Ring of Secrets (18 page)

So then. Fairchild had asked for her hand. Grandfather would have granted it, happy to be rid of her so soon after his ultimatum. The colonel would probably propose to her in the next day or two, Grandmother would launch into a flurry of wedding plans. Perhaps tsking a bit over her not landing Bennet—Mr. Lane, that is—but she would be satisfied. 'Twas a fine match.

A fine match indeed. Colonel Fairchild was handsome. He was good, honest. He came from one of the best families in England, his bloodline impeccable. At his side, she would always be privy to sensitive information, which she could pass to Robbie. He would cherish her. Love her.

So why did panic join forces with dread inside her? Why did the feeling strike, even stronger than last night after Silas's news, that she would never be
home
again now?

Her door burst open, and Grandmother blew in like a tempest. Her eyes glinted—not with excitement, not with pride, not even relief. Yet not with anger and frustration, either. She stopped in the center of the room and raised her chin as she emptied her countenance of all expression.

Winter had learned that particular tactic from the best.

“Colonel Fairchild was here,” Grandmother said.

Thinking it safest, Winter only nodded.

“He asked for your hand. I expected this would come soon, given his fervor last night, so your grandfather and I had already discussed our response. He has been refused.”

In spite of the panic of a moment before, this brought no relief. Only great, deeper dread. “Pardon? But…why?”

“Do not be a fool, Winifred.” She waved a hand and sailed to the window. “Fairchild may have the better blood by far, but his fortune is nothing compared to Lane's, and think not for a moment that I missed the looks
he
has been sending your way. You will wait for his offer.”

“Grandmother—”

“Not a word of protest. Our answer was gentle, of course, and left him with the freedom to continue his courtship. We just indicated we were not ready to marry off our
darling
granddaughter quite yet.” A regal sneer turned the words into a threat. “Not to him.”

Winter stood, though she had no idea what she intended to say, what plea she could make. What plea she even
wanted
to make. “Grandmother, you cannot even be sure Mr. Lane will propose. He…he…”

“He is an awkward, bookish bore. Yes, I am well aware. But even bookish bores can be persuaded to make declarations with the proper encouragement.” She took two steps back to Winter and glared directly into her eyes. “Encourage him.”

She straightened her spine. Slowly, so it would not look like a show of will. “I am afraid he is not as easily led as you might think. We have talked enough that I can be quite certain he hides an iron resolve under all his scholarly words. I don't think I can push him where he wants not to go.”

When Phillippa Hampton arched a brow in that way, the earth seemed to tremble. “Then get imaginative, Winifred. He is only a man. One who obviously delights in your beauty.”

Her stomach turned. “But—”

“I have made quite sure you have wiles at the ready.” With a click of her fan, Grandmother pivoted back toward the door. “Use them.”

Winter shook her head as the woman blustered out of her chamber.
Grandmother obviously knew not what she asked. Bennet—Mr. Lane—had demonstrated last night that he had no great difficulty in holding to reason above passion. And she suspected that if she tried to use any womanly wiles on him, his reaction would be opposite what Grandmother intended. He would not be tricked or persuaded into marriage. He would flee and force her into Colonel Fairchild's arms. Again.

She sat and fell backward onto the mattress, flinging an arm over her eyes. Perhaps she ought to obey. Let the facts prove her suspicions true. Let him turn away from her once and for all. Let Grandmother see that some men rose above her expectations and could not be lured in by simpering smiles, batted lashes, and coquettish words. That they were in fact repelled by them.

Let him be repelled. Let him reject her. Let him be purged from her mind and shorn from her heart.

Tears had the audacity to burn at the thought, but she squeezed her eyes shut against them. She would be the better for it.

Eleven

March 1780

W
inter could scarcely take pleasure in the first bloom of spring. A warm breath of air had finally descended upon the city, and when cooped up in Hampton Hall the first half of the morning, she had wanted little more than to be out enjoying the fine weather. Now, strolling through a small park on Bennet Lane's arm, it was all she could do to focus on the chirping of birds.

His gaze was locked on some nonexistent point before them, contemplation writing an epic of thoughts upon his countenance in a language she had yet to learn. He had grown increasingly distracted over the past month and a half. Pushed away by the flirtation Grandmother insisted she employ? Perhaps. Yet still he went to all the gatherings she did, escorting her in. Still he came, at least once a week, to visit with her privately. Still he sat, often silent, in their drawing room.

She must be a fool to miss the probing glances, the leading questions. Was this not what she wanted? For him to lose interest, to be less of a danger to her? Yet here she was, strolling through the first beautiful day of the season, missing the perilous exchanges of winter.

A child's shout came from the other side of the park, something to the effect of “Catch it! Catch it!” It brought a smile to her lips. Indeed,
this was a day to be caught with both hands and enjoyed. She might as well forget about serious things for an hour and bask in the sunshine.

Repositioning her hand on his arm, she turned her face toward his. What a strong jaw he had—one it seemed he hadn't bothered to take a razor to in a couple days. Somehow, the oversight on his part made her grin, as did the sandy hair tied at the nape of his neck. Barring the most formal occasions, he still refused to wear a wig. “You have become so quiet of late, Mr. Lane. Your mind must be hard at work on some scientific treaty.”

Light kindled in the gaze of blue he swung her way. “Treat
ise
, you mean? Nay, unfortunately. Without my laboratory I am afraid I have had little chance to explore my theories in chemistry.”

“You miss it.” 'Twas so obvious even empty-headed her would have seen it.

“Very much.”

“And do they miss you at Yale?”

