Ring of Secrets (30 page)

“Indeed. Sad as it is, we must—Miss Reeves!” Spotting her, the colonel's face lit up. “When did you come out? I do hope we were not boring you with our talk of rebels in disguise.”

Winter blinked and let the familiar, false innocence settle over her face. “Oh, no. I only just stepped out. But what of disguises? Are we planning a masquerade?”

The gentlemen laughed and changed the subject, but even as Winter tucked her hand into the crook of Bennet's elbow, her mind went back into the shop. Was there really a high-ranking Patriot official
feeding information to the British? If so, Robbie must alert Washington at once.

But she couldn't go back in there now, and with Robbie feeling as he did…well, she would send Freeman the moment she arrived home, and then Robbie could include it in the package of information for Roe.

Even as she thought it, a man rushed into the store matching the description Robbie had given her of the courier he found so unreliable. If that were Roe already…but surely they could impress on Robbie the importance of passing along this other information in the next correspondence.

'Twas too critical to be kept to themselves.

Eighteen

September 1780

R
ob trudged along the waterfront, trying to work up the nerve to care about the fleet in the harbor, but everywhere he turned, red coats taunted him. Every time he planned to meet with a source, someone else lurked where they ought not. Every time he tried to secret a note out of the city, soldiers appeared.

The risk seemed to rise every day. The noose seemed to loom. And no matter how grateful Washington had been for the information about the British's knowledge of Rochambeau, appreciation made his job no safer.

“Please, Mr. Townsend.” Freeman strode beside him, face neutral but tone pleading. “You must get this merchandise to Mr. Bolton.”

All the code names made him grit his teeth. Yes, maybe Tallmadge—Bolton—would want the information. But it was vague at best, so what good would it even do? How often had he been told not to pass along conjectures and suppositions, but only facts?

Chilling as it was to consider that a Patriot officer might defect, he could offer no information on whom, where, or when. And who was to say it would even happen? No, it was not worth the risk of getting a message out. He had sent off intelligence about the ten sail of the line
and other warships that left New York under Admiral Rodney two weeks ago, but that had represented clear and unquestionable danger to the American fleet. Not some specter of a threat like this.

'Twasn't worth the risk, not without more details than Winter could offer him.

“I am sorry, Freeman.”

The older man tugged his hat lower. “Sir, she is adamant that—”

“Tell your mistress that I have endured trial enough with all this business. I will not needlessly invite more. So please stop coming every week on her behalf. 'Twill do nothing to convince me.”

And he could do without the constant reminders of her. He hadn't spoken to Winter since July and had done his best to avoid the need to see her. Oh, he had caught glimpses of her at social events now and then when he must attend for the newspaper. One time, in August, he had even slipped a note into a drawer for her, to pass along the thanks from Washington about the French information. Another time she had signaled she had information for him, so he had taken her note home and uncovered it with the counter liquor.

But he must get used to doing what was necessary without her aid. She would marry Lane soon, and be off to…somewhere. If he intended to persist in this business, he must do so without her.

Rob should have spoken months ago. A year ago, when they first met up in the city. He had known then that she was the only woman he could ever admire enough to marry, so why had he dawdled? He should never have recruited her into the Culper Ring. Instead, he should have run away with her and made her his wife. Perhaps then the help she would have offered would be different, but still she could have assisted him.

Freeman came to a halt, his expression now beseeching. “Mr. Townsend, you know she does all she can for the good of the business. Please don't cut her off. Already you will not speak to her, but if you now refuse to speak to me…”

“It has nothing to do with you, Freeman.” He tried a smile, but it felt foreign to his lips. “I am merely focusing on different aspects of the business for now.”

Freeman opened his mouth as if to reply, but then a frown wrinkled his forehead as he looked at a point beyond Rob's shoulder. Rob turned to see what had caught his attention and found himself frowning too. “Is that George Knight?”

He had kept his voice low, but still Freeman shushed him. With a roll of his eyes, Rob subsided, content to cast another glance toward the wharf, where an ill-dressed Mr. Knight was helping a few fishermen load crates aboard a small rowboat.

Curious. Knight may not be the wealthiest man in the City of New York, but he could certainly afford better than the patched-up breeches and coarse shirt he wore now, not to mention the slouchy, filthy-looking hat. What was the man up to? Surely he wasn't assisting the fisherman for social purposes or out of a deep desire to heft what looked like heavy crates.

Freeman pressed his lips together and turned away. “Excuse me, Mr. Townsend. I had better get home to Winter. You have a good day.”

He nearly told Freeman to give Winter his greetings but stopped himself in time. No use in keeping even that much communication open between them. 'Twas time to sever ties. Time to admit he hadn't a good disposition for this work, at least right now, and resign himself to a life of quiet.

Alone.

“Townsend!”

Rob jumped when a red coat blazed to a halt in front of him, and then he forced a smile at the always-exuberant face of Archie Lane. “Good afternoon, Major.”

The young man grinned. “I was headed next to your shop to see how you fared on grog.”

Rob cleared his throat. “I was down here checking on my next shipment, but alas, no new supplies arrived for me today. Perhaps tomorrow.”

