by Kruger, Mary
“Indeed?” Dee said. “With whom?”
“With Mr. St. John. If you send to him, you will see I’m right.”
Dee glared at him and then wheeled, speaking harshly to another soldier. The soldier nodded, saluted, and went into the mission. All the time Marcus stood, apparently at ease, watching everything about him coolly. And all the time, his instincts screamed at him. Danger. Dee was a threat. It exhilarated him, made him feel alive, as he hadn’t in many a long day. Here was a challenge to be met, and be damned if he didn’t do it.
The soldier came back and muttered something to Dee. Still glaring at Marcus, Dee slowly lowered his musket and stepped aside. “Mr. St. John has said you may go in,” he said, grudgingly.
“Thank you.” Marcus tipped the brim of his hat with his walking stick, and saw the other man’s face darken. His shoulder blades tightened, crawled, as he passed Dee on the walkway and went up the stairs, as if an attack would come at any moment. Only when he was inside did he relax, though not completely. He hadn’t come here to bait Dee, enjoyable though that might be. He had more important tasks.
Once the building housing the British legation had been two houses, until the wall between had been knocked down. Now, though it was sizable, it seemed small, cramped, with the crowd of people milling about the hallway and in the reception rooms. Over the heads of the crowd he saw St. John, talking to a group of men and looking harassed. He raised his walking stick, signaling to him. St. John detached himself from the men and, with some difficulty, pushed his way through the crowd into the hall. “Mr. Brand,” he said. “My apologies. I forgot you were to come here today. Everything is at sixes and sevens, as you can see.”
“Indeed.” Marcus nodded. “The news?”
St. John shook his head. “Not good, I fear. The government is holding firm. The orders-in-council will stay in force.”
“Indeed.” The two men stood in silence for a moment. So. The laws so hated by Americans, the ones that interfered with their trade and which encouraged British naval captains to abduct American seamen from their own ships, were not to be repealed, after years of delicate diplomacy and maneuvering. It could mean only one thing. “Then it’s war.”
“I fear so.” St. John pinched tiredly at the bridge of his nose. “If they only knew at home what you Americans feel—but come, we can’t talk here.” Tilting his head, he indicated the corridor leading to the back of the house, relatively empty. “As to your request, Mr. Brand, I fear we can’t honor it now.”
“That is of no moment.” Marcus leaned on his walking stick, watching the other man, gauging him. “I find it extremely irresponsible of my country to go to war with yours, when you have all you can do fighting Napoleon.”
“Yes, that’s true,” St. John burst out. “He is evil, sir, I do not hesitate to say so. We are fighting for the very liberty of the world, and to have the Americans pestering us at this time is hard—but I am sorry, sir. I forgot myself.”
“I may be an American citizen, sir, but I was born in England. Damned if I want to see her lose to Bonaparte.” Which was quite true. “I came here to help.”
St. John frowned as he leaned forward. “In what way, sir?”
Marcus’s voice lowered, and he leaned forward as well. “I would like to offer my services to your country.”
St. John glanced quickly around, and then let out his breath. No one was nearby to overhear. “A startling proposition. Come, let us go into this butler’s pantry.” He gestured to a long, narrow room opening off the hall. “We can discuss this in privacy.”
In an alcove under the stairs, away from the bustle and chaos, Rebecca, her eyes wide at what she had just heard, sat frozen. No one had noticed her sitting there, and that was how she wanted it. It hadn’t been her idea to come to the legation today, but her father’s. Since he was afflicted with the gout, he needed her along. She had expected to be bored, even with the novel she had slipped into her reticule, and quite possibly angered by what she heard, but never, never had she expected this. Marcus Brand was a spy.
Closing her eyes, she rested her head on her hands, not knowing whether to laugh or to cry. Oh, her choice of men was abysmal. First Robbie’s father, and then Brendan, and now this. Not that there was anything between her and Mr. Brand. He had indicated an interest in her, however, and there was no doubt she was attracted to him. And not just because of his resemblance to Brendan. He had an appeal of his own, in his wit and his honor and his courage. There was much she didn’t know about him, much that was a mystery. But, this. This was something she could never have anticipated.
