Whispers from the Shadows (19 page)

“On holiday,” Thad echoed softly. “At Versailles? Paris, perhaps, I would believe, but the palace itself?”

A tremor swept through her. He must have been scouting, then. That was all. Scouting out the situation that everyone the world over knew was tense. Seeing…evaluating…oh, mercy. He had already reached the rank of brigadier general. Such mundane tasks would never fall to him, not unless there were a specific purpose that only he could fulfill. “You think my father went to France on covert business?”

Mrs. Lane released her husband's arm and glided over to take Gwyneth's hand. “I know he did. We came to London for the wedding, and he confided in us. He was sent in under the guise of a comte to whom he bore an especial resemblance, and who had been in British custody for many years. First he went to get a gauge of how things stood in the fracturing political system. And then he returned to help your mother and grandmother escape before the Revolution erupted, upon your grandfather's request.”

A convulsion pulsed through her, made a cry try to rip from her throat, but she reined it in. “So you know, then, that it was my uncle.”

Mrs. Lane's fingers squeezed hers. “He never said who sent him. But at this point it seems clear. Which I find terrifying. Because the one thing I remember about Mr. Gates from the two times I met him was that, under his polite smile, he hated us simply for being American.”

Mr. Lane followed his wife to Gwyneth's side. No merriment sparked now in his eyes, only calculating sobriety. “Let us pray Isaac never confided in Gates, or it would be more than an ambiguous hatred he feels for us.”

Before she could wrap her lips around the question of why that would be so, Mrs. Lane sighed and tightened her grasp on Gwyneth's fingers. “Your father knew of our part in the Revolution—that through a chain of well-trusted intelligencers I was feeding General Washington information. He cannot have known we revived the Culpers three years ago—”

“Give the man credit, Mother. 'Tis logical.” Thad drummed the fingers of one hand against the opposite arm. “And I suspect he also knew I had taken over its primary function, given that letter he sent with you, Gwyneth. Not to mention the one two months earlier.”

She twitched to alert like a hound who had caught the fox's scent. “My father wrote you before he sent me here? What did he say?”

“Nothing intelligible, but I will fetch it.”

A moment later he was out the door, leaving Gwyneth to stare at his parents. They looked, standing there with their quick-witted gazes, like any well-settled couple. Bound by love, comfortably situated, well but simply dressed. Handsome and pleasant.

Why could it not be so easy? “What am I to do with this information?” The question whispered out before she could stop it.

Mr. Lane's mouth pulled into a half smile. “The same thing your father did, my dear. Accept us for who we are and follow the leading of the heavenly Father. You must do what He tells you, above all.”

Her gaze fell to the floor. “What if He tells me to turn you over to the British authorities?”

A gentle touch on her chin drew her gaze up again. Mrs. Lane's eyes glistened. “I believe that would be to your uncle, Gwyneth. Which means Thaddeus is right. You are involved because your family is involved, and because you are fleeing that family.”

Thad ducked back under the door frame, a piece of paper in hand. “There is a reason your father entrusted you to us, sweet. He must have thought that, together, we could best Gates.”

Together. Together with a family that had more secrets than London had soirees. Together with this man who made her insides a jumble of trust and frustration, fascination and fear.

A man who would be the target of each and every British rifle if they knew who he was and what he did.

He held out the paper. “Any light you can shed on this would be welcome.”

Ought she? But this was from Papa, and he would have sent nothing to compromise England. She took the page, ignoring the trill of awareness when her fingers brushed Thad's. Her head began to shake only a line or two in. 'Twas Papa's hand, sure enough, but the message made no sense. All the right names were mentioned—Mama, Uncle Gates, even Gwyneth—and the sentences made sense as mere arrangements of words. Just not as facts. “This is all wrong. Every bit of it.”

Mrs. Lane sighed. “That much we realized. Have you any idea what he could mean by it? We have tried codes, known counter liquors for invisible ink, everything.”

Invisible ink? Codes? She lowered the paper so she could better stare at the Lanes, first the couple and then the son. What family dealt in such things?

