Less Than a Gentleman (21 page)

A sudden noise burst from the library. Thomas turned back to the peephole, and Caroline concentrated on her sense of hearing. It sounded like someone was pounding a fist on the furniture.

“I cannot have Tarleton questioning my loyalty!” Hickman shouted. “I must find a way to make Mrs. Thomas talk.”

“Well, you can hardly blame her for protecting her son,” Pugsley muttered.

“Her precious son is a murderer,” Hickman snarled. “I cannot threaten her with the fate of her husband much longer. Sooner or later, she’ll learn the truth. The old fart is already dead.”

Thomas straightened with a jerk.

“Really?” Pugsley asked. “When did he die?”

“A few days ago. The news came in yesterday with the supply barge.”

Thomas turned and leaned back against the wall. Caroline could hear his breathing, fast and agitated. No doubt he knew Mr. Thomas personally and found the news disturbing. Her heart filled with sorrow for Jane. Poor Jane would need to know the truth, so Hickman could no longer use her husband as a means to torture her.

“Did you learn anything from the villagers?” Pugsley asked.

Caroline peered through the peephole. Pugsley was sitting on the blue settee facing the desk.

“No, they were totally uncooperative.” Captain Hickman strode by, a glass of brandy in his hand. “It seems the British soldiers in the area have been sampling the local wares without their consent.”

Pugsley snorted. “You mean they’re rogering the wenches?”

“Aye.” Hickman perched on the edge of his desk and calmly sipped from his glass.

Caroline caught her breath. The redcoats were assaulting the local women?

“You might expect the fathers to object,” Hickman continued, “but the women themselves were screaming at me.”

“Humph.” Pugsley sneered. “Most unladylike.”

“Exactly.” Hickman set his glass down and picked up a handful of papers. “They insisted I take these formal complaints to Cornwallis himself. As if I’d waste the general’s time with the rantings of a few silly women.”

Caroline dug her fingernails into the wall. Her blood pounded so hard in her head she could hardly hear.

Pugsley shook his head in disgust. “The women here in the colonies don’t know their place.”

“Indeed.” Hickman held the letters of complaint over a lit candlestick ’til they caught fire.

As the flame grew, so did the heat in Caroline’s veins. She snapped the peephole shut, then opened a shutter on the lantern so she could see. She stalked toward the door to the china room. By God, she would show these bastards just how tough an American woman could be.

C
H
APTER
T
WENTY-
F
IVE

H
is father was dead, dead in a British prison. Matthias breathed deeply, willing himself to remain in control.

Dead.
Somehow, he had thought his father would survive, that nothing could actually kill the old bastard.

Dead.
He’d never see his father again. No more awkward meetings. No more painful memories. No more possibility of reconciliation. It was if a book had ended in mid-chapter. No resolution. No good-bye. Nothing.

Dead
. How would Mother feel? Would she mourn or secretly bless the day that the man who had betrayed her over and over could never hurt her or humiliate her again.

Jacob would mourn. Damn, he would have to tell Jacob.

Matthias clenched his fists and slowly relaxed them. He needed to retain control. He was a soldier fighting for liberty. His passion for the cause was perhaps the only thing he had ever shared with his father.

Next to him, Caroline stiffened with a gasp. She shut the peephole, opened a shutter on the lantern, then rushed toward the door.

“Caroline,” he whispered, catching up with her as she slipped into the china room. “What’s wrong?”

“I’ll kill them,” she hissed.

“What?” He grabbed her shoulder and turned her toward him.

“Let go.” She shoved his hand off her.

He’d never seen her this angry before. “What happened?”

She grasped the candlestick off the table. “I could clonk them on the head while they sleep.”

“Have you lost your mind?” He wrenched the candlestick from her hand. “You cannot attack them.”

She paced around the room. “I’ll slip one of Dottie’s potions into their food and make them ill.” She opened the door to the dining room.

He shut it and seized her by the shoulders. “Dammit, Caroline. What is wrong?”

With a strangled sob, she pulled away from him. “Didn’t you hear them? They’re raping the women in town. The British soldiers are raping them.”

“Oh.” No wonder she was upset.

“Oh? Is that all you can say?” Her voice rose in anger.

“Quiet.” He glanced back. The door to the secret passageway was still open.

Her eyes shimmered with tears. “We have to do something.”

“I know you’re upset.” She snorted, but he continued, “Listen to me. Killing them now will bring repercussions against this house and the nearby villages. The British could retaliate by killing everyone, including women and children. We must remain calm.”

She glared at him, her eyes narrowed.