He chuckled, looking a bit more like the Bennet she had first met. “So say the letters from the president, who also happens to be a friend. He begs me to assure him I will return when the next school year commences.”

The thought brought an unwelcome lump to her throat. She smiled past it. “And will you?”

“I…” His mirth faded back into contemplation. “I cannot say. I hope so, if everything here is adequately resolved by then.”

If Grandmother were here, Winter would be expected to make some comment about duties to one's family and then to nudge the topic into his need for a wife.

But Grandmother was not here, only Freeman trailing a fair distance behind. So instead she grinned up at him. “You know, Lizzie and I were reading a bit of science the other day.”

At that his brows arched and his eyes went sharp again. “I am all amazement. You and Miss Shirley? Together?”

“Mmm. She wanted to be able to discuss it to impress…someone.” As little attention as he had paid Winter lately, he had paid less to any other young woman. Not that any of the mothers of said young women had given up hope, given his lack of proposal to Winter. “'Twas by that being-and-thinking fellow.”

Bennet's lips twitched. “Ah, him. Whatever
is
his name?”

At least he was playing along. It proved such a refreshing change that she nearly ruined the game with a chuckle instead of a wide-eyed stare. “Something to do with cards, I believe. He must be a terrible gambler.”

He loosed a laugh. “Descartes may not like your inference, Miss Reeves.”

“Ah, yes! That is his name. At any rate, we were reading about his thoughts on collisions. Small bodies and large bodies and whatnot.”

“A popular topic with physicists, to be sure. How hard bodies react to one other, what becomes of their momentum…” He looked to be suppressing his smile again. “Did you learn anything?”

She pasted epiphany onto her face. “Indeed I did! He said that a small body can never, under any circumstances, move a larger body. This was quite enlightening, Mr. Lane, for I would have sworn I moved my bureau last week, having put some force into it. But it is larger than I, so obviously I was mistaken.”

“Oh, yes. Obviously.” He put his fingers over her hand on his arm, affection at last in his eyes.

Which shouldn't please her. Nay, she ought to chide herself for inspiring it so deliberately. Yet his smile sent a thrill of contentment through her veins.

He gave her fingers a squeeze. “For the life of me, I cannot fathom why he printed such rot. Did the man never do an actual experiment? He should have stuck with philosophy.”

“Oh, but surely he is right. He thinks it, therefore it must be.”

His laughter now scared a few robins to wing. Yes, she was a fool for it—but she had missed this.

“Why have we not had these conversations of late, Winter? It seems that…” His smile faded as his words trailed off and his brows knit. He nodded beyond her shoulder. “Is that Townsend rushing this way?”

Robbie? She craned her head around and sucked in a breath at the distress that pulsed from him. “It is. And he looks upset.”

“He does indeed.” Bennet was already pulling her toward her friend. “I would guess it is you he seeks in this part of town. I do hope nothing has happened to his family.”

“As do I.” She lifted her skirt a bit so she could traverse the muddy path with a quicker step.

Robbie's rush had him aimed toward the house, but their movement must have caught his attention, for his stride changed abruptly, and he shifted his course toward them. The way he flicked his gaze from Winter to Bennet as they neared and then pressed his lips together made her stomach quiver. What if this were not about his family at all? What if whatever news he carried had to do with Culper business? He could hardly share that with anyone else present.

God of all, let the road of our cause remain clear
.

“Good morning, Townsend,” Bennet said, concern in his voice.

Robbie nodded, though his frown didn't lessen. “And to you, Mr. Lane. My apologies. I did not mean to interrupt your outing.”

“'Tis only a walk, given the fine weather.” Winter withdrew her hand from Bennet's arm so she could reach for Robbie's hands. “Robbie, whatever is wrong?”

He glanced at Bennet again before drawing in a deep breath and blinking rapidly, shaking his head. “It is my cousin. He has been arrested.”

In spite of the thaw in the land, something inside her froze. “Which cousin?”

His gaze fell to their clasped hands. “James.”

James? As in the cousin whom Robbie had tasked with finding a new route by which they could send their information to Washington? The cousin she had cautioned him not to trust with such a task?
That
James? “Robbie.”

He released her hands and turned away, nearly knocking off his tricorn when he rubbed at his forehead. “He was traveling through New Jersey on his way to visit family in rebel-held territory and hoping to recruit men for the British army.”

That was the story Robbie said they had devised for the boy, yes. Winter bit her tongue to keep from asking anything that would give away the falsehood of the claim. “Is New Jersey not heavily Loyalist?”

“Aye, but…” He faced her again, countless emotions warring across his face. Frustration, anger, concern. “It seems he was in his cups and bragging about this goal of his a bit too loudly in the wrong place to a couple of lovely young lasses. As it turns out, the family of these girls
are secretly Patriot and turned him in to the local rebel authorities as a British spy.”

She could only stare. His cousin—a Patriot pretending, too loudly, to be a Loyalist—had been arrested by other
Patriots
?

On the one hand, 'twas far better than if the British had discovered his true purpose, for it would be an easy task to trace him back to Robbie. But what must Washington have thought when he got the news that a spy by the name of Townsend had been arrested?

“Poor Jamie,” she murmured, though she felt no sympathy for him. What had the boy been thinking by letting his tongue get so loosened by drink while out on covert business? “Had he any condemning documentation about him? Or is there a chance he will be released?”

“He had…” Robbie cleared his throat before answering. “He had nothing condemning. Just a, ah, poem I had written.”

It no doubt contained an invisible message as well, but that was secure. He would have written it in the stain. She pasted on a grin for his benefit. “No wonder he was arrested then, for your verse is a crime in itself.”