The Tory Widow (41 page)

Titus made himself comfortable on the floor, sitting tailor-style beside the lemon tree. “Tully's also diverted a gallon of ink to the cause—best quality—English manufacture.”

“Ahoy, Jack! Mind yer pocket,” Tully warned with a wave of his finger. “Yer about t' lose yer kerchief . . .”

Along with the paper sample, Jack'd dragged up a lace-edged handkerchief from the depths of his pocket. It dangled precarious by one corner—the lone relic from the last time he had held Anne Merrick in his arms. Snatching the linen up, Jack was ready to toss the thing out the window when a puff of lavender wafted up. Without forethought to the consequence, Jack brought the handkerchief to his nose.

Underlying the lavender, the scent of Anne Merrick sent him back a step—pushed him against the wall. The taut cord connecting his wits to his stones drew tight as a bowstring, sapping all strength from his limbs. Arms dropping to his sides, Jack slid down to sit in the crease where the floorboards met the wall plaster, legs splayed, the lace-edged linen held loose in his hand. No one seemed to notice his plight.

Mulligan clapped his hands. “All well and good. We are fixed for paper and ink. Any luck finding an engraving press?”

The grizzled longshoreman sat down beside Patsy and swiped the cap from his head, his gravelly voice well suited to clandestine talk in the night. “I've spoken with a sailor who claims there is an engraving press working in the belly of the
Rose,
printing out counterfeit Continentals . . .”

“Fiddle-faddle.” Mulligan dismissed the rumor as if waving away a bad smell. “Even if it were a fact proven, a press on a ship does us here on land little good.”

“True enough,” Tully rasped. “There's some credible noise on the docks having to do with Rivington expecting a press from England, but no one knows if it's an engraving press. If a new press shows, we might divert its delivery.”

“No telling when, though?” Mulligan asked.

“No tellin' when.”

Jack could resist no longer. He crumpled the kerchief into a ball and brought his fist to his face. Eyes closed, he drew in another breath. The scent bonded to the linen threads evoked a moment of pure bliss—respite and relief from the constant, twanging heartache sorely plaguing him the past days.

Mulligan pinched the bridge of his nose, pacing the width of the room. “I fear we're running out of time. Signs point to Howe shipping out the bulk of his forces in an effort to take Philadelphia. Patsy's greedy quartermaster will most likely soon be gone. We need a press
now
—right, Jack?”

Jack managed to nod his head in agreement and smoothed the handkerchief out on his thigh. The farewell token Anne had given him was much worse for traveling all these months in his pocket—very wrinkled—the lace tattered and frayed on one corner, much like the state of his heart. He folded the linen square into quarters.

Those last hurried moments with Anne wrapped in his arms suddenly so vivid, bright and happy, the notion of his woman giving herself to another was utterly unbelievable.
The world's gone upside down, she'd said
. And maybe it had—but for Jack, there was one constant: He
wanted
Anne Merrick.

Titus piped up. “There is an old engraving press stowed way back in the closet at Merrick's. Over twenty years ago, the old man tried his hand at book printing—one of my first chores when I was bought as a slave was to drag them parts into the closet. I doubt the widow even knows it's in there. Though I can't vouch for its condition—and we'd have to dig through a mess to get to it . . .”

Tully said, “Rivington has an engraving press working in his shop . . .”

“Then what are you waiting for?” Patsy gave Tully a jab. “Break into Rivington's and steal the damn press.”

“A tricky business, this . . .” Tully's squinty eye disappeared in a clutch of wrinkles. “Not as simple as filching a coin from a drunk's pocket whilst yer givin' him a three-penny upright, missy. Whichever press we go after, we need to form a plan and find a trusty crew.”

Hercules Mulligan pulled a copy of Rivington's newspaper from his coat pocket. “We certainly did the Tory a favor when we ran him out of town. He's been richly rewarded for his loyalty—‘Printer to the King's Most Excellent Majesty,' ” the tailor read from the masthead of the
Royal Gazette
. “Betwixt his monopoly on Crown work, and this Loyalist rag he prints, he has his devils working his presses both day and night . . .”

