Whispers from the Shadows (23 page)

They made their way into the busiest part of town, where shops and businesses and taverns kept the streets filled with people, and where the brackish scent of the bay occasionally swept by on the breeze. Where carts and drays were as numerous as barouches and chaises.

Where, from the ambling, bustling crowds, one particular movement caught her eye. She knew, even as the terror choked her, it was not Uncle Gates. Knew, even when the man turned as if he felt her gaze catch on him, that it was the one Thad had called Mr. Mercer and not the monster of her nightmares.

Knew it. Yet she couldn't reason her mind from wanting to flee in the other direction when Nathaniel Mercer smiled and strode their way.

Eighteen

M
iss Hampton. How good to see you again.” Mr. Mercer stepped in front of them with that same posture and way of moving that had first alarmed her in the stationer's. “I trust you recovered from your spell?”

His gaze—too warm, too curious—made Gwyneth suppress a shudder and press closer to Mrs. Lane's side.

Her chaperone cleared her throat, nudged Jack into the space between them, and extended a hand toward the newcomer. “I don't
believe we have met, sir. I am Mrs. Bennet Lane.”

Mr. Mercer took her hand and bowed over it. “Nathaniel Mercer, ma'am. You have no doubt met my mother, who resides in Annapolis. I happened across your son and cousin in town some weeks ago, but I am afraid Miss Hampton had an episode that day. I have thought of you often, miss, hoping you had recovered.”

Her stomach went queasy, and no doubt the smile she forced out reflected her distaste for being accused of having episodes. Which implied some sort of habitual event, which she certainly did not have. If one discounted falling asleep randomly after bouts of insomnia, which one certainly should, because…because one
should
.

“Miss Hampton—” Mrs. Lane spoke the name without a hitch, though Gwyneth had heard her and Thad having a rather heated debate on the wisdom of the falsehood—“has been quite well, thank you, though we had better hurry on our way. The clouds have grown darker still, and I certainly do not want to be responsible for my charge catching her death of cold.”

Gwyneth hadn't seen any great change in the heavens, but she noted one in Mrs. Lane's countenance. Her eyes had gone decidedly blank, and her face, while smiling pleasantly, seemed entirely devoid of consideration. As if she had slipped on a mask.

Mr. Mercer breathed a laugh that oozed condescension. “I daresay with as warm as it is, the worst the rain can do is damage your very lovely bonnet. But far be it from me to be responsible for so great a travesty.”

How did Mrs. Lane manage to blink in such a way, as if the man had spoken in Greek? Which, come to think of it, the lady likely knew. “Do you take issue with wall hangings, sir?”

Mr. Mercer frowned and then renewed his smile. “I believe you are thinking of a ‘tapestry,' Mrs. Lane. A travesty is a grotesque imitation.”

Mrs. Lane lifted her nose into the air. “Well, certainly I have seen some poorly woven ones, but there is no need to insult the craftsmen.”

Only her bafflement allowed for Gwyneth to hold back a snort of laughter.

Mr. Mercer inclined his head and took a step backward. “Of course not. And I shan't hold you up, as you will be eager to get home before it rains, in any case.” His gaze moved to Gwyneth again,
and again turned too familiar, too meandering. “My mother will be coming for a visit after my current trip to Virginia. Perhaps your family would like to dine with us one night to welcome her to Baltimore.”

Mrs. Lane dismissed him with a flip of her wrist. “Send an invitation round when you have returned, sir. Come, Gwyn dear, we had better hurry or all the best lace will be gone.”

Lace? Hardly the staples Amelia had requested, but Gwyneth would play along if it meant escaping this companion. “Of course. Good day to you, Mr. Mercer.”

He tipped his hat to them and stepped out of their way. She felt his gaze on her all the way down the street, until Mrs. Lane led her into a dry goods store. Only then did she dare lean closer to her and whisper, “What was that you were doing?”

A sheepish look overtook Mrs. Lane's face. “Ah. An old habit, let us call it. One that seems to reemerge when faced with someone for whom I do not much care. 'Tis how I got through the Revolution as a Patriot in a Loyalist stronghold. When one acts utterly silly, no one ever thinks to look for deeper motives.” Her lips bloomed in a smile. “Until my Bennet, that is.”

Gwyneth glanced to the door, though Mr. Mercer was thankfully nowhere in sight. “You do not care for him either, then?”

“Even less than I care for his mother, whom I avoid when I can in Annapolis. We will not be accepting any invitations from him.”

A chill skittered up her back, and she had to check over her shoulder again to make sure he did not still watch her. People aplenty clipped past, but the only indication she saw of him was the last of the line of roped-together slaves shuffling out of sight. A fresh chill danced after the first. What a despicable man.

Jack snagged her attention with a squeak of distress. His gaze was latched onto the bins of sweets, but he pressed his lips together against his obvious instinct to beg for one. And the resulting confliction had him hopping from foot to foot. Gwyneth exchanged a smile with Mrs. Lane. “May I?”

She winked. “What Grandmama does not see, hmm?” She turned down an aisle and perused the offerings.

One hour and two stores later, with Jack sucking happily on a stick of peppermint candy, Mrs. Lane had found the items her elder daughter had requested. And from the looks of the sky, they had not a
minute to spare. Gray clouds had compounded and shoved their way into a low-hanging, roiling mass of black.

Gwyneth couldn't resist a smile at the impending weather. Maryland had far too much sun. 'Twould be a pleasant reprieve to have a day of rolling thunder and cleansing rains. Perhaps she would sit by an open window while the storm rolled through and let the wet breeze caress her. Or if she could escape the watchful eye of Rosie long enough, she might even sneak out to the garden as she did when they were in the country so it could soak her through. She could even—

“Watch out!”

