"You will not," Jonna said firmly. "I won't allow you. They're evidence. We'll turn them over to my lawyer and listen to his advice. If it's sound, we'll take it. In any event, it's unlikely that Grant's missed them. They're not the sort of papers he'd go searching for without good reason—and we must not give him one."
She was peripherally aware that Graham was studying her as if she were an insect in a jar. Jonna turned on him and gave him an arch look. "Well?" she asked.
"Fascinating," he whispered.
Above Jonna's head, Decker grinned. "I know, isn't it?"
A tentative knock on the door covered Jonna's derisive snort. "Yes?"
Mrs. Davis stepped inside. Her anxious glance went to each of the bedchamber's occupants. "I'm sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Thorne. Captain. I hope you're resting comfortably, Mr. Denison."
"Yes, thank you," Graham said.
In spite of her mild irritation, Jonna's smile was gentle. "The reason you're here, Mrs. Davis?"
The housekeeper patted her apron down. "It's about Rachael," she said. "I don't know quite what to think of it. She's gone off to Faneuil Hall with Mr. Sheridan."
Chapter 15
Mrs. Davis was not prepared for the volley of questions that followed her announcement or the fact they came simultaneously.
"Faneuil Hall?" Jonna asked. "Are you quite sure?"
"How long ago?" Decker said.
"Who's Rachael?" asked Graham.
As if struck by this barrage, the housekeeper actually took a small step backward. Her eyes darted from one to the other as she answered each query. "Mr. Sheridan was very specific about their destination," she said. "It was not even thirty minutes ago. Rachael is the youngest maid among my staff."
Jonna's frown was thoughtful. "Did Mr. Sheridan arrive here with the intention of taking Rachael?"
Mrs. Davis considered that a moment. "I suppose he did," she said. "At first I naturally thought he came here to see you or the captain, but he didn't inquire after you at all. I imagine he thought you'd both gone to the harbor, and I never had a chance to tell him differently. The poor girl looked quite bewildered by his request—as I was myself—but she went along with it." The lines in the housekeeper's careworn face deepened. She was aware now that she had acted precipitously by allowing Rachael to leave. "I should have come here immediately," she said regretfully. "It's just that Mr. Sheridan said he'd discussed this with you."
"We had," Jonna acknowledged. "But it was soon after Rachael's arrival, and I was adamant that she wasn't to be displayed to his abolitionist friends."
Graham's attention shifted to Decker. "This girl's a Negress?"
Decker nodded. He could not convey the depth of his concern without alarming Jonna. "That's right," he said. "And we know now that Grant Sheridan has no abolitionist friends."
"I can't make any sense of this," Jonna said. She looked up at her husband. "Whatever could Grant be thinking?"
"I'm sure I don't know," he said dryly. "And I doubt that it matters. I'll be happy to retrieve her."
"Would you? I'd be grateful."
Decker touched her cheek. "Of course."
Graham's flint-colored eyes narrowed as he studied Decker's face. There had been a moment when he'd caught something more than his friend's carefully shuttered expression. "I wouldn't mind taggin' along," he drawled. "Perhaps some company wouldn't come amiss."
Turning back to Graham, Jonna didn't see the exchange that passed between the two men. In that moment Decker was able to communicate that there was some danger in retrieving Rachael, even though he could not explain the nature of it. "Absolutely not," she said firmly. "You need to rest."
"Jonna's right," Decker added. "And anyway, I'd prefer that you stay here with her."
Jonna glanced at him oddly. "Don't you mean that you'd prefer I stay here with him? I mean, I'm not the one bed-bound."
Decker smiled. "Yes, that's what I meant."
Graham's slight nod was imperceptible to the housekeeper and Jonna, but not to Decker who was looking for an affirmation.
Bending, Decker gave Jonna a brief kiss on the lips. "I won't be long." He glanced once more at Graham, but said nothing. The housekeeper stepped aside to let him pass. She was on the point of making an apology when Decker simply escorted her gently out the door.
