The Forbidden Lady (7 page)

Edward chuckled as he threw another log onto the fire. “Mary and Virginia are alike in appearance. It would seem, Quin, that you and I have similar tastes.”

“I suppose.”

“I’ve been in love with Mary Dover for years. I plan to marry her as soon as possible.”

“Marry? Are you crazed? She’s a widow. You could just—”

Edward whirled around. “I
will
marry her. She’s a respectable lady.” He gave Quin a pointed look. “And, by the way, so is her niece.”

Quin gulped. “I’ll have another drink.”

A
s he made his way home, Quin pondered over this latest twist in his life as a spy. How was he to stop Virginia Munro from spying? If he simply told her what he knew, she would wonder why a Loyalist refrained from turning in a traitor to the crown.

Perhaps he could say he disliked the thought of a woman being executed. That might ring false, since executions were considered great social events with all the trappings of a fair. People came from a radius of fifty miles to enjoy the entertainment, and everyone knew a female execution drew the biggest crowd.

You could tell her the truth—that you’re a spy yourself.
Damn, as clever as she was, she might already suspect. She’d seen him upstairs at the Ashfords’ home. He wasn’t sure how much she’d seen at the Higgenbottoms. If other people thought he was sneaking about to conduct illicit affairs, he could live with it, but he hated for Virginia Munro to believe it. Her opinion of him was already low enough.

He was tempted to confide in her. If she were truly spying for the Colonial cause, he could let her know that he secretly agreed with her patriotic feelings. He might have a chance to court her then. But if he was wrong and she was a Tory, it would be his execution advertised in the broadsides.

No, he couldn’t confide in her. Out of the question.

A faint glow filtered through the grimy casement windows of a seedy tavern, dimly lighting the road before him. The path he should take with Virginia Munro was just as obscure. How could he possibly deal with her without exposing himself?

Sounds of drunken laughter and naughty songs sifted through the walls of riven siding. He recognized the words from the ballad, “Our Polly Is a Sad Slut.” A pink-and-black spotted pig rooted through the overripe garbage piled in the street, the smell bad enough to make him wish he had one of his pungent handkerchiefs with him. He hurried past the tavern.

You could tell her how you feel about her.
Splendid notion. Tell the proper Miss Munro that the local bastard was lusting after her. That would impress her. Besides, she didn’t need his attentions. She had a redcoat captain panting after her panniers. A captain who would inherit a large estate in England. A captain who was obviously not a bastard.

He swatted an empty bottle in the street with his walking stick. It rolled away in the dirt ’til it stuck fast in a pile of pig manure, shocking the flies into scattering away in search of another pile. They wouldn’t have to go far.

He had to give her credit; she made a damned good spy. His accomplishment that night had been pathetic. Josiah had sneaked into the Higgenbottoms’ study and stolen what he thought was an important document. When Quin had examined it in the garden, he’d discovered it was a receipt for hasty pudding and battalia pie.

After that fiasco, he’d sent Josiah to grammar school to improve the boy’s lamentable reading skills. In protest, Josiah decided to be the class clown and spent the last two days standing on a stool with a dunce cap on his head and a sign around his neck that said
Idle-Boy
.

Actually, Quin thought, he shouldn’t be surprised if the lovely Virginia Munro made a better spy. All he had was a few fancy spy contraptions. She had creamy skin, silky auburn curls, and pale green eyes. The British army didn’t stand a chance.

Neither did he.

“And what have we here? A real fancy one, eh?”

Quin glanced up to see three rough-looking sailors blocking the street.
Damn.
He should have been paying more attention. “Stand aside. I don’t want any trouble.”

“Oh, do ye hear that?” sneered a sailor with a thin, white scar jagging through an eyebrow and down his cheek. “His Majesty’s royal ass kisser don’t want no trouble.”

“Aye,” agreed one with an oversized, battered tricorne. “We wouldn’t want to frighten a delicate gent like you. Maybe ye be willing to pay for no trouble?”

