His face remained unamused. “I will let it drop, but think on what I have said. The war cannot last forever. You must consider your place once peace reigns again.”
She nodded and pasted acceptance onto her face. But even when the state of the world had changed, her grandparents would not have. So really, what did it matter?
Nine
Ben seemed to have a knack for setting himself up for discomfort. He stood in a corner of the drawing room, his arms folded over his chest as he watched the collection of young people flirt and laugh, bat their lashes and puff out their chests. True, it had been Mother’s idea to have such a large gathering tonight, but he had been the one to recommend inviting Fairchild.
He knew the colonel would be drawn to Miss Reeves’ side as iron to a lodestone; he had even wanted it that way. Until he then was forced to witness the adoration on the man’s face and the pretty little smiles Miss Reeves sent him. It may indeed be best for her to marry the colonel, and sooner rather than later. But recognizing that didn’t mean he liked it.
Perhaps she felt his glare, for Miss Reeves glanced his way. An amused grin mixed with a challenging tilt of her brows creating an amalgam of reactions within him. Frustration and satisfaction, jealousy and hope.
Confound it, he missed his laboratory. He may not always know what two elements would do when he combined them, but he could be sure they would do the same thing each time. They would not create an inert mixture one day and an explosive one the next.
Oh, to have such certainty when it came to Winter Reeves.
For that matter, to have it with George. His friend shifted beside him, glancing at the clock. Again. Ben did not want to keep entertaining doubts, but… “Have you somewhere else to be, George?”
“Hmm?” His friend snapped to attention and grinned. “Anywhere but here. No offense intended, old man, but I tire of watching you glower at them. If you don’t intend to relinquish Lady Oh to Fairchild, why did you invite him?”
“Because he looked so woebegone when I had coffee with him the other day. Mrs. Hampton has not let her granddaughter see anyone but my family these weeks, and apparently the colonel felt her withdrawal acutely.” Ben, on the other hand, had been allowed to watch her bruise change color under the rouge. Each shade proved a twist to the knife in his gut.
Yes, it would be better for all if Fairchild were given the chance to declare himself.
George clapped a hand to his shoulder. “Well, cheer up, my friend. If his expression is any indication, he may propose tonight, and then you will no longer be plagued by indecisiveness, what with him removing all decision from your hands.”
“Indeed.” Blast it.
His friend chuckled again. “In the face of such good spirits, I imagine you will forgive me if I abandon you in favor of sweeter company. Miss Parks looks at loose ends.”
Ben waved him off. Then he moved off himself, out of the room altogether. He had already suffered through the meal, and any moment dancing was likely to begin. ’Twas more than he could endure.
He spotted his mother in a corridor with one of her friends and started toward her for lack of a better plan.
She was motioning toward their back garden and giggling. “That ought to suffice, don’t you think?”
Her friend chuckled too. “Quite. I daresay if the colonel has any intentions, he will not hesitate to make them known out there. You have created a lovely little scene for a proposal.”
“And if he takes that brainless girl away before my son can be any more addled by her, then I will deem it worth the effort.”
The women moved off in the opposite direction, never noting him at the corner. Ben rubbed his temples. Then, curious, he headed for the window overlooking the garden.
Lanterns glowed along the winding path throughout it, twinkling lights that cast their shine off the snowflakes gliding lazily down. Benches, which he knew for a fact had been stored away for the winter, now sat before the blooming witch hazel bushes with clusters of Christmas roses around them.
His breath fisted in his chest. How very thoughtful of Mother to create such an enchanting place for Fairchild and Miss Reeves to discover.
He had better get a few minutes of fresh air himself if he wanted to escape this peevish temper that plagued him. He stormed toward the back door, snatching his dark cloak of homespun on his way out.
When the first touch of breeze brushed his cheeks, some of the anxiety melted away. Drawing in a long breath of the witch hazel’s heavy perfume, Ben let the peace of the night waft over him.