Jonna smiled as she heard him reassuring Mrs. Davis that no regrets were necessary. She waited until his voice faded before she gave her full attention to Graham. "I confess," she said softly. "It's a relief Grant has no idea that Decker is Falconer. I could not have let him go otherwise."
"I understand," Graham said. He added offhandedly, "It would change everything if Mr. Sheridan knew."
"Yes," she said. "Yes, it would. And in light of what we know now about Grant, it would be tantamount to Decker walking into a trap."
"That's what I was thinking."
Jonna was seized by an unfamiliar restlessness. She stood and walked to the window.
"Can you see him?" Graham asked.
"What?" She was startled out of her reverie. "Oh, no. Not from here. He will probably ride rather than take the carriage. He'll leave by the back." She hesitated. Her faint smile was wistful. "I hadn't even realized I was looking for him until you asked. Isn't that odd?"
Graham had no idea if it were odd or not. He only knew that he would not mind being the object of Jonna's concern. "Decker's fortunate to have you looking out for him."
Jonna turned slowly back to Graham. "I was only looking for my husband," she said. "Not looking out for him. Is there some reason I should be doing the latter?"
"I misspoke. I didn't mean to give you cause for concern."
She was silent a moment, unconvinced. "I suppose I'm having second thoughts," she said at last. "I should have gone with him."
Graham knew that was the very thing Decker had wanted to avoid. "I can't think of any reason for that."
"I know Grant's moods," she said. "Decker doesn't—though I suspect he understands Grant's character better than I do. There was no regard there even before Decker knew Grant was a slaver. I shouldn't be at all surprised if there isn't a fight."
At the very least, Graham thought.
Jonna sighed. "I'm not used to helplessness. It's rather what I'm feeling now."
"I understand perfectly."
Jonna was at once sympathetic. Her features softened with concern. "Yes, of course you do. There's really no point in my going on, is there?" She moved to Graham's bedside and touched the bowl of broth on the tray. "This is still warm. Will you have some? Or would you like it hotter? I can ring for more."
"No, that will be fine." Afraid she might want to spoonfeed him, Graham held out his hand for the bowl. "Please, won't you sit down? You'll give me a crimp in my neck if I have to stare up at you." Jonna returned to the chair, but Graham could see that it was an effort for her to stay in it. "Tell me about this Rachael," he said. "Why did Mr. Sheridan choose her?"
"I suppose because she presents such a vulnerable figure. Grant was much taken with her the first time he saw her here. Looking back on it now, I imagine he saw her as someone who could further affirm his position as a social reformer. I told him she was a freeborn black, but I remember that it made little difference to him. He still thought there was some statement he could make using Rachael. I was offended that he would want to exploit her."
"And is she a freeborn black?"
"No," Jonna said. "It's what I had to tell Grant, of course, but Rachael's a passenger on the Underground."
"I see," Graham said slowly. But he didn't, not yet. "What makes her particularly vulnerable? Her age? I believe Mrs. Davis mentioned she's the youngest of the staff."
"It's not her youth," Jonna said. "At least not entirely. She does appear to be younger than her years. The best we can determine is that she's about seventeen."
"She doesn't know?"
"That's hard to say. Sometimes it's difficult to communicate with her, though I've begun to suspect that's he
r choice. Certainly she understands what's said to her, but she doesn't speak at all. Mrs. Davis is teaching her to read, and it's been an arduous journey for both of them. Rachael's very eager to please on many accounts, but in other ways she is rather stubborn."
"Why doesn't she speak?"
"I couldn't say. Doctor Hardy examined her when she first came—it was necessary because of her hand—but he could find no physical reason for her silence. It may be that she simply chooses not to speak. One of the other servants told me recently that Rachael sometimes talks in her sleep." A chill washed over Jonna. Her beautifully drawn eyebrows creased as she frowned. "But I asked her about that," she said softly, more to herself than to her company. "And she simply looked at me blankly."
"Pardon?" Graham said. "You asked her about what?"