The third sailor laughed nervously and wiped his nose with a filthy sleeve.

Quin eyed them carefully for signs of weapons. “I’ll find an alternate route. Good day, gentlemen.” He turned to leave, listening for a whisper of movement.

They didn’t bother to be quiet.

Quin wheeled around, swinging his cane hard into the stomach of the first assailant. The man doubled forward onto his knees, groaning and clutching his midsection.

The man with the scar pulled out a foot-long knife. His eyes danced with anticipation as he crouched into an attacking stance. The third man hung back, still laughing like a fool.

Quin twisted the knob on his cane. The knife snapped out, sharp and lethal. “I suggest you keep back, scar-face, unless you’d like a matching set. I have a much longer reach.”

The sailor halted. “Here now, what’s a fancy fop like you doing with a weapon like that?”

Quincy backed away. “I would love to stay and chat, but I’m late for my dance lessons.” When he spotted a side street, he sprinted down it. He heard their voices rising in anger as they rallied their courage for the chase.

“Mister, over here!” A voice called out from a doorway. “Come in.”

Quincy slowed his pace, wary of this sudden invitation.

The voice belonged to a boy, about twelve. “Don’t worry, you’ll be safe here.”

Quincy stepped inside, and the boy quickly shut and barred the door.

“You can stay here awhile, Mister. They’ll give up soon enough.”

“Who are you?” Quin peered around the darkened storeroom. “What is this place?”

“A print shop. I’m the apprentice.”

“Why did you help me?”

The boy moved toward an open doorway. “They had you outnumbered. Come to the front room. I have a candle lit there.”

Quin followed the dim outline of the youth. “Is your master a Tory, that you would help me?”

The boy laughed. “The master’s a businessman. He’ll print anything, Tory or Whig, as long as they pay up front.”

After a wait, Quin slipped out the front, thanking his young rescuer, and made his way home.

What a rotten night
, he thought, heading for his study. He might as well drink himself to sleep. He didn’t want to think about his former friends who considered him a traitor. He definitely didn’t want to analyze his feelings for a certain saucy young lady. Even so, he had a disturbing feeling that mere lust would not inspire this strong a desire to protect.

He opened the study door.

In front of his drop-leaf desk, reading
The Gentlemen’s Magazine
, sat a younger, stockier reflection of himself. Dressed in claret velvet, the man lounged in Quin’s chair with his legs propped up, his silver-buckled shoes stacked on the wooden seat of a nearby chair. He glanced up at Quin, his eyes the familiar gray that all Stanton males possessed. He lowered his magazine onto the secretaire, a cold imitation of a smile pasted on his pale, flaccid face.

“I intended to stay with my uncle, but when I passed by his house—well, shall we say, I can see why you no longer live there. At least, your residence comes close to respectability. Your stay in England must have had a positive effect on you. Hope you don’t mind, dear brother, I’ve made myself at home.”

Quin smiled back. Indeed, better to keep the enemy close at hand. “Welcome to America, Clarence.”

C
HAPTER
S
IX

Wednesday, October 11, 1769

T
he next morning, Quin ambled out the back door to the detached kitchen in search of a strong cup of coffee. The cook, Mrs. Millstead, was kneading bread dough while her son and Josiah ate a breakfast of sausages and eggs.

The scrape of spoons on pewter plates reverberated painfully through his head. “Josiah, hurry it up. You’ll be late for school.”

The youngster took a quick gulp of weak ale. “I was thinking, Mr. Stanton, that I’d be more help to you if I stayed close at hand.”

“You’ll help yourself to an education first. Off you go.”

“But—”

“Go!” Quin rubbed his forehead. He should know better than to yell after all the drinking he had done the day before. He winced as the door slammed, signaling Josiah’s protest of his cruel fate.

Mrs. Millstead punched the dough with a meaty fist. “ ’Tis a queer way to treat an indentured servant, sending him to school.”

