Ring of Secrets (7 page)

“What have you by way of stationery? I am in need of a good deal of paper, a new journal bound in leather, and some ink, if you have it.”

“Certainly. One moment.”

Rob moved to the aisle containing the requested goods.

“A good deal of paper, you say?” Amusement sounded in Mulligan's voice. “Writing a book, good sir? Or perhaps a pamphlet?”

The newcomer chuckled. “I am afraid I must plead guilty to all manner of scholarly pursuits. I am a professor at Yale in the subjects of chemistry and philosophy, and I have been known to fill many a winter night at work upon my treatises. Unfortunately, I left my home in haste and failed to bring adequate supplies with me.”

“Upon hearing your family's news, I assume. With your father gone, your mother is no doubt pleased to have you home.”

Lane released a breath that sounded of laughter. “She may have been, had she remained long enough to receive me. It seems she had little faith in my arrival and went to visit her sister upon my father's departure, as my brother is away on maneuvers as well.”

Rob lifted a goodly amount of paper from its shelf, its color near white and its weight thick, and then he added the nicest of his leather-bound diaries. And, in case the man's cloak was a testament to his spending habits, poorer versions of the same. After adding a selection of quills, ink, and a pen knife for mending nibs, he returned to the counter.

Mulligan had gathered his notions together and nodded upon Rob's return. “I must be away. I thank you, Mr. Townsend, for yet again coming to my rescue. Do give your father my regards when you write him. And I shall look forward to seeing you next week, Mr. Lane.”

“Likewise.”

“'Twas a pleasure speaking with you, Mr. Mulligan.” Rob smiled at
the older man as he left, and then he spread out the writing supplies on the counter. “Here you are, Mr. Lane.”

“Ah, thank you.” With the exact expression children usually wore when perusing his sweet selections, Lane flipped through the paper and examined the writing instruments. “A most excellent stock of paper, sir. Very white.”

“I always keep some of the highest quality on hand.” Largely because the sympathetic stain worked best upon paper of pure white, though others oft preferred to buy it as well. Rob adjusted his spectacles and glanced at his partner's back at the end of a long aisle of goods. He had to watch his every move, his every thought whenever Oakham was nearby. Heaven help him if the man ever realized Rob was aiding the Patriots under the cover of their store.

The customer hummed in approval as he ran a hand over the leather of the expensive diary. “Exquisite. I will take both journals, this paper here—” he slid forward equal portions of the good paper and the lesser variety “—half a dozen quills, the knife, and this vial of ink.”

Rob gave the man a smile. Obviously this was a fellow of sound mind and admirable intellect. “Would you like me to put it on your father's account, Mr. Lane?”

“No, no.” Lane pulled out his purse. “I am unsure how long I will be in the city, and I despise the thought of leaving debts in my wake for my family to cover.”

Yes, a most likeable gentleman indeed. Rob tallied up his purchases and read him the total. “Is there anything else I can get for you today?”

Lane leaned close, conspiracy in his eyes and a smile playing at his lips. “Well, what I have a true hankering for is apples. Have you any of those in stock, Mr. Townsend?”

Laughing, Rob shook his head. “I fear that for those particular luxuries you will have to try the London Trade.”

Lane's face went blank. “Pardon?”

Rob motioned him closer, though any New Yorker knew this “secret” as well as he. “I am surprised no one has told you of this already. When you are in want of produce, you must go to those shops specializing in goods smuggled from rebel-held territory, where all the farms lay. There you will find your beef and poultry, your potatoes and apples. Those merchants will, in turn, take some of our silks and jellies and
pastries to Long Island. This is known as the ‘London Trade.' Strictly illegal, of course, but no one on either side much cares as they like their fruits and silks as much as any citizen.”

With a glint of amused self-deprecation in his eyes, Lane straightened. “So that is where George has been getting his goods all this time. He always made me believe he was extraordinarily well connected and never once mentioned I could find such things without his help. If you could kindly point me in the proper direction, my friend?”

