Ring of Secrets

by Roseanna M. White

  His head turned and his gaze burned into her before moving to her cheek. “Has he struck you again?”

  “No.” But her six months were halfway over, and just yesterday Grandfather had cornered her and reminded her of that. If she were not betrothed by the tenth day in July…part of her thought he hoped she wouldn’t be so that he would have an excuse to carry out his threats. She couldn’t shake the feeling that the hatred roiling inside him would not be satisfied until she was punished for her mother’s perceived sins. Not just out of his house, but gone.

  As if reading far more than an assurance in that “no,” Bennet drew in a long breath. “I will not give up.”

  But he would, eventually. He was too much the scientist to chase a theory when it gave him no new data to consider. Eventually he would find someone new to hypothesize about, and he would stop frequenting Hampton Hall. Only then would Grandmother give up hope and allow other suitors a chance.

  Winter just wasn’t sure the stubborn man beside her would give up in time—or if his determination would get her tossed into the bowels of Holy Ground.

  Twelve

  Ben entered what had once been a prosperous house, and which had since been converted into offices for Colonel Fairchild and those who worked directly under him. A glance at the clock against the wall told him he was a few minutes early, but he saw little point in dawdling at the end of his walk with Winter. The moment they reached Hampton Hall, she reverted to her flirtations and empty glances, so he had hastened away.

  Best to move to his next appointment and try not to think of how he wished she would give what she so staunchly refused. A glimpse, just a glimpse of her true mind…but nay. ’Twas always her grandmother’s words that spilled from her lips lately. The cleverness disguised as its opposite was far preferable, but even that was naught but a well-decorated mask.

  He strode toward the room Fairchild used most often and caught sight of him at his desk. Another man was on the other side of it. Fairchild looked up, smiled, and held up a hand to signal he would be only a minute more. Ben nodded and moved out of the way.

  A painting caught his eye, so he positioned himself in front of it. Though after a moment, he gave it no thought. Would Winter persist in her stubbornness indefinitely? Until he gave up?

  Yet how could he? Even as she dismissed him, her conflict had shone through. She did not want to be what the Hamptons made her, but obviously she did not want to be honest with him, either, or she would let down her walls when they were alone.

  The way she had done so briefly on Christmas. Or on the night she had learned of her home’s destruction. Those times he had gotten a tantalizing glimpse of the mind beneath the mask.

  Where had that Winter gone in the past three months? He had begun to think she had died away entirely. Begun to despair. But then the jesting today…

  “I’m telling ye, Fairchild, something must be done about those blazing whaleboaters.” The voice from Fairchild’s office was unfamiliar and bore the cadence of a lower-bred British man. “They attack rebel and British ships alike, which makes it nigh unto impossible to carry out our missions on the sound.”

  Fairchild sighed. “Would that I could solve this dilemma, but I am at a loss as to how. You have more experience on the sound than I do—”

  “Aye, but little good it does me. I no sooner think I have an enemy in my sights than those pirating scoundrels descend.”

  The sound of fingers drumming on wood came into the hall. “You have had no luck of late determining who may be ferrying messages to Long Island?”

  Ben’s ears perked up.

  The other man let out an exasperated breath. “For all the good it does me. I be all but certain one Caleb Brewster of Setauket is involved, but the man’s a slippery fish. I no sooner get a tip that he is at sail than he has disappeared again or the blasted pirates get in me way.”

  Brewster…the name struck a chord in Ben’s memory. Not an uncommon one in New England, to be sure, but Caleb Brewster. He pressed his lips together and called to mind all the many documents and correspondence he had chased down in the past few months.

  Caleb Brewster, if he recalled, had gone from whaleboating as a profession to an active member of the Patriot military. One who was suspected of seeking out information up and down the coast—and for what purpose but to pass it to Washington?

  The question to Ben’s mind was whether the man acted as an independent scout or if he had ties to the secret organization operating in the city. He had yet to find anything supporting a theory of more involvement, but something niggled.

