Virginia accepted her first offer to dance and lined up with the other dancers. To her dismay, she spotted Quincy Stanton further down the men’s line. As the dance progressed, a lady partnered each man in turn, so in a few moments she would have no choice but to dance with him.
When her partner gulped, looking at her with the frantic eyes of a hunted animal, she realized she had been scowling at the poor man and forced herself to smile. He returned her smile with a nervous twitch of his lips, and the dance began.
The dreaded moment soon arrived.
She curtsied to Quincy Stanton. He made a leg to her. She approached, keeping her eyes focused on his lacy cravat. She didn’t need to see his face to know he was examining her with those gray eyes. She could feel it. It made her heart quicken, her skin tingle.
They turned, standing side by side, though the wide skirts currently in fashion kept a man at a distance. She lifted her hand. It was instantly enveloped in his larger, gloved hand. She was tempted to snatch her hand away, but as if he had read her mind, he tightened his fist.
She avoided looking at him, pretending not to notice the firm grip on her hand that defied proper dance etiquette. She glided through the steps as fluidly as possible. Whatever the man might think of her, he would at least think she was graceful.
The dance required that he release her and pass behind her.
He whispered, “We have not been introduced.”
She remained silent, determined to ignore the sensation of his breath stirring the tiny hairs on the back of her neck. If he expected her to announce her name, he was sadly mistaken.
The dance separated them as they each circled around another person. Her heart pounded in her ears so she could scarcely hear the music.
He neared her once again. “You’re still angry with me?”
So, he remembered his attempt to buy her. Her cheeks flooded with warmth. Of course, he did. When he had stared across the room at her, his recognition had been startlingly clear.
She waited until their time together was about to end, then spoke, “To sustain anger over a period of time, I would have to be acquainted with you. Since we have not been introduced, I remain indifferent.” She turned to her new partner and curtsied with shaking knees.
She danced in a daze, moving mechanically through the next two partners. Then she slanted a glance down the row of men to see if he conversed with his current partner.
He was dancing with Caroline. She was biting her bottom lip, her eyes glittering like emeralds. It was a look Virginia knew well. Her sister was trying hard not to giggle. And Quincy Stanton—he remained silent, his expression bored and aloof, apparently immune to her sister’s dazzling good looks.
When Virginia returned to her original partner, she curtsied, glancing sidelong to see whom Mr. Stanton had asked to dance. Of course. ’Twas the pretty Miss Higgenbottom, who was smiling at him, displaying dimples in her rosy cheeks.
Virginia declined any more invitations to dance. Enough time had been wasted. It was time to go to work.
She spotted a lone officer and casually approached. The portly major stood bleary-eyed at a table stocked with wine bottles. His red coat was stained; his white waistcoat strained at the numerous buttons, threatening to pop them off. He poured his glass with an unsteady hand, downed the entire contents, then noticed her presence.
He adjusted his frizzled wig, which was slipping to the side. “Good evening, my dear. Would you care to join me in a scientific pursuit?”
“You’re a man of science, Major?” She wondered if his wig had been groomed by the winner of a cockfight.
“Indeed, I am.” He selected another wine bottle and refilled his glass. “I’m conducting research into the quality of European wines, a comparative test, don’t you know. Which is better—the French, the Rhenish, or perhaps, this sweet little Madeira I have here?” He guzzled it down and smacked his lips. “Hmm. It is hard to say. I’ll have to try this one again.”
Virginia eyed his flushed cheeks and the red nose accenting his round face. “I can see you are an expert.”
He downed a second Madeira and readjusted his tilted wig. “This one is excellent. It will require further study. Perhaps you will assist me?” He filled two glasses and offered one to her. His bloodshot eyes lit up when he noticed her low neckline. “Such a delight to find a delicate rose such as yourself, blooming in this backward wilderness.”
“Why, thank you. Will you be in Boston for long? I would enjoy the opportunity to see you again.”