In a chaos of shouts and grunts and shoves, Gwyneth's breath evacuated her lungs as something pressed her to a wall of warm, damp brick. Her fingers still clutched Jack's, but before her was only a jumble of muted browns and blues as at least a dozen men surged by. A few tossed apologies over their shoulders, but none slowed.

She ran a hand over Jack's head to make sure he was well. Given the sticky grin he aimed at her, he scarcely noticed the hubbub, but where had Mrs. Lane gone?

“Gwyneth?” Pain laced the voice.

“Grandmama!” Jack jumped away from the building and must have spotted her. He lunged around the corner, pulling Gwyneth with him.

Mrs. Lane sat in the alley, her face so careful a blank canvas that she must be working hard to maintain it.

“Mrs. Lane!” Gwyneth crouched down beside her. “What happened? Are you injured?”

“I twisted my ankle, I think. Would you…” She paused and let half a wince slip out. “Would you kindly fetch Thad with the carriage?”

Responses vied for a place on her tongue. That she could help her up, a question of how much it hurt, of how she was to find Thad from here. But she knew well that Mrs. Lane would not have asked her to find help unless she needed it. So she would go and waste no time arguing. “Of course. But,” she added when the first drops of warm rain hit her forearm, “allow me to at least help you inside.”

The woman's hesitation told her clearly how much her ankle must be paining her. To prefer to stay in such an ignominious position rather than to face rising… Gwyneth gripped her hand and prayed the
Lord would soothe. “It is only a few steps. You can lean on me. I am stronger than I look.”

Jack's eyes filled with tears. “Are you all right, Grandmama? Do you need me to kiss it?”

Even her smile was tight with pain. “My darling little one. I will be right as rain in no time. Could you carry this?”

Jack took the sack, his lip still trembling.

When her gaze swung to Gwyneth, the edge of control frayed. “Are you certain you can support me? The way it is throbbing—”

“Have no fear of that, Mrs. Lane.”

A strained smile flitted again. “I think it ought to be ‘Winter' at this point.”

“Winter.” She slipped her arm around her. “On the count of three. We will take it slowly.”

They got her to her feet, and Gwyneth served as a crutch for the short but difficult journey to the nearest shop. Jack latched onto her skirt and didn't relinquish it until Winter was seated inside the haberdasher's, her injured ankle upon a footstool, and she invited the boy onto her lap.

Despite the lady's assurances to the little one that she was perfectly well, the truth pulsed from her eyes. “Can you find the waterfront from here, Gwyn?”

“Of course I can.” She gave Winter's hand a squeeze, Jack's shoulder a pat, and headed back out into the spitting rain.

Not that she had any rational thought of which way to turn or how to get to the docks from this street. But she didn't need one. She had only to think of Thad and let her feet take her wherever they willed.

The wind whipped whitecaps onto the Chesapeake, turning its waters to a murky, steely gray. Thad signed the last of the requisite documents for transfer of goods from ship to shore as the first drops splashed down from the heavens. Handing the papers to Captain MacKenzie, he fastened his gaze on the ever-darkening clouds. “It is a blessing you arrived last night rather than tonight, Mack.”

MacKenzie snorted a chuckle and adjusted the hat over his too-long orange hair. “Methinks it a blessing the clouds had already begun rolling in last night to provide cover. I thought for sure we would have to go the long way round.”

“Hmm. Everyone else has had to.” Thad planted his hands on his
hips, watching as the men loaded the last of the crates into the cart. They would take them the short trip to his warehouse, and he would oversee the sorting and selling. Not his favorite part of the business, but the one that allowed him to have his fun upon the open waters. “How daft am I that a coming storm makes me want to order my crew aboard the
Masquerade
and set sail?”

A meaty hand landed with a
thunk
upon Thad's shoulder. “No dafter than the rest of us, though it's glad I am to be in port for a spell. Try as we may to make a menace of ourselves, there be too many British vessels wandering the waves now that Napoleon no longer keeps them busy.”

The longing punched, itched, and made Thad's feet want to slide along the planks until he was near enough the
Masquerade
to climb aboard. His hands yearned for the smooth wood of the wheel or the rough hemp of the ratlines. And to smell naught but the fresh tang of brine and taste sweet sunshine on his lips.

Someday…but not until he knew he would be coming home to a land once more at peace, to a family secure in their homes. And to a pair of eager, waiting arms and smiling blue-green eyes as fathomless as the sea.

He glanced up the street and thought for a moment he had summoned her with his thoughts. Or that he imagined her, running his way with abandon, her bonnet having fallen to her back and a few curls now tumbling free, for what would possess her to actually do such a thing?

But MacKenzie's wide eyes disproved that theory. “Now here comes a bonny lass.”

“Indeed.” Though where were Mother and Jack? He lifted a hand to get her attention, though she was already on a path straight for him. Odd, since he was at the end of the docks opposite the
Masquerade
, and she couldn't have known he would be.

Her gaze found him, and her pace increased still more.

His friend lifted fiery brows. “She's
your
bonny lass, is she? Well, then, I shall remove myself and accompany the boys to the warehouse.”

Thad nodded, mumbled something about meeting him there later, and started toward Gwyneth. The nearer she drew, the more the twisting of his heart told him it was not simple desire to see him that had sent her running through the streets of town.

Though still, when a gust of wind swept down the avenue and tore another mass of curls loose, he could hardly help sucking in a breath of appreciation. She looked like some sort of mythical character, whimsy and ferocity combined, with that frown upon her brow. Like Miranda, perhaps, from Shakespeare's
Tempest
. So bound to the wind and rain that one could never be sure if she echoed it or it her.

“Thad.” She flew over the last few feet, hands extended and worry darkening her eyes.

Her hands he took in his, finding them warm and rain-wet. “What is the matter, sweet?”