  Setauket, that was it. Nothing but a small Long Island town. But he had read its name just yesterday.

  A fellow by the name of Tallmadge came from the same town, a high-ranking aide in Washington’s army. Ben had yet to discover much about him, but he would seek out any information on the Long Islander he could find.

  Not that two men in the Patriot army coming from the same town was any great coincidence.

  Who is my neighbour?

  Ben scowled at the painting, for lack of being able to scowl at the words that had invaded his mind. What business had these Bible verses to hit him at strange moments? First that bit about watching and listening from Isaiah, in his garden—now this, from the story of the Samaritan? Nonsense, utter nonsense. The whole point of that passage was that a true neighbor was not one who lived near, but one who demonstrated godliness and did right by one. Whereas he was now wondering about actual neighbors.

  And yet…how many from Setauket had joined the rebel army? Would doing so have created a bond that turned them from neighbors only thanks to location to true friends? Or had they perchance already been such, hence why they made similar decisions? If in fact they were neighbors in a deeper sense of the word, could it prove a link useful to his search? Would Brewster have passed his information to his high-ranking friend rather than directly to Washington, for instance?

  He clasped his hands behind his back and directed a mental grunt toward the part of his mind that had come up with the verse. Perhaps it would be helpful after all, but couldn’t his brain have found some other clever literature to quote to him? The Bible was a fine manual for instructing man in how to behave properly, and certainly he had the utmost respect for the Creator, but he had little use for those who referred only to it for every detail of their lives.

  The Creator, after all, had endowed them with reason so that they might use it. No doubt intending they not then bother Him with their problems all the day long.

  If any further speech were exchanged between Fairchild and the second man, Ben must have missed it, for a chair scraped across the floor and a soldier hastened out. Fairchild followed soon after, putting his hat upon his head. “Is the weather as fair as it promised to grow this morning?”

  Ben smiled. “Quite tolerable. I dropped my cloak at home on my way here. But also brisk enough that we will enjoy a respite with a hot mug of coffee at Rivington’s.”

  “Perfect.” Fairchild led the way toward the exit, and a moment later they were in the warm sunshine. “Ah, lovely indeed. You were out already this morning?”

  “Yes, I went…” He cleared his throat to cover his hesitation. ’Twould surely be thoughtless to share the whole truth. “For a stroll.”

  But Fairchild sent him a knowing sideways glance. “With Miss Reeves, I take it? How is she? I have not seen her in more than a week, and then only a glimpse across a ballroom.”

  Ben frowned. He had obviously not lost interest in her, so… “Why is that?”

  A sigh gusted from Fairchild’s mouth and joined the refreshing spring breeze. “I was told when I came to visit last week that she was not at home. And her grandfather informed me at the ball that she was not feeling well and ought not be bothered with more dancing, and when I tried to make my way over to her, her grandmother intercepted me.”

  “Sounds like a blockade.”

  Fairchild nodded, looking like a dog that had been kicked. �
��I have been thinking the same.”

  “But why?”

  He turned that mournful expression on Ben. “I daresay it is because I am not you, Mr. Lane.”

  Ben could only stare at him for several paces. “Ought that not be a mark in your favor?”

  Fairchild laughed, though the light left his countenance again a moment later. “Apparently not, my friend. For though—and I mean no offense—I come from a family superior to yours, I cannot boast the same pending fortune. My mother is a daughter of a duke, my father an earl, but I am a third son, and both my older brothers have heirs already. The second will inherit my mother’s estates, which leaves me with what I can earn myself. And apparently the Hamptons prefer wealth to pedigree. Again, I mean no insult to your family. They are not lacking in good blood by any means.”

  Ben grinned to assure him he took no offense. “But we have no duke in our immediate ancestry. You need not apologize, Fairchild. I know I am no aristocrat.”

