She turned over on her side, and closed her eyes, wishing the ache in her heart would go away. Thoughts of Julian Westfield were weaving their way through her consciousness. By now, the British may have connected her as being the woman who helped the prisoners escape. If so, Julian would soon know the woman he had walked with in the garden was the Swallow.
He must have realized that his identity had been uncovered. Surely he would never return to Williamsburg. She had to be prepared never to see him again. Lavender's mind was in a muddle. Even if he did come back to her aunt's house, there was always the danger he might recognize her as the woman at the Cornwall's that night. How he would loathe her if he ever discovered who she really was.
Soon Lavender and Nicodemus would be back in Williamsburg, and she would have to pretend that nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, when in truth her life had changed so dramatically she doubted she would ever again be the same person.
Nicodemus's voice broke the silence. "Lavender."
"Yes."
"Go to sleep now. Problems always look mountainous at night. Tomorrow will be soon enough to start fretting about your troubles."
"Good night, Nicodemus," she said, yawning, her tired body relaxing into her soft bed of leaves.
"Good night," he answered, feeling her heartbreak in the very depth of his own heart. He realized that Lavender had strong feelings for Julian Westfield, and he hoped for her sake it was only a passing fancy. There could be no future for her as far as the English duke was concerned. Like Lavender, he wondered what had brought Julian Westfield to Williamsburg in the first place. He doubted the Englishman had come in search of the Swallow . .. but just in case he had, Nicodemus would be watchful.
Outside Richmond
A sudden rainstorm and high winds had caused the temperature to drop dramatically. Inside the common room of the Spartan Inn several British soldiers huddled around the huge fireplace, basking in its warmth. A sour-faced innkeeper moved among them, refilling empty mugs with mulled wine and grumbling under his breath about the late hour.
In the corner, next to the stairs, Julian sat at a table conversing with Colonel Grimsley. "I do not feel this is the appropriate place for a meeting," Julian observed, showing his contempt for the quaint surroundings. "There are too many people here who might know me."
"Begging your pardon, Your Grace," Colonel Grimsley spoke up. "This inn is off the main road. Besides, I assumed since you attended Cornwallis's gala as yourself the other night, there was no longer the need to keep your identity a secret."
"I made the . . . blunder ... of being overconfident," Julian said as if admitting to a mistake came hard to him. "It was folly on my part, as well as an error in judgment, to think I could be myself in the company of our own officers. It could have resulted in disaster— but, let us hope not."
"Perhaps not. After all, you now know what the Swallow looks like, Your Grace."
"Yes, but don't forget she also knows what / look like. And she has an advantage over me, because she knows who I am, and I have no notion as to her true identity."
"I am sorry, Your Grace."
Julian nodded at the soldiers who stared in their direction. "By tomorrow the whole of the British Army will know of tonight's meeting. Most probably they will also know each of our names."
Colonel Grimsley lowered his eyes. "I am sorry. I never thought... I assumed that since this inn is so far out of town and the weather was so foul we would have the place to ourselves."
Julian leaned back in his chair and studied the flickering candle that sat in the middle of the table. "If you thought that, then you have little understanding of the men you command. I never knew a soldier worth his salt that would allow anything so insignificant as a storm to keep him from an evening drinking with friends, however remote the location."
Grimsley spoke in an uncertain tone. "Should we leave, Your Grace?"
"No, that will not be necessary since the harm is already done." He leaned in closer and lowered his voice. "I have a plan which I hope will bring the Swallow out of hiding. I am going back to Williamsburg to put my strategy into motion."
"But, Your Grace, if she knows you, will you not be putting your life in danger by returning to Williamsburg?" *
"That is the chance I will have to take. I will need you to help me carry through with my plan. I cannot use Wilson, since his face is already known to the. Swallow."
"1 stand ready to help you in any way I can," the colonel announced. "You have only to tell me what to do, and I will do it."
Julian lowered his voice. "Cleave Wilson has learned that the Swallow receives her orders through the hospital at Williamsburg. If we are clever, we can use this information against her."
"What do you want me to do?" Colonel Grimsley asked.
"You will go to Yorktown and take a room at the Swan Tavern. You will pose as a merchant from North Carolina. Do you think you can alter your voice to any degree?"
"I will try, Your Grace," Colonel Grimsley said, doing a bad imitation of a southerner.
Julian's jaw tightened and his eyelids flickered. "When the time comes, you must not talk any more than is necessary. If my plan is successful, the Swallow will come to the Swan Tavern looking for you. Should she contact you there, you are to let me know immediately."
"I don't understand, Your Grace. What would the Swallow want with me?"
"We are going to use Wilson's informant to feed her false information. She will seek you out because she will be told that you have something she wants."
"What?" Grimsley asked.
Julian removed a folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to the colonel. "This is what she will come for."
Grimsley looked confused and kept turning it over in his hand. "But there is nothing written on this paper, Your Grace."
"You know that, and I know that, but the Swallow will not know it. She will be told that you have a list of names that will mean death for many of her fellow spies." His eyes grew even darker. "You will set up an appointment to meet her. When she arrives, you will direct her to me. 1 will be waiting for her upstairs, Grimsley."
