Whispers from the Shadows (5 page)

Mrs. Wesley gave her waist a squeeze. “Insomnia, sir. You are the captain?”

He swept his hat from his head and bowed with far too much grace for some American pirate. “Alain Arnaud of the
Demain
, at your service.”

Demain
—the French word for “tomorrow.” She must have heard them shouting it. But it only lit another burning question, and her vision blurred again. “Are you French or American, sir?”

His grin flashed bright as lightning and just as fleeting. “Both. Born in France, but when the Revolution descended, my family fled to America.”

Gwyneth's fingers tangled in the strap of her reticule. “Mama was French nobility as well. Papa helped her escape Versailles the very day they stormed the Bastille in Paris.”

Captain Arnaud held out a hand. “It would seem we have common ground then, Miss…?”

Her fingers stumbled over the latch of her reticule. “Fairchild.”

His face froze. All but his eyes, which snapped with questions. Did he know of her father? Quite possibly—a privateer preying on British ships would stay abreast of British military.

“Fairchild? Any relation to the general by that name?”

She pulled out the letter Papa had given her, crumpled now from so many weeks stuffed carelessly into her bag. Rather than putting her fingers in his for a greeting, she set the sealed envelope upon his outstretched palm. “He is—” if only
is
were still the proper word—“my father.”

Captain Arnaud frowned at the letter. “And this is…?”

“For you. He said if we were set upon by American privateers, to give it to them.” She shrugged, her shoulders heavy.

Curiosity evident, the captain broke the wax seal and unfolded the paper. His eyes darted across the page. And went wide.

“Captain.” The other sailor edged forward, the one who had thus far said nothing and remained at the door. “A general's daughter. We
could ransom her. Use her for leverage, at the least.”

Fear hadn't even time to beat its wings before the captain lowered the paper. “No.”

“But, Captain—”

“Unless you would like to explain to Thad why we chose to hold his ward prisoner when he was expecting her delivered safely to Baltimore?”

Gwyneth had to grip the desk again. Who in the world was Thad? And why Baltimore? Papa had said she was to go to Annapolis. To the Lanes. Bennet and Winter. She should have been
their
ward.

Yet both of the sailors relaxed, and the one the captain addressed even looked amused. “How in thunder does Thaddeus Lane know General Fairchild's daughter?”

Thaddeus
Lane
? She blinked rapidly, trying to clear the haze from her eyes. Trying to remember the stories to which she had scarcely paid attention. Their son, he must be. “May I see the letter, Captain?”

“Of course.” His amusement now matched that of his man as he handed it to her, and then he planted his hands on his hips. “I always said he knows everybody the world over.”

Gwyneth looked to the page, but her hand shook too badly for her to read it. She set it upon the desk and felt the burn of tears when her eyes drank in the familiar, precious script.

Gwyneth lifted a hand to her temple. Had the throbbing been there all along, or was it new? “You know Mr. Lane?”

“It's Captain Lane, and I should think so. He is all but a brother to me.” Indeed, his voice rang with warmth.

Mrs. Wesley emitted a sound of relief. “Oh, praise the Lord, then,
that you are the ones to have taken the
Scribe
.”

Captain Arnaud loosed a low breath of a laugh. “It would not have mattered, madam, had it been any other American privateer. Thad is equally esteemed by all.”

How had her father known that? As a sudden stab of pain behind her eyes forced Gwyneth's head down, her eyes closed. She pressed her fingers to the spot and heard Papa's voice in her mind.
I cannot entrust you to anyone but the Lanes
.

Ben and Winter, not this Thaddeus.

“Come.” The captain's voice reverberated, distant and muted. “Gather your things and join me on the
Demain
. I will escort you directly to Baltimore.”

To Baltimore, not Annapolis. To Thaddeus Lane, not his parents. That wasn't right, was it?

A touch upon her arm, so soft she nearly missed it. “His parents have gone to Baltimore too, Miss Fairchild.”

She jerked back, wondering how he had heard her thoughts…and then realized she must have spoken aloud. Her gaze tangled with Captain Arnaud's.

He gave her a small, gentle smile. “Your father obviously knew which name to call upon with the privateer fleet. There is no man more trusted in America than Thad.”

She didn't give a fig whom the Americans trusted, but she nodded and followed the captain's outstretched arm. Because one other truth blazed across her mind.

Papa trusted Thaddeus Lane. Trusted him with her life, with her well-being. And if Papa trusted him, then so would she.

Four

S
ir Arthur Hart paced the parlor of the elegant home he had visited too many times these past six weeks. This call would yield a different result though, surely. This time the butler had shown him in rather than taking his card. This time Mr. Gates was, from all accounts, at home.

This time he would make his plea.

His hands clasped behind his back, he pivoted on his heel and headed across the room once more. He came nose-to-nose with a painting, its gilt frame gleaming, its subject of absolutely no import until he saw the signature in the corner.
Gwyneth Fairchild.

“Gwyneth.” Her name tasted like honey, yet it did not soothe. Not so long as he knew not where she had gone. Not so long as he feared the worst.

He shuffled back a step and tilted his head. Her hands had put brush to this canvas, had brought to life this garden scene with the fanciful woman touching a finger to a rose. Her mother, most likely, though he could let himself imagine it Gwyneth herself in the painting.

His Gwyneth. He had not known she painted, much less with such skill. What else had he not yet discovered? All he knew of her was that she was the most beautiful young woman in England, that she had a sweetness about her far different from most of her friends, that she could make his heart stop with one soft smile.