Rob accepted the coins for the purchase and wrapped up the more fragile items in a box of card paper. “Gladly. So long, of course, as you come here for your legally purchased goods.” He handed over the box with a grin and held out a hand for the stack of paper Lane had picked up. “I shall tie that up with some twine for you, if you will.”

The bell over the door jingled again, and they both turned that direction, Lane still clutching the stack of paper. In rustled a flock of gaily clad women, the elder ones leading the way as their daughters brought up the rear. And away flew the quiet of the shop into the brisk air out of doors.

Were these particular ladies not given to tossing their money about with abandon, Rob may well have groaned. He was glad he hadn't, though, when he spotted Winter wedged between Theodosia Parks and Elizabeth Shirley. She giggled along with the other girls over whatever so amused them, but her eyes, as always in such company, were blank.

At least Mrs. Hampton was nowhere in sight. Surely the freedom of that would soothe her, even if she daren't show it.

The frippery-laden flock made their way toward the counter—and were greeted by a shower of flying sheets of paper as Mr. Lane dropped his burden and made it worse by lunging for them and so sending them every which direction.

At least he had already paid for them.

Laughter rang out. Rob had to bite back a chuckle of his own, but he did so. Given the shade of red poor Mr. Lane's neck had turned, he needed an ally in the worst way.

“Oh, dear me.” Mrs. Parks stepped backward, though she urged her tittering daughter toward the mess. “So sorry if we startled you, Mr. Lane.”

“My fault. I was…that is I…my apologies, ma'am. Ladies. Clumsy of me.”

Mrs. Shirley all but shoved her daughter forward too. “We shall help you pick it up, Mr. Lane, no fear. My darling Elizabeth can bring order from any chaos.”

Her darling Elizabeth hiccupped and slapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide with horror.

Under normal circumstances, Rob would have been quick to round the counter and restore order himself. But because these circumstances were far from normal, he merely caught Winter's gaze and silently shared the mirth she did an excellent job of covering. Though even her lips hinted at a smile in the corners. She had apparently caught one of the fluttering sheets and held it in her leather-clad hands.

The other young misses had already bent over to help, though Rob winced at the way they trod upon more paper than they rescued. Lane seemed oblivious to the dirt upon it. He took each offering thrust at him with an “Oh…yes, thank you. And you. Miss…very kind. So sorry. Again, I…”

After they had fluttered back into position behind their mothers, Lane heaved out a breath and stood to survey the lot. Rob watched the man's shoulders roll back when he spotted the sole remaining piece of paper in Winter's hands. “Miss Reeves, I do believe that belongs to me.”

Rob quirked a brow. Not a stutter, not a blush. Indeed, it sounded as though the man smiled, though standing behind him as he was, Rob couldn't be sure.

Winter glanced at the paper with a good show of surprise. “Oh, I thought it a gift. Though I confess, when a man slips me a piece of paper, it usually has words of verse upon it.” Somehow she made it sound as though such words confounded her.

Rob drew in a deep breath to keep his countenance schooled. Was he the only man to slip her notes, or did Fairchild and the like do so as they paid her court? Certainly, she would never laugh at any poem of the colonel's and insult his ability as a scribe.

'Twas the colonel's loss. For he would never know the true mind of the lady he sought.

Lane chuckled and held out a hand for the paper. “Were it appropriate, I would offer to return it to you with some clever poetry. Though
my verses tend to expound on Descartes or Lavoisier, so I doubt how well they would be received.”

How did she manage to convey such innocence and oblivion in a single blink? “Indeed, I have never received either of those gentlemen. Were they at any of the balls I have been to?”

Mr. Lane laughed, which made Rob's fingers grip the edge of the counter. Thank the good Lord he was not often allowed in Winter's company when she was with others. He could not have born hearing them find their entertainment at her supposed expense.

