Ring of Secrets (5 page)

He turned in time to catch George's sneer. “Calling on Her Lady of Oh again, are you?”

“Her lady of…George, where do you devise these things?”

“Didn't you see her face when I confessed I was not one of the Staten Island Knights? It was as if I ceased to exist. And never before in my life have I heard someone manage to contain a world of dismissals, disappointments, and judgments in a single ‘oh.'” He folded his arms over his chest, the very image of stubbornness.

Ben loosed a long exhale, though a grin fought to burst forth. “You judge her too harshly.”

Now George's arms flew up. “I?
I
judge too harshly? Have you bothered to tell her ladyship that
she
judged
me
too harshly?”

“Her ‘ladyship' did not judge you at all.” And she hadn't given him the chance to tell her anything in this past month. Other than exchanging basic civilities, she wouldn't be budged from Colonel Fairchild's side whenever they were in company.

No need to let George know that, though.

His friend leveled an accusing finger at his nose. “Do you know what has happened to you? I shall put it in terms you can understand. You are Odysseus, and she is your siren. You had better lash yourself to your ship, my friend, or face destruction on the rocks of her island. She may look the part of an enchantress, but she has no heart within her, as most anyone will tell you.”

“All this wisdom gained from seeing her across a crowded ballroom a few times and exchanging a single greeting. Your intuitiveness astounds me, George.” Ben lifted the cloth on a particularly fragrant package. “Ah! Bread. Your mother has enough flour for this?”

“She had been hoarding it for the Christmas feast, apparently, and thank heavens for the freezing temperatures or it surely would have been weevil ridden by now.” George leaned onto the table, bending over to catch his friend's gaze. “Ben. I grant hers is the prettiest face in
the City of New York, but you have better sense than to get caught up in her game. If she
does
give you the time of day, it will only be because of your family's fortune.”

And yet if that were in her mind, she would have obeyed those prods he'd seen her grandmother make toward him rather than avoiding him so adroitly. No, Miss Reeves was not interested in his fortune.

Though any observer would argue she wasn't interested in any of his other qualities, either.

He flipped open another parcel. “And bread pudding too. You know, I grew so accustomed to not celebrating Christmas as per New England regulation, 'tis hard to remember it is more than a quiet time of reflection for so many of my friends and family.”

“Celebration became considerably louder when the British arrived, for certain. Their revelry helps me understand why our Puritan forefathers forbade such boisterous observance of the day.” George tapped a box. “Your gift.”

“Yours is there.” He indicated the present, wrapped in calico, that sat on his side table. When George had fetched it, he untied the string on his own gift. And laughed.

George did as well, holding up the book Ben had selected for him. Alexander Pope's translation of
The Iliad
.

Ben held up his new
Odyssey
, courtesy of the same translator. “Your warning about Miss Reeves suddenly makes sense.”

“I noticed you did not have your copy here. Perhaps you left it in Connecticut, but I know how you love to pass a winter night with Homer, so it seemed a lack in need of filling.” George shook his head and smoothed a hand over the tome. “And because many of mine were lost in the fire, this one included, I greatly appreciate your thinking the same.”

“Certainly.” He waved a hand at the treats covering the table. “Would you like some?”

“I must hasten home. If my sister and her family get there before I do, I shan't hear the end of it all day. And since I cannot convince you to join me…”

“I do appreciate the offer, George. And the book. Shall I give Miss Reeves your felicitations?”

“I would prefer it if you gave her your own permanent farewells.”

Chuckling, Ben saw his friend to the door. Then he sighed when silence smothered him yet again. He enjoyed quiet, even depended upon it much of the time, but he also relished a good debate, an evening spent in philosophical discourse. Things sadly missing from his current existence.

Well, he might as well head to the Hamptons'. He may not find any exhilarating conversation there, but perhaps he'd be able to corner Miss Reeves again. Another taste of her delightfully underhanded wit would be a welcome change from all these thoughts of spy-catching.

After donning cloak, hat, and gloves, he went round back for his horse and set off for Hampton Hall.

Minutes later he was doffing that which he'd just donned and following a servant into a parlor bursting with well-dressed merrymakers. A few of the officers looked to be in their cups already, their laughter loud and grating.

Was there no happy place between silence and carousing? Perhaps he ought to have gone with George after all.

“Ah, Mr. Lane. Welcome, and a happy Christmas to you.” Mr. Hampton held out a hand in greeting, thunder in his brows. Did the man not know how to smile?

“Thank you, sir, for opening your home to me.”

Hampton grunted and nodded toward a flock of young gentleman. “Wilkens and Prescott are over there. Friends of yours, are they not? There is still a good while until supper, though the ball shall begin soon.”

Ben barely managed a nod before his host was off to welcome another guest, if “welcome” was the proper term.

“Bennet Lane, there you are. I thought you would never arrive!”

“Oh…ah…” He could feel his neck flush as he turned to find Elizabeth Shirley, one of the prettier young ladies he'd met, standing before him, her fan hardly covering the coquettish tilt to her lips.

“I…that is…” Blast. His tongue felt thick and boorish, to match his addled brain.
Think, man, think
.

Whom did she look like? Her nose—it was the same shape as Daniel Clifford's, and Daniel was a fair-minded fellow. He had a taste for the ridiculous, though, that could certainly reveal itself in a smirk not unlike Miss Shirley's.