He knew he wanted—nay, needed—to know more of her.

Measured footsteps sounded from the hall, providing Arthur warning enough to face the door, straighten his waistcoat, and school his features. He even managed a tight smile when Mr. Gates stepped into the room.

“Sir Arthur, good day.” The few times they had crossed paths, the thing that had struck him the most about Gates was neither the man's elegant clothing nor stately bearing, but rather that look in his eyes that said he was focused, always, on something beyond a mere social exchange. “I saw that you called several times while I was on the Continent. My apologies for missing you.”

Arthur nodded. “Had I realized you were on an extended trip, sir, I would not have cluttered your tray with my cards.”

“'Twasn't cluttered.” He offered a smile as measured as his gait had been and held out a hand to the sofa. “Would you sit, sir? You must have a topic of some import on your mind.”

With another nod, Arthur moved to the sofa and took a seat on its edge. “I saw you at the funeral, of course, but it hardly seemed the time for a conversation.”

Gates' face went tight as he lowered himself to a high-backed chair. “Indeed. I have wanted to speak with you too. The chaps on
Bow Street told me you were the one who discovered my brother-in-law's body.”

Arthur's nostrils flared at the memories. The horror, the stupefaction of walking into the man's study ready to argue about his daughter and instead finding him slain. “Forgive me, Mr. Gates, but I must get directly to my purpose. Do you know where Miss Fairchild has gone?”

A slow blink was Gates's only hint at emotion. “May I ask why my niece's whereabouts are your concern?”

Arthur's fingers dug into the cushion beneath him. “Because she is my betrothed.”

“I beg your pardon.” If possible, Gates went even more stoic. “Betrothed?”

His throat tight and dry, Arthur could only nod. Heat crept up his neck at the man's steady regard. “I asked her to marry me that morning. She accepted, and I wanted to speak immediately with the general, but she said she would talk to him first. Then…” He shifted his gaze to the window, though the passersby did nothing to soften the memory. “He must have refused to change his mind, for she came flying out the door, leaped into the carriage, and ordered it away before I could catch her.”

A muscle ticked in the man's jaw. “Did you follow?”

“Nay. Not right then. I was…” He let his eyes slide shut as the disappointment and incredulity flooded him again. “I was heartbroken, Mr. Gates. I went for a ride and tried to convince myself that all would be well. That she would only be gone a short time and would then return to me. But the more I told myself that story, the more I had the feeling that if she left, I would lose her forever. So I returned to Hanover Square to speak with the general. That was when I found him.”

Found him, eyes empty and focused on the door, hand outstretched. His study ransacked, with anything of value stolen. A robbery gone awry, Bow Street had determined.

But why, then, had the thief only bothered with that one room, one unlikely to have many costly items? Why had the drawing room, the parlor, or the bedchambers with their jewel safes been left untouched?

Questions Gates must have asked as well. He was too astute to let such obvious inquiries go unmade.

Rumors flew through London, of course. That it had been some
agent of the French who had killed General Fairchild. Or an American one, which was even less likely.

A veil of sympathy clouded the older man's eyes. “I am sorry you were the one to find him, Sir Arthur. It must have been troubling.”

Assistance he needed—sympathy he did not. Arthur lifted his chin and rested an elbow on the arm of the couch. “I would invite you to remember that I earned my knighthood through my service in France, Mr. Gates. I am no stranger to death and cruelty. My finding the body was a far better alternative than one of the servants or, may the Lord forbid it, Gwyneth.”

Sharp respect replaced the veil over his gaze. “My apologies. It is easy to forget your service in the face of your geniality. As for my niece…” He reached over to the table beside his chair and flipped open the lid on a wooden box. After withdrawing a cigar, he tested its fragrance and then picked up the cutter. “I am afraid I am as unaware as you of her whereabouts. I know only what she told her friends—that her father was sending her away for several months.”

“But what if it is not so simple?” Arthur leaned forward and pitched his voice low. “You would have seen what I did, Mr. Gates, that General Fairchild's murder was not a random act. Someone targeted him, and the timing of the attack leads me to believe he suspected the danger. That is why he sent Gwyneth away. What if she is in danger too?”

For a long moment Gates studied him, immobile. Then with a quick
snap,
he sliced the end off his cigar. “I had the same thought, I confess. Which is why I have been out of the country these past weeks, searching likely places the general would have sent his daughter. No one has heard from our missing sparrow.”

No surprise, yet Arthur's chest squeezed tight. What if she were even now hunted by her father's murderer? What if it
was
some agent of espionage, and he was on her trail, hidden in the shadows? “We must not give up, sir. You have invaluable resources, but I have a few you do not as a knight of the realm and a friend of the prince. I propose we join forces for Gwyneth's sake.”

Gates rolled the cigar between his fingers as he kept his gaze on Arthur. Perhaps weighing whether he would be help or nuisance. Perhaps judging whether Arthur was a good match for the niece he loved like a daughter. Perhaps wondering what General Fairchild would have wanted him to do.

At long last he lowered the cigar and held out a hand. “You have a deal, Sir Arthur. Consider us allies.”

Thad shuffled the paper onto the stack to his right, the one with the other correspondence from the privateers in the Caribbean and Atlantic. He read each one several times to pick up any subtleties, and then he encoded the news of import and sent it to Congressman Tallmadge.