“What are those?” Amanda pointed.
Jeffrey leaned back. “Those are the pickled remains of the last Tory to ask a favor of the esteemed Mr. Wythe.”
Arrogant cus. “Indeed? It would seem parts of some poor unfortunate’s organs. Perhaps even a brain. Dare I ask if you are missing that particular organ, Mr. Clayton, since you seem to have ill use of it?”
That laugh again. Jeffrey raised his glass. “Touché, Miss Reeves.”
“They are preserved specimens; an eel, a frog and some others,” George countered hastily. “’Tis science then, the reason you came, Miss Reeves?”
She smiled at George, knowing her words must be chosen with care to impress upon him the gravity of the case.
“Not science, Mr. Wythe, but the need of your brilliant skills as a lawyer. Not for myself, but an ill-fortuned member of society who has fallen into unfortunate circumstances. A Mr. Sam Henderson. He stands accused of robbery, stealing a chicken.”
“Ah yes, the daft one. He lives in the almshouse.”
Amanda nodded eagerly. “I am hoping you would defend him in court as he is too feebleminded to speak adequately. And he cannot afford as fine a lawyer as yourself.”
“This Henderson,” Jeffrey interjected, “if he is daft, why did he steal the chicken?”
His bearded face was expressionless, gray eyes sharp with intelligence. Under his gaze she felt as flustered as if he were the King’s Attorney and she a witness he ruthlessly questioned. All the gentlemen now looked at her.
“’Tis my understanding that Mr. Henderson did steal the chicken, but he did so to save it from the ax.”
Jeffrey leaned forward. “Who told him the chicken was destined for the ax?”
Amanda drew in a deep breath. “Mr. Henderson said the chicken told him it feared for its life.”
Loud guffaws greeted her ears. Amanda winced. But Jeffrey looked sober and thoughtful.
“’Tis a good case for you, George. Such a poor man, ill with brain fever, could use your services. It will not be your most challenging case, but one that requires a thoughtful orator who can be discreet and yet convincing.”
He flashed her a crooked grin. Truly, the man was an enigma! One minute he interrogated her, the next, pleaded her case.
George bobbed his head in agreement. “If you think so, Jeffrey. I trust your opinion, as you are a man of balance. Yes, Miss Reeves, I will take the case.”
As she thanked the lawyer, Jeffrey’s pewter eyes sparkled. “And pray tell, Miss Reeves, what is your interest in Mr. Henderson that you would plead with my good friend George to take him as a client? Is he a special friend? I had not thought those close to our governor to make acquaintanceship with daft men, although one would presume ’tis a natural bond of Lord Dunmore’s.”
Rogue. The man had a serpent’s tongue. Amanda stood and the men stood with her.
“That, Mr. Clayton, is a matter too trite for gentlemen of your stature who have more important matters to discuss. But I can certainly assure you Lord Dunmore is far from daft, despite your treasonous opinion. Good day, gentlemen.”
He executed a mocking, courtly bow as she stormed out.
“Damn, Jeffrey, will you have no end to exercising that virulent tongue of yours against Dunmore? Poor girl nearly choked after you called her relative daft!”
Jeffrey ran a finger down his glass. “George, relax, I merely made the insinuation he was daft. Didn’t call him daft.”
“I must say it sounded like daft to me. Miss Reeves was most eager to flee your presence. If you had seen the look she favored you with, Jeffrey,” Tom observed and shook his head.
“’Tis true, I saw it.” Jeffrey chuckled. Felt it too. Like two piercing, red-hot coals. He rather fancied her anger. It brought a lovely flush to her aristocratic cheekbones. Such young, fresh beauty, like dew upon a blossom’s petals. With a complexion as fair as new cream.
He needed to stop thinking of her. Jeffrey traced an imaginary line on the polished table and frowned. Why did he find her so damnably attractive?
“The girl possesses much spirit, you must admit. That family... her father...,” Tom mused.
Jeffrey could not help his interest. “What do you know of her?”
Tom shrugged, but George considered. “Reeves. Only been here since last year. The father is a hard Loyalist. His ship, the Mariner, sails to Philadelphia to sell goods and returns with imports from England. I suspect Dunmore gave him a note to fund the purchase of the store. Mother’s a cousin to Dunmore, I hear, and uses every occasion to remind people of it. The girl...”
