Ring of Secrets (37 page)

Perhaps tomorrow would be soon enough to satisfy the urgency? If he detoured to Fairchild's office, there was no way he would have time to talk with Mother about a ring for Winter. 'Twas dubious he would even then have time to put on a wig.

Shame, that.

Still. Stopping by either the barracks or the headquarters inevitably meant waiting. Often earning glares from soldiers who considered him nothing but an inconvenience who had no business being underfoot. And, really, he was in no mood to be surrounded by army men when his mind was occupied with Winter. And chemistry.

Haste unto the den of lions
.

Tempted to growl like one himself, Ben shoved Fairchild's letter into his satchel and wished his mind would cease with the Bible quotations. Perhaps he ought to ignore it, solely to prove a point. Besides, if the verse from Daniel had struck correctly, it would have been complete:
Then the king arose very early in the morning, and went in haste unto the den of lions.

See? Morning. Morning would be plenty of time.

He strode out of the coffee shop, hesitated, and then angled for Fairchild's office. Deuces. Ridiculous as the verses were, they had yet to lead him astray. And there had surely been a reason his first thought hadn't included the “morning” part. Probably because the colonel was already down, he needed no more kicks. Ben had no idea what kind of trouble might visit Fairchild if he lost something important, something that could
not
wait until morning, but he didn't intend to play a part in it when a simple detour would help his friend.

He nodded a greeting to a few gentlemen headed toward Rivington's and lengthened his stride. If Providence were with him, he would find Fairchild alone and unoccupied and be able to hand off the envelope without delay. Or better still, the colonel would be busy but his aide present and able to take it for him. Then he could rush directly home and find Mother. Perhaps they would even have time to sort through the jewels.

Did they have an emerald set? Ben had never paid the slightest
attention to such details as what jewelry his mother wore, but emeralds would complement Winter's eyes. If it were such an easy decision, he would try to find a time to propose tonight. Take her out into the garden—no, that idea made him wince. That was where Fairchild had nearly made the same offer last winter. Perhaps the library.

That would do. Propose tonight, and the banns could be read beginning this Sunday. It may take some doing, but surely they could convince the Hamptons to forgo a large ordeal so they might have the nuptials as soon as possible, in three weeks. They could be back in Connecticut before November. Perhaps a goal of returning before the snow came would convince everyone that haste—and hence simplicity—was a fine plan.

'Twas worth trying, at any rate.

A few minutes later the house-turned-offices loomed before him, and Ben jogged up the steps with a whistle. Which died when he entered and saw both outer and inner desks empty. He could set the envelope in a place to be seen, he supposed, but he would rather make sure Fairchild knew it had been delivered so he didn't go off in search of it.

“I don't know, General.” Fairchild's faint voice came from above stairs.

Ben, brows drawn, moved toward the staircase and then hesitated. He had made several visits to this building over the last near year, but he had never had cause to go up to the second floor and felt odd doing so now. Especially if the colonel were meeting with a superior. Better to wait.

“Not good enough, Colonel.” This second voice was unfamiliar, though the accent was American—certainly not General Clinton. Arnold, perhaps? “According to André, it has been known for a year that there are spies in the city. A
year
, Colonel. Tell me, how have you gone so long without uncovering them?”

A floorboard squeaked overhead, and Ben could well imagine Fairchild shifting from foot to foot. “Well, sir, I suppose because we were not willing to arrest each and every person in New York with some distant tie to the rebels—lest our jails, as you have already discovered, become too full for us to manage.”

Definitely Arnold.

“Careful, Fairchild. You may not yet be accustomed to answering to me, but I am nevertheless your superior.”

Oh, how Ben would have liked to see the expression on Fairchild's face at that one. From what he had gleaned from the colonel's tight-lipped responses to recent events, he was one of many officers who greeted his new general dubiously.

“My apologies, sir. I am still a bit raw from André's untimely loss.”

The general grunted, a sound that barely made it to Ben's ears. Loud footfalls sounded, then the slide of a turning heel, then footfalls again. “Colonel, allow me to be blunt. For at least a year, perhaps more, General Washington has been operating an elite group of spies from this very place. A group that has fed him information that has allowed him to foil your every move, to counteract the covert steps
you
have taken. And your only reaction to this is that you feared making your jails too full?”

Though he could hear nothing but reverberating silence, Ben had a feeling Fairchild sighed. “We have long had a plan in place, sir, to ferret out the vile creatures and use them against the rebels who trust them.”

Ah, yes, the plan. The very one that Archie had overheard André discussing with the infamous redhead he had stolen from him. The one he had then written Ben about. The very one that had brought him here.

“Then why has this plan not been enacted?”

“We have tried—several times. But we had apparently not found the spies you speak of, the ones with Washington's ear. And I know not how we could find them now. We have kept our eyes on several persons of interest, General, and they have all gone silent or disappeared since you arrived. Terrified, no doubt, that you are aware of their identities and will seek them out.”

A valid fear, to Ben's way of thinking. And undoubtedly to the thinking of the spies in question too.

“Not all of them have gone silent.” A pause.

Lighter footsteps. Fairchild's. “What is this? Some kind of letter?”

“Recovered not fifteen minutes ago. One of my scouts saw a man putting it in place, though he could not see enough of said man to be useful. Still. It is written in General Washington's hand, and though
the legible message is benign, there is surely an invisible one. Look, see the ‘A' in the corner?”

“I do.” Rather than ringing with the excitement Ben would have expected, Fairchild's voice fell heavy and low down the staircase. “Have you any idea with what to develop it?”