The officer stumbled closer to her, still focused on her breasts. She eased back, fearful he would drool down her décolletage.
He emptied the contents of his glass down his throat and licked his full lips. “I would love to see you again, mistress, but I’ll be very busy for the next few months.”
“Oh?” Uncomfortable with the man’s leering, she gulped down some wine. He seemed to be holding a conversation with her bosom.
“At the end of the month, my men will be leaving Castle Island in the harbor and moving to a new location in town.”
Her heart quickened. This could be important. “Indeed? I do hope you will like your new quarters.”
“Oh, I suppose they’ll do. ’Tis the old warehouse where they once stored barrels of pickled meat. We’ll be close to the customs house in case there’s any trouble.” He narrowed his bloodshot eyes as if his continued ogling required a great deal of concentration. “And we do expect there’ll be trouble.”
“Trouble?”
“Aye, the damned rebels won’t like what’s in store for them.” He rubbed his ample stomach and belched, dispersing a strong smell of alcohol in the air.
She blinked as her eyes watered.
He swayed toward her, offering her a grimy handkerchief. “Dear gel, no need to cry. I—” His pupils rolled back in his eye sockets, and he crumpled onto the floor at her feet. His frizzled wig tumbled off, revealing a shiny, bald head.
“Oh, dear.” She grabbed his wineglass and set it on the table. Fortunately it was empty and unbroken. She peered down at the unconscious major. Perhaps she could roll him under the table like a fat sausage, and no one would notice.
“Shame on you, mademoiselle. Did you frighten the poor officer into a faint?”
She would know this voice anywhere.
Quincy Dearling Stanton.
She pivoted to see Mr. Stanton and his grinning female entourage fanned out before her. He raised his quizzing glass to examine the inert officer.
Virginia glanced down. The major’s coat had fallen open, revealing his enormous, round belly squeezed into the white waistcoat. His bald head glistened in the candlelight while the frizzled wig lay beside him like a porcupine on alert.
Mr. Stanton lowered his quizzing glass, his mouth quirking with amusement. “Your husband, I presume?”
His ladies twittered with laughter.
Virginia focused a stony glare on him. “You need not interfere, sir. We have not been introduced.”
His eyes gleamed like the silver buttons on his coat. “Now where have I heard that before? Mon Dieu, by the looks of his wig, I would say our dear major has been flying kites with Benjamin Franklin.”
She bit her lip when an urge to laugh caught her by surprise. The major’s wig did look like it had been struck by lightning. “Could you help the major to a settee where he would be more comfortable?”
“Moi? Dear gel, this colonial self-reliance may be admired in the backwoods of North Carolina, but here, we have servants.”
Her mouth fell open. How did he know where she was from? She inhaled a quivering breath, uncertain if she was frightened or excited. She dared a quick look at his face, then turned away.
He was watching her again with that serious, searching expression.
A servant grabbed hold of the unconscious major by the arms and
dragged him across the floor like a lumpy sack of potatoes.
“Allow me to assist.” A sandy-haired redcoat captain grasped the major’s ankles, and with the servant’s help, he heaved the officer onto a blue brocade settee. The major’s legs sprawled awkwardly, and one hand slid off his round belly to dangle on the wooden floor.
“Bravo!” Quincy Stanton sauntered over to the table stocked with wine. “You have beached the great white whale.”
His ladies giggled. The major responded with a tremendous snore.
“And there she blows!” Quincy poured a glass of wine and raised it in salute. “To our first brave soldier, fallen in the line of duty.”
His toast was greeted with cheers from the men and peals of laughter from his ladies.
The young captain plucked the major’s wig off the floor, holding it at an arm’s distance between his forefinger and thumb as if it were some kind of vermin. After plopping the wig askew on the major’s head, he approached Virginia.
“I apologize for the major’s inattentiveness.” He bowed. “I am Captain Breakwell. May I be of further assistance?”
