Brewster…the name struck a chord in Ben's memory. Not an uncommon one in New England, to be sure, but
Caleb
Brewster. He pressed his lips together and called to mind all the many documents and correspondence he had chased down in the past few months.

Caleb Brewster, if he recalled, had gone from whaleboating as a profession to an active member of the Patriot military. One who was suspected of seeking out information up and down the coast—and for what purpose but to pass it to Washington?

The question to Ben's mind was whether the man acted as an independent scout or if he had ties to the secret organization operating
in the city. He had yet to find anything supporting a theory of more involvement, but something niggled.

Setauket, that was it. Nothing but a small Long Island town. But he had read its name just yesterday.

A fellow by the name of Tallmadge came from the same town, a high-ranking aide in Washington's army. Ben had yet to discover much about him, but he would seek out any information on the Long Islander he could find.

Not that two men in the Patriot army coming from the same town was any great coincidence.

Who is my neighbour?

Ben scowled at the painting, for lack of being able to scowl at the words that had invaded his mind. What business had these Bible verses to hit him at strange moments? First that bit about watching and listening from Isaiah, in his garden—now this, from the story of the Samaritan? Nonsense, utter nonsense. The whole point of that passage was that a true neighbor was not one who lived near, but one who demonstrated godliness and did right by one. Whereas he was now wondering about
actual
neighbors.

And yet…how many from Setauket had joined the rebel army? Would doing so have created a bond that turned them from neighbors only thanks to location to true friends? Or had they perchance already been such, hence why they made similar decisions? If in fact they were neighbors in a deeper sense of the word, could it prove a link useful to his search? Would Brewster have passed his information to his high-ranking friend rather than directly to Washington, for instance?

He clasped his hands behind his back and directed a mental grunt toward the part of his mind that had come up with the verse. Perhaps it would be helpful after all, but couldn't his brain have found some other clever literature to quote to him? The Bible was a fine manual for instructing man in how to behave properly, and certainly he had the utmost respect for the Creator, but he had little use for those who referred only to it for every detail of their lives.

The Creator, after all, had endowed them with reason so that they might use it. No doubt intending they not then bother
Him
with their problems all the day long.

If any further speech were exchanged between Fairchild and the
second man, Ben must have missed it, for a chair scraped across the floor and a soldier hastened out. Fairchild followed soon after, putting his hat upon his head. “Is the weather as fair as it promised to grow this morning?”

Ben smiled. “Quite tolerable. I dropped my cloak at home on my way here. But also brisk enough that we will enjoy a respite with a hot mug of coffee at Rivington's.”

“Perfect.” Fairchild led the way toward the exit, and a moment later they were in the warm sunshine. “Ah, lovely indeed. You were out already this morning?”

“Yes, I went…” He cleared his throat to cover his hesitation. 'Twould surely be thoughtless to share the whole truth. “For a stroll.”

But Fairchild sent him a knowing sideways glance. “With Miss Reeves, I take it? How is she? I have not seen her in more than a week, and then only a glimpse across a ballroom.”

Ben frowned. He had obviously not lost interest in her, so… “Why is that?”

A sigh gusted from Fairchild's mouth and joined the refreshing spring breeze. “I was told when I came to visit last week that she was not at home. And her grandfather informed me at the ball that she was not feeling well and ought not be bothered with more dancing, and when I tried to make my way over to her, her grandmother intercepted me.”

“Sounds like a blockade.”

Fairchild nodded, looking like a dog that had been kicked. “I have been thinking the same.”

“But why?”

He turned that mournful expression on Ben. “I daresay it is because I am not you, Mr. Lane.”

Ben could only stare at him for several paces. “Ought that not be a mark in your favor?”

Fairchild laughed, though the light left his countenance again a moment later. “Apparently not, my friend. For though—and I mean no offense—I come from a family superior to yours, I cannot boast the same pending fortune. My mother is a daughter of a duke, my father an earl, but I am a third son, and both my older brothers have heirs already. The second will inherit my mother's estates, which leaves me
with what I can earn myself. And apparently the Hamptons prefer wealth to pedigree. Again, I mean no insult to your family. They are not lacking in good blood by any means.”

Ben grinned to assure him he took no offense. “But we have no duke in our immediate ancestry. You need not apologize, Fairchild. I know I am no aristocrat.”

“You are a perfectly likable man, though, and immensely wealthy besides. I recognize that. Still, to be barred from her presence as I have been…”

The poor fellow looked downright haunted about it. “I had no idea they were acting that way. Frankly, I assumed you visited on the days I do not.”

“When I can, but they turn me away as often as they let me in.”

