Ring of Secrets (6 page)

Most days, it didn't bother her. Most days, she could pretend so well.

But it was Christmas. A day she should have spent with her family, her
real
family, those who loved her. A day of quiet, of somber reflection on all her Savior did for her by coming to earth as a babe, of
how great was her heavenly Father's love, that He would send His precious Son to be born as a lowly human. It should have been a day of peace. Of joy.

Not of drunken laughter, mercenary comparison of gifts, and reminder after reminder that she was not, could not be the person who lived within her.

She wanted to scream. Wanted to pound her hand against the glass until it released her from this terrible place. No, she wanted to lock herself in her room and hold the rest of the world at bay until it was just her and her Maker, communing in prayer.

She could do none of that, not now. She couldn't even cry. Tears stuck in her throat, suffocating her.

Movement outside caught her attention, and she moved her burning eyes to seek it out. Freeman stood in the dormant garden, his dark brow creased as he watched her. Thumb and pinkie out, middle knuckle higher than the others to form a W, he tapped his chin twice in one of the gestures he and Father had devised for her deaf Grandmother Reeves.
What is wrong?

A few drops trickled out of her eyes now. How she wished she could go outside, to Freeman's room at the back of the stable. How she wished she could spend the day with the closest person she had to real family. Instead, she splayed a hand over her heart, then pointed her index fingers at each other and twisted them.
My heart hurts
.

Free touched his chest, pressed his palms together in the universal symbol of prayer, and then pointed to her.

A few more tears broke loose. Winter touched her lips and lowered her hand toward the window in thanks.

Freeman nodded, offered a tight smile, and strode away. She watched him go with a sigh. When Father took up the colors and joined the Patriot army, she knew Freeman had wanted to go with him—and knew he stayed behind solely because Father had asked him to take care of her and Mother.

She'd never imagined he would take that oath so seriously as to come here with her too. He was treated no better than a slave in her grandparents' household, despite his technical freedom.
That
was family. That dedication, that loyalty, that fierce, protective love.

A throat cleared behind her, and Winter spun around on her seat.

Bennet Lane stood in the center of the room, his lips pressed together and careful curiosity lighting his eyes. She knew better than to hope he didn't notice the droplets on her cheeks.

He bowed in greeting. “Forgive me for interrupting, Miss Reeves. I just spoke with your grandmother, who informed me of the change in supper arrangements.” Half a smile tilted his mouth. “I suppose that would make me cry too, were I you.”

A laugh slipped out in spite of herself. She wiped away the tears. “Are you enjoying your Christmas, Mr. Lane?”

He tilted his head and shrugged. “'Tis not the kind of Christmas I grew accustomed to in Connecticut. I confess I have come to prefer quiet reflection on the day.” Stepping closer, he arched his brow. “And you?”

Try as she might, she couldn't summon her mask, not fully. “I grew up on Long Island in a Congregational home. Our Christmases were quiet as well. This—” she waved a hand toward the house at large “—makes me miss my parents all the more.”

“They are…?”

She focused her gaze on the bookshelf across from her rather than on his compassionate face. “I lost my father some three years ago.” Her grandparents insisted she say he was dead—killed by the random fall of a roof slate, of all things—but she couldn't bring herself to lie on this holy day. “My mother succumbed to a fever last year, rather suddenly. Though she had time to write her parents so they could take charge of me.”

“I am sorry for your losses.”

Not so sorry as she. But she dug up a smile. “The Lord has sustained me.” Though for so long she wondered why He had bothered preserving her, only to lead her to a place where she must deny all He had made her. It hadn't become clear until Robbie approached her six months ago about gathering intelligence. Now she could see the Father's hand in it all.

This was what she'd been created for.

Winter stood and smoothed a hand over her embroidered stomacher. “I ought to get back.”

But Mr. Lane didn't move from her path, though he studied the
floor as if its patterned wood were the most intriguing thing he'd ever seen. “Miss Reeves…your grandmother led me to believe she and your grandfather would fully approve if I were to pay you court. Would you…? That is, I realize I am…apart from my family and our recent…” He huffed to a halt, and then he lifted his gaze to her face. Whatever he saw seemed to bolster him, though she thought she'd emptied her countenance of any telling expression. “Is your heart already set on Fairchild, or have I a chance at winning your affections?”

Oh, how she wished he had phrased it in a more complicated fashion so that she could play her usual role and act the imbecile. But a question so direct could not be misinterpreted even by pseudo Winter. She cleared her throat. “If my grandparents sanction your court, then certainly I shall receive you when you call.”

The set of his jaw looked at once amused and frustrated. “That is not what I asked.”

Winter took a long moment to study his penetrating eyes, his pleasant face, the uncertainty in his posture. She took a moment to recall how endearing he was as he bumbled his way through all the balls they had both attended, how many smiles she had tamped down as he stuttered through each introduction to eligible females, yet spoke with eloquence to the gentlemen on topics of philosophy and science.

Her heart seemed to twist within her. She could like this man, could enjoy his company, but she dared not. He knew nothing that would interest General Washington; she would be beyond useless if she attached herself to him. She would be no more, then, than another Loyalist daughter, seeking her own merriment above the call of freedom.

That she could not do. She could not return to an existence without purpose.

“Mr. Lane…” Her voice sounded uncertain to her own ears, so she paused for a slow breath. “I am surprised you would ask about my heart. Surely you have heard the rumor that I haven't one.”

He moved to her side and took her hand, tucking it into the crook of his elbow. All the while his gaze bore into her, measuring her. “I know you are not the empty vessel you pretend to be, Miss Reeves. With your leave, I intend to discover what lies beneath this lovely surface.”