“No, but I thank you. You have been most helpful, unlike some gentlemen.” She glanced at Quincy Stanton crossing the room with a woman on each arm. “I have no idea why the poor major fainted like that. ’Twas most unexpected.”
“I fear he tends to overindulge. I assure you, a sober man would never leave a woman of your charms unattended.”
She smiled. “Thank you.” What a shame, the enemy had such nice manners.
“Would you care to dance?”
“Yes, thank you, Captain.” She felt at ease during the dance to “Rickett’s Ride” since Quincy Stanton was not participating. She searched the room for her aunt, eager to tell her the information she had learned from the drunken major. Caroline was dancing, as usual, but Aunt Mary was not in the room. Neither was Quincy Stanton, though Miss Higgenbottom and his other admirers were dancing. Perhaps the two missing persons had retired to the adjoining parlor to partake of the buffet.
She executed the final curtsy to the dance. “Will you excuse me, Captain, while I visit the buffet? I’m absolutely famished.”
“Allow me to accompany you.” He led her into the other parlor. “May I crave your name, mistress?”
“Oh, of course.” She gave him a fleeting smile as she introduced herself. “I’m visiting my aunt who lives here in Boston.” She scanned the room for her aunt in vain.
“May I fetch a plate for you?”
“Yes, thank you, Captain.” She pretended to be admiring an elaborate bombé chest, topped with an Oriental vase. Where was Aunt Mary? She needed to pass on her information before Captain Breakwell returned with her food.
A set of glass-paned doors led to the garden outside. Perhaps Aunt Mary had stepped out for some fresh air. She glanced at the captain. He stood stiffly erect in line, the back of his scarlet uniform turned toward her, his gold epaulettes gleaming in the candlelight of flickering wall sconces.
She approached the French doors, intending to slip out, when she noticed through the glass a strange iridescent glow in the garden. As her eyes adjusted, she spotted two people—a tall man and a much shorter, slighter figure, perhaps a boy. The man bent over the glowing object, apparently studying something. He straightened, passed something back to the boy, and the glow abruptly disappeared, casting them in darkness. Virginia blinked, unable for a moment to discern their movements.
The man was coming toward the house.
She spun around and took a seat, tucked back into a poorly lit corner.
Captain Breakwell had advanced to the buffet table, where he stood filling two plates. He must be planning to eat with her.
The French door inched open without a sound.
She held her breath. A man’s gloved hand rested on the door handle, the sleeve above it made of sky-blue velvet.
Quincy Stanton.
He eased into the room. She looked away quickly, pretending not to notice, but her eyes disobeyed her better judgment and she peeked back.
His smile was gone, his brow knit with concentration. He surveyed the room, in particular the line at the buffet, and his mouth thinned with disapproval. He tugged at the lace at his wrists as his gaze dropped to the floor. Virginia leaned forward, tilting her head to see his expression.
He looked sad. How strange. The man who was the life of the party was not enjoying the party.
As if he felt her watchful eyes, he suddenly turned his head in her direction. She looked away, straightening in her chair as the warmth of a blush spread across her cheeks. Her fingers curled around her closed fan in a tight grip. You’re being ridiculous to pretend like this. He must know that she’d been staring at him.
She took a deep breath and looked at him.
He had advanced toward her a few steps. He glanced around, then continued ’til he was in front of her. And there he stood, frowning at his high-heeled shoes.
She waited for him to speak. Amazing. The charming Quincy Stanton was hesitating, apparently unsure of himself.
She peered down at the oversized silver buckles adorning his black leather pumps and back up to his face. “Are they uncomfortable?”
His eyes met hers. “Excuse me?”
“Your shoes.”
He paused, then nodded. “Aye, they are. You . . . pardon me, but you’re looking very lovely tonight.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Moi? This is not the backwoods of North Carolina. Shouldn’t you have a servant deliver your compliments? You wouldn’t want to strain yourself.”