Snowflakes drifted and danced, quiet and magical in the glow of the lanterns. His feet still felt far too heavy for copying nature’s cavorting, but he followed the path toward the back of the garden and the stone wall he had scaled as a child so he might spy on the neighbor’s youth.
He pressed his lips together. It had seemed an innocent sport then. How different the word spy sounded now.
The corner beckoned, as it always did. As a boy he had inevitably ended up here, behind the thick trunk of the oak tree. Father had ordered it cut down once when its roots threatened to destroy the stone wall of their fence, but Ben had talked him out of it. He had presented every argument he could think up, whether it be foolish or practical, until his sire had laughed, slapped a knee, and promised to leave the tree intact.
It had been eight years since Ben last slid into the tight space, and he barely fit these days. The tree had grown, as had he, but he managed to get his back against the oak, and the stones were still set so that he could position his feet upon them and brace himself, suspended above the ground.
A grin stole onto his mouth. He folded his arms behind his head, tilted his face up, and stuck out his tongue to catch a crystal of snow.
Hear, ye deaf; and look, ye blind, that ye may see.
Ben’s shoes hit the ground with a thud. Gooseflesh prickled his neck at the words, unbidden, that filled his mind. Shaking his head did nothing to dislodge them, so he instead closed his eyes, thinking to place them.
Isaiah. Chapter forty-two, he thought—from a portion he had memorized in a class at Yale. That, then, was how he knew the verse, though he couldn’t think why it would leap into his mind so randomly.
Hear. Look.
Footsteps, stealthy ones, moved along the garden wall. He must have heard them before he realized what they were, which in turn called to memory the appropriate instruction.
That must be it.
Slowly, silently, he eased from behind the tree. In all likelihood, it would be a couple set on taking advantage of his mother’s arrangement. Or another guest merely seeking a moment’s solitude.
Or…George?
Ben’s brows pulled down. His friend glanced over his shoulder and then trotted toward the corner opposite Ben, where the gardener’s shed resided.
Ben slid from his spot and eased along the wall. The shadows of the hedges would conceal him, but perhaps George sensed him, for he kept turning his head this way and that. Once at the door to the shed, he hunched his shoulders, pulled down the brim of his tricorn, and opened the rickety wooden door.
There was a reasonable explanation. There must be. One that did not involve his oldest friend being involved in espionage. He could be merely…or perhaps he intended to…
What? Check the gardener’s equipment for rust and wear? There could be no good reason for anyone to seek that building under cover of darkness. Ben would not rest easy until he knew what in thunder George was up to, and the only way to discover that to his satisfaction was through firsthand knowledge. He must follow him. He had no choice.
He slid his way along the wall until he could press himself to the splintering wood of the outbuilding. It possessed no windows but was poorly enough put together that he could see between the unchinked boards.
A candle burned within. It provided enough light to reveal two figures inside, though angled in such a way that he could make out no faces.
If George had greeted the se
cond man by name, it had been before Ben could hear him. Now a gravelly growl sounded from the chest of the stranger. “How can I be sure I can trust ye?”
George’s sigh sounded exasperated. “I might as well ask the same of you. For all I know, you could be setting me up for arrest.”
“Me?” The man sounded genuinely surprised by the suggestion. “Nay.”
“Well, then. You got my name from someone. Presumably someone you trust.”
The nameless one snorted. “The word of one desperate man to another. And since I be desperate enough to take a risk…”
George nodded and bent down, into the shadows. Ben heard the scraping of something upon the rough floor of the shed and then the creak of hinges.
Another snort, this one of incredulity. “Is that all ye have to offer?”
“What do you want, man? You call for a meeting at a neutral place with only a few hours’ notice. If you are unwilling to take what you can get, then by all means seek someone else to help you.”
The man spat out a curse as he toed the box. “You have me in a hard spot, to be sure. And I haven’t much to offer you in return.”