Let innocence be your mask.

Let your beauty hide your heart.

Let your enemies count you a friend.

And the most important of all her axioms:

Let no one see your true self.

Much as she might yearn to disregard that last one, she couldn't. She gave him her loveliest, emptiest smile. “Best of luck with that, Mr. Lane.”

Four

R
ob pushed through the back door of his store, unfastening his cloak with one hand even as he slid the now-empty crate onto a table with the other. His hands trembled. Most would think it a result of his hours out of doors in the cold—and he would let them think so.

Washington was always interested in the state of the British fleet, in the numbers of ships in the harbor and the number of soldiers and seamen. Tallmadge had warned him not to guess—
never
to guess—not to exaggerate, not to round down. He must, at all costs, represent the true situation so the general could properly strategize. Thus far, Rob's accurate information had earned him commendation and respect. He intended to keep earning it.

Hence his hours-long trek through the city to the harbor and around military headquarters. Ostensibly to deliver newly arrived goods that had been ordered, but he had also been counting. Making mental note.

And getting nervous. Being about such covert business while surrounded by scores of saber-wielding enemies…well, it was a relief to be back at the shop, where he had only to worry about his cantankerous business partner. And wonder again what in the world had possessed him to bring on a man like Henry Oakham the very summer he
started spying for the Patriots. Of course, he and Oakham had already made the agreement before Woodhull had approached him about this business…

Ah, well. Rob hung up his cloak and followed the sounds of voices to the front of the store, where said cantankerous business partner stacked fabric bolts for one Hercules Mulligan.

Rob smiled and slid behind the counter. “Mulligan! How fortuitous. My father sent me back to the city with a message of greeting for you.”

The older man chuckled and rapped a knuckle against stacks of fine worsted wool. “I thought you had gone to Long Island for Christmas, hence why I waited far too long to come in and unburden you of some of your stock. How is your sire?”

“Excellent, sir. Thank you for asking. And I am so glad you came by. I tried to squeeze any interesting goings-on from Oakham here when I returned, but he is, as always, too silent.”

His business partner rolled his eyes and stalked away. “Thank you for your business, Mr. Mulligan. Now I shall leave you ladies to your gossip.”

Mulligan's gaze went sharp, though his lips still held their easy grin. “I'm afraid I have no interesting gossip to share, Mr. Townsend. Though loud in revelries, nothing of note happened here while you were away.”

He leaned in, down, as if studying the cut of Rob's waistcoat. “Atrocious work. I do hope none of my tailors made it. Now,” he said in a bare murmur, “is there anything in particular you need me to keep my ears open for?”

Rob smoothed a hand over the new clothing. “My mother made it, sir,” he said at normal volume. Then, quietly, “Not just now, no. Though if I receive instructions, I shall get them to you.”

Mulligan straightened as he nodded. He had once been a tailor of middling ilk, but through an advantageous marriage and an excellent way with a needle, he had turned his operation into an emporium that outfitted the city's elite—which meant he was in position to overhear invaluable information. Information he passed on willingly to Rob, unlike the many who gave him help without ever knowing it.

The man looked ready to leave but then halted. “Ah! Buttons. I am in desperate need of gold buttons, if you can help me.”

“Of course.” Rob pulled out a box and then straightened when the bell over the door jingled. A vaguely familiar gentleman walked in. Rob recognized him from the rounds of balls and fetes as well as from the coffeehouse of which he owned a share, but they had not been introduced. Which would soon be remedied, it seemed, because the man's face brightened upon spotting him, and he approached the counter with a smile.

“Good day to you, gentlemen.”

“Sir.” Rob nodded. “Might I assist you?”

“I should think so.” The man held out a hand. “Bennet Lane. You look familiar, though I cannot recall learning your name.”

Ah, yes. Rob had heard of the Lanes' recent fortune, which made them desirable customers, indeed. He smiled. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Lane. Robert Townsend at your service, and Mr. Hercules Mulligan besides.”

Lane turned his smile on Mulligan. “How excellent. I have an appointment with one of your tailors next week, sir.”

“I saw your name in the book.” Mulligan offered a small bow with all the aplomb he had learned through years of catering to his wife's well-connected family. “It will be my privilege to take your measurements myself, sir. I outfitted your father for some time before he departed for England.”

Lane chuckled. “I wish I had known that before asking every officer and gentleman I could find whom they would most highly recommend. I am afraid I have been too long in Connecticut to know my way about the city these days.”

“You can certainly do no better than Mulligan's,” Rob interjected. “He and my father have been friends for decades as well.” They had in fact known each other back in the days when one could confess one's politics without being beaten and dragged from one's house for them, or forced into the city with a blanket over one's head.

Rob took the buttons Mulligan selected and wrapped them up.

Lane turned and faced Mulligan. “Your name is bandied about with respect as well, Mr. Townsend. I am told I can do no better for my dry goods. And my not-dry goods, if I incline that way, though I confess I am not overly fond of rum.”

“Nor am I, truth be told.” Rob handed the package of buttons to
Mulligan, along with the cloth. “But I am happy to help you with your other needs. We received a new shipment of mushroom catsup.” At the look upon his customer's face, Rob chuckled. “Spanish olives, perhaps? Some Gloucester cheese?”

Lane straightened, shaking his head. Unlike most gentlemen of his standing, he wore no wig under his hat. And was that cloak of homespun?

Yes, he needed that appointment with Mulligan, to be sure.