"I asked her what she knew about Falconer. That's the name Delores told me Rachael spoke in her sleep. It seemed terribly unlikely, but I asked Rachael anyway. She gave no hint that she understood me, and I felt very foolish for questioning her." Jonna's face cleared suddenly. "She couldn't know Falconer, could she? It's so very odd to remember that he and Decker are one and the same. Decker would have told me about Rachael, don't you think? I mean, if they were acquainted, he would have recognized her."
Graham nodded slowly. There was some piece he hadn't quite grasped, something Jonna had said that was just beyond his fingertips. It came upon him so suddenly he didn't think about hiding the urgency. "What was it you said about the girl's hand?"
Jonna blinked, startled. "I'm not certain that I did."
"The doctor," Graham said. "You mentioned the doctor was necessary because of her hand."
"Yes, that's right. She had an injury that had only been partially attended to."
"What sort of injury?"
"A dog bite, I suspect. That's what we gathered from her. I thought it probably happened sometime during her run North."
"The ball of her hand?" asked Graham. He pointed to his own. "Just here?"
Jonna nodded.
"A small girl. Delicate, really. Large eyes. Skin like coffee."
"Well, yes. How did you—" She stopped. "Oh, you remember her from last night. She was one of the servants who stayed with you."
He shook his head. "There was no one here like that. Not that I saw. I remember someone named..."
"Amanda?"
"Yes. Amanda. She's the only one who attended me."
"Then perhaps you slept while Rachael was here. I know she was on duty last evening."
"It doesn't matter," Graham said. "It's not where I know her from. She was among the last group that Decker transported out of Charleston. I never knew her name, but I don't doubt it was Rachael. She escaped a slave ship—Salamander—and found her way to Michele Moreau's. She didn't speak English, Jonna, but she could speak. No one understood her tongue, so she was mostly quiet."
"There must be a mistake, then. Rachael understands English well enough. She always has. How much could she have learned if she had only just arrived on these shores? And why wouldn't she talk now? You must admit it makes no sense."
"It makes no sense to us. I'm not convinced there's not some sense to it."
"The logic of it fails me. We must be talking about different girls."
"This girl supposedly bit her hand to slide free of her shackles."
"No," Jonna said, shaking her head. "Dr. Hardy was quite clear about it being a dog bite. I think he would know the difference."
"But I don't know that I would have," Graham said. "Or that anyone else would have. What if she communicated one thing to the others who were at Michele's, when something else entirely had happened?"
"To what purpose?"
"To give credence to her tale when she appeared from nowhere. To keep others from questioning her too thoroughly. It's clever when you think about it. She pretends to understand little of the language until all danger has passed, but once she's separated from the others and placed in a station on the Underground, she gradually shakes off her identity as an escapee from a slaver and takes on one that better fits her here in the North. She doesn't speak and people assume that she can't."
"But why?"
"Here's what I know about people who don't talk much," he drawled softly. "They hear everything. And mostly it's because they're paid so little attention."
"What am I not understanding here?" Jonna asked. "Will you please speak plainly?"
Graham ignored her as he started to climb out of bed. Beads of perspiration immediately dotted his upper lip.
Jonna came to her feet and blocked his path. "What do you think you're—"
"Faneuil Hall," he said. "I believe I have a need to see the place again for myself. It's been a few years since I visited." He caught her suspicious glance. "Harvard graduate."
"Oh." Then she realized she had been momentarily set off course. Graham had neatly maneuvered around her. His pained expression notwithstanding, he was moving rather better than she would have expected. "You shouldn't be up at all. Dr. Hardy said bed rest. You'll reopen your wound and bleed to death."
He shrugged. "Where are my clothes?"
"In the laundry, I'm sure. I gave them to Rachael myself."
Graham was not deterred. He went to the armoire and examined the contents. "Something in here will do."