“Nay. But if there are still secret messages being brought into the city from Washington, then there are still spies here to receive them. And
they
will know with what to develop it. Now, what I need from
you
, Colonel Fairchild, is for you to stop moping and go about avenging your friend's death rather than just mourning him. Do you understand me?”

Another slight pause. “Perfectly, General.”

“Good.”

Ben hurried away as quietly as he could from the stairs and into Fairchild's office, not relishing the idea of being caught eavesdropping on Benedict Arnold. After sinking into his usual chair across from the desk, he indulged in a frown. Was it possible that whomever left that letter didn't know that Townsend was gone? Or had Ben been wrong? Or, another possibility, were others in league with him still operating?

Blast it all. He was ready to be finished with this. He ought to have known better than to think he was, though. It had been far too convenient to be true.

A minute later Fairchild's slow steps came his way, and then his figure appeared in the doorway.

Not wanting to startle him, Ben stood up slowly. “There you are. You left this at Rivington's. I thought I had better drop it by.” He fished out the letter.

“Lane.” Rather than offering a smile, Fairchild swept his wig off his head and tossed the thing onto his chair.

Ben stared at it. Men aplenty treated their wigs like hats, doffing them whenever they came indoors, but Fairchild had never before removed his careful curls in Ben's company. A sign of comfort?

Nay. It smacked instead of defeat.

Loosing a blustery sigh, Fairchild passed a hand over his cropped hair and sank onto the corner of his desk. “Been here long?”

“Only a moment. Are you all right?”

With an unamused breath of laughter, the colonel scrubbed a hand
over his face. “Do you ever wonder at the point of it all, Ben? Why we keep on when none of it makes sense anymore?”

Ben filled his lungs with a long, slow breath. In their months of growing friendship, that was the first time Fairchild had ever used his given name. A contemplated answer was called for. “I have wondered that, yes. I think, Isaac, that we keep on because there is comfort in routine. Because we do not want to shirk our duties. And because we trust that the decisions we made rationally are to be trusted above our emotions at a given time.”

Fairchild met his gaze, shoulders still slumped. “But what of when our logically deduced duty tells us to do what our hearts scream is wrong?”

A frown burrowed into Ben's brow before he could stop it. Was it the business Arnold assigned that settled so ill, or simply answering to a man he didn't trust? “We do what we must, I suppose, after weighing the consequences of our decision. And, of course, reevaluating based upon that, for sometimes the best-laid plans must be changed along with the circumstances. The best theories revised when new facts are discovered.”

Lips pursed, Fairchild nodded and held out a hand. “What is it I forgot?”

“Some kind of letter. Had it not said ‘urgent,' I would have waited until morning, but…”

“Thank you.” After staring at it for a moment, the colonel tossed it to his desk. “You had better get home, Ben. The Hamptons would probably appreciate it if you had time to dress.”

Though he nodded, it seemed he should say something more. Something insightful and encouraging. If only he knew
what
. “I…” Ben sighed and turned toward the door. “I am no good with this sort of thing, Isaac. If you were an element in my laboratory, I would know exactly what to do, but…”

Fairchild chuckled. “You manage well enough.”

Kind of him to say so, though Ben had his doubts. “Coffee tomorrow?”

“I will be there at the usual time.”

“Until then, then.” With another nod, Ben exited the office and
the building. Would it be terribly unseemly to run all the way home? Probably. He should have brought his horse.

Walking as fast as he could without completely compromising his sense of propriety, Ben willed his brain to provide some handy advice on what to do for Fairchild. He would even welcome a Scripture, if it would help. Wasn't there a proverb about a friend's counsel being like ointment and perfume? That one would be good.

If it would then tell him what counsel he ought to offer.

No answers had struck him by the time he reached home, so he filed the concern away for later rumination and let his thoughts turn back to Winter as he walked in the door. If they had no emeralds, then rubies would complement her skin perfectly. Those were rubies that Mother used to wear every Christmas, weren't they? Or perhaps garnets?

“There you are, Bennet.” Mother stepped into the doorway to the sitting room, a smile upon her face. “We received a letter from Clefton and were waiting on you to read it.”

“Oh. Ah…” He put a hand on his satchel and glanced up the stairs.

Mother arched a regal gray brow. “Come and read it, and then you can take your things up and dress for the evening. You know your father is never verbose.”

Nay, he always got his points across quite succinctly.
Bennet, you must come soon. There is much to learn, and you have played long enough at chemistry. Duty awaits.

No doubt Mother was so eager to read the letter because she wanted him pondering Father's latest demand to cross the Atlantic all through dinner tonight. She would hope that entertaining such contemplations while in Winter's company would make him see the inaccurate point she insisted on—that Winter would not be a suitable mistress for Clefton.

Stubborn woman.

Well, 'twould be quicker to agree about the letter than to argue with her. He handed his hat and lightweight greatcoat to the waiting servant and strode into the sitting room. Archie was already sprawled over the settee, looking bored and impatient. He acknowledged Ben with a wave of his wrist. “Have at it, Benny old boy. Mother insisted, as usual, that we wait for you to read it to us.”

Ben accepted the sealed envelope from his mother and sat in his usual armchair, near the fire. “Very well, then.” He frowned a moment at the script on the outside. Not his father's hand. He must have had a servant post it again. He couldn't say why that bothered him so, but when one couldn't find the time to write a simple address on a letter…

Ah, well. No point getting irritated about something so trivial. He broke the seal and pulled the paper from inside it.