"How will I know when 1 have made contact with her, Your Grace?"
"Cleave Wilson has been very clever there. His man has found out the password that is always given to the Swallow. If a woman comes to the tavern whom you suspect might be the Swallow, you will say to her, 'What flower grows in the winter'."
Colonel Grimsley looked taken aback. "What will she answer back, Your Grace?"
Julian looked irritated. "How would I know? That is of no consequence. All you need to do is verify that she is the Swallow."
"Since you have seen her, could you tell me what she looks like, so I will know what to expect?"
Julian's eyes burned as if a fire had been ignited in their brown depths. His voice was barely above a whisper. "Her hair is like corn silk, only softer and more golden. Her eyes are the bluest blue you could ever imagine. Her voice is soft and husky, and when she moves it is with such grace she seems to float on air."
Colonel Grimsley shook his head. "You did get a good look at her, Your Grace. I shouldn't have any trouble recognizing her with your description. I have a strong inclination that she will not escape us this time."
Julian stood up. "If this strategy works, it is but a matter of days until it reaches its conclusion, Colonel. I am leaving my valet, Hendrick, with you. When you make contact with the Swallow, he will know where to find me."
"Are you leaving now, Your Grace?"
"Yes, it is a long way to Williamsburg, and I am anxious to get started."
"I still do not think it is wise to return to Williamsburg now that the Swallow knows who you are."
Julian's eyes darkened. "I can best control the situation if I am close to her. Besides, she cannot very well reveal my identity without revealing her own. Either way we will have her." "I will await word from you, Your Grace." Julian turned and walked away, anxious to be on his way. There
was no doubt in his mind that the Swallow lived in or near Williamsburg. He would never give up until he had her in his power!
9
Encroaching silence hung heavy in the dining room where Lavender sat across the table from her aunt. She had been home for two days now, and it amazed her how easily she had slipped back into her old routine. Her aunt neither questioned her absence nor asked why she had been away from home for over a week. Of course there had been the money Lavender had turned over to her aunt to make her absence believable. Brainard Thruston had instructed Sarah that money was to be paid to Lavender so Amelia Daymond would assume her niece did in fact work at the Public Hospital.
Lavender speared a tender piece of spotted trout with her fork, but declined to take a bite. Her mind was on Julian Westfield, so she did not see the look of irritation her aunt bestowed upon her.
"Well, missy, you can either eat that fish or not, but I do not intend to sit at the table with you if you have no regard for good manners. No lady of breeding would play with her food as you are doing."
Lavender saw the disapproval on her aunt's face. "I am sorry. I am just not hungry."
"I suppose you don't like the fish?"
"No, it's not that, it's just that—"
"1 have very little sympathy for anyone who is provided with a good home and abuses her benefactor by not eating that which is set before her. You are most ungrateful."
"I am not ungrateful, I—"
"I don't know what the world is coming to. We are at war with our one-time benefactor, you choose to ignore the food I furnish out of the goodness of my heart, and I have a lodger who disappeared without as much as a how-do-you-do, and I have no notion if he is even coming back."
"Did Mr. West take all his belongings away with him, Aunt Amelia?"
"How should I know? Do I look like the kind of woman who would snoop into her lodger's room?"
"No, Aunt Amelia."
Amelia scooted her chair back and came to her feet. "You can take the dishes out to the kitchen and wash them. When you have finished, you can clean Mr. West's room and see if he left anything behind. It's my guess that we will probably never hear from him again. I began to like him, even though I have suspected all along that he wasn't an artist. I wouldn't be surprised if he was a spy for the British. I knew he was too handsome not to be a scoundrel."
Lavender wondered if her aunt could guess how close she had come to the actual truth. Julian Westfield might not be a spy, but he had definitely come to Williamsburg for a reason. Lavender doubted that he would ever return to Williamsburg, and it was doubtful whether he had left any of his possessions behind.
The sun had gone down and night shadows fell across the town of Williamsburg before Lavender was free of her household duties and could go to Julian's rooms. Her arms were loaded with a pail of water, soap, cleaning cloths, and a flickering candle to light her way in the darkened hallway.
The house was quiet since her aunt had gone to bed, Nicodemus was in Yorktown, and Phoebe and Jackson had gone to their own quarters. She placed the pail of water on the floor to free her hands. When she inserted the key in the door, she heard the click of the lock, and the door swung open. She picked up the pail and moved into the room, feeling as if she were intruding.
Lavender had not been in this part of the house since the first day she had shown Julian to his rooms. Phoebe had always cleaned these rooms, since Lavender's aunt did not think it was seemly for a young unmarried girl to go into a gentleman's Chambers.
Lavender noticed how neat and orderly the room was but for the white, ruffled shirt that was thrown carelessly across the back of a chair and a pair of black boots that looked like he had just stepped out of them, suggesting he had changed in a hurry. Lavender could feel Julian's presence so strongly she could hardly breathe. Hesitantly she crossed the room and picked up his shirt, holding it against her cheek.