His eyes responded first. They shone with a warmth that communicated a keen appreciation of her boldness. His mouth followed, the corners turning up with a slow smile ’til a hint of his dimples showed. “Some things are better in person.”
She flipped open her fan in what she hoped was a nonchalant gesture. Her heart was racing, her cheeks burning. Blast this man, she was reacting like one of his brainless admirers.
He lowered his voice to scarce more than a whisper. “I owe you an apology.”
“Only one?”
His eyes twinkled as he smiled. “At least half a dozen.”
Her heart took a leap. “At least.”
“I do apologize. May I introduce myself?”
“Excuse me.” Captain Breakwell stepped around Mr. Stanton, cutting him off.
Virginia caught a glimpse of Quincy Stanton’s hostile glare, directed at the officer’s back.
Then, the transformation occurred. It was so abrupt, so affected, how could others fail to notice?
Quincy Stanton leaned on one leg in an elegant pose and smiled sweetly as he plucked a round, silver snuffbox from his pocket. “I say, is it not the dashing young Captain Breakwell? How delightful to see you again.” He helped himself to a dainty morsel of snuff. “Tell me, have you trounced any more deserters lately?”
The captain peered back at Mr. Stanton, frowning. “No, I have not.”
“Now, now, good captain, no need to be modest.” Mr. Stanton flipped a heavily scented handkerchief from his coat and dabbed at his nose. “This clever young lady would be quite impressed with your exploits—capturing runaway soldiers and giving them a good lashing. I say, do you apply the whip, yourself?”
“No, I do not. If you will excuse me?”
“Of course.” Quincy Stanton stepped back. “Though I wonder, do the men you have whipped excuse you? Are they happy to be back in the service of their king?”
The captain pivoted toward Mr. Stanton, his knuckles white as he gripped the two plates in his hands.
Quincy Stanton stared back, his eyes as hard and cold as slate. “So sorry, I have forgotten my manners.” He lifted his snuffbox. “Would you care for some Grey Mouton?”
“No.” Captain Breakwell gritted his teeth. “We would like to enjoy
our meal in peace.”
“Ah, a redcoat who wants peace. Of course.” Quincy Stanton slipped his snuffbox back into his pocket. “The uniform works wonders with the ladies, does it not? I simply must have a red coat made for me. And so clever of you to wear that silver gorget around your neck. The way it sparkles in the sun, a rebel marksman will know exactly where to aim.”
One glance at the captain’s enraged expression and Virginia sprang to her feet, determined to put a stop to this before her plate of food ended up in Quincy Stanton’s face. “Come, Captain. Let us return to the other room.”
She led Captain Breakwell toward the door. Why was Quincy Stanton provoking a British officer? They were both loyal to the crown. It made no sense, unless he objected to the captain’s attentions to her, personally. But that made no sense either when he had so many women fawning over him.
A crowd of people around the door slowed their progress, and they waited their turn. Nothing about Quincy Stanton made sense. A tall man who wore high-heeled shoes he disliked, who stole outside to the garden to do mysterious things, who insulted the same people who shared his political views.
Captain Breakwell took a deep breath and visibly relaxed his shoulders. “I’m sorry you had to endure that man’s company. I fail to understand how so many can find him charming.”
Virginia peered over her shoulder just as Quincy Stanton slipped through a door leading to parts of the house not being used for the night’s festivities. Where was he going now? And for what purpose?
She narrowed her eyes. “I fail to understand him at all.” But not for long. She knew exactly where to direct her investigative talents next.
She would solve the puzzle of Quincy Stanton.
CHAPTER FOUR
Sunday, October 8, 1769
Edward glanced up from his desk. “Did anyone see you?”
“No. I waited ’til the servants would be asleep.” Quincy ambled into the study of his uncle’s north-side home. “I grew up in this house. I can find my way in the dark.”
Edward stacked his papers to the side. “How are you?”
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