Brendan would never have done such a thing, she thought, with a rush of the sweet pain that accompanied her memories of him. Not he, who had hated the British. Though he’d been a pirate, he’d been open about it. A spy was something else altogether. Not just a spy, either, but a traitor. Marcus might be English by birth, but he was a citizen of the country he was now betraying. It could not be tolerated. Something would have to be done about it.
Oh, but not by her! She shrank back in the chair, her whole being revolting against the thought of betraying Marcus. For such it would be. And yet how could she protect a traitor, when her country stood poised on the edge of a war it seemed unlikely to win? If only it had been someone else beside Marcus. If only he didn’t remind her so of Brendan.
“Rebecca!” Ezra’s voice roared through the commotion in the hall, making her head jerk up. The novel fell to the floor, and she hastily retrieved it, shoving it into her reticule. “Damme, where is the girl?”
“Here, Father.” Rebecca emerged from under the stairs, smoothing her skirts. “Do you wish to leave?”
“Damme, of course I wish to.” He leaned heavily on the arm she held out to him, and began to hobble on his bandaged foot. “The fools won’t listen to reason.”
“Which is?”
“Never you mind that. But I’m working on it, girl, you may be certain of that.” He paused at the top of the stairs. “Damme, where is our carriage? I can’t walk far with my foot like this.”
“I’ll see it’s called for.” Rebecca spoke to the soldier on guard. Below her, near the gate, stood Lieutenant Dee, watching her in a peculiarly intent way that made her shudder. She had hoped she wouldn’t encounter him today. She couldn’t deal with him just now.
“There’ll be guests for supper this evening, girl,” Ezra growled when she turned back to him. “Just you make certain the food is edible.”
“It will be, Father.”
“Ha! I don’t know what’s got into you lately, girl.” He peered at her from under bushy eyebrows. “You’re getting flighty. Like your mother.”
Once that would have been the worst insult he could have paid her. Now it was almost a compliment. At times like this she could well understand why her mother had left. “There’s the carriage, Father,” she said, and set about the difficult, delicate task of easing him down the stairs. Dealing with her father was one thing; easy, almost, if done right. If she didn’t mind suppressing all her own desires and thoughts and impulses. She just wished he would show her some affection or appreciation from time to time. Dealing with the problem that had been foisted on her was, however, quite another matter. What she was to do about Marcus, she didn’t know, she thought, as she and Jacob, their manservant, helped Ezra into the carriage. She had learned a bitter lesson today, one she should have learned a long time ago. Where men was concerned, her judgment was poor. It would be best if she trusted none of them. Not Lieutenant Dee, and not, she thought with a little pang, Marcus. She was destined to live her life alone.
Marcus climbed the curving stairs of the Talbot house on Prospect Street and rapped on the door with the head of his walking stick. Truth to tell, he wasn’t looking forward to this meeting of Talbot and his cohorts, but it had been suggested to him that it might be useful to know what went on here. Talbot’s sympathies toward the British were well-known, and his influence in the shipping community, wide. Knowing what he p
lanned might come in very useful, indeed.
The door opened. “Oh!” Rebecca exclaimed, her hand flying to her lips. Her cheeks were flushed and her hair was tucked up under a cap, with a few tendrils escaping. She looked altogether entrancing. “Mr. Brand. I didn’t expect to see you.” She stepped aside to let him enter. “Are you here to meet with Father and the others?”
“I’ve been invited, yes,” he said noncommittally, handing his hat and walking stick to the maid who had glided silently into the hall. “You look charming this evening, Rebecca.”
Rebecca’s flush deepened. “I—thank you. Come. They’re in the parlor.” Abruptly she turned and led him down the hall, her skirts twitching. He watched the sway of her hips with growing enjoyment. Perhaps being here wouldn’t be so difficult, after all.
