Ring of Secrets (19 page)

The jest did nothing to lighten the shadows in his eyes. “I have hope he will soon be released. He is only a boy, after all, and was all bluster besides.”

“I will pray.” Relentlessly, and for far more than James himself. For the situation he had brought upon them and the consequences that tormented Robbie's gaze.

“I know you will. 'Tis why I rushed over here.” Again, he flicked his gaze in Bennet's direction. “Though I must reiterate how sorry I am to have interrupted your pleasant excursion with my news. It is only…he was with me not two days before his arrest. We discussed his trip and the possibility of recruiting others to join the army with him. I cannot help but feel responsible.”

“I can imagine.” Bennet gave his head a sad shake. “Is there anything I can do? Having come from Yale, I've some friends with ties to Patriot circles. Perhaps one of them knows someone who could help secure your cousin's release.”

An offer probably unnecessary, but so very gallant. Winter looked to Robbie to see how he would parry it.

Her childhood friend's smile looked strained. “I do thank you, Mr.
Lane. I suspect the matter will work itself out, but it is good to know you have such connections if I need them—and that you would be so kind as to call upon them on our behalf.”

“Of course I would.” Bennet looked sincere as could be, his brows drawn in sympathy. “Charges of espionage cannot be taken too seriously. I am sure we all remember what became of Nathan Hale in seventy-six. I would think the Patriots eager to return the favor and execute a British spy after losing their scout to us.”

Robbie went pale, and Winter knew it was not really for fear of his cousin. Washington or Tallmadge would surely intervene before any execution could take place, but the reminder of the price of espionage sent a shiver up her spine, so it would affect Robbie even more. He cleared his throat. “Ah, but Hale was caught in the act. My cousin may have boasted of recruiting, but I daresay they shan't charge him with espionage for such foolishness.”

“Let us hope not. I knew Hale from our days at Yale, you know. I was very sorry to hear of his fate in spite of his sad choice in politics.”

She could tell Robbie would flee soon. He kept shifting from foot to foot and tugging on his greatcoat. So while he answered Bennet, she turned to where Freeman stood a few strides away and made a series of quick gestures.
Tell Robbie to return later
.

Freeman nodded, obviously not needing to ask why. She had questions that could not possibly be asked in front of Bennet.

A moment later Robbie offered a quick bow and backed up a step. “That is all I wanted. Again, my apologies, and I hope you have a lovely stroll. Miss Reeves.” He met her gaze, saying far more with that action than he would with words. “Those prayers of yours are much appreciated.”

Freeman walked with him a few steps as he strode away, which she didn't imagine would look too odd. But to ensure Bennet paid it as little heed as possible, she looped her arm through his again and loosed a sigh so blustery it could not be ignored. “I do feel badly for the Townsends.”

He patted her hand. “As do I. He is taking it very personally. Should I contact my friends at Yale? I know he refused, but he seems so anxious about it.”

Again, his skills of observation could have been a bit more lacking and she wouldn't have complained. “Robbie has always been prone to anxiousness.” 'Twas both a convenient explanation and a very inconvenient truth. “He is aware of this tendency and tries to offset it by being otherwise clever and witty, but nerves and black moods have plagued him since childhood. I daresay his words are right, however, though his countenance may disagree. Jamie will surely get out of this scrape, and Robbie will bring his nerves under control again.”

He nodded and then his gaze arrowed into her in that way she should have had the good sense not to think she'd missed. Nor should she have found the quirk of his brow so endearing. “And what was that you did?”

She blinked, perhaps exaggerating her confusion but not fabricating it entirely. “What was what?”

“This”—he imitated, poorly, the signs she had made at Freeman.

Fighting a smile, she widened her eyes. “I don't recall doing
that
, Mr. Lane. I would say I must have been swatting at a bee, but I have yet to see any so far this year. Could you demonstrate it again?”

He narrowed his eyes, though his lips curved up. “I did a poor enough job the first time, but you know of what I speak. What was it?”

She saw no reason to lie. Admitting its purpose wouldn't teach him the language. So she smiled. “Signs. My father's mother was deaf, you see, so Father and Freeman developed a system of signs and gestures to communicate with her. I learned them as a child before Grandmother passed on, and the family continued to use them for the joy of it since.”

“Fascinating.” He led her along the path again, though his eyes remained locked on her face. “I have read of such systems. Did your father base it on the Spaniard's book? Bonet, was it?”

“Well, now. That name does sound familiar, but then he came into possession of a French text when it was published in fifty-five. This one was written by an abbot.”

“L'Epee?”

“You know of him?” She was too surprised to feign stupidity.

Bennet chuckled. “Of him, yes, though I never read his work. So what did you say to your servant?”

She glanced at Freeman, who was now following them again. “I
asked him to speak a bit more to Robbie. He did seem quite anxious, but I daresay he would not have appreciated me asking him about it in front of you.”

“You said all that with a few gestures? A request, a comment about his anxiousness, your reasoning?”

Looking back at him, she saw he had put on what he probably intended to be an imitation of her confused expression. She couldn't help but laugh. “And much more besides.”

“Astounding.” Mischief entered his gaze. “You should teach this language to me, and then we could communicate covertly.”

She grinned in response. “Not only that, but right under the noses of my grandparents, without them ever knowing what we said.”

His laugh thawed away the ice inside that Robbie's news had brought with it. “That too. What say you, then? Teach me something.”

“Very well. Let me think of something you would often have cause to say.” She tapped a finger to her chin and then grinned. “Ah, I have the perfect thing. This is ‘interesting.'” She splayed both hands over her chest, right hand above her left, and then moved them out.