He looked toward the parlor and dropped his voice. “Elizabeth’s rather fond of her, despite her Tory views. Word is Miss Reeves came from England to escape an unfortunate predicament. A passionate embrace in the garden during a supper party that caused quite a scandal.”
“Such an encounter would scarcely cause a man to move his family across the ocean from the mother country he so loves.”
George gave him a rueful look. “Miss Reeves was caught kissing a common soldier, or rather, he was kissing her.”
“A simple kiss caused such scandal?”
“’Tis where he kissed her... on her naked bosom.”
Tom cleared this throat. Jeffrey gave a low whistle, envisioning the scene—Amanda baring those lovely white breasts as her would-be lover bent his head, eager to sample her sweetness. He suppressed a sudden possessive surge of unexpected jealousy.
“The soldier sailed away before Mr. Reeves could demand restitution. Her behavior became the talk of the town.”
“No wonder she had to leave,” Tom murmured.
Settling back into his chair, George shook his head. “A shame, really. She’s a fine young lady, pleasant, skilled in all the deportments. Cares a great deal about the almshouse.”
Jeffrey reeled at this revelation, tucking it away for future use. Perhaps he could use Amanda’s passion to his own advantage, should he ever need it. He said nothing, but picked up his brandy. Tom gave him a sly look.
“Why do you ask, Jeffrey? Has the lady caught your weary bachelor eye?”
He hid his feelings behind a dismissive wave. “I’ve not the appreciation for lovely women the way you have, Tom. She’s connected to Dunmore. He is the King’s representative. All the more reason to see any associated with him with suspicion and be prepared for when we must choose a course of action.”
“You speak of revolution, Jeffrey. Were your father alive today, would he side with your opinion? Robert was my dear friend and a cautious, prudent man. God rest his soul, he was as brilliant a lawyer as I’ve seen. You have his sharp mind. I see him every time you walk into this room. ’Twas a shame you did not follow in his path.” George shook his head.
Jeffrey felt the old guilt stir. “He tried. Four years at William and Mary College was enough. My heart was not in the law, but in these.” He gave his hands a rueful look.
“He would have been much proud of your political career and your efforts for reform in the Massachusetts Provincial Congress,” George hastened to add.
“Some effort. I met once as a delegate, then left for Virginia.”
“Don’t downplay it, Jeffrey. Your vote helped organize the militia into troops ready to fight,” Tom reminded him.
“’Tis no matter now. I am here, far from Boston, and with Meg’s plantation to oversee, I have farming on my mind.” As well as other matters. Jeffrey thought of the smuggled message he’d passed on to Patrick Henry.
“Have you considered the spring planting yet?” Tom asked.
“Yes. Meg seems to be sickly as of late. I’ve told Jim to cut my days at the smith’s shop to three to help on her farm.” Jeffrey gave a lazy stretch.
George swirled the amber liquid in his glass. “Your sister’s husband was an excellent member of this community. He has been sorely missed these two years since his passing.”
“Roger was a good husband to Meg and a good father.”
“With al
l his slaves, surely there is enough assistance to help in the fields?” Tom asked.
“No longer. I set them free. Only four remain as servants.”
Tom’s jaw dropped. “But, Jeffrey, surely you jest. You cannot manage a farm without proper help.”
“I’ll manage. Hire extra help. I do not believe in slavery,” he insisted.
“I share your sentiments,” mused George.
“Slavery is an evil of society, ’tis true. But you are not a planter, George,” protested Tom.
“Anyone who hails a cry for freedom should not own slaves. For how can a man willing to fight for liberty enslave another, even of another color?” Jeffrey stated with firm authority. He thought about how polite Tidewater society hated his freeing the slaves.
“You will work yourself to death,” muttered George. “You constantly amaze me, Jeffrey.”
“Pour me another finger of your French brandy, and I shall perhaps amaze you even more.” He lifted his glass and grinned.
“Dunmore’s giving a ball this week. You’re invited.”