Thad leaned against the table beside her. “Did he send anything else with you? Some sort of text he uses as a key, perhaps? A book, another letter? Anything?”

Gwyneth frowned. “In all honesty, I can scarcely recall what was in my trunk. So much of the past months has been a fog. But I know Mrs. Wesley emptied it out, and I cannot remember seeing anything in there I did not myself pack.”

Her gaze caught on one of the lines. Not on the words, but on their arrangement. The spacing looked off. A word more narrow than the rest. Papa usually had such measured script, all in a careful, elegant flow. And there, on a line near the bottom, was a touch too much space between two words.

Testament to his hurry, perhaps?

“What do you see?” Thad leaned close, peering at the letter with her.

“Just irregularities in his hand.” She pointed at the two places.

A low hum sounded in Thad's throat. “Interesting. You notice things I do not. No great surprise from our resident Michelangelo.”

The praise warmed her, though ice rushed through her veins in the next moment. She ought not earn such accolades in this way. Trying to find hidden meaning in her own father's words… Such secrets ought not be chasing her, such darkness ought not be lurking. She ought to be fully ensconced in her first Season, basking in the joy of a betrothal to Sir Arthur.

But he had become nothing more than a shadow in her memory.

She touched a finger to where Papa had signed his name. So familiar, those loops and lines. Like his face, his eyes, his laugh. Yet this had outlived him, this iron gall on paper, and had shown his life to be so very different from what she thought it was. In what had he been involved? What secrets had he kept until they killed him? Why had he never told her, even when matters became so dire he must send her away?

“Would you like to keep the letter?” Thad's voice strummed across her nerves. “It does me very little good without knowing how to find its meaning.”

For a moment, she considered the offer. Considered what balm it might be to open this up and see his hand.

Considered how that balm would be negated by the nonsensical words. “I thank you, but no. It is meant for you. You ought to keep it.
I…I will go look through all my things to make sure he did not include anything that could help us.”

And she would. But what she really wanted to do was put those new brushes in her case and run her fingers over the bristles to get to know their shape and structure. Then to pick up her pencil and cure that sheet of paper of its blank state. Her hand flexed in anticipation. Later. As soon as she had kept her promise.

Thad bent down, scooped up the scattered brushes, and picked up her pencil. He held them out to her with an indulgent smile. “Which will it be?”

She reached for the whole set with a small return smile. “Both. After my search.”

Rather than relinquishing the brushes, he held them when she grabbed hold. Which, of course, forced her gaze up to his. The irises shone like amber, holding life within them. “You must remember, sweet,” he murmured, “that you needn't feel any disillusionment on account of this discovery about your father. Every decision he made, every bit of information he withheld would have been to protect you.”

Her eyes burned, so she let her gaze drop again. How odd it was to need such a reminder. And more, to have gotten it from an American spy.

Sixteen

Y
ou told her.” Arnaud may have put no question in the words, but it pulsed from his gaze and deepened his frown. “You are mad. Bound for Bedlam. She is—”

Thad shushed his friend and sent a glance around the crowded tavern. “I am well aware of who she is, but at this point we have a mutual enemy in her uncle, and that is unquestionably enough—”

“To let her know you are accustomed to dealing with such things, perhaps.
Perhaps
.” Arnaud leaned forward, the lantern on the table sparking fury in his eyes. “But not enough to tell her names that could ruin us. Even our closest comrades know only that you can get information where it needs to go. But you tell
her
what we call ourselves?”

A chorus of raucous laughter came from the far corner, a perfect cover for the conversation that Thad had wanted to have three days earlier. One thing or another had forbidden it, though, and tomorrow Arnaud would be taking the
Demain
into the tributaries to make it available to Barney's flotilla.

Thad sighed and gripped his half-full mug of coffee, if that lofty term could be applied to the ground-filled brew. “I had to, Alain. I had to be honest with her.”

With a growl, Arnaud tossed his fork to his plate. A drop of gravy flew through the air and landed on Thad's sleeve. He wiped it off and touched his finger to his tongue. The place apparently served better food than they did coffee.

