The Forbidden Lady

by Kerrelyn Sparks

  “I know how dangerous it is, Johnson.”

  “Good. The ring is a precaution in case you’re captured. The British fear that a jury of Colonials would not convict, so they would send you to England to stand trial. Not only would the British condemn you in a minute, they would execute you as a traitor, and that is a great deal nastier than a simple hanging.”

  “I know.” Quin’s appetite withered away at the thought of near-fatal strangulation, followed by disembowelment and decapitation. He picked up the ring to examine it. “What’s inside? Poison?”

  “Yes. ’Tis not painless, but it is quick. I would recommend it if the time comes. You can at least cheat them out of deciding your fate.”

  Quin turned the ring around in his hands while a vision of a female with bottle-green eyes sailed through his mind. There was too much unknown sea to explore with a mermaid hidden in the elusive depths. He would not give it up. He slipped the ring on a finger of his left hand. “I’ll wear the deuced thing, but I’ll not be caught.”

  “Good. I’ll be on my way then.” Johnson rose to his feet. “You have another practice session with the Turtle tomorrow. ’Tis almost time to move her to the harbor.”

  “Fine.” Quin groaned inwardly. After six practice sessions, he still hated the sensation of being closed up in the dark little submersible.

  “In case your brother asks, how will you explain your absence from the house tomorrow?”

  “I could be visiting friends in Cambridge.”

  “A mistress would sound better,” Johnson observed. “He’d be more inclined to respect your privacy then.”

  “Very well.” Quin fetched the letter he had written from the desk. “Can you see that this reaches my uncle?”

  “Of course. And remember, Stanton, put a stop to a certain young lady’s attempts at espionage.”

  Friday, October 20, 1769

  An excellent night for spying, Virginia thought, eager to try her hand once more. It had been two weeks since her last, successful attempt. She surveyed the gaily lit parlors of the Oldhams’ luxurious home. The doors between the two large parlors had been opened wide and the gilded baroque furnishings pushed up against the flocked wallpaper to allow room for dancing.

  At the entrance to the parlor, she stood with her aunt and sister. They curtsied and exchanged pleasantries with the host and hostess. She had made one adjustment to her green silk gown, adding a sheer scarf around her neck, tucked into the bodice to conceal the low décolletage. When Caroline had questioned her sudden attack of modesty, she had mumbled an excuse about the old major at the Higgenbottoms’ ball drooling on her.

  The truth was the major and his drool were far from her thoughts. Ever since that night at the Ashfords, she had not been able to dress or undress without recalling the touch of Quincy Stanton’s bare thumb gliding down the curve of her breast.

  Her pulse speeded ahead of her thoughts, quickening at the mere possibility of seeing him again. She squelched the anticipation. She would remain calm.

  And she would discover exactly what he was doing.

  He was easy to spot. With the help of his high heels, he stood considerably taller than the other men. His green silk coat and breeches nearly matched the color of her own gown. She watched his back as he sauntered across the adjoining parlor, accompanied by a shorter, stockier dandy in plum velvet.

  “Good evening, Miss Munro.” Captain Breakwell made a leg to her. “ ’Tis my greatest pleasure to see you.” He offered his arm to escort her across the room.

  “Good evening, Captain.” What was she to do with this redcoat? He seriously interfered with her plans. It was too early to send him for refreshments. And the last time she had done that at the concert, he had questioned her disappearance. “Could I ask a small favor of you?”

  “Of course, and I would be honored if you would call me William.”

  “As you wish. You see, my sister loves to dance, and I was wondering if you could partner her for the first set?”

  Though he looked taken aback, the captain rallied with a small smile. “But do you not wish to dance also, Miss Munro?”

  “Perhaps later. I fear I’m quite fatigued today. I helped my aunt in the garden, you see . . .”

  “Of course.” He guided her to a chair. “Please rest yourself, my dear.”

  Virginia forced herself to smile as he hovered over her like she might break. This was not working. Perhaps she should suddenly take ill. With a sigh of relief, she heard the musicians warming up.