George shook his head. “I am not doing this for the adventure, my friend. How much have you?”
The sound of jingling silver came through the crack. Ben watched George reach out, count, pick up a few, and leave several coins in the man’s hand. “That will do, sir. And now I will—”
“Shh.” The man stiffened as his hand lifted to silence George. “Someone comes.”
Had Ben breathed too loudly? Snapped a twig?
“I hear nothing,” George whispered. But the candle was extinguished, and the other man shushed him again.
Then laughter sounded—from the direction of the house, but outside. Ben looked toward the rear door and had to bite back a curse.
Fairchild led Miss Reeves into Mother’s winter paradise.
Winter’s head thudded as Colonel Fairchild took her hand and guided her into the garden. The look in his eyes, the particular curve of his smile, the way he didn’t release her fingers…she ought to be feeling joy. Or excitement, at least, at being brought outside for a moment of stolen privacy by a man as handsome and yet trustworthy as the colonel.
Only anxiety banded her chest. Keeping her smile in place was a challenge, but she refused to let it waver. “Colonel Fairchild, whatever are you up to? We ought not to be out here without a chaperone.”
He tugged her along the snow-dusted path with a grin and then paused to reach for her other hand as well. “It would be a shame not to enjoy this lovely spot. Look how much trouble our hostess went to, and why would she have done it if she did not mean it to be enjoyed?”
Why indeed? She renewed her smile, though she had to wonder if perhaps Mrs. Lane had set the garden up for this specific purpose. Given that Winter wasn’t as stupid as the lady assumed, she hadn’t missed the many times Caroline Lane’s eyes rolled the last few weeks whenever Winter said something particularly misinformed. “But, Colonel—”
“Isaac.” He stepped closer, so close she could feel his warmth. Lantern light glinted in his eyes…at least she hoped it was lantern light and not the flames of ardor. “I would like you to call me Isaac.”
She packed as much oblivion into her blink as she could manage. “Why would you like me to call you that, Colonel?”
He chuckled and reached to rest his gloved fingers against her cheek. “Because it is my name, my sweet.”
“Oh.” Tears wanted to clog her throat, which made it difficult to smile innocently. “It is a very nice name. You must be pleased with it.”
“Do you know what would please me more?”
He leaned in, his eyes definitely glinting with feeling more than firelight. How she wished it kindled a like response in her, something more than this conviction that she could never really make him happy. She shook her head.
His thumb stroked over her cheek. “If you allowed me to call you Winter.”
How long had it been since someone other than Freeman had used her given name with such affection? Since someone had made it sound like an endearment rather than an accusation? She drew in a shuddering breath. Grandmother might not like her to grant him such liberty, but… “’Tis only fair, I suppose, if I am to call you Isaac.”
“Good.” His fingers trailed their way down her neck, halting at her cloak. “I have missed you so these last weeks, Winter. I felt as though a light had gone out of my life.”
“I…” Her throat closed over any response. So much promise shone in his eyes—a future together, security, love. All things she craved.
All things that would rest on a lie. And so, what would they really be worth?
He lowered his head as he pulled hers nearer. Gently, tenderly. Actions to perfectly match the expression on his face that said he would cherish her forever.
Or at least until he discovered that his Winter was only a figment.
Her heart raced, confliction building upon anxiety. Ought she to let him kiss her as he obviously wanted to do? Perhaps. After all, if she planned to marry him…but somehow, his were not the lips she envisioned bestowing her first kiss upon her. Handsome as he was, as kind and good, the arm he slid around her waist felt strange. Unfamiliar, though she arguably knew him better than any other gentleman in New York.
Father of my fathers, lead me in Your ways. Guard my decisions. Show me Your will.
Something squeaked in the corner of the garden, and Colonel Fairchild paused, a frown marring his brow. “What was that?”
Relief surged through her at his retreat, though it was tinged with guilt. She shook her head. “It almost sounded like a door.”