Quin sighed and sat at the kitchen table. He missed his ship and the crew that never questioned his orders. “Make me some coffee, please, Mrs. Millstead.”

She continued to complain as she prepared his coffee. “Don’t see why that little orphan should get an education and not me own boy, Samuel.”

Quin examined Samuel, who held a plump, greasy sausage in his equally plump, greasy hand, calmly chewing on one end while his dull eyes focused on the wall in front of him. “How old are you, Samuel?”

The boy chewed slowly while he frowned over the difficulty of the question. “I dunno, about fifteen.”

“Why don’t you apprentice yourself to learn a trade? ’Tis not too late.”

Samuel shrugged. “I tried working at a chandler’s shop. He made me work too hard.”

Quin closed his eyes and massaged his aching head. The boy thought cutting candlewicks was hard work? “Has my brother wakened yet?”

“No, his lordship gave me instructions last night,” the cook said. “Gave me a complete menu of what he expected for breakfast. Said he always slept ’til noon and don’t want nobody bothering him before then.”

“He’s not a lord, Mrs. Millstead. Not unless my father has died.”

“Well, he was very precise about that, he was. Insists that we all call him ‘his lordship.’ ” Mrs. Millstead’s eyes shone with a malicious gleam. “Said he was the heir and not you.”

“I see.” Quin rose wearily to his feet. So, his younger brother was wasting no time informing everyone that he was a bastard. “I’ll have my coffee and breakfast in the study, Mrs. Millstead, and you can remember that ’tis I, and not his lordship, who is paying your wages.”

Quin wandered into his study. He sat at his drop-leaf desk, dipped a quill into a crystal inkwell and began a letter.

Dear Edward,

Clarence arrived last night and is staying with me. Notify our solicitor. There must be a legal way to outmaneuver him.

Meanwhile, I’ll keep him occupied with a hectic social life. If he goes to parties all night and sleeps most the day, he’ll not have time to cause trouble.

Regards, Q

Quin folded the letter and secured it with sealing wax. When Samuel stumbled in with his breakfast tray, he jumped to his feet to relieve the boy of the burden, fearing the clumsy Samuel would spill his coffee.

Quin set his tray on the walnut table as the man in brown entered the room. “Good morning, Johnson. Would you care for some breakfast?”

“No, thank you.”

Quin noticed Samuel hovering at the doorway. “Samuel, the shoes I wore last night need to be cleaned and polished.”

“Yes, sir.” The boy shut the door after him.

Quin poured himself a cup of coffee and sat, waiting for Johnson to join him.

His employer remained at the door, cracked it open for a peek, then closed it. As he approached Quin, he withdrew a small cloth pouch from an inner pocket of his coat.

“The latest from Revere.” Johnson removed a pair of silver shoe buckles from the pouch and laid them on the table next to the breakfast tray. “They each hold a small amount of gunpowder. I suggest you wear them always.”

Quin took a sip of coffee. “Very well.”

Johnson placed a silver ring on the table and returned the empty pouch to his pocket.

Quin cocked an eyebrow. “I’m touched. Does this mean we’re betrothed?”

With a faint twitch at his mouth, Johnson pulled back a chair to take a seat. “This is no laughing matter, Stanton. I hear your British brother has arrived and is staying here. While it may confirm everyone’s belief that you’re loyal to the crown, it makes your situation more dangerous. Watch your back. Trust no one, not even this enterprising female you’re determined to protect.”

“I know how dangerous it is, Johnson.”

“Good. The ring is a precaution in case you’re captured. The British fear that a jury of Colonials would not convict, so they would send you to England to stand trial. Not only would the British condemn you in a minute, they would execute you as a traitor, and that is a great deal nastier than a simple hanging.”

“I know.” Quin’s appetite withered away at the thought of near-fatal strangulation, followed by disembowelment and decapitation. He picked up the ring to examine it. “What’s inside? Poison?”