“Getting in and out of Rivington's without being seen will be nigh on impossible,” Titus said. “His shop's front door faces Queen Street, and the back entry faces Wall—two of the most patrolled streets in the city. Ain't that right, Jack?”

Jack slipped the handkerchief inside his shirt. “What?”

“Impossible to get at Rivington's press, I was saying . . .”

Jack drew focus. “Nothing's impossible.”

The Quaker piped up. “The press at Merrick's seems to be the better choice, even if it requires repairs. But I'm concerned—thievery of such a large item risks calling attention to our little project, gentlemen. Could we not gather funds and make an offer to purchase the widow's press?”

“We don't have any
funds
, dafty.” Patsy giggled. “Why d'you think we're about printing banknotes?”

Mulligan laughed and gave the Quaker's shiny head a good-natured knuckle scrub.

Tully leaned forward, resting elbows on knees. Lacing his fingers, he began to twiddle his thumbs. “Breakin' into the Crown and Quill would be a simple operation—cut the glass out of the back window and drop a skinny boy through to open the back door for the rest of us. Very clean and quietlike.”

“You'll have to contend with getting the press parts over the garden wall . . .” Titus reminded.

“No worries,” Tully said. “The alleyway is good and dark—patrolled by naught but rats and pigs.”

“Still risky,” Patsy said. “I don't like it—breaking in with three armed British officers up the stairs . . .”

“Sometimes we have to cut a coat according to the cloth at hand.” Mulligan banged a fist down on the desktop. “Merrick 's it is. Put your crew together, Tully. Keep in mind, the officers are housed on the second floor—the widow and her maid reside in the garret rooms, but they often stay late in the kitchenhouse to see to the next day's baking. It's probably best to lift the press on a night like this one, when the Tory bitch and her dragoons are out at play.”

Jack pulled up to his feet, dark eyes hooded. “How is it, Hercules, you are so privy to the widow's particulars?”

“Don't be about getting your nutmegs in a grind, Jack.” Mulligan took a step back, palms out. “I make it my business to be privy to many particulars. One of the young lieutenants quartered there is a customer of mine, and prone to yammering. He tells me the widow and Mrs. Loring have become fast friends.” Mulligan snatched the bottle from the desk, and took a sip. “The widow has become quite the Tory gadfly these days. I've no doubt we'll have our press by the end of the week.”

Once the meeting was adjourned, Jack and Titus walked Patsy back to Mother Babcock 's. Titus went in to pay a visit to Ruby, and Patsy tried to get Jack to cross the threshold as well. “C'mon,” she cajoled. “There's a bottle of rum and a soft shoulder to cry on up there—no charge.”

“I'm wrung out, Pats.” Jack shook his head. “Mrs. Day's fixed a nice pallet for me in her kitchenhouse, and I'm just going to go and sink into my pillow.”

“I really hate seeing you so down-gone.” Patsy cupped his face in her hands. “You need to remember, nothin' is so bad that couldn't be worse.”

“I'll be fine, Pats. You'll see a new man in the morning.”

When the door closed behind Patsy, Jack took off in a direction opposite to Day's Tavern, back across town to Lyon's Slip, where the pettiauger was moored. Stowed beneath the cross-thwart, Jack found what he had come for—a thick coil of strong rope and a grappling hook. Slinging the rope over one shoulder, he tied the hook to one end with a solid knot.

Keeping to the shadows, Jack wound a stealthy path toward the Crown and Quill, avoiding the Watch and noisy groups of drunken Redcoat officers. He turned up the narrow alleyway, sending a bevy of rats feeding on windfall peaches into a squeaky scurry. Pulling himself up with the aid of the low-slung tree limb, he perched atop the garden wall.

Jack brushed the hair back from his face, and under the starlit sky, contemplated the distance from the kitchenhouse roof to the garret window.

 

 

ANNE accepted Edward Blankenship's proffered arm, and he escorted her over to the crowd gathered around the faro table. “Stuart and I are hoping your presence might change our luck.”

Squeezing in between Edward and Lieutenant Stuart at the short side of the table, the blue taffeta of her new polonaise gown was instantly crushed—the basket panniers sent askew. She plucked the ostrich plumes adorning her hair so as not to torment her neighbors with every turn of her head.

