Ring of Secrets (4 page)

There. When next Roe was in the city, Rob would deliver this to him. Roe would take it to Woodhull, whom Rob had come to know when they both boarded in the same house until a few months ago. From Woodhull it would make its way via the sailor Caleb Brewster to Benjamin Tallmadge, and from Tallmadge to General Washington himself.

And from Washington…well, Rob hoped it would make it to whoever could salvage what was left of young America's treasury.

He recorked the vial, put it and the quill away, and replaced the shelf. Then he stood for a long moment, leaning against the bookcase.

He must hope. Must hope and believe he could make a difference. Must trust that if one fought for the light, it could hold the darkness at bay.

He must.

Winter eased the door shut with nary a click. Warmth welcomed her, along with the muted din of many voices in the other rooms. In this back hallway, though, all was quiet.

“Felt the need to escape?”

Hand clutching her throat, Winter spun around with a gasp. Not that she had to turn to know who waited. When they were introduced an hour ago, Mr. Lane's voice had soothed like her favorite spiced tea. She wouldn't forget it anytime soon.

What was he doing back here, though? Had he followed her? Had he seen her with Robbie? Impossible. One couldn't see from the house into the shadows of the tulip tree at this time of night.

She swallowed back anything but expected alarm and willed herself into her usual role. “Mr. Lane, shame on you. You startled me.”

That shrewd gaze of his narrowed, though his lips were turned up in a smile. “Does your given name lend you a predilection for such inhospitable weather as is to be found in your backyard right now?”

Though she wanted to grin, instead she blinked—as if confused but not wanting to admit it. The Winter known in these circles never would have been able to follow that question. “Pardon? No, I was not outside to predict the weather. I just needed a breath of fresh air.”

The gentleman arched a brow. “In that chill?”

“My mother once said she named me well, given how much I like the cold.”

Mr. Lane chuckled and straightened from where he leaned against the wall. “You are a clever one.”

“Clever?” She gave him a surprised smile, even while mentally scolding herself. She ought not to have added that last part. Colonel Fairchild might smile when her presumed stupidity seemed to stumble into correct understanding, but Mr. Lane didn't know her mask well enough to make such assumptions yet. “Why, Mr. Lane, that is a most unequaled compliment. I shall have to tell everyone you called me clever.”

His smile faltered as his eyes widened a tad. He had probably already heard enough opinions on her to realize that if he called her witty, it would speak to the opposite in him.

She nearly sighed at the need to resort to such strange threats.

Mr. Lane edged closer, challenge gleaming in his eyes. “Clever indeed. Is it not exhausting?”

Now he really did confuse her. “Is what exhausting, sir?”

“The need to hide your wit as you do, and reveal it only in ways so
very
clever that most cannot understand you.”

Alarm bells clanged in the depths of her mind. How in the world could someone have seen that within an hour of meeting, when those who supposedly knew her well thought her superficial at best?

Father in heaven, protect me.

She blasted him with her most brilliant smile and strode forward, leaving him little choice but to turn and fall in beside her. “What a charmer you are. Your family is all from New York, are they not? How is it you only now come to our fair city?”

The light dimmed in his eyes. “Fair? What I have seen of it since coming home two days ago bears little resemblance to the New York I knew before the war.”

“The current state of things has been hard on everyone, to be sure.” She studied the wallpaper as she spoke, as if merely parroting what she'd heard others say and not sharing her own observation. As if she, in this golden world, had remained untouched. Oblivious.

“I imagine so.” His voice was too soft, too understanding—but thankfully, he shook himself. “To answer your question, I have been at Yale. First as a student, and then I stayed on as faculty.”

“Yale.” Questions sprang up, but she covered them with her usual smile. “I know it, of course. Grandfather calls it ‘a hotbed of Whiggish sentiment.' It sounds delightful. I should greatly like a wider selection of wigs, perhaps one of those with so many curls a servant must follow behind with a stick to hold it up.”

He laughed. No polite chuckle or a chortle that he thought to be at her expense, but a genuine laugh of delight. Of understanding.

Or perhaps she was too tired, overwrought with all this business, and seeing things that weren't there. Surely that made more sense than a total stranger comprehending her so immediately.

His mirth quieted to a smile, and he proffered his arm. “Your grandfather has the right of it, to be sure. I found there were many opportunities for debate.”

Somewhere deep inside, a kernel of warmth took up residence within the block of ice in her chest. Had anyone ever continued to talk seriously to her after one of her “misunderstandings”? Winter tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. “You often debate on the fashion
of wigs, then? Most intriguing. How many rows of curls do you prefer? Do you favor the gray powder or the white?”

He sent her a wink that ought to have scandalized her. “A good Yale man can debate any topic, Miss Reeves. For my part, I prefer no wig at all, as you can see. And powder makes me sneeze.”

“'Tis a problem, I confess. Some enterprising chemist ought to devise a better recipe.”

“Or perhaps some enterprising lady of fashion ought to make wigs a thing of the past, for the sake of our sensitive noses.”

She made a show of debating that as they regained the ballroom. “I shall take it under consideration, to be sure. But I so enjoy the display.”