Even if he never returned, she would always remember the way his dark eyes flashed when he was displeased about something. She would also remember how those same eyes had once flamed with desire for her. How could she ever forget what it felt like to be held so tightly in his arms that she could feel each breath he took? A tear trailed down her cheek and she brushed it away. Now was not the time for remembering. She must put all her silly girlhood dreams aside.
Loneliness such as she had never known weighed down on her, and she wanted to throw herself on the bed and cry her eyes out. She was desperately in love with a man who had only contempt for her. Her proud spirit came to her rescue once again, and she sighed heavily. Even if the circumstances had been different and their two countries were not at war, she could never aspire so high as to love a duke.
Placing the shirt back on the chair, she lovingly ran her hand down the ruffled front. She knew so little about Julian Westfield, the man, and even less about, His Grace, the Duke of Mannington. Why was she so desperately in love with him? Most probably every woman he met had dreams of being held in his strong arms. He was a man who would inspire fanciful dreams in any young maiden's thoughts.
Lavender broke out of her daydreams when she spied a stack of canvas propped against the wall. Carefully she lifted one up and held it to the candlelight. She drew in her breath in admiration at what she saw. The painting was in bright greens, blues, and yellows. The subject Julian had painted was the kitchen cat, Dimitri, sitting in a curtained window, lazily looking out on the scenes of Williamsburg. The bold colors and long brush strokes were like nothing Lavender had ever seen before. Julian Westfield might be misleading people about his true identity, but there was no questioning the fact that he was a gifted artist.
In the distance, the sound of a horse clopping down the street brought her thoughts back to the task at hand. Leaning the canvas carefully back against the wall, she wondered if perhaps Julian would return for his paintings.
Leaving the candle on the night table, she moved noiselessly into the next room. She knew this would be the perfect opportunity for her to look for evidence that might tell her what Julian was doing in Williamsburg. Her eyes fell on the oak writing table, and even though the notion of snooping into Julian's personal belongings was distasteful to her, she reminded herself that she might find something important in the drawers.
On the smooth surface of the writing desk she found an inkstand and a small candle, which she lit. Drawing in a deep breath, she gathered up her courage to go further with her snooping. With a small tug on the brass handle, the first drawer slid open to reveal a box of Bristol soap, hair powder, and a hairbrush. The next drawer contained several snow-white cravats and a half a dozen equally white handkerchiefs. There was nothing here that divulged any knowledge of the man, other than the fact that he was methodical and tidy.
Absently she thumbed through the fine linen handkerchiefs and noticed that one of them had been embroidered white on white. Running her fingers over the silken threads, she admired the fine workmanship which depicted a unicorn and a swan against the backdrop of a shield. It had to be Julian Westfield's coat of arms! He had not been so clever, after all, for he had overlooked this one small detail. Of course, he had not expected anyone to go through his personal belongings.
Lavender was not sure what first alerted her to the fact that she was not alone. It could have been the shadow that came between her and the candlelight from the next room, or the sound of the creaking floorboards. Her heart stopped beating as she looked into the dark, smoldering eyes of Julian Westfield. He stood in the doorway with his arms folded across his broad chest, his eyes now dark and accusing.
Lavender's hand trembled as she dropped the handkerchief back into the drawer and pushed it shut. Her mind was working fast, and she was glad the candle gave off little light so he could not see her very well. She adjusted the glasses on her nose and pulled the mobcap lower on her head. He still stared at her and she wished he would say something, anything, to break the awkward silence between the two of them.
"I . . ." She hesitated gr
oping for words. "Your . . . room needed—"
"Cleaning?" he supplied. "Yes, I can see that the dust in this room would constitute the necessity of a midnight cleaning excursion. How fortunate for me that you were also straightening my desk drawers, Miss Daymond." His words were curt, his eyes smoldering with anger.
Her whole body felt tense as she watched him, fearing he had guessed her identity. Even if he had discovered she was the Swallow, joy sang in her heart at his return.
"I . . . my aunt asked me to clean—" she stammered, falling back into her role as the long-suffering Miss Lavender Daymond.
He moved back into the bedroom, then turned to face her. "I cannot imagine your aunt sending you into a man's room at this hour," he broke in impatiently.
She moved toward the outer door, taking care to keep in the shadows. "You left so suddenly, and my aunt did not know if you would be coming back since you left no word with her."
He removed his pale-yellow frock coat and tossed it on the bed. "I have paid for six months' lodging, and was not aware that obligated me to inform you or your aunt of my comings and goings."
Lavender's anger had been tapped by his audacity and arrogance, but she dared not allow it to show. It was essential that she play the spiritless drudge, and she must not project any strength of character. Ducking her head so he couldn't see her face, she took a hesitant step toward the door.
"I will just leave now, Mr. West. Phoebe can clean for you tomorrow." Knowing she must play the clumsy oaf to allay any suspicions he might have about her, she purposely tripped over the pail of water, and slipped down on the floor.
Julian growled his impatience as he held out his hand and helped her to her feet. "I am sorry, s-sir," she stammered. "I will. . . just clean this up." She would have dropped down on her knees, but he detained her. He did not see the hidden smile that played on her lips.
Lavender Lies (Historical Romance) Page 12