  William sat beside her. “May I address you by your given name?”

  “Yes, ’tis Virginia.” She leaned slightly to the side in order to see into the adjoining parlor. What was Quincy Stanton doing? And who was that shorter man in plum velvet at his side? She jumped in her seat, startled when the captain suddenly clasped her hand in his.

  “I remember your name, Virginia, from when you first introduced yourself. I have called you that in my mind ever since.”

  She blinked dumbly at him, wondering why she was not more affected. Didn’t young ladies dream of receiving attention like this? He was very handsome with his sandy blond hair and clear blue eyes. Shouldn’t her heart pound?

  Perhaps, having convinced herself of the unlikelihood of her ever marrying, she was now immune to such feelings. But her heart did race when she encountered Quincy Stanton. She had told herself it was her natural curiosity that excited her in his presence, the enticing lure of solving the mystery that surrounded him and his puzzling behavior.

  She frowned. But what if it was something more?

  The captain patted her hand. “I beg your pardon, Virginia. I see by your countenance I am too forward and have shocked your delicate nature.”

  She bit her lip to keep from grinning. Her delicate nature? She once took revenge on her brother by stuffing a frog down his breeches. And the captain thought he was bold for using her name and holding her hand? He should take lessons from Mr. Stanton.

  The now-familiar memory swept over her—Quincy Stanton inserting his thumb into her neckline and sliding it down. She responded in her usual manner. Her cheeks heated up, and she grew short of breath. Be honest with yourself. You feel more than curiosity for him.

  “Forgive me.” William released her hand. “I can see I have rushed you.”

  “Excuse me?” She cast the captain a confused look. She truly should pay more attention to the poor man. He tried so hard.

  An unexpected shriek distracted her. She glanced up to locate the source.

  Quincy Stanton leaned against the door frame between the two parlors, studying her, apparently unfazed by the feminine sound of horror that had erupted from the room behind him.

  Virginia’s eyes met his. The searching look he gave her seemed to reach down into her soul. She gripped her hands together as her heart expanded in her chest.

  The source of the shriek, Miss Higgenbottom, stormed out of the adjoining parlor, her normally white skin flushed pink from her neckline to her hairline. She halted beside Mr. Stanton, her blue eyes flashing and blond curls trembling as she shook with anger. “How dare you deceive me, Quincy!”

  Everyone in the two parlors hushed. All eyes turned to witness the evening’s entertainment.

  Quincy Stanton retained his casual pose and calmly removed his snuffbox. “Come now, Miss Higgenbottom. I behave like a bastard. Surely, it should come as no surprise that I am one.”

  A collective gasp surged across the two rooms, followed by a wave of hushed whispers.

  Miss Higgenbottom clenched her closed fan in tight fists. “You said you were the eldest son of the Earl of Dearlington.”

  “I am, but if you’re interested in the title, I suggest you focus your efforts on my brother.” He shrugged one shoulder in an uncaring gesture. “C’est la vie, chérie.”

  The fan snapped in Miss Higgenbottom’s han
ds, and she stumbled back. Her mother bustled over, and with a contemptuous glare directed at Quincy, she escorted her daughter from the room.

  “Well, well,” William Breakwell whispered to Virginia. “The truth about the ill-mannered Stanton has finally come to light.”

  Virginia pondered the satisfied look on the captain’s face. “You don’t like him.”

  “He has no place in polite society.”

  “He cannot help the way he was born.” She glanced at Quincy Stanton. His face was stiff, implacable, and cold, as he slipped his unused snuffbox back into his pocket.

  Excited whispers hummed around the room as the well-dressed elite of Boston discussed Quincy Stanton’s illegitimacy in his presence. A slow churning sensation started in the pit of Virginia’s stomach and crept up her chest. It burned her throat with a foul taste of hypocrisy. She knew, in that moment, he was in pain.

  And she felt rage.

  She turned toward the captain and kept her voice calm. “Would you excuse me for a moment? I would like to see if Miss Higgenbottom is all right.”