With a suspicious eye, Jeffrey looked up from his tankard of cider. He’d just finished working at the forge. During his work days, he lodged at the Raleigh, for Meg’s farm was a good five miles from town.
Such news astonished him. Dunmore was on poor footing with most colonists.
More startling was the gleam in Patrick Henry’s eye as his friend slid onto the wood chair next to him at the Raleigh Tavern. His bottle green suit was faded and frayed at the elbows. A poorly made, cheap brown wig sat on his head. A white stock, tied haphazardly, showed a bit of spotting. But his clear, pristine blue eyes sparked with excitement.
“I’m invited.” Jeffrey laughed. “For what? To wipe the soles of his lackeys?”
Patrick turned his head and scrutinized the few occupants of the Apollo room. Apparently satisfied, he turned back to Jeffrey, his voice dropping to a whisper. “’Tis time for drastic action. We need you to examine Dunmore’s personal papers.”
Alarm curled up his spine. Jeffrey set down his tankard. Helping a spy pass along valued information was one matter. Being a spy himself in the governor’s palace was another. He cursed the fact he’d not bothered to read the last message. Usually he did, but this time, he’d merely slipped it inside the pouch in one of the empty feed sacks and sent a servant on his way with the wagon. Using the ruse of buying grain for his horses from Patrick’s Scotchtown farm, Jeffrey managed to smuggle information to his friend.
“You want me to eavesdrop on Dunmore?”
“Aye, ’twas in the last message you passed to me from our friend. He needs your stealth and cunning acquired in the war.” Neither of them dared to speak the spy’s true name. If overheard, he could be clapped in chains and shipped to England to stand trial for sedition.
Patrick’s gaze slid over to Jeffrey’s walking stick resting innocently against the table. Its silver eagle’s head gleamed in the dull firelight, winking of treason.
Stealth and cunning. Memories from the French and Indian war flooded back. Rogers’ Ranger’s Standing Orders flipped through his head like playing cards shuffled in rapid-fire succession. Jeffrey blinked away the tormenting thoughts.
“Our friend reasons Dunmore may be plotting something. Ever since I called for Virginia to raise a militia, Dunmore has fidgeted. We need a spy to go through his correspondence. Our friend has the perfect cover for you.”
The cider puddled into a pit of acid in his stomach as Patrick relayed the plan. He would masquerade as a visiting baron investigating land possibilities in Virginia.
Patrick shot him a sly grin. “Your charm with the ladies will prove diverting.”
Wiping his mouth, Jeffrey leaned back. Amanda Reeves would be there. Amanda haunted him nightly, tormenting him with visions of a shapely figure and lips ripe as fresh cherries. Jeffrey thought about kissing those lips and desire slid through his body. He slammed it down, turning back to practical matters.
He was daft to even consider such a risky venture. Jeffrey shoved aside his tankard, losing all enjoyment in the drink. He’d come to Virginia to help Meg recover financially from her husband’s death. Who would help her if he were sent to England, to be tried for treason?
“I don’t know,” he began.
“’Tis most pressing you do this, Jeffrey. Your services to the cause of liberty are most appreciated. Because of your courier service to Sam Adams, and the network you’ve arranged with Boston, we have news that aids our efforts to unite in the call to arms. And your idea to use the smith’s shop as a drop point for intelligence was most brilliant.”
“’Tis but a small task I do.” Jeffrey shrugged. He enjoyed working as a blacksmith. It was excellent cover as well.
Patrick’s mouth tightened. “Your smuggling of information from our friend to me has proven invaluable. But we need you more now.”
“What about once I am at the ball?”
“Your signal will be our friend pulling Dunmore aside for a game of whist in the parlor. You then sneak upstairs and sort through Dunmore’s correspondence. Look for anything that we may use to stir the people against the crown. Once you get it, leave immediately. ’Tis too dangerous for you to linger. If you get caught...” Patrick’s cool blue eyes bored into his, the unspoken suggestion hovering between the men like a curl of smoke.
“’Tis a huge risk,” he muttered, torn between desire to help the cause and an unusual need for prudence.
“So is the militia,” Patrick gently reminded him. A subtle hint. His friend had urged him to join the volunteers. He’d refused.