He mirrored her. “All right. ‘Interesting.'”

“And this…” She put her palms together and then opened them as if they were pages. “This is ‘book.'”

Though he scowled, amusement still tilted up his mouth. “And why would that particular phrase have to be said secretly?”

She made sure to add an extra dose of innocence into her smile. “Well, good sir, you will find my grandparents disapprove of many books. No doubt at some point you will want me to know that you like one they do not.”

He chuckled, reclaimed her hand, and then tucked it back into the crook of his arm. “And you will find, good lady, that my opinion of a book is the one thing I have no qualms sharing with any and all who care to listen, even if it involves disagreement. I love a good debate on a text.”

“I suppose you are right.” One shoulder lifted, eyes wide, she said, “Shall I teach you a few greetings and niceties, then, for you to use in the presence of young ladies? You seem to have a few qualms about those.”

“Cruel creature.” But still he grinned, and he pulled her a bit closer. “'Tis unforgivably rude of you to point out my awkwardness.”

She ran her gloved fingers over the texture of his homespun cloak, which he still wore for day-to-day activities, though he donned his new, elegant one for social gatherings. Yet another thing she could never admit was her appreciation for how stubbornly he clung to the simpler ways he had known in Connecticut. 'Twould be unfashionable of her to think so, and therefore out of her supposed character. “Oh, but I find it so interesting. I have heard you say such bafflingly clever things to other gentlemen, yet you can scarcely string two words together in the presence of the fairer sex. Tell me, Mr. Lane, what is it about females that befuddles you?”

That befuddlement showed on his face now. “I simply cannot grasp the workings of the female mind, Miss Reeves.”

“Ah.” She forced relieved understanding into her expression. “That, then, is why you seem to have no such trouble with me. I always knew not thinking was the answer to life's woes, in spite of what Mr. Gambler may have to say on the matter.”

His lips twitched at her name for Descartes, but his eyes went thoughtful. “On the contrary, my dear, I believe I am comfortable with you because you, above any female I have ever met, put me in mind of my scholarly friends.”

She halted, stared at him. “What an odd thing to say.”

“Nay, 'tis perfectly reasonable. For you are quick tongued and of deep intellect.”

“We have been through this.” She leaned slightly forward. “My grandparents disapprove of independent thought, and so I have given it up. I know not what you think you see, but surely 'tisn't that.”

Bennet lifted a brow. “They obviously approve of flirtation, though. Until today, it seemed the only thing to fall from those lovely lips of yours were ridiculous comments about finding one's match and how well suited you thought yourself for life in England.”

Arguments that always left her feeling nauseous. “And what is wrong with such talk?”

“What is wrong with it?” Genuine frustration seeped into his tone, and he tossed his free hand into the air. “It is inane!”

“Mr. Lane.” She blinked rapidly, as if injured by such a declaration. “How dare you? I am no lunatic. Perhaps you find flirtatious talk to be insignificant or empty, but it is hardly mad.”

Though obviously amused at the play on insanity and inanity, he turned to face her and looked deep into her eyes, far deeper than a jest would allow. “You know what signs I would like you to teach me, Winter? Those that would allow you to share with me your real thoughts.”

She could summon only a ghost of a smile. “What thoughts do you possibly think I have that are worth sharing?”

“If I knew the answer to that…” He sighed, faced forward again, and set a course for Hampton Hall.

His hopelessness echoed within her. It had been foolish to resort to the banter they both enjoyed. She ought to have known better than to torment herself, and him, so. She could not give him what he wanted; he could not offer her what she most needed…why waste any more time on each other?

“Bennet…” Yet she couldn't look at him as she said it, and she had to pause to keep undue emotion from clogging her thought. “We are not suited. That is so obvious even I can see it. You would do better…you ought to shift your attentions elsewhere.”

When she glanced at him, she saw that he kept his gaze straight forward as he shook his head, jaw clenched. “I am afraid that is not feasible, Winter. You are the only young woman I have ever met to whom I can talk.”

“But I cannot talk to
you
.” She didn't dare.

His head turned and his gaze burned into her before moving to her cheek. “Has he struck you again?”

“No.” But her six months were halfway over, and just yesterday Grandfather had cornered her and reminded her of that. If she were not betrothed by the tenth day in July…part of her thought he hoped she wouldn't be so that he would have an excuse to carry out his threats. She couldn't shake the feeling that the hatred roiling inside him would not be satisfied until she was punished for her mother's perceived sins. Not just out of his house, but
gone
.

As if reading far more than an assurance in that “no,” Bennet drew in a long breath. “I will not give up.”

But he would, eventually. He was too much the scientist to chase a
theory when it gave him no new data to consider. Eventually he would find someone new to hypothesize about, and he would stop frequenting Hampton Hall. Only then would Grandmother give up hope and allow other suitors a chance.

Winter just wasn't sure the stubborn man beside her would give up in time—or if his determination would get her tossed into the bowels of Holy Ground.

Twelve

B
en entered what had once been a prosperous house, and which had since been converted into offices for Colonel Fairchild and those who worked directly under him. A glance at the clock against the wall told him he was a few minutes early, but he saw little point in dawdling at the end of his walk with Winter. The moment they reached Hampton Hall, she reverted to her flirtations and empty glances, so he had hastened away.

Best to move to his next appointment and try not to think of how he wished she would give what she so staunchly refused. A glimpse, just a glimpse of her true mind…but nay. 'Twas always her grandmother's words that spilled from her lips lately. The cleverness disguised as its opposite was far preferable, but even that was naught but a well-decorated mask.