“Yes. ’Tis not painless, but it is quick. I would recommend it if the time comes. You can at least cheat them out of deciding your fate.”

Quin turned the ring around in his hands while a vision of a female with bottle-green eyes sailed through his mind. There was too much unknown sea to explore with a mermaid hidden in the elusive depths. He would not give it up. He slipped the ring on a finger of his left hand. “I’ll wear the deuced thing, but I’ll not be caught.”

“Good. I’ll be on my way then.” Johnson rose to his feet. “You have another practice session with the
Turtle
tomorrow. ’Tis almost time to move her to the harbor.”

“Fine.” Quin groaned inwardly. After six practice sessions, he still hated the sensation of being closed up in the dark little submersible.

“In case your brother asks, how will you explain your absence from the house tomorrow?”

“I could be visiting friends in Cambridge.”

“A mistress would sound better,” Johnson observed. “He’d be more inclined to respect your privacy then.”

“Very well.” Quin fetched the letter he had written from the desk. “Can you see that this reaches my uncle?”

“Of course. And remember, Stanton, put a stop to a certain young lady’s attempts at espionage.”

Friday, October 20, 1769

A
n excellent night for spying, Virginia thought, eager to try her hand once more. It had been two weeks since her last, successful attempt. She surveyed the gaily lit parlors of the Oldhams’ luxurious home. The doors between the two large parlors had been opened wide and the gilded baroque furnishings pushed up against the flocked wallpaper to allow room for dancing.

At the entrance to the parlor, she stood with her aunt and sister. They curtsied and exchanged pleasantries with the host and hostess. She had made one adjustment to her green silk gown, adding a sheer scarf around her neck, tucked into the bodice to conceal the low décolletage. When Caroline had questioned her sudden attack of modesty, she had mumbled an excuse about the old major at the Higgenbottoms’ ball drooling on her.

The truth was the major and his drool were far from her thoughts. Ever since that night at the Ashfords, she had not been able to dress or undress without recalling the touch of Quincy Stanton’s bare thumb gliding down the curve of her breast.

Her pulse speeded ahead of her thoughts, quickening at the mere possibility of seeing him again. She squelched the anticipation. She would remain calm.

And she would discover exactly what he was doing.

He was easy to spot. With the help of his high heels, he stood considerably taller than the other men. His green silk coat and breeches nearly matched the color of her own gown. She watched his back as he sauntered across the adjoining parlor, accompanied by a shorter, stockier dandy in plum velvet.

“Good evening, Miss Munro.” Captain Breakwell made a leg to her. “ ’Tis my greatest pleasure to see you.” He offered his arm to escort her across the room.

“Good evening, Captain.” What was she to do with this redcoat? He seriously interfered with her plans. It was too early to send him for refreshments. And the last time she had done that at the concert, he had questioned her disappearance. “Could I ask a small favor of you?”

“Of course, and I would be honored if you would call me William.”

“As you wish. You see, my sister loves to dance, and I was wondering if you could partner her for the first set?”

Though he looked taken aback, the captain rallied with a small smile. “But do you not wish to dance also, Miss Munro?”

“Perhaps later. I fear I’m quite fatigued today. I helped my aunt in the garden, you see . . .”

“Of course.” He guided her to a chair. “Please rest yourself, my dear.”

Virginia forced herself to smile as he hovered over her like she might break. This was not working. Perhaps she should suddenly take ill. With a sigh of relief, she heard the musicians warming up.

William sat beside her. “May I address you by your given name?”

“Yes, ’tis Virginia.” She leaned slightly to the side in order to see into the adjoining parlor. What was Quincy Stanton doing? And who was that shorter man in plum velvet at his side? She jumped in her seat, startled when the captain suddenly clasped her hand in his.

“I remember your name, Virginia, from when you first introduced yourself. I have called you that in my mind ever since.”