Daniel. Daniel stood before him now, undoubtedly preparing for some hideous play, given the frippery he'd dressed in. That was it.

Ben cleared his throat. “I do hope you are enjoying a pleasant Christmas?”

Daniel swished his fan. “I am indeed. Mrs. Hampton has paired us for supper, you know. I look forward to it.”

Daniel dissolved fully back into Miss Shirley, and Ben could manage no more than an “Ah…yes. Well, then.” He nodded as he edged away.

He drew in a sharp breath. Deuces and blazes, why couldn't he act the part of a normal young buck? At least every now and again. But no, Providence had seen fit to reserve such gifts, which wasn't very Providential at all, now was it? Ben ought to do them all a favor and mire himself with the other gentleman, thereby sparing himself and every female in the house a goodly dose of embarrassment.

His gaze tracked to the corner of the room, where Miss Reeves stood at the window. Theodosia Parks and Emeline Barton sat on the settee beside her, but she seemed oblivious to her friends' chatter. She stared out the window as if the skiff of snow covering the gardens had some magical secret hidden within its crystals. For the first time since the night they met, he noted the stiffness of anxiety in her neck and shoulders.

Miss Parks directed a question her way, and yet again he watched her assume a facade of ease that obliterated the telltale tension. Her smile was of perfect brilliance, and whatever she said had the girls tittering, though the look they exchanged between them seemed to also say they thought her dimwitted, however delightfully. When Miss Parks turned from her again, Miss Reeves let her eyes slide shut for half a moment, and then she turned toward the door.

He was following before he could consider the wisdom of it. They had been at many of the same functions in the preceding weeks, but not since that first one had he seen her slip away from the gathering.

Perhaps Providence was with him today after all.

“Not running away, are you, my dear?”

Winter had to bite back tears at the unwelcome voice, though she pasted on a bright smile. “Colonel Fairchild. I will be back directly.”

The colonel grinned and took her hand, pressing a kiss to it. “I am sure you will be. I have barely had a chance to enjoy your company this afternoon, so busy have you been with your friends.”

Busy. With her friends. Those silly girls interested in nothing but fashion and beaux, who made an art of insulting her in subtle ways that they assumed she didn't understand.

She swallowed the sob that threatened her throat and prayed her grin was convincing. “They've been regaling me with descriptions of the lovely gifts their parents gave them for Christmas.”

Concern flickered in Fairchild's eyes as he studied her. “Have you a headache, Miss Reeves?”

Regret mixed with the sorrow that had haunted her all day. For all his verbosity, for all his loyalties, he was a decent man. One who seemed to care for her. She owed him more than she gave him, for certain. The least she could do was convince him not to worry now. “Grandmother warned me against eating too many sweets, but you know I cannot resist them.”

There, relief moved through his warm brown eyes, and a smile creased his face. A more handsome officer she had yet to meet. She ought to feel more for him than she did.

Perhaps she would, were he not her main source of information to be passed along to Robbie. But how could she ever love someone she saw mainly as a conduit of intelligence?

Though on the other hand, how could she ever attach herself to someone who couldn't help her with her cause?

He squeezed her hand before releasing it. “Are you going to rest for a few minutes? Have a nice cup of tea in solitude, and I imagine you shall be yourself again directly.”

“Exactly my thoughts, Colonel.” She dipped a curtsy. “I shall look forward to our dances and supper together.”

“As shall I.”

She had barely gained the sanctuary of the hallway when Grandmother's clawlike fingers gripped her arm. “Winifred Reeves, whatever are you doing?”

She gritted her teeth at the misnomer. Grandmother despised her given name and usually shortened it to “Winnie.” But when in a temper, she deliberately chose to pretend Winter had been named after a distant Hampton cousin rather than Father's aunt.

Grandfather, on the other hand, always used her correct name. And oh, but he could convey in those two syllables how low he thought her. How much he despised her. That she was a blight upon his name and a reminder of what he deemed her mother's unforgivable betrayal.

Winter drew in a long breath to bolster her courage and seized the excuse Colonel Fairchild had provided. “I am sorry, ma'am, but I need a few moments of quiet. I have a headache coming on, and I know you would prefer I fight it off now rather than being forced to my room when the ball and supper are underway.”

Grandmother released her grip, though her flinty eyes remained hard and biting. “You may have fifteen minutes, no more. And I have changed the supper arrangements. Mr. Lane has arrived, and you will dine with him rather than with Colonel Fairchild.”

Panic snapped its jaws around her throat. “Grandmother—”

“I shan't hear a word of protest. No matter how partial you are to the colonel, Mr. Lane is the better match. I expect you to do your duty and try to win him. Obviously you must still keep Colonel Fairchild's favor in case Mr. Lane does not propose, but that is the union you will vie for. Am I understood?”

For a long moment, Winter stared at her matriarch. How had sweet, gentle Mama ever come from this harsh, ambitious couple? Then she inclined her head. “You are understood.”

“Fifteen minutes.” Proclamation issued, Grandmother stormed back to the gathering.

The tears wouldn't be held back any longer. Winter rushed down the hall and into Grandfather's study, the closest room she knew would be empty and could offer some solace. Her eyes burned, her throat felt tight as a fist. She tossed herself onto the window seat, pressed her forehead to the cold, wavy glass, and gave her emotions free rein.