Gwyneth shuffled through the papers on her desk, the stack of drawings that had grown so deep. She went all the way to the bottom, to that first one she had drawn her first night here, of her father’s study with its lines of shelves.
Her breath came out in a startled huff, and she tapped that strange shadow at the bottom, the one with the scalloped edge. The edge that now looked so familiar. “It is the mask. I must have seen it, must have known…oh.” Her eyes slid shut as her fingers fisted. “The night before Papa told me I must go. It was out on his desk, and we heard Uncle come in. He put it away so very quickly, when usually he had not bothered with such things around Uncle Gates. A book had been out too. This one.” Her finger moved to the drawn shelf and tapped a tome that looked to be sitting an inch farther out than the others.
Thad breathed a laugh as he read the French title. “Of course it is. What but Lavoisier would my father ever send to his dear friend? One moment.” He dashed out to his library cum laboratory and quickly located the volume of Méthode de Nomenclature Chimique that Father had made certain he had on his shelves. When he spotted a second, identical-if-well-worn copy on the table, he grabbed that one too.
When he returned, Gwyneth was not in her chair, though he heard her step on the stair. She came in with her arms laden with paper, of which he happily relieved her, though the sheer mass made him shake his head. “Thunder and turf, let us hope it is not all encoded, or we will not get through it for years to come.”
“Papa was an orderly sort. He likely put the most important things on top.” She pulled out the first page, which was filled with numbers rather than letters. From the expression on her face, Gwyneth’s father had certainly not given her the lessons in cryptology Thad’s father had given him. “Can you make sense of this?”
“Not at a glance, but it is a simple methodology.” He tapped the first combination of numbers. “The first number is for the page, the second for the line, the third for the word on the line.”
“And when there is a fourth number?”
“The letter in the word, which he would use to spell out words not in the book, such as names.” He sighed. “Of course, this will be in French.”
She angled a grin up at him. “Do not tell me that cows you, my love. I have heard you speaking French with Arnaud.”
“Very little.” He leaned over and kissed the tip of her nose. “We will leave that part to you, who can no doubt translate French to English in your sleep.”
She smiled and rested her hand on the Lavoisier. “Should we start now or head out to the banks as planned?”
“The banks will be there in an hour or two. We have waited long enough to know your father’s mind. You work from the top down, and I will work from the bottom up.”
It was tedious business, full of flipping and counting and note taking, especially laborious any time Fairchild had had to spell out a word. But with two of them at work, they made good progress. Once the entire sheet had been deciphered into French, Thad scooted their page to Gwyneth. “If you would, my darling.”
Though she flashed him a smile, anxiousness tinged it. “Certainly.” With a deep breath, she scanned ahead and then began. “ ‘I pray you are in receipt of my letter and the mask you need to unravel its message about my wife’s brother’s schemes. I send this information to you, good sir, because I know the legacy your parents would have passed to you, and I know too the esteem in which you are held by all who know you. Most of all, I know you seek first and foremost the will of the Lord. I believe this war to be one of vengeance rather than justice, and though I have done all I can here, Gates’s influence runs too deep. Yet his motives for continuing the war are pure avarice and malice.’ ”
She paused, swallowed, and shook her head before continuing. “ ‘If you are reading this letter, it is because my daughter has safely arrived at your home. I pray you, look after her and keep her out of the clutches of her uncle, who would destroy her and any other of my family who gets in his way. I know in my heart you will fast become friends and have a feeling more could easily develop between you. If so, know you have my blessing. If not, dismiss this as the rambling of a desperate old man who only wants his precious child to be safe and happy.’ ”
Thad rested his hands on her shoulders and gave them a long, gentle squeeze. He could not fathom how the man had suspected what would happen when he scarcely knew Thad except through his parents’ letters. But how wonderful that he had.
Gwyneth cleared her throat and swiped at her cheeks. “ ‘I have also sent with Gwyneth a copy of my will, wherein you will find that your parents have been named as her guardians, unless Gates has passed away before they can come for her, in which case my elder brother would receive the guardianship. I have left instructions with my solicitors in England that they are not to read that section of the will unless Gwyneth is present, so if she is with you, then my family is still unaware of this stipulation. I trust you can imagine why I would make it.’ ”
Her eyes fell to the final few lines. “And here he says that the rest of the evidence will either use the corresponding masks or a dictionary which he sent to your father a year ago as a key.”
He circled his thumb over the base of her neck and let a loose tendril curl around it. “Good. Not so much spelling out will be required.”
But he already knew what the information in the documents would tell him—that he had to stop Gates. Stop the war, stop the crime. And pray, with all his being, that the Lord would heal the nation this man would rend asunder.
Thirty-One
Arthur stared into the fire long after the camp behind him settled into silence. He watched each dancing flame, each pop of spark. And he wondered which tiny ember might land upon him next and set him off like a keg of gunpowder. That was what his Uncle Hart had called him, was it not? Volatile. Dangerous.
No. His hand fisted against his leg, and he tamped that lid back down, if a keg he was.
