Ring of Secrets (3 page)

Miss Reeves curtsied, her gaze on her grandfather now, though his granite face didn't soften in the slightest. “I trust you are enjoying your birthday celebration, Grandfather?”

“Quite.” He looked as though
enjoying
wasn't a word in his vocabulary. “Allow me to introduce Mr. Bennet Lane, of the Manhattan Lanes. Mr. Lane, my granddaughter and ward, Miss Winter Reeves.”

She didn't look at him, though she turned her face his way. When
he held out a hand, she settled her fingers on his so lightly as to barely touch him at all.

Still, awareness coursed through him. She was even lovelier up close than from afar. A narrow bridge of a nose, lips of a perfect rose, brows that bespoke hair the color of his favorite mahogany chair—if one could see beneath the powder coating each lock, anyway.

He bowed over her hand. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Reeves.” Ah, not so much as a stutter. He would do his debate professor proud.

She drew in a breath too short, too sharp. And finally she lifted her eyes to his.

They were green. Deep as an emerald and not just in color. So many thoughts, so many needs seemed to swirl within those jewel-like irises for one fraction of a second—then it was as if a door slammed shut and they were only eyes. Pretty, empty eyes.

The strain was gone from her posture, and the turn of her lips looked half bored. “Likewise, Mr. Lane.”

He let her fingers go but couldn't convince himself to look away from her perfect countenance. Not so much as a twitch revealed any thought at all, but he knew well he hadn't imagined it.

Winter Reeves was more than the face she showed this crowded ballroom. Why did she feel she must hide it? And what, exactly, was
it
that she hid? Puzzling.

One corner of his mouth tugged up. Ben loved nothing so much as a puzzle. “Mr. Hampton, may I have the honor of dancing with your granddaughter when the next set begins?”

Hampton glowered. “She would be delighted.” Another word that seemed foreign to his frowning mouth.

Mrs. Hampton, however, beamed. As for Miss Reeves…if he weren't mistaken, that look of ennui upon her face was designed specifically to put him off.

Well, they would see about that. Any philosopher, be he political or scientific or abstract, knew that sometimes one must revise one's stated mission. His may have to become twofold.

Find the Patriot spy in New York.

And unravel the mystery that was Winter Reeves.

Two

R
obert Townsend leaned against the cold, damp bark of the tulip tree and folded his arms over his chest. Shrouded by darkness, he watched the glittering assembly through the window and let himself shake his head at it all. He made a good living by selling imported goods to families like the Hamptons. A respectable family and his work for the
Royal Gazette
guaranteed him entry to any gathering he could wish to attend.

But the secrets…much as he believed in his cause, much as he knew he did right by helping the Patriots, the secrets gnawed at him until his stomach was a constant, roiling ball of dread.

At least all this business brought him closer to Winter. He watched her slip out the rear door of her grandparents' house and glide through the deep shadows at the side of the yard. Seeing her decked in such finery still gave him pause. In Oyster Bay she had been just another village girl. Pretty enough, in her simple way. Homespun dresses and a deep Congregational faith to do her Puritan ancestors proud.

Now he sighed each time he saw how little remained of sweet little Winter. What hadn't been snuffed out by the strong arm of the British, by her father's fleeing to take up the colors for the Patriot cause,
by her mother's sudden death had been pressed upon and crushed by her grandparents.

When she stole up beside him in the protective blackness of the tree's broad trunk, Rob offered a lopsided smile. “So kind of you to slip away to keep tryst, fair lady. Seeing you in such glorious beauty has made my heart take wing—”

She interrupted him with a laugh, bright and free as it had been when they were children, if quieter. “Your poetry is atrocious, Robbie. But lucky for you, I shall forgive it. I have news.” She stepped closer and rubbed her gloved hands over her arms. The night was icy, but she hadn't grabbed a wrap.

“Here.” He shrugged out of his cloak and draped it over her shoulders. “You will freeze in half a second dressed like that.”

“It would have looked strange for me to grab a cloak. And it hardly matters as this will only take a moment.” But she pulled the wool close. The moonlight caught her face and painted her in silver.

She wore silver well.

“Colonel Fairchild mentioned this evening that they are counterfeiting—”

“We already know that.” Any hope he'd felt deflated. He'd promised a correspondence to Woodhull—operating as Culper Senior to Rob's Culper Junior—but he would have nothing of substance to put in it.

Winter pursed her lips. “Would you let me finish? I know well they have been counterfeiting congressional dollars for years, but there has always been a flaw—”

“Their paper is too thick. Yes, we all know that. It has still succeeded well in devaluing the dollar.”

“And it is about to succeed even better.” She straightened her shoulders and raised her chin. “Fairchild said they've managed to steal several reams of paper from the last emission in Philadelphia.”

Though Rob never traded in dollars in the British-held city, it still struck like a blow. “The very paper? Then there will be
no
telling them apart from the genuine articles, and the money will be totally without backing. And so—”

“Worthless.” Winter nodded. “You must let them know. Congress can perhaps withdraw the bills from circulation before it is too late.”

“Let us pray so.” For a moment he stared into the night, and then at the windows spilling golden light. Couples danced, moving about as if oblivious to the war. Clad in their silks and velvets, their lace and jewels.

“Well.” Winter took his cloak off again and held it out to him. “I have nothing else beyond the normal. We are swimming in luxuries and cannot get staples. Morale among the Tories wavers under the weight of the military's heel, but they all still consider the Patriot cause a futile one and doubt Washington will be able to muster another campaign.”