Jeffrey leaned an elbow on the table. “I’ll need foppish clothing and a snuff box.”
“Already planned. There’s a trusted seamstress in town who will fit you tonight for the clothing and have it ready by the morrow. There’s a powdered wig to wear. Spectacles. And...” He stared at Jeffrey’s beard and mustache.
“I’ll have to shave this.” He sighed and rubbed his furred upper lip. His thoughts drifted toward Amanda. Amanda’s lovely, pouting mouth—a mouth that spouted loyalties to the Crown. Kissing offered a pleasant way to silence it. What would Amanda’s sensuous lips feel like against his?
Amanda and her teasing lips that had the power to inform on him if she discovered his ruse. Jeffrey’s throat tightened, thinking of a noose. The soft promise of her lips held as much danger as the rope’s threat. Amanda’s pouty mouth could very well lead him to the gallows, if he didn’t watch his step.
Chapter Three
IMAGES OF THE hangman’s noose haunted Jeffrey as he stole through the governor’s mansion.
Shoes in hand, he tiptoed up the walnut steps. Reaching the landing, he scanned his surroundings, adjusting to the darkness. Lord Dunmore’s private reception room lay at the end of the hallway. He prowled down the hallway, turned the doorknob and slipped inside.
Moonlight spilled through the windows, pooling on the floor. He lit a candle sitting on a glossy wood table. Flickering light reflected off tooled leather wallpaper burnished with copper gilt, making the room glow as if cast in amber. As he’d been told, the walnut secretary desk stood near the adjoining bedroom door. Dunmore kept all his private correspondence locked there.
Jeffrey pushed the gold-rimmed spectacles he’d worn as part of his disguise up on his powdered wig to see better, then removed a pin hidden in the wig. Sinking to the floor, he knelt before the desk like a prisoner before his executioner. The lock opened under his practiced hand. He lowered the desk lid, sat the candle on it and began ruffling through papers, searching for one incriminating document.
A china clock ticked the minutes. His search remained thorough and brisk. A thin trickle of sweat slid down his temple.
There. A letter to Lord North, the British Secretary of State, bragging how he could bring the renegade Virginia colonists under control. Signed, John Murray, Earl of Dunmore, His Majesty’s Lieutenant and Governor General of the Colony of Virginia. Such a letter could spark f
lames of revolution burning under the indifferent buttocks of proud Virginia planters.
Jeffrey smiled, imagining Pat’s delighted expression upon seeing the document. Such a contrast it would provide to Dunmore’s stunned look as he opened the Virginia Gazette to find his personal correspondence printed there. Both his jellied chins would drop in incredulous shock.
Tucking the letter into his waistcoat, he closed the desk lid. He blew out the candle, set it back on the table and started for the door.
Footsteps sounded on the landing. Cursing, he looked around, and darted for a connecting door. He slipped inside the room, cracking the door open a few inches to see who approached.
A swish of skirts rustled in the silence. Brass candlestick in hand, a slender figure swept through the reception room. He watched her glide across the room with elegant grace, hesitate and turn. She stopped at the secretary. Jeffrey bit back his shock.
Skin, creamy as fresh milk from his sister’s farm. A sensual mouth made for sin. Amanda. Soft light caught the gleaming folds of her green watered-silk gown edged with white lace. Pearls wove through the curls pinned to her head. One rose-gold lock rested on her shoulder like a sleepy kitten. Pearls encircled her long white throat. She was elegance and grace. A proper lady.
Setting the candlestick down upon the same secretary Jeffrey had searched, she glanced round. Her head pivoted toward the direction of the cracked door. Jeffrey made the mistake of shifting his weight on the floorboards. One creaked like the rattle of old bones.
Tilting her head, she appeared to listen. She lifted the candlestick, approached and pushed open the door. Jeffrey donned his glasses and stepped back. A tongue of light licked the darkness, swept over the bedroom and caught him before he could flee into inky blackness.
“What are you doing? These are private rooms!”
Memories of Rogers’ Rangers in the French and Indian war shot through his mind like rapid musket fire. Rogers’ Rangers Rule #7: If you must receive the enemy’s fire, fall down until it is over, then rise and discharge. He arranged his face into a chagrined mask.
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