“A shame.” Major Lane nodded and turned away. “I shall check with you tomorrow then. Good day.”

“And to you.” Rob loosed a long breath and turned inland. Perhaps the major's inquiry was innocent enough—or rather, safe enough—but it also proved Rob's point to Freeman. One never knew when a British officer might all but jump upon one.

Just as one never knew when an acquaintance would serve to put one in mind of things one had no desire to think about. From Major Lane to his brother, and from Bennet Lane to Winter.

Winter, with her courageous heart and deep faith. Winter, with her gleaming eyes and brilliant smiles. Winter, smiling always at someone else.

Blast. He may as well go home, pull the drapes, and lock himself in for the night. Perhaps wallowing was unhealthy, but it was a far sight better to do it in private than before the eyes of all of New York.

Winter let another candy melt on her tongue and grinned. She exhaled an exaggerated sigh of pleasure and batted her lashes at Colonel Fairchild.

If she had to eat one more marshmallow, she might lose her dinner. Sweets had been an unaccustomed treat when she first arrived in the city, and she had indeed partaken of more than she ought, but at this point she craved only the vegetables from the farm. Carrots and potatoes sounded like heaven.

But then, carrots and potatoes didn't make for very romantic gifts. Anything made primarily of white sugar, however…

She wondered if Colonel Fairchild knew the long and ancient history of the confection. Of the many medicinal uses of the root of the marsh-growing mallow plant, or how the Egyptians once combined it with honey and offered it to their gods. She suspected not. And suspected too that if she were to educate him, he may think she had lost her mind.

“I knew you would like them,” he said as he watched her indulge with a warm smile. “Do save some for later though, my darling, for I shan't be by to bring you more for several days.”

Praise the Lord for a reason to put the box aside. She did so with another supposedly happy sigh, sliding it onto the bench beside her. A cool breeze blew through the garden, toying with her hair and teasing her nose with the scent of autumn leaves. “Will you be away, Colonel?”

He pursed his lips. “Not I, but I want to be at the ready. André has set up another meeting with the Patriot defector as last week's did not work out as planned. And he says that Washington may visit him while he is in the area, so we may even…oh, I dare not hope for that much. 'Twill be enough to gain the general and his post, however many men he brings with him. The rebels will not be able to recover from such a coup. This blasted war may be over soon, my love.”

The marshmallow churned in her stomach. She smiled brightly. “That is certainly welcome news. I do so tire of all the tinfoil.”

It took him a moment. “Oh, you mean turmoil. Yes, it wears on us all.”

“Although…” She pulled forward a whitened curl and twined it around her finger. “What happens when it is over? Do you return to your family in England?”

His shrug looked so peaceful that her heart had no choice but to worry all the more. “Perhaps, or perhaps I will receive a grant of land here or in Canada. I do like this continent, I confess. I shouldn't mind making a home here.” He took her hand and kissed her fingers. “Of course, such decisions must also take into account the preferences of the one with whom I intend to build this life.”

“That is very gracious of you, sir. Many men take no such interest in the preferences of their families.”

He arched a brow. “Mr. Lane?”

“Oh!” Bother, she hadn't thought of how he would interpret that. She had only been thinking of her grandfather. “We have not talked much of his plans beyond returning to Connecticut soon. He does so miss his classes. And his lavatory, of course.”

Fairchild choked down a laugh that time. “You mean laboratory, my darling.”

Well, she had to do something to entertain herself. “Yes, of course. That is what I said.”

“Mmm.” He smiled and stood. “Well, I suggest you talk with him about these matters soon, my dear. While Mr. Lane is a man of many admirable qualities, he can be absentminded about some things. You must be sure you can suffer whatever future he envisions, if you intend to accept his proposal, which will surely be coming soon.”

She gave him a small smile. He had taken hope from the fact
that Bennet hadn't yet made an offer, she knew, but she could hardly tell him that they had spent the past two months sharing whispered details of their hearts and had been enjoying it too much to rush through it.

Nor did she want to think of all she could
not
tell Bennet. The truth of her father, of her loyalties. Of how she prayed that what she did share—her faith, her intellect, her love of simpler ways—would somehow be enough.

“Well, I must be going. I imagine I will see you, if only briefly, at the Shirleys' ball tonight, and I will try to come by again on Sunday.”

She rarely spent time with any gentleman but Bennet at social gatherings these days. Fairchild usually stayed close to André's side and stared at her half the night. Tonight would they be talking of this upcoming meeting?

Her spirit weighed heavy within her, making her smile waver. “I shall look forward to it, Colonel. Do caution the major to be careful.”

He looked surprised by the serious admonition. “Of course. Good afternoon, my dear.”

“And to you.”

The moment he disappeared into the house, she ran toward the stable. “Freeman!”

He waited in the empty stall and motioned her down the stairs. A light already burned. “Mr. Townsend wouldn't budge, Winter. I did my best to convince him, but I fear he is losing his heart for it again.”

Thanks to her. She squeezed her eyes shut, that weight only growing. “We must keep trying. André is leaving tomorrow for a meeting with this general who has promised to defect. A
general
, Freeman. One who has just traveled into the area. Surely Tallmadge and Washington would know who it is with that much information. We must get word to them. We
must
.”