  “You are a perfectly likable man, though, and immensely wealthy besides. I recognize that. Still, to be barred from her presence as I have been…”

  The poor fellow looked downright haunted about it. “I had no idea they were acting that way. Frankly, I assumed you visited on the days I do not.”

  “When I can, but they turn me away as often as they let me in.”

  Ben paused at a street corner for a carriage to rumble by, and then they strode across together. “Knowing how much you care for her, that must be painful. I feel as though I ought to offer to step aside so that they will not hold my family’s fortune against you.”

  Fairchild sent him a crooked smile. “While I appreciate the thought, I know you care for her too. So please, make no such offers on my account.”

  “Speaking of offers…forgive me if I am prying, but I am surprised you have not made one for her already.”

  The colonel sidestepped a child sprinting down the street. “I did. I was informed by a sour and dour Mr. Hampton that they were not ready to part with their precious grandchild quite yet. Which I took to mean they would not grant permission to me until they knew whether you intended to propose.”

  Ben stopped short and then waited for Fairchild to turn around from a step ahead. “When was this?”

  Eyes on the ground, he seemed to debate his answer for a moment. “In January.”

  “What?” Ben could scarcely fathom that. He and Fairchild had met at least once a week for coffee since then, and the man hadn’t said a word. “Why did you never mention this?”

  “It is hardly something one shares with one’s rival suitor, no matter how good a friend he has become. You must grant me my pride.”

  “Yes, but…” Ben huffed to a halt. “Had I realized—”

  “You would have done what? You are trying to make up your own mind, Lane. I ought not to factor into your decision.” Looking uncomfortable with the conversation, Fairchild straightened his red jacket and turned.

  Ben would have fallen in beside him again, had another man in a red coat not come barreling toward him yelling, “Bennie!”

  He nearly groaned. “Archie, don’t—”

  Too late. His brother attacked him with all the exuberance he would have had they been in their own home. And he had the gall to laugh as he locked an arm around Ben’s neck.

  For the first time in his life, Ben was tempted to put up a real fight to avoid being “bested” by his little brother. Instead, he put up none at all, but just said calmly—or as calmly as one could manage when stuck under a man’s armpit—“All right, Archibald, you have now embarrassed me in front of all the City of New York. If you are quite satisfied…”

  Archie laughed again and released him. While bent over, Ben collected his hat from the puddle it had fallen into and shook his head over the dripping stain. When he straightened, he found his brother staring, open mouthed, at Fairchild.

  “You must be jesting.” Glancing at him, Archie shook his head. “You and Fairchild? Out and about together? What in the world do the two of you have to talk about other than Miss Reeves, and why in the world would you want to talk about her to each other?”

  Fairchild glared at Archie with all the superiority his ducal grandfather likely would have used on a wayward tenant. “And a good morning to you too, Major Lane.”

  “Colonel.” Archie’s too-polite smile fell away after a mere heartbeat. He turned to Ben again. “It’s no wonder you have become duller than ever if you willingly spend your time with this—”

  “Do watch your tongue, Major,” Fairchild said, sounding bored. “In spite of your recent promotion, I still outrank you.”

  Archie rolled his eyes. “You see? All seriousness, all the time. Perhaps it is no wonder the two of you get along, actually. Neither one of you knows how to be anything but dull.”

  “Archie.” But he had no new admonition, so Ben shook his head and sent a look toward Fairchild that he hoped conveyed his apology.

  Archie reverted to his usual grin. “On second thought, it may be quite entertaining to hear the two of you converse. Fairchild with his constant stream of upstanding British this and most excellent British that, and Bennie with his Monsieur le Chemist did such-and-such and have you read what no one ever has.”

  Ben shut his eyes, though there was no hope his brother would go away until he had been thoroughly embarrassed. “Archie, really.”

  “And then do you both get all dewy eyed over Miss Reeves? That would be most entertaining of all, two sound-minded men gone daft over a brainless—”

  “Watch yourself, Major.” Fairchild’s tone brooked no argument this time.

