Ring of Secrets (39 page)

Winter smiled and squeezed Mrs. Lane's fingers. “Of course. Did you get any sleep?”

“Directly after you read to me, yes. Though I awoke some hours later and could not sleep again.” The lady sighed and rubbed at her shadowed eyes. “How I wish you and Bennet were already married so that you needn't leave us. Do you think your grandmother would consent to staying here with you for a few days?”

For a moment Winter could find no answer, no words at all. Not twenty-four hours ago, it would have been unthinkable to all involved that Mrs. Lane would be so eager for her presence. Perhaps she ought to have abandoned pretense around her months ago, despite Grandmother's insistence she shouldn't. Certainly
this
was not the way she had hoped to earn a place in the Lane family.

But then, yesterday was when the Lord had made it clear she was to be only herself. Rather than indulge in regrets, she would thank Him for using her to provide some measure of comfort.

“I cannot say of what Grandmother may approve, and unfortunately she remained at home with a headache.” Winter offered a small smile. “But if she would agree to it, know I would come most willingly and remain as long as you wanted me here.”

Mrs. Lane held her gaze long enough that Winter thought she might reference their less-than-amiable history, or make some comment about the change in her. Instead, the woman gave her a ghost of a smile and led her toward the sitting room. “The Bible you read from is in here.”

Winter took a seat, accepted the hefty tome, and opened to the Psalms, where she had left off last night. 'Twasn't difficult to find some of David's words that sang of both heartbreak and joy, battles lost and faith won. After reading several chapters, she closed her eyes and succumbed to the urge to pray.

“O Lord, infinite and infallible, let us dwell in that secret place within Your shadow, where no fear nor malice nor strife can overcome Your safe protection. We can turn nowhere but to You for consolation, wisdom, and support.” She drew in a deep breath when Mrs. Lane reached for her hand again and clung to it. “And so, God of our ends, we bow before You with spirits contrite and broken, ready for the salve of Your Spirit, so graciously offered us so that we might approach You when our own natures would forbid it. Breathe Your strength into us, Father of our fathers, and prepare our hearts to reflect Your glory, for only in You rests any victory in these times of lamentation. Amen.”

“Amen.” Bennet's voice came from the door, though Winter had no idea how long he had been there. She opened her eyes to find him regarding them with contented sobriety. “Not to interrupt, Mother, but your friends have begun to arrive.”

“Thank you, Bennet.” Mrs. Lane stood and pulled Winter up with her, though she transferred Winter's hand to Bennet's arm once they reached him. “Would the two of you handle the receiving for a moment? I am going to send a note to Mrs. Hampton straightaway.”

“Certainly, Mrs. Lane.”

Bennet waited until his mother had gone, and then he loosed a low groan. “I came in here hoping to avoid having to greet our visitors. They all arrived with their daughters, and I don't relish making a fool of myself today. I cannot bring myself to imagine them as young men in costume.”

“As what?” Not sure whether to laugh or shake her head, Winter stared at him.

One corner of his mouth pulled up. “Just a little trick George
recommended to help me speak to baffling females with some coherence. After observing, that is, that I have no trouble talking to our school chums with whom I have little more in common.”

Leave it to George Knight. Winter pressed her lips together against a smile. “Now I am curious. Did you do this with me? Is that why in the beginning you would suddenly seem to find your tongue?”

He tucked her hand more securely into the crook of his arm and grinned down at her. “Nay, my love, not with you. All I needed was a glimpse at those mysterious secrets of yours, and I was too intrigued to be awkward.”

Perhaps the intrigue had faded as he puzzled her out, but the love that replaced it was far more precious. As they headed toward the sounds of arriving guests, though, Winter knew the last of her secrets could not long be suffered. Not now. She could hardly stand beside him as he mourned his father's death and not confess that hers yet lived in the Patriot camp. And, from there, share that he had instilled the same beliefs of God and country in her.

But now was not the right moment to bare her soul. So she settled for speaking for him as they greeted their acquaintances and friends. More and more of New York society filled the house over the next half hour, and though Mrs. Lane returned soon to welcome everyone and thank them for coming, Winter stayed near at hand in case she needed her even after Bennet had mumbled something about checking on Archie and disappeared.

She was beginning to wonder where he had gone when two men came in bearing the equally spaced shoulder laces of a general. General Clinton she had met before, but the other…given the angle of his chin and the whispers that swept the room, it could only be Benedict Arnold.

Winter sucked in a breath and leaned close to Mrs. Lane. “Could you excuse me for a moment, ma'am? I must…”

Too late. The generals strode their way, and Clinton even now reached for Mrs. Lane's hand. “My condolences, madam. I remember your husband fondly from the one time we met before he left for England.”

Mrs. Lane murmured something, but Winter paid no attention, given the way Arnold stared at her as if trying to place her face.

Never in her life had she wished she didn't take after her father, but in this moment it seemed more curse than blessing. She could only pray that her mask of oblivion covered any resemblance to her contemplative sire, if Arnold had indeed known him.

General Clinton motioned toward his companion. “Mrs. Lane, allow me to make introductions. This is Benedict Arnold, our newest general.”

Mrs. Lane's smile was tight, though that was hardly unusual today. “Of course. How good to meet you, sir.”

Arnold delivered the appropriate niceties as he bowed over her hand, but then his gaze arrowed Winter's way again. “And is this your daughter, Mrs. Lane?”