She blinked dumbly at him, wondering why she was not more affected. Didn’t young ladies dream of receiving attention like this? He was very handsome with his sandy blond hair and clear blue eyes. Shouldn’t her heart pound?

Perhaps, having convinced herself of the unlikelihood of her ever marrying, she was now immune to such feelings. But her heart
did
race when she encountered Quincy Stanton. She had told herself it was her natural curiosity that excited her in his presence, the enticing lure of solving the mystery that surrounded him and his puzzling behavior.

She frowned. But what if it was something more?

The captain patted her hand. “I beg your pardon, Virginia. I see by your countenance I am too forward and have shocked your delicate nature.”

She bit her lip to keep from grinning. Her delicate nature? She once took revenge on her brother by stuffing a frog down his breeches. And the captain thought he was bold for using her name and holding her hand? He should take lessons from Mr. Stanton.

The now-familiar memory swept over her—Quincy Stanton inserting his thumb into her neckline and sliding it down. She responded in her usual manner. Her cheeks heated up, and she grew short of breath.
Be honest with yourself. You feel more than curiosity for him.

“Forgive me.” William released her hand. “I can see I have rushed you.”

“Excuse me?” She cast the captain a confused look. She truly should pay more attention to the poor man. He tried so hard.

An unexpected shriek distracted her. She glanced up to locate the source.

Quincy Stanton leaned against the door frame between the two parlors, studying her, apparently unfazed by the feminine sound of horror that had erupted from the room behind him.

Virginia’s eyes met his. The searching look he gave her seemed to reach down into her soul. She gripped her hands together as her heart expanded in her chest.

The source of the shriek, Miss Higgenbottom, stormed out of the adjoining parlor, her normally white skin flushed pink from her neckline to her hairline. She halted beside Mr. Stanton, her blue eyes flashing and blond curls trembling as she shook with anger. “How dare you deceive me, Quincy!”

Everyone in the two parlors hushed. All eyes turned to witness the evening’s entertainment.

Quincy Stanton retained his casual pose and calmly removed his snuffbox. “Come now, Miss Higgenbottom. I behave like a bastard. Surely, it should come as no surprise that I am one.”

A collective gasp surged across the two rooms, followed by a wave of hushed whispers.

Miss Higgenbottom clenched her closed fan in tight fists. “You said you were the eldest son of the Earl of Dearlington.”

“I am, but if you’re interested in the title, I suggest you focus your efforts on my brother.” He shrugged one shoulder in an uncaring gesture. “
C’est la vie, chérie.
”

The fan snapped in Miss Higgenbottom’s hands, and she stumbled back. Her mother bustled over, and with a contemptuous glare directed at Quincy, she escorted her daughter from the room.

“Well, well,” William Breakwell whispered to Virginia. “The truth about the ill-mannered Stanton has finally come to light.”

Virginia pondered the satisfied look on the captain’s face. “You don’t like him.”

“He has no place in polite society.”

“He cannot help the way he was born.” She glanced at Quincy Stanton. His face was stiff, implacable, and cold, as he slipped his unused snuffbox back into his pocket.

Excited whispers hummed around the room as the well-dressed elite of Boston discussed Quincy Stanton’s illegitimacy in his presence. A slow churning sensation started in the pit of Virginia’s stomach and crept up her chest. It burned her throat with a foul taste of hypocrisy. She knew, in that moment, he was in pain.

And she felt rage.

She turned toward the captain and kept her voice calm. “Would you excuse me for a moment? I would like to see if Miss Higgenbottom is all right.”

William nodded his head with an approving smile. “You have a kind heart, Virginia.”

Kindness was not what she had in mind. She strode toward the parlor entrance. The hall was empty, the door across from her slightly ajar.

She peeked inside, steeling herself for a confrontation. Miss Higgenbottom sat on a settee, sobbing into a handkerchief, while her mother paced back and forth like a British officer inspecting his troops.