Ben paused at a street corner for a carriage to rumble by, and then they strode across together. “Knowing how much you care for her, that must be painful. I feel as though I ought to offer to step aside so that they will not hold my family's fortune against you.”

Fairchild sent him a crooked smile. “While I appreciate the thought, I know you care for her too. So please, make no such offers on my account.”

“Speaking of offers…forgive me if I am prying, but I am surprised you have not made one for her already.”

The colonel sidestepped a child sprinting down the street. “I did. I was informed by a sour and dour Mr. Hampton that they were not ready to part with their precious grandchild quite yet. Which I took to mean they would not grant permission to me until they knew whether you intended to propose.”

Ben stopped short and then waited for Fairchild to turn around from a step ahead. “When was this?”

Eyes on the ground, he seemed to debate his answer for a moment. “In January.”

“What?” Ben could scarcely fathom that. He and Fairchild had met at least once a week for coffee since then, and the man hadn't said a word. “Why did you never mention this?”

“It is hardly something one shares with one's rival suitor, no matter how good a friend he has become. You must grant me my pride.”

“Yes, but…” Ben huffed to a halt. “Had I realized—”

“You would have done what? You are trying to make up your own mind, Lane. I ought not to factor into your decision.” Looking uncomfortable with the conversation, Fairchild straightened his red jacket and turned.

Ben would have fallen in beside him again, had another man in a red coat not come barreling toward him yelling, “Bennie!”

He nearly groaned. “Archie, don't—”

Too late. His brother attacked him with all the exuberance he would have had they been in their own home. And he had the gall to laugh as he locked an arm around Ben's neck.

For the first time in his life, Ben was tempted to put up a real fight to avoid being “bested” by his little brother. Instead, he put up none at all, but just said calmly—or as calmly as one could manage when stuck under a man's armpit—“All right, Archibald, you have now embarrassed me in front of all the City of New York. If you are quite satisfied…”

Archie laughed again and released him. While bent over, Ben collected his hat from the puddle it had fallen into and shook his head over the dripping stain. When he straightened, he found his brother staring, open mouthed, at Fairchild.

“You must be jesting.” Glancing at him, Archie shook his head. “You and Fairchild? Out and about together? What in the world do the two of you have to talk about other than Miss Reeves, and why in the world would you want to talk about her to each other?”

Fairchild glared at Archie with all the superiority his ducal grandfather likely would have used on a wayward tenant. “And a good morning to you too, Major Lane.”

“Colonel.” Archie's too-polite smile fell away after a mere heartbeat. He turned to Ben again. “It's no wonder you have become duller than ever if you willingly spend your time with this—”

“Do watch your tongue,
Major
,” Fairchild said, sounding bored. “In spite of your recent promotion, I still outrank you.”

Archie rolled his eyes. “You see? All seriousness, all the time. Perhaps it is no wonder the two of you get along, actually. Neither one of you knows how to be anything but dull.”

“Archie.” But he had no new admonition, so Ben shook his head and sent a look toward Fairchild that he hoped conveyed his apology.

Archie reverted to his usual grin. “On second thought, it may be quite entertaining to hear the two of you converse. Fairchild with his constant stream of upstanding British this and most excellent British that, and Bennie with his Monsieur le Chemist did such-and-such and have you read what no one ever has.”

Ben shut his eyes, though there was no hope his brother would go away until he had been thoroughly embarrassed. “Archie,
really
.”

“And then do you both get all dewy eyed over Miss Reeves? That would be most entertaining of all, two sound-minded men gone daft over a brainless—”

“Watch yourself, Major.” Fairchild's tone brooked no argument this time.

If only his brother ever noticed such things. But no, he crossed his arms and lifted one finger to wag at the colonel. “You see, that is a fine example. She cannot even remember to call me major instead of lieutenant.”

Ben let a laugh slip out before he could stop it. “Actually, Archie, I believe that's intentional on her part.”

His brother's arms fell and his face went serious. Or somewhat serious, anyway. “Why would she blunder intentionally?”

“Because…” Unable to think of a gentle way of phrasing it, Ben shrugged. And yes, grinned. It served the pup right. “She does not like you.”

Archie looked genuinely shocked. “Nonsense. Everybody likes me.”

Fairchild made a show of fussing with the gold braid at his cuff. “Not everyone.”

“Well,
you
don't count, Colonel, and neither does that friend of yours who is off besieging Charleston with General Clinton. He only dislikes me because I stole that pretty redhead out from under his nose last year.”

Ben had to give Fairchild another measure of credit. The man had the patience of a saint. His face betrayed not the slightest annoyance as he redirected his gaze to Archie. “André is too good a man to base his opinions on personal slights, Major. And though I fail to see why
my
opinion counts for nothing, it is hardly to the point. You surely have business to be about, as do your brother and I.”