"I fail to see what—" She stopped because it was obvious to her that he would not be swayed. "Then I shall accompany you. Someone will have to be there to catch you when you—" Jonna hurried across the room to support Graham's arm as his knees began to buckle. "There, do you see? You aren't going anywhere." She took the clothes he'd collected from the armoire, dropped them on a chair, and led him back to bed.
Graham swore under his breath as he sat back on the mattress. Later, he thought, when her guard was lowered, he would take his leave. Decker would never forgive him for putting Jonna in danger. "Perhaps you're right," he said softly, turning gingerly on his side. Jonna pulled the covers up to his shoulders. "I've mistaken the matter."
"I'm certain of it," she said. "Rest now. I'll have a word with my housekeeper. She's had my confidence from the beginning, and I trust her opinion. I'm convinced you and I are not speaking of the same girl, but Mrs. Davis may have reason to think otherwise."
Graham closed his eyes.
Jonna waited a few minutes until Graham's even breathing signaled his surrender to sleep. He was in no way fit enough to follow Decker, and she had known the quickest way to defeat him was to insist on accompanying him. He wouldn't tolerate that. Jonna let herself out of the bedchamber quietly, remaining in the hallway a few moments to be certain he didn't stir.
Then she went in search of Mrs. Davis. "Please have the carriage brought around," she said when she found her. "I'm going out for a little while. Oh, and perhaps it would be best if there were frequent checks on Mr. Denison. He's taken it into his head that there's some reason he should follow Captain Thorne."
Mrs. Davis did not attempt to conceal her distress. "Why should he do that? Is there something wrong?"
"Not at all," Jonna said soothingly.
The housekeeper allowed herself to be consoled. "It's no problem," she said. "I'll look after him myself."
"Thank you." Jonna turned away to get her bonnet and pelisse. She stopped when Mrs. Davis called to her. "Yes?" One of the housekeeper's hands was extended. She held something between her fingertips. "What's that?"
"I believe it belongs to the captain," Mrs. Davis said. She dropped it into Jonna's outstretched palm. "Rachael gave it to me. She found it somewhere. The laundry, most likely. I couldn't get the sense of what she was trying to tell me."
"It's Decker's. Odd, he didn't mention that it was missing. I wonder if he knows he doesn't have it." She turned the earring over and ran her finger lightly over the teardrop of pure gold. The delicately engraved ER winked at her. Elizabeth Regina. A queen's gift worth a king's ransom. She was holding history in her hand. Jonna was not particularly superstitious, but she didn'
t like to think that Decker was without his talisman. "I'll make certain he gets it. Thank you, Mrs. Davis."
Beaming, the housekeeper went to arrange for Jonna's carriage.
* * *
Decker's soft groan was muffled as he opened his eyes. There was nothing to see. The space he was in was dark and cramped. He was lying on his side, his knees drawn closely to his chest. His ankles and wrists were bound. There was a handkerchief stuffed in his mouth, and another length of material ran around his head, securing it. He tested his range of movement. Without freeing himself, the most he was capable of was a slight roll to the front or back. Neither was a particularly satisfying position.
He'd known it could come to this, but he'd thought that knowing gave him enough of an advantage. Behind the gag, Decker's smile was wry. Well, it wasn't the first mistake he'd ever made. What he had to do was make certain it wasn't the last.
He tested his leeway with movement again, this time head to toe. By inching along, first in one direction, then in the other, he was able to determine that he hadn't much in the way of room to maneuver. It was not a pine box that held him, but it might as well have been. The trunk that his unconscious body had been shoved into was surely intended as a substitute coffin.
He wondered that he hadn't been killed. Perhaps he was valuable as a hostage now and was meant to be served up as a corpse at some later time. That line of thinking deserved some consideration, but not just now.
Decker's deft fingers began to twist in the ropes that held him. He had deliberately chosen not to carry a pistol. He didn't entirely regret his decision. The pistol might have prevented him from ending up in this trunk, but if it had failed, it certainly wouldn't have helped him out of it. What Decker carried in his boot was better. A scrimshaw knife was the sort of tool a man wanted in a tight place.
* * *
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