You are not brave, his uncle had declared the very day he was knighted. You are simply a fool whose irresponsible behavior happened to save a few lives this time. But such folly must cease, Arthur, if you are to be my heir.
He had never liked the viscount. Not as a lad, and certainly not when the man cast a shadow on what ought to have been his proudest moment. Not when he insisted Arthur sell his commission and stay in England to familiarize himself with the estates, though all he had wanted, once healed from his wound, was to rejoin his comrades. But duty was ingrained too deep. Staying was a necessity, not an option. Though still he had tried to argue the point of his folly.
And still his uncle’s reply was burned into his mind. Face the facts, boy.
Face the facts.
One—he had charged into a situation with a reckless abandon.
Two—it was nothing but good-fortune that turned the tide in his favor and won him accolade rather than death and dishonor.
Three—his happy acceptance into society had been more due to his cousin’s death and his presumed inheritance of a title than his own earning of a knighthood.
Four—he had apparently charged in without reason yet again when it came to Gwyneth.
He was a fool. A fool who had chased an illusion halfway around the world and now would face the consequences for it. Those were the facts.
“Have you finished brooding yet?” Gates’s voice came quiet as a ghost, his form but a shadow as he settled beside Arthur on the log.
He shot the man a glare.
Gates deflected it with the arch of a single brow. “I have given you two days. Now remember yourself and move on. This petulance does not become you.”
Petulance? Arthur’s fingers dug into the cloth of his breeches. “How very generous of you to ‘give me’ two days, sir, while you have been off visiting with your son.”
Gates’s low laugh sounded menacing in the heavy night air. “You will judge me? Judge me for doing what all men do when they are strapped to a cold, unfeeling wife?”
A
rthur kept his gaze on the dancing fire. If he were to describe either of the Gateses as cold and unfeeling, it would not have been the missus. “I will judge you, sir, for your hypocrisy. You, who say you despise all Americans, yet—”
“I never said they did not have their purposes, just that they ought not be governing themselves. But my son is not the one with whom you take issue. ’Tis my niece who has you so riled.”
“Because she is no more constant than you!” He clamped his lips shut, grateful he had at least had the wherewithal to make his accusation quiet, if ill-advised. Frustrated and angry as he might be, these days in camp had proven that Gates was held in a rather fearful respect. Those great men, the men to whom Arthur had been trained to listen above all, listened in turn to him.
Gates’s chuckle grated on his every nerve. “She is nineteen, Sir Arthur. An impressionable young woman with a brain filled with nothing but images of pretty things. Is it so shocking that her head was turned when she was without proper guardianship?”
Arthur kept his mouth sealed tight.
Gates leaned forward, as if seeking the heat from the fire, though the night had scarcely cooled to livable. “Your anger is understandable, but do not give up so easily. She will soon realize her error.”
“And what will it matter if she does? She is married.” Married! To think of her in the arms of that man, to see her looking at Thaddeus Lane as she ought to have been looking at him…
“Again, I would remind you that she is nineteen. Not one-and-twenty. She can make no such decisions on her own. That marriage is not legal and can easily be annulled as soon as we can wrest her free of them.” His gaze now bore into Arthur. “The question is, are you going to fight for her or roll over and let them kick you like a mutt?”
Arthur sprang to his feet and strode away, out of the circle of firelight and into the towering shadows of trees. Seething, storming, stewing. And wishing, wishing he could let go the reins of his temper and rage. Wishing he could be every inch as irresponsible as his uncle had accused him of being. That he could do something stupid with no thought as to the consequences.
That he could—what? Fight for her? Why should he? Why should he want to? She wasn’t worth it.
“If you will give up so easily, then you are no more constant than you accuse her of being.” Gates’s voice came somewhere from the shroud of trees, from somewhere in the enclosing darkness. “She was vulnerable, alone, and obviously grieving after the news reached her. Lane took advantage. Will you hold that against her?”
A hot wind gusted through the trees, shook their leaves, and set his nerves thrumming. Into his mind came the image of her eyes, so large and limpid. Gazing at him in modest adoration. Those perfect rosebud lips that he had longed to kiss from the first moment he saw her. All his friends had been as struck by her beauty as he. All had vied for her dances, for an excuse to put a hand on her waist. But he had been the one at whom she had batted those lashes and given her smiles. He had been the one with the hope of winning her. Had won her.
“She is yours.” Gates’s voice had moved, coming from the side now rather than behind, though his footfalls had been silent on the carpet of pine needles under them. “She gave her promise, and as her guardian now, that is the one I approve. Forgive her for her foolishness, Hart, and take her back. Take what is yours. We both know you want her still.”
He turned away from the murmur that made it sound so base and shook his head. Beautiful as she was, as much as he longed to take her in his arms, his motive had not been only bound up in that, had it? He had been drawn to more than her face, more than her figure. He had…he had…
He hadn’t even known her. He still didn’t know her. He had simply been enamored with her pleasing disposition, been thrilled at the sound of her voice, and, yes, been so very attracted to her. He had wanted her to be his, wanted everyone to see that he had won the most beautiful young lady in London. He wanted the right to hold her. To kiss her.