  William nodded his head with an approving smile. “You have a kind heart, Virginia.”

  Kindness was not what she had in mind. She strode toward the parlor entrance. The hall was empty, the door across from her slightly ajar.

  She peeked inside, steeling herself for a confrontation. Miss Higgenbottom sat on a settee, sobbing into a handkerchief, while her mother paced back and forth like a British officer inspecting his troops.

  “Hush those tears this instant, Priscilla.” The mother major shook a chubby finger at her. “Do you want Clarence to think ill of you?”

  Priscilla lowered her handkerchief and sniffed. “ ’Tis not fair. Clarence is not as handsome as Quincy. He’s short and boring, and in few years he’ll probably be fat.”

  Mrs. Higgenbottom loomed over her daughter. Overly plump herself and dressed in oversized panniers and skirts of scarlet silk, she was as wide as the settee where Priscilla sat. Her white-powdered wig added another foot to her intimidating height. “You listen to me, Prissy. If you want to be a countess, you will behave like Clarence is the most handsome man in the world. Understand me?”

  Priscilla’s bottom lip trembled. “Yes, Mama.”

  Virginia’s anger dissipated as quickly as it had emerged. She knocked gently on the door. “May I be of some assistance?”

  Mrs. Higgenbottom whirled around with a huge swish of red silk skirts, like an enormous tomato and just as poisonous, although Virginia had serious doubts that tomatoes were actually poisonous. The woman’s eyes, heavily lined with lampblack, narrowed on her. “And you are?”

  “Virginia Munro.” She stepped into the room. “I’m visiting my aunt, Mary Dover.”

  “I see.” Mrs. Higgenbottom inspected her from head to toe. “Are you married?”

  Virginia blinked at the woman’s bluntness, but realization soon followed. Mrs. Higgenbottom looked upon her as competition for her daughter. “I doubt I shall ever marry.”

  “Umph,” Mrs. Higgenbottom snorted. “This young generation, so foolish to think you should do as you please. If you could keep my daughter company while I fetch some water to clean her face, I would appreciate it.” She barreled past Virginia and out the door, closing it firmly behind her.

  Virginia perched on the settee next to Priscilla Higgenbottom. “Are you all right?”

  The young lady shook her head, her blond ringlets swaying with the movement. “I’m mortified. I shall never be able to show my face in public again.”

  “Surely, ’tis not that bad.”

  Priscilla dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief. “The sad truth is I actually like Quincy.”

  “Then why did you humiliate him like that?”

  “I didn’t mean to. His brother, Clarence, was spreading the news. Everyone would have known soon enough.”

  “Clarence is the man in plum velvet?”

  Priscilla nodded her head.

  “And Clarence told everyone his brother is illegitimate? That was cruel of him.”

  “No more cruel than I.” Priscilla sighed. “Poor Quincy. My heart breaks for him.”

  Virginia felt a strange unease in her stomach. “You truly care for him?”

  “I know some say he’s ill-mannered and arrogant, but he was always kind to me. He made me laugh.” Priscilla twisted the handkerchief in her hands. “Now, I must forget about him and concentrate on Clarence.”

  “For goodness sake, why?”

  “My mother is determined I should live in England and have a title. She says the Colonials are about to destroy our lives.”

  “Oh.” Virginia bit her lip. In her patriotic fervor, she had not considered how dismal the future might seem to a Loyalist.

  “Mother has prepared me all of my life so I would be able to catch the man of her choosing. When I was fifteen months old, she put me in stays, and I’ve worn them night and day since.”

  “You sleep in your stays?”

  Priscilla nodded. “Aye, I cannot support myself without them now. I was dressed like a lady since the moment I could walk, so I was never allowed to play. I had to wear long gloves and a mask over my face to keep my skin white and pure.”

  Virginia’s sympathy turned to horror. In comparison to this girl’s life, her childhood in North Carolina had been free and unconfined. Her parents had always given her love without question. Even her terrible fear of fire was indulged with gentle patience.