With a shake of his head, Lane set the paper upon the counter. “I daresay you have met Descartes in some form or another, Miss Reeves.”

Miss Shirley frowned. “Is he not one of those dreadful philosophers, long since deceased? The one who said ‘I am, therefore I think'?”

“Certainly I have never met anyone who spouts such nonsense.” Gliding forward, Winter approached the counter. Finally, Rob could see the well-hidden twinkle in her eye. “My existence has never caused me to think.”

A few snorts of laughter slipped from Winter's friends, though Miss Parks rolled her eyes at Miss Shirley. “'Tis ‘I think, therefore I am,' you goose.”

Winter stopped a couple of feet before him. “So if I do not think, I will cease to exist?” Terror, feigned to perfection, saturated her tone and widened her eyes.

Grinning like a fool—a lovesick one, no doubt—Mr. Lane slid his purchases to the edge of the counter to make way for the lady. “You are in no danger of blinking out of existence, Miss Reeves.”

“Sometimes I wonder.” Her low mutter likely went unheard by all but Rob, and perhaps Mr. Lane, though he surely wouldn't know what to make of it. She rested her hands upon the counter. “Now, Mr. Townsend. Have you the last order I placed?”

Rob snipped off a length of twine to tie round the soiled paper. At the niggling of his conscience, he added a few extra fresh sheets to the top of the stack, which earned him a grateful nod from Mr. Lane. As he bound them up, he glanced at Winter. “The lace of gold your grandmother wanted for you? Yes, I have put some aside.”

Her eyes snapped like an angry flame. “I was referring,” she said, voice low, “to the
other
item, sir. The special…perfume.”

Rob pressed his lips together, his thoughts winging to the precious bottles of stain and counterpart he had received not two days ago. He had enough now to spare a bottle for her, yes, but what if he ran out before Tallmadge could ship him more? He would never dare send a message to Woodhull without using the stain. It was too dangerous.

Though no less dangerous for her to leave messages for him for any to see, she would argue.

But she could have found a time to question him about it when they were not surrounded by over-curious, fluff-brained females and a gentleman who watched her as though she were the very light of the heavens. Rob cleared his throat. “I have it, yes, though are you certain you want a new scent?”

A flicker of annoyance flashed through Winter's eyes. “I am quite certain, Mr. Townsend, otherwise I would not have asked for some.”

A sigh leaked out. He could spare a vial of each for her. It would make their correspondence far more secure than the heat-developed inks, which anyone with a flame could expose. But how was he to give her the instruction on its use? He would have to visit her at Hampton Hall in the next several days and find a time to teach her. The stain was far too delicate to be applied willy-nilly. And the counterpart could as easily destroy the hidden message as it could develop it.

“That reminds me,” Miss Shirley said, turning to her mother. “I am nearly out of rose water, Mama. We ought to purchase some while we are here.”

“As soon as Mr. Townsend has finished filling Miss Reeves' order, dear.”

Winter lifted her brows. Rob nodded. “Just a moment, ladies. I have not yet put this new perfume in the shop, so I must fetch it. Do browse my selection of ribbons while I am away, though.”

Oakham appeared from the back, his smile pasted on. “I can assist the ladies while you step out, Townsend.”

“Thank you, Mr. Oakham.” That would guarantee his partner would not be standing over his shoulder seeing what he ought not see.

He couldn't resist another glance at Mr. Lane before he left. The young man—he must be in his mid-twenties, like Rob—kept his gaze trained on Winter, his expression announcing for all to observe that he was smitten.

Half the men in the City of New York would have to admit to the same.

But Winter did not so much as look at him. She studied her hands and then the shelves on the wall behind the counter, appearing for all the world as though her brain really were so empty that she might cease to be at any moment.

Rob moved into the storeroom with a shake of his head and indulged in a smile. Who would have guessed all that playacting she had once done with his sister Sally would turn out to be so useful?