The viscount had been right. He had chosen his bride not in the interest of the Hart line but in the interest of his bed.
Fire burned his throat, but he swallowed it back. Why should it shame him? If he had not chosen her because of her beauty, he would have chosen someone for her name or her dowry. Lust, either way. Lust for prestige, for money, or for a person herself. It was, it seemed, the only reasons to wed. Who was to say one was any baser than another?
And which of those things had influenced Lane? Was it the Fairchild wealth he sought, or merely the allure of Gwyneth herself?
“You have a noble heart, Arthur. A good heart.” Gates’s voice came from the other side now, though Arthur had not sensed his movement. “Surely you see how she must have been hurting. Surely you see that she is a victim to her own grief, and to the vile maneuvering of a villain who would use it against her. We must free her from him. We must save her.”
Arthur turned, trying to locate Gates in the darkness. But it was too thick, impenetrable. Not so much as a shaft of moonlight softened it. “How? You saw how fiercely he claimed her, and according to your son, his parents are staying there. I daresay after we tipped our hand that they will not let her out of their sights. She will not be left alone.”
“When Baltimore is under attack, confusion will ensue. And her militiaman husband will be at his post in Fort McHenry, too far away to help. His parents can be handled easily enough.”
Was it hope that sparked inside him? Not quite. Hope was not so dark nor so determined. “But you know as well as I that those reports about the city’s unpreparedness are mistaken. We ought to advise the admiralty against attacking. We ought—”
“We ought to advise they plan an attack from the water, toward Fort McHenry. We ought to recommend they destroy that bastion and kill all within it.” How could Gates’s voice be both hard and smooth? “We ought to encourage them to burn this center of commerce as they did the center of government, so that the Americans can fight no more. And when they are crushed, we can take what is ours and go home.”
Arthur swallowed as he turned toward the sound of rustling to his left. The man advised an entire campaign built around personal agenda. War to fuel their own purposes. “We ought to tell them what we observed. That the Americans are stronger than our leaders think.”
A scoffing laugh sounded, but from the right. “Tell them that and they will choose the easier target of Annapolis. Nay. They can handle those quickly built fortifications with no worries.”
Could they? “The men are tired from all the fighting in Europe, and this heat has stripped their defenses still more.”
“They are trained members of the most elite military in all the world. The Americans will pose no more a threat at Baltimore than they have anywhere else, especially after our men have rested for a week or two while the roads are cleared of trees and the fleet has moved into position.”
A moment’s consideration made him nod, though Gates wouldn’t see it in the dark. But he was right. The motley collections of farmers could do little more to defend themselves than brandish their hoes and mound up piles of dirt. British rockets and cannons would win the day.
And when that day came, they would seize their chance. Free Gwyneth of the Lanes while her husband—if he could legally be called that—was being blown to bits along with Fort McHenry.
When that day came, she would, at last, be his.
“Amazing.” Gwyneth looked out at the long line of wagons loaded with produce and at the farmers who wore smiles upon their faces and determination in their eyes. And then to Winter, who surveyed the sight before them with a satisfied sigh. “All it took to convince them to come to the city was the assurance that their horses and wagons would not be confiscated?”
Her mother-in-law nodded and looped their arms together to keep them moving toward the makeshift hospital. They each carried a basket full of rolled bandages and what medicinals they could spare. And they were only two of many women about the same business.
“
It had apparently been the only thing keeping them on their farms. Thad was right.”
At that, Gwyneth had to chuckle. “I imagine they are all eager to get a fair price for their vegetables anyway.” Because they all knew if they did not before the British army marched through, then their choices would be to burn it all before it could be confiscated or hand it over in exchange for their lives.
It was, had always been, the way wars were waged. And yet not at all the way the Americans were running this one. She spotted a baker up on a cart loaded with breads, heading toward one of the temporary barracks dotting the landscape. A man down the street led a group of officers into his home with the words, “Welcome” and “As long as you need” drifting to her on the wind. Everywhere, all over the city, normal business had ceased. Every effort, every person was focused on preparing for the attack they all knew was coming. The two-week lull since the burning of Washington had not seen any spirits flagging. Nay, it seemed instead that each day was viewed as a blessing and a cause for redoubled activity.
“Mrs. Lane!”
They both turned to the voice and then exchanged a smile. Gwyneth had expected it to take months before she was accustomed to answering to her new name, but with as often as people called it in the last fortnight…
A young man rushed their way with a beaming smile. His gaze was on Gwyneth, though it included Winter too. “I spoke with my father last night, and he approved our contribution to the cause. Does that bring the total above the half-million mark?”
A little thrill moved through Gwyneth. When Thad had told her that the plan to pay for the fortifications rested on contributions and loans from both banks and private businesses, she had to admit to skepticism, but the people of Maryland had risen to the task. “It does, Mr. Jones, and well beyond. I do believe that will bring us to more than six hundred thousand dollars.”
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