  She excelled in sewing, embroidery, and all sorts of handwork. Her knowledge of gardening was extensive. She could read, write, cipher, dance, and speak French, but she could not perform any tasks that required a fire.

  A woman in the hills of North Carolina was expected to know how to cook, make soap, and do the laundry without assistance. Servants were extremely rare. News of her inadequacies had somehow leaked out, causing the rumor that she was unfit for marriage.

  Virginia sighed. “Surely your parents would not force you to marry against your will?”

  “They know what is best for me.” Priscilla took a deep breath. “I must devote my attention to Clarence now.”

  Virginia couldn’t help but wonder—if the well-trained and beautiful Priscilla had continued to pursue Quincy Stanton, would she have succeeded?

  “Where did you go?” Aunt Mary whispered to Virginia.

  “I was talking to Priscilla Higgenbottom.” It seemed strange, but Virginia had made a new friend tonight, a Loyalist friend. Of course, most of what she felt for the girl was sympathy, but poor Priscilla needed a friend.

  “Oh.” Mary sounded disappointed. “I thought perhaps you had discovered something useful.”

  “Aunt Mary, what will happen to the Loyalists if—never mind.” She watched Priscilla dancing to “Sukey Bids Me” with Captain Breakwell. After encouraging her new friend to rejoin the party, she had asked William to dance with her.

  “Are you having second thoughts about what we’re doing?” Mary asked.

  “No, but it is more complicated than I thought it would be.”

  Mary closed her fan with a sigh. “Aye, lass, it always is.”

  Virginia scanned the parlors. Her sister was dancing as usual. She spotted the man who must be Quincy Stanton’s younger brother. Priscilla was right. He was shorter and a bit too stocky. Though still handsome, his pale, soft features did not compare well to the tanned, chiseled countenance of his older brother. “Did Quincy Stanton leave?”

  “No,” Mary answered. “He was dancing a moment ago as if nothing had happened. The ladies seem more fond of him than ever. Nothing like a bit of notoriety to pique the interest.”

  “I don’t see him.”

  “Perhaps he stepped out for some air. It is stuffy in here.”

  Virginia remembered the night of the Higgenbottoms’ ball. She had spied him in the
garden with a curious, glowing object. “I believe I need some air, myself. Excuse me, Aunt Mary.”

  She wandered to the glass-paned doors that opened onto the side of the Oldhams’ house. One last look about her reassured her that everyone was occupied with dancing, drinking, and gossiping.

  She eased onto the colonnaded porch and stood perfectly still while her eyes adjusted to the dim light. A cool October breeze caressed her shoulders and neck. It was a clear night, for a multitude of stars shone overhead. If she looked hard enough, she would spot the comet that everyone was talking about—when they weren’t discussing Quincy Stanton’s accident of birth.

  Where was he?

  She descended two brick steps into the garden. The scent of roses drifted toward her, along with the smell of rosemary and lavender. The light of the moon picked out the thick, lumpy outline of an intricate knot garden. She was alone.

  She closed her eyes and listened, shuttering out the muffled sounds of dance music and laughter. The low murmur of voices emanated from the garden behind the house.

  Quietly, she crept to the back, the ground hard and cold beneath the thin soles of her dancing shoes. A thick row of tall bushes grew close to the side of the house and rounded the corner to the back. She positioned herself at the corner, concealed by the hedge, and gently pulled back a leafy section at eye level.

  There he was.

  His back was to her. The moonlight gleamed off his powdered wig. He pivoted to the side, holding a paper in one hand, the glowing object in the other, a few inches above the paper. He murmured something as he pocketed the paper. With a faint snick of a sound, the glow disappeared.

  Virginia blinked. What was that strange object? She had never seen anything that could glow in the dark, other than a few fireflies.

  Quincy Stanton moved slightly, revealing his smaller companion. She recognized the boy from The North Star, just before he turned on his heels and sprinted away toward the far side of the house. Whatever secretive business these two were conducting, it had come to an end.