The faro table was a long and narrow rectangle, positioned beneath a brilliant chandelier at the far end of the ballroom. One side of the table was furnished with an indentation at the center where the game's banker, William Cunningham, sat dealing cards, collecting wagers and disbursing winnings. The sight of the provost marshall triggered a recollection of the hanging on the green, and Anne suppressed a shudder. Cunningham had ordered the brave young Patriot's body left to dangle from the gallows for three days—a brutal warning to traitors who dared spy on the King's Army.

The provost was a sharp contrast in a room filled with pastel silks and red wool, dressed as he was in a dour brown suit and a plain linen shirt. He wore a stiff black leather stock buckled tight about his scrawny neck like a brace, as if to support the weight of the elaborate powdered wig he'd plopped upon his pinhead. Contrary to what Anne supposed was its wearer's intent, the unfortunate cauliflower wig served to make the provost's pox-pitted face appear even more oddly proportioned.

Faro was the Sultana's favorite game of chance, and Mrs. Loring and General Howe occupied the preeminent table position just opposite the banker. Anne and the Sultana exchanged smiles and nods across the table, and Betsey mouthed, “Good luck.”

Mrs. Loring had proved to be a fount of information, and she'd once again provided the fodder for Anne's pen. During an earlier arm-in-arm stroll in the garden to “take some air”—Betsey's euphemism for using snuff—she revealed her “Billy” was only just beginning to gather provisions for the voyage to Philadelphia. Betsey happily reported her lover did not plan to leave her side for at least another month.

“Hold out your hand.” Blankenship handed Anne a dozen clay disks. Some were colored blue with a white bull's-eye, the others were painted red and marked with a white diamond. “This is the last of our checks—mine and Stuart's. You will place our bet.”

Anne turned her attention to the faro table. The surface was upholstered in buff leather. Running from left to right in two rows, oversized images representing the complete suit of spades were rendered in black and gilt paint. “I've no idea . . .”

“It's a simple game of chance,” Stuart explained. “You put the checks on one of the painted cards. If your choice matches the winning card drawn by the banker from his wee box, he must pay you a check for a check.”

“But before the winning card is drawn, the dealer reveals the losing card,” Edward added. “Any checks placed on the losing card revert to the bank.”

“What is the purpose of that device?” Anne pointed her fan at a wooden frame lying flat on the table to the left of the banker. A plaque painted with card images matching the layout on the table ran down the center of the frame. A dowel rod jutting out from each card was affixed in the frame. Similar to an abacus, each rod had four red beads riding upon it.

“The case keeper—to keep track of the cards—the beads account for the four suits,” Stuart said. “By studying the case, a player can determine the odds.” He drew her attention to the jack, with all four of its beads at the far end of the rod. “Jacks have yet to be played. This deep in the deck, odds are high for a jack to show.”

“Odds are nil on the king.” Blankenship pointed to the four beads pushed up against the king. “All four kings have already been played.”

One hand resting on the banking box, Cunningham toyed with a stack of checks, his countenance drawn into a permanent scowl by a crescent-shaped scar dragging the corner of his mouth down to his chin. “Punters, place your bets!”

The command incited a flurry of activity. Anne observed Mrs. Loring and the general placing multiple tall stacks of checks on the jack, and the majority of players followed their lead.

“I have an aversion to jacks.” Leaning forward, she placed all of the checks in her hand on the ace—the card in closest proximity.

Stuart groaned. “Three aces have already been played, Mrs. Merrick. Odds favor the jack.”

“Odds equally favor the jack to be drawn as the losing card,” Anne countered.

Cunningham put his hands on the card-dealing box and called a close to the wagering.

Blankenship leaned in, resting his hand at her waist, his breath hot where her neck met her shoulder. “The top card is called the soda—it's a dead card. The card the provost will soon reveal is the losing card.”

The brass dealing box was spring-loaded and contained all the cards yet to be played. The six of clubs—the soda—showed faceup through the opening at the top of the box. Cunningham slid the soda out of the box, revealing the jack of hearts to a loud chorus of groans. “Losing card—jack,” he intoned, snaking a long arm across the table to pull a veritable mountain of checks to his side, adding them to his bank.