Now her smile went warm, and she slipped an arm around Winter's waist. “God willing, someday soon, General. But at the moment she is still Miss Winnie Reeves, under the charge of her grandparents, the Hamptons.”

“Reeves.” The arch of Arnold's brow eclipsed the dutiful clasp of her hand. “Are you by chance related to a Colonel Reeves, serving under Washington?”

The earth could have been shaking and the walls tumbling down around them for as solid as her footing felt right now. Tears wanted to burn her eyes, and her knees wanted to buckle. Her heart wanted to cry out “Yes! He is my father!”

But she could not. Certainly not to a traitor like Benedict Arnold. Even if it felt as though she must play the part of Peter denying Christ, she held any emotion back from her eyes and put on that practiced smile and empty-headed blink that settled on her face like a slap.

“Well now, General, I am afraid my memory for ranks is somewhat faulty. They are too bothersome. But I do have a second cousin thrice removed who sided with the Patriots, I believe. Though he was far too stupid to become a colonel. That
is
a higher rank, isn't it, in the Patriot army? Or do they do those backwards, as with so many other things?” She looked up, to the side, and pursed her lips. “Oh, and my—what was he? My great-uncle's second wife's older son. Whatever that makes him to me, I never was quite sure, as we share no blood. But this second wife was far too young for my great-uncle, everyone said so, and yet came to the marriage with a horde of children from
her
first marriage.
Mostly girls, though. Oh, but I suppose her son never took the last name of Reeves, so it can't be him of whom you think.”

She couldn't tell if the narrowing of the general's eyes was an attempt to peel back all those layers of nonsense or if he simply disdained her. “Nay, Miss Reeves, I have no concern for such distant relatives. I was wondering more about who your father is.”

“My father?” She allowed a portion of the pain to slip through as she drew back an inch.

And let Mrs. Lane step forward and all but push Benedict Arnold away with her chiding gaze. “Really, General, had you been in our city any true length of time, you would know not to ask such an insensitive question. Miss Reeves has lost both her parents and needs no extra reminder of her suffering. 'Tis hard enough on her, facing this loss with me and my sons.”

“My apologies. I did not realize.” He bowed to Winter, though no apology shone in his eyes. Only icy calculation. Then he repeated the motion toward Mrs. Lane. “And my condolences, ma'am. Though I am sure your family and Miss
Reeves
will deliver you through the grief with their support.”

And people thought spies were dastardly creatures? Nay, not unless they combined it with treachery like this beast before her.

Winter put on her sweetest smile and added a few bats of her lashes. “'Twas nevertheless an honor to meet someone of such fame, General Arnold. And allow me to say that no matter what gossip may report, I find that the color red does indeed suit you.” When his face mottled, she couldn't resist adding, “It complements your complexion so well.”

The general spun around and stalked away, Clinton on his heels. Mrs. Lane leaned in. “I finally see what Bennet meant when he claimed your silliness covers a world of wit.”

Her hostess smiled over it, no doubt having enjoyed seeing Arnold insulted, even if she may disagree about his new British jacket suiting him. But Winter could hardly manage to share in the mirth.

He knew. He knew who her father was, and while that did not necessarily mean he would suspect her of any covert activities beyond lying about her Patriot ties—something half of the city did—he was now aware of her. He would be paying attention. Perhaps poking and prying as with Hercules Mulligan and so many others.

She clasped her hands to keep them from shaking and wished she could go home and find Freeman.

They must be prepared to protect themselves.

What a miserable pair they must make. Ben stared into his mug of coffee and let his thoughts swirl along with the din of other patrons in Rivington's. For once he hadn't bothered bringing any texts or papers with him. He had been sitting as he was now ever since he took a seat ten minutes ago, rarely even sipping at his coffee.

When Fairchild came in, he hadn't said a word. He just sat down across from him with his own cup, which he proceeded to ignore as well.

Ben drew in a long breath and willed the black brew before him to reveal a few answers. A week had gone by since he read that life-shattering letter, and it had taken that long for the fog to lift, once the crowds cleared. For pain to take the place of disbelief. For the choices to weigh upon him.

The second half of Uncle Lane's letter repeated continually in his mind.
I am no better now than when my nephew arrived, and I have no greater expectation to last this next year. Bennet must come at once and acquaint himself with the estates. If he might depart before winter, that would be best, for I fear come spring that I will be too weak to be of any help to him.

'Twasn't the responsibility that weighed so heavily when he read those words. 'Twasn't the thought of taking up Father's so recently vacated position. Nay, 'twas the realization that the only decision he could in good conscience make would disappoint—perhaps infuriate—what family he had left. Mother would suffer a fresh devastation. Uncle would surely not understand. And Archie…

It didn't bear thinking about.

Fairchild sighed as he lifted his mug, sipped, and eased it silently back down. “You look tired, Lane.”

Ben snorted a laugh. “Pot and kettle, Fairchild.”

His friend offered a crooked, halfhearted smile. “I have been kept
quite busy. Still, I am sorry I have not been around more. You were there for me when André…”

A nod seemed acknowledgment enough, and encouragement besides. He knew well Fairchild would have come had he needed anything the man could offer. And surely he conveyed that knowledge with the movement of his head. He hoped so, for it was all he could muster.