Mr. Lane opened his mouth to retort, but before any words could come forth, another young gentleman walked up. He had brows closer to red than brown, a face well-dusted with freckles, and a cheerful gleam in his eyes. She recognized him but had never been told his name. All she knew was that he was considered beneath her.

“Ah, George.” Mr. Lane grinned and slapped a friendly hand to the newcomer's shoulder. “Miss Reeves, allow me to introduce to you Mr. George Knight. He and I are childhood chums.”

“Miss Reeves.”

She held out her hand and measured her smile to the appropriate brightness, gauged according to what her grandmother would approve. “Mr. Knight. Are you one of the esteemed Staten Island Knights?”

“Ah.” He'd barely bent over her hand before releasing it. With a glance toward Mr. Lane, he shifted his feet and grimaced—he probably intended it for a smile. “No, miss. No relation that I know of. My family are gunsmiths.”

Those
Knights? Far more interesting than the stuffy landowners her grandparents so admired. Not that she ought to be interested in such things, so she put on the patronizing smile that always felt so vile upon her mouth. “Oh.”

Mr. Knight pursed his lips and turned to Mr. Lane. “Excuse me, Ben. I only wanted to find you to let you know I'm off. Do stop by sometime in the next few days. We have years to catch up on.”

“Certainly I shall.”

They clasped wrists, and the gunsmith bowed curtly to her. “Good evening, Miss Reeves.”

“And to you, Mr. Knight.” Her usual, absent smile would cover the pang snubbing him caused her. This was the part of life in her new society she would never get used to, this expectation to dismiss decent people based on their income.

Up until a year ago, she would have been the one dismissed.

The scowl that creased Mr. Knight's forehead as he turned away proved the success of her facade. How…excellent.

Exhaustion settled on her shoulders and sent her gaze toward the tall case clock in the corner of the room. Not yet eleven thirty. The celebration would continue at least until one.

Mr. Lane studied her again, his blue eyes like a torch seeking out an escaped convict. Thankfully Colonel Fairchild approached. She had already promised him another dance, which was surely about to begin. The perfect excuse to escape Bennet Lane. With a little luck, she would be able to avoid him the rest of the night.

With a little diligence, forever.

Three

December 1779

B
en chafed his hands together and anchored down the rolled paper with his inkwell and a book. His gaze traveled over the map yet again, though he'd memorized it even as he sketched it. Now to add a few more noteworthy locations.

He cast a longing look toward the fireplace, though he daren't build a fire yet. Fuel supplies were dwindling, and though he could probably bribe the right men to get a bit extra, he couldn't bring himself to do it, not when so many others needed it more than he.

Soon he'd have to be off anyway. They were expecting him at Hampton Hall.

With his quill dipped in ink, he set to work. On the map he had marked each affluent home—the ones where high-ranking officers gathered, where gossip was likely to venture from benign to sensitive. Hampton Hall. Barton House. The Felders', the Parks', the Masons'. Several others he'd managed to visit over the past few weeks. Enough that he now recognized which families moved in the circle he would scrutinize.

He'd ventured out into the city during the days too, to reacquaint himself. He wanted to get his bearings in a town depleted of so much
of its previous self. Yesterday he had wandered over to the eastern side, where the burnt-out shambles from the Great Fire still stood black and forlorn, mile after mile. From the battery all the way to King's College, nothing remained but a charred memory of the New York he had known as a boy.

Part of him wished he had never come home. If only this quest had taken him somewhere else, anywhere else.

He drew a line around Rivington's Corner at the bottom of Wall Street, home of the
Royal Gazette
. Though the paper didn't have the stellar reputation of the
New York Mercury
, the newspaper's office was a meeting place of officers eager to pass along tantalizing tidbits for the
Gazette
's owner to exaggerate before printing. They also had their favorite coffee shops, public houses, vendues…all of which he intended to frequent. Not so much to see who was speaking, but rather to discern who was listening.

Were it not a holiday, he would head out again now. But alas.

On a separate piece of paper, he made notes of the next places he intended to visit. The favored tailor of the officers, under the guise of needing a finer suit of clothes than his tenure in Connecticut had permitted. He'd stop in for coffee afterward at the shop owned by the same Rivington who ran the newspaper. Perhaps from there he would follow any gossip he heard to a few new locations, which he would then add to his map.

Explore, discover, document.

He rested his quill in its glass holder and flexed his frigid digits. His father's old, large house was as drafty as it was impressive.

“Hallo, there! You home, Ben?” The muffled shout came from outside his front door.

At least George was still in town. Smiling, Ben removed the weights to let the map roll back up and shoved his work into a drawer. He would take it all back up to his personal quarters later. “Coming.”

“Well, hurry it up. My hands are full. Don't you have a footman?”

“'Tis Christmas, you dunderhead. I gave him the day off.” Ben jogged to the entryway, wrenched open the door, and found his friend to be without exaggeration. He frowned at the stack of boxes and wrapped parcels in his arms. “What in blazes is all that?”

George arched his brows, incredulous. “'Tis Christmas, you dunderhead. I have brought you a gift, and Mother sent a few treats for your supper. Are you sure you will not join us?”

“Ah.” He relieved George of half his burden and led the way to the table. “I cannot, but thank her for me. I will be at the Hamptons'.”