A crunching came next, subtle but there, like a foot upon the deeper snow off the path.
Fairchild urged her aside, his brow still creased. “Stay here. I will see what it is.”
Probably only a squirrel or a rabbit. Perhaps a servant trying to remain unseen. But she made no objection to him striding away toward the garden wall. Indeed, she loosed a quiet sigh and meandered in the opposite direction.
One step outside the circle of lantern light, she halted. The shadows along the wall here felt different. A chill swept her spine, and she spun back toward the colonel.
An arm clamped around her neck, pulling her backward and down a bit until she collided with a solid form. She managed only the start of a scream before the cold edge of metal convinced her to be silent.
“Winter!” Fairchild came running, though he halted abruptly when her captor forced her to step back into the light.
“Not a step farther or I will slit her throat.” The man’s voice was a raspy rumble against her temple. “You stay where you are, sir, while I slip out this gate here. Your lady will come with me that far.”
Winter relaxed, though Fairchild certainly didn’t. He stretched out an arm. “Release her, please. You are free to go.”
“Aye, and I shall be making sure of that.”
The colonel took a step toward them. “But—”
“Halt.”
Fairchild obeyed, and Winter let her captor pull her out of the light again. “Slow and steady,” he whispered in her ear.
Winter gripped his arm to keep from tripping and matched her murmur to his. “Silas, what on earth are you doing here?”
The farmhand’s arm loosened abruptly. “Miss Winnie? Gracious, child, I did not know ye with all this fancy costume.”
“Never mind that.” She continued to slide backward with him, careful to keep her voice too low to be heard by Fairchild. “Why are you in the city? And here, of all places?”
“Had to get me a weapon, miss. I cannot let them catch me unarmed again, and they destroyed everything else.”
Her fingers tightened on his arm. “‘They’? What has happened?”
Silas sniffed and halted. The fumbling sounds behind them indicated they had reached the gate. “Sorry I am to tell you this, miss. I had intended to get word to the Townsend boy while h
ere so he could let you know. But they burned it. The house, the barn—gone. Just last week it happened.”
The lanterns doubled, dimmed in her wavering vision. “Wh–what? My house?”
“Aye. A pile of rubble it is now. I did me best to save it, but one man against a mob of Tories…I tried, indeed I did. I am sorry for failing. But I must go, miss, before that officer of yours loses patience. If you would kindly distract him?”
She could manage only a jerk of her head in acquiescence. When he released her, her knees buckled and she slid to the cold, snowy ground.
Gone. Her home, her father’s house. Would anyone get word to him? Or would he return from campaign one day not knowing that only charred remains would await him? The house his father had built, wife and daughter…all vanished.
She had known she couldn’t go back, at least not until Father returned, which would likely be too late. But now? Knowing she had nothing to which to go at all?
“Winter!” Fairchild’s hands gripped her arms and pulled her up. “My darling, are you injured? If that villain put so much as a scratch upon your throat—”
She shook her head, but the motion made the world sway again. All she could focus on was the red of his coat.
“Here.” He moved her, round and seemingly round, and she couldn’t think what he was pointing her toward until a different arm encircled her. ’Twas warm and solid and held her aright. “If you would get her inside, Mr. Lane, I must…”
If he finished his sentence, Winter was unaware. With a flash of movement his red coat vaulted over the gate and disappeared into the darkness behind it. How very odd. He moved so quickly, and she couldn’t seem to budge at all. Couldn’t lift a hand, couldn’t open her mouth, couldn’t even step away from Mr. Lane.
“Miss Reeves.” The smooth spice of his voice bade her look up at him. It took her a long moment to convince her head to turn, to meet his questioning gaze. When she did, she found his face etched with worry. He brushed a fallen curl away from her face. “Do not faint on me, I beg you.”
She had to shake her head again and swallow before her tongue would cooperate. “I am not the fainting kind.”
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