“Why?” Arnaud demanded in a fierce whisper. “
Why
did you
have
to do so? Other than because you are crackbrained.”

Thad sighed and swirled the vile black brew in his cup. “Because the Lord told me to.”

Arnaud leaned against the booth's back. “How in blazes am I to argue with you when you claim that?”

“Well, if you wanted to try an unprecedented tactic, you could
not
.”

His friend snorted a laugh and folded his arms across his chest. “I try not to argue with the Almighty, but you have made your share of mistakes.”

“I know.” Because Arnaud seemed to be finished, he pulled the plate toward him and scooted his mug into its place. “But not when I
listen to the Spirit guiding me,
mon ami
. And He was. Trust me on that.”

“I seem to have no choice as you did not see fit to ask my opinion
before
you told her everything.” He muttered a harsh French something and picked up the mug. “Perhaps you have been blinded by her pretty face.”

Thad forked a tender piece of roast and shoveled it in. Yes, a far sight better than the beverage. “A pretty face she certainly has, but so do thousands of other young ladies in Maryland. I can appreciate that without letting it blind me.”

Arnaud grunted into the mug. Took a drink. He didn't wince—he chewed. Thoughtfully enough to warn Thad to brace himself for whatever was coming next. “I think…I may take Jacques with me on this run.”

Thad's arm froze with a forkful of potatoes halfway to his mouth. “You jest.”

The darting of Arnaud's gaze said otherwise. “I cannot bear the thought of leaving him with your mother when he has just gotten settled at home again. It would be only for a week. Two at the most.”

“Don't be a fool, Alain. We are at war. A primarily
naval
war. You cannot take your son with you.”

A brooding look fell over his handsome face, all glowering brows and pursed mouth. “No one made any objections about safety when I mentioned my intentions—”

“For
you
, you barnacle. But a rumbustious four-year-old?” Thad shook his head and convinced the fork to dispense its potatoes in his mouth. “And you call
me
crackbrained.”

Arnaud sighed and rested his head on his hand. “I know. But when I said I was going, he started crying, begging me to stay for Independence Day. What am I to do?”

“Put the trip off for another three days.”

Another laborious sigh. “It feels as though I have already put it off too long.”

“And so three more days will be nothing. Stay, enjoy the holiday with your son, and then leave him with us for a week.”

Though Arnaud nodded, he looked woebegone. “And then another fortnight of tantrums when I get back.”

An unfortunate truth. Had Thad some magical elixir to set it all to rights…then pirates and British alike would be banished from the
seas, all Redcoats from American soil, and the shadows from Gwyneth's eyes.

Arnaud set the mug down with a somehow accusing
thunk
. “What is that look? You have not worn the like since we were fourteen and you were convinced you were in love with Lizzie Farthing.”

“Ah, Lizzie Farthing.” He grinned and speared another piece of beef. “Had Aaron Pike not stolen her—”

Laughter cut him off. “Then what? She would have waited for you to grow up? With her already nineteen?”

Thad splayed a hand over his chest. “The heart does not consider such trivialities as age.”

“Your heart was in no danger from Lizzie, nor has it been in any since.” He sobered and stared at Thad for a long moment. “So why this expression now? You have bowed out of all the balls since Miss F—”

“Hampton.”

Arnaud rolled his eyes. “Since Miss Hampton arrived. You have hardly seen any other…
non
. Not her. Thad, of all the ill-advised, ill-fated, ill-timed—”

“It is not.” He sighed and set the fork softly down. “At least not for becoming acquainted. She is…I am…I have never felt drawn to anyone like this, Alain.”

His friend's laugh sounded half angry, half incredulous. He shook his head as he leaned forward onto the table. “Nearly twenty-nine years you have gone without falling in love. And you tumble that way
now
, of all times, with…with a…” He shook his head again. “Of all the young ladies you know. All you have met the world over. The one you
married
, and this is the one who steals your heart? The one who is half daft with grief and who cannot see beyond her canvas when a brush is in her hands?”