  If only his brother ever noticed such things. But no, he crossed his arms and lifted one finger to wag at the colonel. “You see, that is a fine example. She cannot even remember to call me major instead of lieutenant.”

  Ben let a laugh slip out before he could stop it. “Actually, Archie, I believe that’s intentional on her part.”

  His brother’s arms fell and his face went serious. Or somewhat serious, anyway. “Why would she blunder intentionally?”

  “Because…” Unable to think of a gentle way of phrasing it, Ben shrugged. And yes, grinned. It served the pup right. “She does not like you.”

  Archie looked genuinely shocked. “Nonsense. Everybody likes me.”

  Fairchild made a show of fussing with the gold braid at his cuff. “Not everyone.”

  “Well, you don’t count, Colonel, and neither does that friend of yours who is off besieging Charleston with General Clinton. He only dislikes me because I stole that pretty redhead out from under his nose last year.”

  Ben had to give Fairchild another measure of credit. The man had the patience of a saint. His face betrayed not the slightest annoyance as he redirected his gaze to Archie. “André is too good a man to base his opinions on personal slights, Major. And though I fail to see why my opinion counts for nothing, it is hardly to the point. You surely have business to be about, as do your brother and I.”

  “Business.” Archie lifted a brow, but he stepped away, hands up. “Coffee, no doubt. Well, have at it, good sirs. I surrender you both to the soporific company of the other.”

  Ben waited until Archie had jogged across the street before turning to Fairchild. “My apologies for my brother, Colonel. And so you know, your company has yet to put me to sleep.”

  Fairchild grinned and jerked his head toward Rivington’s. “Nor yours, me. And you have no need to feel responsible for your brother. I am only grateful you are not like him.”

  Nearly verbatim what Winter had said…but he wouldn’t mention her again. No need to cause the colonel any more upset on the subject.

  Rob paced the confines of the garden path, his stomach so twisted he felt he might double over at any moment. When he passed by the bench, Winter’s hand came out, but he ignored it. He refused to look at her. He would see only pity on her face, combined with frustration, and he could not suffer that right now.

  “Robbie,
please.” She kept her voice low, but it was long with pleading. “Please sit. You will gain the attention of the entire household pacing around like this.”

  “Well, had we been able to meet elsewhere—”

  “You came to the front! It would look a bit odd if we disappeared now.”

  Oh, yes. All his fault. He came to the wrong door, he employed the wrong cousin…had he ever made a sound decision? Perhaps even talking to her was a mistake. Perhaps he ought to close himself into his room and save society from his unforgivable errors.

  She drew in a shuddering breath. “Please, sit. Talk to me.”

  Well, he was here now. He pivoted and all but tossed himself to the wrought iron bench beside her. He still did not dare look at her face. “I have failed, Winnie. Seven-one-one—you remember?”

  “Yes, I remember.” Her tone was all patience, but he wasn’t fooled by it. Of course she would remember their code for General Washington, and she would resent his insinuation that she did not.

  Yet another thing he could never get right. “He is furious with me. Furious. The scathing letter I received from him this morning…” He had to stop and shake his head. He clasped his hands between his knees and stared at his white knuckles. “Culper Senior is angry that we were trying to bypass him, and John Bolton—” He paused but stopped himself before asking if she remembered their code name for Benjamin Tallmadge. “He is upset that my actions have made seven-one-one doubt the entire ring. I have gone from their favorite to their bane with a single misstep.”

  “Robbie.” Her voice, soft as a mother’s touch, soothed over him. Yet could bring no comfort. Not now. “Unfortunate as this is, it does not negate all the good you have done. Why, I have heard that Congress recalled all the new dollars based on your information. They will remember that.”

  “Will they?” He tried to dredge up a smile, but it wobbled into a grimace. “I have my doubts about that, Winnie. This is too much.”

  “Nonsense.” She scooted a touch closer and leaned in a bit more. “They will forget it with the next bit of useful information we pass along.”