Kiss of a Traitor (8 page)

As she turned to leave, her father spoke again. “We shall have another understanding, Willa. I’ll not hear of you resuming your forays into the swamp. Cherokee will remain off-limits until you vow to confine your rides to the neighboring plantations. I refuse to have Lord Montford entertaining the notion you are a hoyden.”

She stopped in midstep with one hand on the door handle.
Damn.
What was she to do now? Should she promise to obey her father’s edict and he caught her in a deception, he would likely sell her horse. “I promise,” she conceded with reluctance. “I shall remain close to home and take no deliberate action that will lower me in Lord Montford’s opinion.”

He smiled and returned to his desk. As he bent his head over his papers and retrieved his quill, he added, “It has always been my opinion that you are a good daughter.”

“Indeed,” Marlene interjected, speaking for the first time. She set aside her neglected sewing and lifted gracefully from the chair. “And you will become an even better wife.” Her words contained a warning that made an impression only on Willa’s ears.

As she left, Willa flashed the woman an embittered glare.

Montford’s first call came too soon. Willa had yet to devise a plan to discourage his suit. While Jwana dressed her, she sorted through plausible excuses or methods by which she could disappear before her fiancé arrived.

Jwana had trimmed and curled Willa’s ragged locks until they hugged her face in a wavy cap. The style was now acceptable, if exceedingly unfashionable.

“Don’ you go thinkin’ ‘bout no mischief, Miss Willa,” the maid said as she tugged on the hair she was brushing. “'Member wot you done promise yur daddy.”

Willa met Jwana’s sloe-plum eyes in the looking glass. “I cannot believe you expect me to encourage the baron. As you chose to absent yourself from the ball, I suggest you refrain from offering advice until you see Lord Montford in person. Only then will you have a full appreciation of my objections.” She twisted around on the dressing stool and gestured with her hands. “He so resembles the French king, Louis XIV, I vow one could plop him down at Versailles and none could detect the difference. I can barely abide to occupy the same room as he, much less endure his courtship.”

Jwana took hold of Willa’s head and turned it back to face the mirror. “You jes’ sit still now, or we gonna be here all day. You knows I be busy nursin’ Cassie’s sick young’un dat night. ‘Sides, don’ matter none wot de baron look like. You promise yur daddy, an’ dat be all dat matters.”

Willa abandoned her efforts at persuasion. Jwana would grasp the magnitude of the problem soon enough. “I suppose you have a valid point,” she said with a pout. When Jwana finished with her hair, Willa stood and raised her arms. The maid lifted the skirt over Willa’s head and settled it around her hips. Then came the bodice. As Jwana laced it in back, her hands hesitated over the bulge under the petticoat waistband. She removed the throwing knife from its sheath around Willa’s waist and brandished it in front of her.

“Now wot you carryin’ dis fer? You ‘spectin’ ta meet up wid a panther or bear in de parlor? Or is you plannin’ ta carve out dat young man’s heart?”

Willa flushed and declined to answer.

Jwana gave the laces one last, strong pull, which caused Willa to gasp, and moved around to confront her. The Negro woman planted her hands on her slim hips and sent Willa a hard stare. “You totin’ any more pig-stickers? You slip a blade ‘twixt dat man’s ribs, an’ yur daddy gonna be mighty vexed wid you.”

Heat burned Willa’s ears as she let her gaze slide past Jwana’s shoulder. The maid tapped her foot and held out her hand. Willa sighed and reached beneath her petticoats to draw out the hunting knife strapped to her thigh.

“Dat all?”

“I believe so. But I fail to understand why I cannot arm myself. In the event you did not notice, we happen to be living in a war zone.”

Jwana spread her hands wide. “Lordy, chil', you be meetin’ yur fiancé in de front parlor, not stormin’ Fort Watson.”

Willa bit back further protests and allowed Jwana to finish dressing her. She had prevailed in the battle against wearing a wig and heavy powder, though she submitted to a corset and farthingale, two unwieldy items she seldom wore.

At last Jwana pronounced Willa presentable and patted her on the shoulder. “Don’ fret so,” she said when Willa gave her a sour look. “Wot’s meant ta be’s meant ta be. If’n de Lord want dis man fer yur husband, ain’t not’in’ you kin do ‘bout it.” She scooped up the soiled linens from the bed and left the room.

“If the Lord wished for me to marry this man,” Willa muttered, “he would not have fashioned him into such a fool.” As soon as Jwana’s footsteps receded into the distance, Willa untied the petticoat and farthingale, let them fall to the floor, and stepped out of them. Her skirt and bodice quickly followed the lacy underpinnings. The corset came off next, though she had to contort herself to reach the laces in the back. Still wearing her chemise, she tore through her wardrobe and pulled out a faded cotton housedress that had aged into little more than a rag. The hem fell to ankle length, and stains rendered the gown suitable only for stable or gardening chores. She dropped to the floor, pulled on her oldest boots, and raced from the bedchamber to make her way to the stables.

Ford could barely restrain his delight when Colonel Bellingham appointed him to Tarleton’s Legion, the best possible assignment. Being so close to the Butcher, he could monitor the legion’s movements and apprise Marion of any British plans to penetrate the swamps.

On the other hand, his new double life also dictated he call on Wilhelmina Bellingham in a fashion consistent with their courtship. He took up that duty on Thursday following the ball, his face set in a frown at having to waste his time in such a petty manner. After sending ahead his calling card, he arrived at the Bellingham residence in early afternoon. Quinn answered his knock. Ford removed his hat, tucked it beneath his arm, and straightened his spine until he dwarfed the small man and filled the doorway. The butler looked stunned, even to the point of blinking rapidly. The astonishment on the man’s face added credence to Ford’s own earlier review and opinion of the figure he cut. He was a living advertisement for appallingly bad taste.