“We have to remain focused on our mission. We can’t hurt them right now, but we can use them.”

She clenched her fists and made a sound of frustration. “I know you’re right, but I’m so . . .
angry.
”

“I can see that.” He took a deep breath. “I don’t think you should spy anymore. You’re too . . . emotional for this kind of work.”

“Too much like a woman, you mean?” Her voice sounded strained.

“I didn’t say that.”

“I’m fighting for freedom, Thomas, just like you. Freedom to make my own choices without some tyrant of a man dictating to me.”

He grasped her shoulder. “I’m not a tyrant. I’m trying to protect you.”

“I don’t need your protection.”

“Well, you bloody well have it whether you like it or not. Don’t you know I’m in love with you?”

She gasped.

He released her.
Bloody hell
. Of all the stupid things to say.

She moved away from him.

He shook his head. Damn, he had terrible timing. She was far too angry to leap into his arms and declare that she loved him, too.

He swallowed hard. She was awfully quiet. She might not have anything to declare. He loosened the black cravat around his neck. What if she didn’t love him?

He opened his mouth to speak, then changed his mind. It was better if she didn’t love him. He was a wanted man. With all probability, he would soon follow his father to the grave.

“Wait here. I’ll fetch the lantern and take you to bed.” He winced. “I mean, your bedchamber.” Good God, he might as well dig his own grave and jump in.

He slipped back into the passageway and picked up the lantern. Back in the china room, he found the door to the dining room standing ajar.

Caroline had left.

Sunday, October 1, 1780

P
ugsley sped into the library. “He’s come back!”

“Who?” Ezra Hickman hurried to the window. Green-coated men on horseback charged toward the house, the plumes of their brown helmets waving in the breeze. Tarleton? His last visit had only been two days ago.

“See to the men and their horses,” Ezra ordered.

Tarleton marched into the library. Pugsley saluted, then hurried from the room.

“How many inhabitants in this house?” Tarleton demanded.

Ezra stood at attention. “Five females, including an indentured servant. Two children. Another female in the kitchen.”

“Any men?”

“No, sir. Just myself and two foot soldiers. There are slaves, of course, but they live a distance from here.”

“Then it is as I suspected.” Tarleton stopped in front of Ezra. “You are a traitor.”

With a gasp, Ezra swayed on his feet. “Sir, I am loyal. My sole desire is to destroy the rebels. I have long craved the honor of joining you and your men so I could prove myself—”

“Enough,” Tarleton cut him off, slashing a hand through the air. “Did you think no one would notice what you did to the last supply shipment?”

“The supplies? Sir, they passed through here safely.”

“Oh, they arrived, all right, but the barrels of gunpowder were filled with ashes! And the sacks that were supposed to be potatoes and corn were full of rocks and pine cones!”

Ezra gaped. “I . . . I don’t understand.”

“Cornwallis is livid. He ordered a full investigation.”

“It . . . it must have happened in Charles Town.”

“No. When the shipment left, it was in order.
This
was the only place the supplies docked on the way.”

Ezra gulped. “But I had five guards out there all night.”

“Did you inspect the supplies yourself?”

“No. I—I never touched them. I thought it best not to tamper with them.” Bile rose in Ezra’s throat. He could end up swinging from a tree over this.

“There is evidence the barrels were pried open.” Tarleton stepped closer ’til he was inches from Ezra’s face. “There is something rotten going on between Charles Town and Camden, and I believe the stench starts here. We will hold you responsible.”

“I will investigate the matter thoroughly. It will never happen again. You have my word.”

“Would that be the word of a Loyalist or a traitor?” Tarleton stepped back. “I’ll be watching you, Hickman.” He swiveled on his booted heel and marched from the room.

Ezra strode to the sideboard to pour a glass of brandy. His hand shook so badly, he splashed brandy all over the embroidered doily.

“Damnation!” He clunked the decanter down. Someone had played a trick on him, and if he didn’t figure out who the bastard was, he would pay the price himself. It had to be some sort of partisan plot. Were the ladies here in on it?

He paced across the room. Those damned women. He’d get the truth out of them one way or another.

He paused in mid-stride. Did he even need to know the truth, as long as he found someone to blame? Anyone would do, as long as it saved his neck.

Jane Thomas probably knew what had happened. Hell, her son might be behind it. If only this Matthias Murray Thomas could be found, he could take the blame.

Yes, this Thomas fellow was the answer to all his problems. Ezra strode to the sideboard and poured himself a drink, relieved to be once more in control. “Pugsley!”

“Yes, sir.” The guard scurried into the room. “Tarleton is gone, sir. They didn’t stay very long.”