“Wait.” He put his hand on her arm as she reached for the handle of a door opening off the hall. “Are you joining us?”
“Oh, no. This is for Father’s acquaintances, only. They will discussing politics, and—”
“And you, as a proper lady, do not understand politics.”
“Of course I do!” she flared, looking up at him at last, her eyes flashing green fire.
He couldn’t help it; he grinned. “You are very easy to tease, Rebecca.”
“And you, sir, are no gentleman.” She opened the door. “Do please go in.”
“And leave you in peace?” he muttered, passing by her. She flushed again, but this time he forced himself not to look at her.
Talbot, leaning heavily on a cane, was crossing the room to him. “Come in, come in,” he boomed. “Good to have you join us. Rebecca!”
She turned in the doorway. “Yes, Father?”
“Where is the wine, girl, and the cheese?”
“I’ll get them, Father.”
“Good gad, I should hope so. You try my patience, girl.”
“I’m sorry, Father,” she murmured, and swept out of the room, closing the door behind her.
Marcus’s lips tightened. The room was filled with other men, and no one seemed the least surprised by Ezra’s behavior. That meant it wasn’t unusual. Devil take it, why did the man treat her so? Even more perplexing, why did Rebecca allow it?
He was given no time to ponder this, however, for Ezra was bringing him around the room, introducing him to the other men. Marcus recognized the names; Robert Swift owned a fortune in shipping, while Bryan Powell was a plantation owner who had seen his exports of tobacco reduced in the past years of agricultural depression. In addition, there were other merchants and farmers, and even a clergyman. None of them surprised him, Marcus reflected, sitting in a wing chair and listening to the conversation that rolled about the room. He’d expected to see them all.
“Mr. Brand owns ships in Baltimore,” Ezra explained to the room at large. “I asked him here tonight because he has as much stake as anyone in what we plan.”
“Did you manage to get your ships away before the embargo was enforced?” Swift asked, leaning forward.
“No, I had not that fortune,” Marcus answered with studied coolness, wondering what, precisely, the group’s plans were.
“Pity.” Swift sat back. “Here everyone knew about it before Jemmy Madison did. Got my ships away, and off to England.”
“You trade with England, sir?”
“Certainly. What, do you think I’m going to aid those damned Frenchies?” He snorted. “I like a profit as much as the next man, but damned if I’ll help them fight England.”
“You ask me, it’s France we should be fighting,” another man said, and voices rose in a babble of argument and agreement.
In all the commotion, Marcus was the only one who noticed Rebecca slip into the room, carrying a silver tray with a crystal decanter of wine, and a fine cheddar. “I’ll just have Ruth light the candles,” she murmured, and fled the room.
Marcus began to rise, and then stopped. He wasn’t here to see her, much as he wanted to. “It seems to me, gentlemen, that today’s news makes the issue of who we fight obvious,” he said, quietly, but with an edge that cut through the hubbub.
Immediately the voices rose again, and Marcus sat back to listen. These men were known British sympathizers, and no admirers of James Madison, and yet even they seemed disgusted by the British government’s recalcitrance.
“Why won’t they listen to us?” one man said, his voice rising above the others. “God knows we’ve all protested the policies, and so has the government. But they keep on their merry way.”
“They are fighting a war, sir,” Ezra said, his usually round face looking pinched.
“True, but the Royal Navy’s stopped my ships more than once and taken off men.”
“If they are deserters, then they deserve to be taken off,” Marcus said, and appalled silence fell over the room.
“Obviously you haven’t had your trade interfered with,” Swift said, his voice perceptibly cooler.
Marcus studied his fingernails. “Are you for England, sir?”
“Of course I am, or I wouldn’t be here. But facts are facts, man, and the truth is they’ve taken off as many Americans as English. And meddled with our trade in the process.”
“Our own nation’s done much of that.” Marcus looked up. “But then, you seem not to care if trade with Britain is allowed or not.”
“Demmed embargo is foolish,” Powell said, his face growing red. “Everyone knows Madison will agree to war to be reelected. We have fools governing us.”