His crimson riding coat fit him without a wrinkle and clashed beautifully with the bright turquoise waistcoat. The sky-blue knee-britches were silky and supple, his linen snowy, edged in delicate, gold-veined lace, and his boots polished to a spectacular brilliance. He wore a bright yellow bagwig and had rouged and powdered his face. With no small amount of pride, he admitted he looked like a Christmas nutcracker.

The butler’s awed expression dissolved into wariness, and he eyed Ford as if he had come to massacre the family rather than court their dowdy daughter. At the man’s hesitation to grant him entrance, Ford surged into the foyer by shouldering past the door. Quinn fell back and took up a position to one side, lifting his gaze from Ford’s chest, to his eyes and contemptuously curled lips.

As Ford glowered, he extracted a quizzing glass from his waistcoat pocket. Holding it up to one eye, he squinted through it and adjusted his pitch to reflect a prissy, arrogant tone. “Please inform Lady Wilhelmina that Lord Montford is calling.”

“Certainly, my lord.” Quinn bowed and motioned him forward. He took Ford’s chartreuse feathered hat as though he were removing a weasel from the pantry and dropped it on a hall table. “I shall inquire whether Lady Wilhelmina is receiving.” After escorting him into the family parlor off the hallway, Quinn waved to a velvet-covered sofa. “Should you care to wait in here, I shall ring for tea.”

Ford inclined his head, flipped aside his coattails, and settled on the sofa. He rearranged his wig, which had slipped to one side, lounged back, and crossed his legs.

Fifteen minutes of polite conversation. Then he could leave, his blasted duty completed, and deliver the message for Marion to the tree at the edge of Socastee Swamp.

Tarleton planned to raid the Chester plantation on the morrow. Rumor had it that Chester had collected pewter plates and tea sets from his neighbors and melted them down for bullets, which he planned to pass on to the partisans. Tarleton had voiced his determination that no undeclared planters would aid Marion and his criminal band. He intended to strike the plantation shortly before midnight and hang the planter as an example to other would-be traitors. Should Tarleton prove successful, Chester’s family—those who survived the raid—would sit out the war in a British prison hulk in Charles Town Harbor. Ford was just as determined to see Tarleton fail.

He drummed his fingers on the table beside the sofa and removed the gold watch from his fob pocket. Where was the chit? She was such an odd creature, and he hardly expected her to be a paragon of punctuality, but surely someone in the household had enough intelligence to read a clock. The rhythm of his tapping grew more rapid the longer he waited. He swung his free leg like a pendulum in time to the Ormolu clock ticking away on the mantle and tugged at his scratchy lace cravat. Tea arrived on a silver serving tray, and the servants withdrew. The tea grew cold. Still, the girl failed to appear. Ford got to his feet and strode across the carpet, his hands clasped behind his back. As time passed, he took longer, increasingly intolerant strides.

He was on the verge of seeking out the butler and demanding the man find the girl when Wilhelmina clomped through the parlor doors in heavy boots. Her windblown dark hair tangled around her head and stuck up above her ears. Her face was flushed, as if she’d been running, evidenced as well by the way her breath wheezed from between her lips. The ill-fitting day dress, fashioned from washed-out blue cotton, lacked panniers or any fashionable ornamentation. A muddy ring stained the hem. She looked a fright, her outward semblance confirming his first impression of her as a plain, untidy wren. But the memory of her standing nude in the moonlight, arched above the pool, mollified his irritation. The recollection triggered a tightening in his groin and a swelling in his britches he had no prayer of hiding without his hat to hold before him. He bowed and trusted the girl was innocent enough to overlook his obvious condition.

“My lord,” Willa panted. She ducked into a clumsy curtsy.

“No need to ‘my lord’ me, my dear,” he said tightly, giving her a sour look. “Since we are affianced, I do believe ‘tis customary to address each other less formally. I give you leave to call me Montford, the name by which my friends know me. Of course, once we wed, you may call me Aidan. Should you have no objection, I shall address you as Wilhelmina.”

“You are too kind, my—um, Montford,” she murmured. “I apologize for having kept you waiting. I fear I was occupied when Quinn located me.” She turned her head as though someone had poked her in the ear, then reached up and plucked out a stem of straw from her hair. As Ford viewed her dress with a disapproving expression, she glanced down to shake the bits of hay and horsehair from her skirt.

He pulled out his quizzing glass and perused her in slow motion, from scattered hair to muddy hem. His lips thinned and flattened. When he stepped closer to incline his head over her hand, his legs brushed against her skirt. The slight motion released a strong odor of manure from the stain along the hem. He pinched his nostrils and stumbled backward.

“Wilhelmina, I have no wish to appear severe, but I’m sure you will agree we must begin as we mean to go on. I see no acceptable excuse for obliging me to wait upon your convenience. I made it perfectly clear I intended to call at precisely two of the clock.” He swept the gold watch from his fob pocket and flicked it open. “The time is now two and twenty-two.”

She lowered her lashes and stared down at her dress hem. “I truly lament my tardiness, Montford, as I feel assured your time is valuable. But, as I already informed you, I was attending to a most pressing matter.”

He fumbled in his coat pocket, drew forth a lace handkerchief, and held it against his nose as he leaned farther away from her. “I daresay, from your state of untidiness and … and additional evidence, this most pressing endeavor transpired inside the stables. I could very nearly entertain the notion you’ve been mucking out horse stalls.”