“Unchanging.” Rob slipped the cloak back on. Even after so brief a time around her, it smelled of Winter. Lavender and violets. “There is one thing more. I had a letter from my father the other day, who had heard from yours. A brief note to assure anyone wondering that he is well.”

Moonbeams caught the tears that sprang to her eyes and turned them to diamonds. Lovelier by far than those dangling at her ears. “Thank you, Robbie. If your father writes him back, I would appreciate him including that I miss him—that he remains always in my prayers.”

“Of course.” He said no more, made no attempt to detain her when she spun back for the house. Even if the constriction of his chest insisted he was allowing her to return to a lion's den. Perhaps so, but it was not his place to shut the lions' mouths. The Lord Himself would have to do that.

Sighing, Rob turned toward the property's back gate—and nearly shouted in alarm when a massive shadow blocked his path.

“Mr. Townsend?”

“Freeman.” Rob swiped at his brow and bade his pulse return to normal. “Did no one ever teach you not to lurk in shadows?”

Winter's servant grinned, the whites of teeth and eyes the only thing visible in the darkness. “No, sir. They taught me to use them well instead. Mr. Townsend, I worry for her. I help her much as I can, but I worry, and I would be lying if I said otherwise. This game you two play—”

“'Tis no game, Freeman.” Pulling his cloak tight, Rob moved nearer to the man, and hence the gate. “'Tis the most serious matter in the world.”

“Exactly, sir. Her daddy made me swear on the grave of mine that I would take care of her, that I would make sure no harm came to her because of his loyalties. But if she gets caught helping you in this—”

“I would never let that happen. Never.” Rob craned his head up to look into the towering face of the son of a slave, the only other link Winter had to her family on Long Island. “No one will ever know how she helps me.”

Freeman stepped aside. “See that they don't, sir. The Hamptons would toss her to the streets in a blizzard if they caught even a whiff of scandal. They hold her accountable for her mother's decisions and made it pretty clear that if she fails to atone for Amelia's ‘bad' marriage with a brilliant one of her own, they will wash their hands of her.”

He couldn't hold back the snort. “That may be the best thing for her. I hate seeing how they have stifled her spirit.”

But Freeman shook his head. “You don't understand. The mister, he hates her. He hates her just for being, and he never would have let her step foot in his house if weren't for the missus wanting to redeem her reputation through Winnie. I heard him threaten to drop her off in Holy Ground if she doesn't behave herself. No good to come of that.”

“No.” Icy fear settled like lead in the pit of Rob's stomach. Sweet Winter, tossed in with every disease-ridden
harlot in New York? Nay, it was too evil to even ponder. “It shan't come to that, Freeman. You have my word.”

The man nodded, the movement barely discernible in the darkness. “You take care too, Mr. Townsend. No good to come of you getting caught, neither.”

“Don't I know it.” He slipped out of the gate, lifting a hand in farewell even though he doubted the older man would be able to see it.

The nausea churned, exacerbated somehow by the rows of mansions in this part of the city. True, many of them now housed British soldiers instead of wealthy families. The Hamptons had avoided that solely because of their connections with Governor Tryon and the favor they had incurred with Generals Howe and Clinton.

Rob's Quaker roots nevertheless thrummed within him at this obvious display of mammon. He had grown up in a home too affluent to earn the approval of the Friends, but even Father's taste for finery,
even Rob's own focus on successful business ventures, had nothing on this kind of excess.

Yet only a few miles away, evidence of the Great Fire lingered. Hundreds of buildings, a third of the city's housing, still lay in ruins. Every month, it seemed, there was a new scare about the state of provisions. Would there be enough flour to last the winter? Enough firewood? Enough straw?

Would he live to see it even if there were? If he were caught…

Well, he mustn't be. That was all there was to it.

The blustery fingers of the winter wind snuck into his cloak as he hurried home, but Rob ignored them. Soon enough he climbed the stairs to his apartment. He roused the fire, and its warmth chased away the chill. Bathed in its orange glow, he picked up his quill.

On the newest paper he could find, he penned a simple note. A letter seemingly about mercantile business, any names mentioned the coded ones they had agreed on. He was careful to leave ample space between all the lines.

While it dried, he moved over to the bookcase. He had added two new tomes to his shelves that afternoon, and the promise of evenings well spent in their company made him smile. Rather than pull them out now, though, he removed the entire line of books and then the piece of wood on which they sat.

There, in the few inches of space between shelf and floor, he kept his most important tools. Vials of what they called in their letters “medicine,” which the Misters Jay shipped to General Washington in crates marked as such.

He took out the ink and the special quill he used with it, and then moved back to his desk. He eased the cork from the glass bottle and then halted, squeezing his eyes shut.

What would this news he was about to impart mean to his country? How could a nation hope to survive with its currency diminished to nothing? With what were they funding their government? Their army? Never mind the expenses he and his colleagues incurred through travel and lodging.

“Dear Lord…” Not knowing what to pray, he settled for opening his spirit for a moment and submitting this business, yet again, into the hand of the Almighty. Then he opened his eyes and picked up his quill.

The substance dubbed “the sympathetic stain” by Washington was barely visible as he wrote with it, such a pale yellow, and it dried into nothingness. Only the sheen of candlelight on liquid showed him his letters and the dire message they formed. Careful to keep his quill strokes between the lines of regular ink so as not to cause any telltale runs, he penned the terrible news.

They think America will not be able to keep an army together for another campaign. Everyone reasons that the currency will be depreciated, and that there will not be enough provision to supply the Army. The concern for the currency I am afraid will prove true, as the British are tireless in increasing the quantity of it. Several reams of paper made for the last emission struck by Congress have been stolen from Philadelphia.