“Which is why I’ve called you all together here today,” Ezra said, more smoothly than Marcus had ever heard him. “To discuss today’s news and decide what to do about it.”
“What can we do?” one of the farmers said, sourly. “Britain won’t repeal the orders-in-council.”
“Demme, you’d think they’d know better. It’s like the stamp act, forty years ago,” Powell put in, referring to the taxation law that had been one of the causes of the Revolution. “They wouldn’t listen to us then, and look where that led.”
“A good point,” Ezra said. “As good now as then.”
Marcus stared at him, not sure he’d understood aright. “What do you mean, sir?”
“I mean,” Ezra leaned forward, hands fisted on knees, “that what worked then might very well work now. I mean, gentleman, that we shouldn’t tolerate the government’s stupidity any longer. It is time for us to stage another revolution.”
Swift stared at him. “Are you saying—”
“What I am saying, gentlemen, is that our government has proven to be ineffective.” His gaze swept around the room, and the light in his eyes blazed brighter. The light of fanaticism, Marcus realized. Of madness. “In short, it is high time we overthrew the government.”
In the hall outside the parlor, Rebecca sagged against the wall, hand to her mouth to keep from crying out in protest. If Father knew she was here there’d be the devil to pay, but she had to know what he was up to. Never had she expected this. It was treason, and Marcus was in there with him. Oh, dear God, there were two men in her life, and both were traitors.
No, Marcus wasn’t in her life, she reminded herself, and wasn’t that a good thing? Now he couldn’t hurt her. Someone should know about him—but if she said anything, her father’s freedom would be jeopardized. What was she to do?
Ruth walked into the dim hall, bearing flint and tinder. “Miss?” she said, when she saw Rebecca leaning against the wall. “You gave me a turn. You all right?”
“Yes.” Rebecca hurriedly straightened and stepped away from the door. “Yes, I’m—knock before you go in, Ruth.”
“But, miss, no one’ll pay me any mind—”
“Tonight they will. Knock first.” She didn’t want Ruth to be involved in whatever was being plotted inside the parlor. “I’ll be in the garden,” she said, and fled.
Marcus found her there a long time later. She was sitting beneath the grape arbor, gazing through the deepening dusk at nothing. “Rebecca?” he said, and she jumped. �
�My apologies. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“I didn’t expect to see you.” Hand on heart, she stared up at him, a dark shape silhouetted against the lighter sky. If she didn’t know better she would almost think it was Brendan, so similar was Marcus’s build to his. “Surely the meeting isn’t over already?”
“Some minutes ago.” He sounded grim. “May I join you?”
“Of course,” she said, with little enthusiasm, shifting on the bench to make room for him. He was dangerous, this man, to her heart, to the very foundations of her life. “I heard what my father suggested.”
“Did you? Listening at the keyhole, were you?”
She flushed, but kept her gaze steady. “No. I had the door open a crack.”
“Even better.”
“Pray do not mock me. What he suggested was appalling.”
“I agree,” he said, quietly.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I agree with you, Rebecca.”
“Oh?” She leaned back, regarding him. “Why? Isn’t the plan extreme enough for you? Or do you believe we should never have separated from England to begin with?”
“Rebecca.” He laid his hand on hers. “I’m not your enemy.”
She gave a harsh laugh. “Oh, no, sir, on that you are wrong.”
“I don’t agree with your father,” he said, with forced patience. “Revolution isn’t the answer. But neither is war.”
“What other course is there, sir?”
“God knows.” He stared off across the garden, perfumed with the lemony scent of magnolias. “I don’t deny that I agree with the British on many things, but their stubbornness is causing serious trouble.”
She studied his profile. His disagreement with her father was a point in his favor. And yet, what had he been doing at the British legation this afternoon? “Do the other gentlemen agree with Father?”
“No. They were as stunned as I. No one seemed to know quite what to say, and then your sister came into the room.”
Rebecca sat up straighter. “She did?”