“I know. Gather the women in the front parlor at once. I wish to speak to them.”

“Yes, sir!” Pugsley raced off.

Ezra sat at his desk, enjoying his brandy. He’d let the women wait ’til they were as flustered as a pack of hens with a fox invading the henhouse. They’d be so nervous, one of them would be sure to squawk.

He had finished his brandy by the time Pugsley returned. “They’re all there, sir, waiting in the parlor.”

“Good.” Ezra straightened his cravat, then strode into the parlor with Pugsley close behind.

The pregnant woman sat on the rose-colored settee, flanked by her children. The servant, Betsy, stood behind them. Mrs. Thomas sat in a Windsor chair, her face drawn and ashen. Next to her, Miss Munro occupied another chair. She narrowed her green eyes and glared at him.

Ezra returned her hard look. No doubt she was a Colonial sympathizer. It would be a shame to hang her by that pretty neck. He skimmed his eyes over her, assessing her worth. No, she was worth keeping alive. His groin tightened at the thought of Miss Munro with her fiery red hair and patriotic passion struggling with him in bed.

A trill of high notes brought his attention to the harpsichord. Agatha Ludlow, seated at the instrument, gave him an encouraging smile. He bowed his head. At least he could be sure of Agatha. She wanted dearly to please, and please him she did every night.

He pivoted suddenly and paced toward Mrs. Thomas. “This is your last chance. Tell me the location of your son, Matthias Murray Thomas.”

She raised her chin. “I can honestly tell you, I do not know.”

“Don’t expect help from your husband. The traitorous bastard is dead.”

Mrs. Thomas flinched. “I . . . I know nothing.”

With a sudden move, Ezra leaned over Miss Munro. “You know, don’t you? You know where the partisans are, and you’re going to tell me.”

Her eyes widened, surprised by his abrupt change of strategy. “I don’t know.”

“Did you think I wouldn’t find out what you did to the supplies?” His voice rose in anger. “You think it was clever to sabotage my career? You’re messing with the wrong man, bitch.”

Her face paled.

Ezra straightened, still glowering at Miss Munro. “You will tell me the location of the partisans.” He withdrew his flintlock and pointed it at Mrs. Thomas’s head. “Or I shoot.”

A series of gasps circled the room. The little girl squealed and dove into her mother’s lap. The young boy jumped in his seat. Agatha’s hands slipped on the harpsichord keys, producing a jarring noise. Miss Munro’s eyes filled with tears. She gave Mrs. Thomas a beseeching look, begging for guidance.

Ezra watched the drama unfold. Hell, this was better than the theater in Charles Town, and the fact that he was the director of this scene gave him a satisfying sense of power. Live puppets, that was all they were, and he alone could pull the strings.

Miss Munro opened her mouth to speak, then closed it with a pained grimace. Indecision. Ezra’s pulse accelerated. The wench might actually know something.

“No!” The boy, Edward, leapt to his feet. “Leave them alone! They don’t know anything. ’Tis the ghost you want.”

“Edward, please.” His mother tugged at the boy’s coat.

“A ghost, you say?” Ezra couldn’t help but be amused. His little play even had comedic overtones.

“Yes.” Edward sat. “He can go through walls.”

Ezra smiled and turned his attention back to Miss Munro. He paused, his smile fading. The fear in her eyes had not diminished with the boy’s outburst, but increased.

“Miss Munro,” he whispered. “Do you have something to tell me?”

She glanced at Mrs. Thomas as if asking permission to talk.

The older woman shook her head and whispered, “No.”

“So you are willing to die for your son, Mrs. Thomas?” Ezra stepped toward her, gratified to see a tear roll down her cheek. He paused with the flintlock aimed between her eyes. Just a few more seconds of terror was all he wanted.

“Since you desire death, you shall have it.” He returned his flintlock to his belt. “You’re under arrest for harboring a traitor to the crown.”

“Pugsley.” He swiveled to the foot soldier. “You will escort Mrs. Thomas to her bedchamber and lock her in. You will nail boards across her balcony door so she cannot escape. She will receive only a crust of bread each day and enough water to keep her alive.”

Ezra turned back to Mrs. Thomas.
Good.
The tears were streaming now, her chin trembling. “I will have handbills printed and distributed that spread the news. If Matthias Murray Thomas wishes to save his mother from a slow death by starvation, he will turn himself in.”

Mrs. Thomas whispered, “I would rather die.”

Anger surged through Ezra once again. These damned women would not get the better of him. “Then you are fortunate, madam, for you may have your wish!”