Ring of Secrets

by Roseanna M. White

  Then there was Fairchild. Ben dropped his hand back to his side. He didn’t want to think of how Fairchild might respond if Winter made known her preference for Ben.

  Confound it. It would be simpler if he tossed to the wind all his lofty ideas about getting to know her fully and ran off with her. Got her out from under the Hampton roof and neatly avoided anyone who might not like the match.

  But no. He couldn’t do that. For the obvious reasons, and because of the mission that had brought him to New York to begin with. Time was surely running out. He must find the Patriot spy soon, or all these months of work would have been wasted.

  Winter caught up with Townsend at the corner and stopped him with a hand upon his arm. “Robbie, are you all right?”

  Ben barely caught the quiet question, but Townsend’s scoffing chuckle reached his ears without problem. “No need to worry for me, Winnie. Go tend your darling Mr. Lane.”

  Winter looked so shocked when Townsend sped away that Ben had little choice but to go to her and take her hand in his. “Another manifestation of his black mood?”

  She frowned as Townsend’s figure disappeared down the drive. “I thought he had pulled out of it, but he sounded as though he were—”

  “Jealous?” Ben fought a grin with what he deemed admirable determination. “That is the simple answer.”

  Her gaze swung his way and her mouth fell open. “That would not be simple. He is the closest thing I have to a brother.”

  Ben gave her hand an encouraging squeeze. “Does he realize that?”

  Winter worried her lip and glanced toward the drive again. “I had thought so. Now I am not certain.” She sighed and leaned into him a bit. “Could you suggest to my grandmother that a trip with me through the shops in town would be just the thing and then let me have a few moments to speak with him? I know it is a strange thing to ask—”

  “Nonsense.” He smiled, honored that she trusted him enough to ask it. “He is a longtime friend. Of course you want to smooth things out. I will gladly be your conspirator.”

  Loosing a long breath, she turned them toward the back door. “A dangerous word choice in this day and age, Bennet. But I thank you.”

  Dangerous indeed. Conspiracy was as reviled as espionage.

  And so he had to wonder if she would instead run in the other direction if she realized his true purpose for returning to the city.

  Seventeen

  Never in her life had Winter been less pleased to find herself in the gaggle of her so-called friends. Perhaps the Lord was trying to teach her patience, for while her mind screamed that she must speak with Robbie and root out, at once, what had been behind his icy tone an hour ago, circumstances did not allow her to slip away. Bennet had tried to extract them from the group, but he had been outnumbered.

  So now he stood a few feet away, chatting with the amiable and handsome Major André, who, she suspected, had been enlisted to engage him in conversation so that Colonel Fairchild might maneuver her in the opposite direction.

  Perfect, just perfect. Barely an hour ago she had been hit with the force of her love for Bennet Lane, and now she must deal with Fairchild—and Robbie besides. ’Twasn’t fair. Shouldn’t the first strike of love be gentle? Beautiful? Warm and secure? But when she had seen that heavy piece of slate headed straight for him…

  She couldn’t lose him. She couldn’t. No matter how difficult it would be to balance her feelings for him with her dedication to her country, she must find a way. Because the thought of carrying on without him was too much to bear.

  As for how she could in good conscience proceed with that courtship and yet somehow keep communication open with the colonel…

  “You look deep in thought, my dear,” Fairchild said.

  Putting on her usual smile had never felt so false. “Oh, no, I assure you. That look of discomfort comes only from this ghastly heat.”

  He chuckled and covered with his fingers the hand she had obligingly placed on his arm. “Are you longing for winter? I know the feeling.”

  Though his meaning was clear and made her heart sink, she performed her usual absent blink. “I thought you disliked the cold, Colonel.”

  Why couldn’t his interest fade on its own? She didn’t want to hurt this man. He was too good. Too caring. Too oblivious to how ill she had used him all this time.

  Fairchild chuckled again. “It depends entirely upon the company I’m in when out in it. I have very fond memories of a few moments in a winter garden.”

  She opened her mouth to respond, but then her attention was snagged by Lizzie and Dosia, who were moving away from their mothers and toward them. Though given the viperous glance Lizzie sent Winter’s way, she somehow wasn’t surprised when the girls steered for Major André and Bennet rather than her with a particular nonchalance that bespoke a plan.

  Dosia positioned herself between the two gentlemen and directed such a bright smile at the major that he surely went half blind. Lizzie moved in as well and dropped her handkerchief directly before Bennet.

  Winter barely kept from rolling her eyes. That was the best she could come up with to get his attention? He didn’t even seem to notice the fluttering square of white cloth, so attentively was he listening to whatever the major was saying.

  Which earned a pursed-lipped scowl from Lizzie. She made a face at Dosia, which must have had some predetermined meaning to it, for Dosia cleared her throat and said, far too loudly, “Oh, Lizzie, you have dropped your handkerchief.” Then she gave Bennet a pointed look.

  Poor Bennet. He seemed only then to notice he had been flanked by the girls, and he gave a visible start to complement the shade of red his ears turned. “Oh…ah…good day. Miss…and miss…”

  Dosia cleared her throat and motioned toward the handkerchief. But Lizzie must have thought it a lost cause, for she rolled her eyes and bent down to pick it up herself. Which was, of course, the very moment Bennet jerked into action.

  “Oh, dear,” Winter murmured as she watched what was sure to be a disaster unfold. Fairchild chuckled again beside her as the two somehow managed to avoid collision on the way down. Though after a brief tussle over the handkerchief, Bennet released it to Lizzie and must have bumped her as she rose—she squealed, windmilled her arms, and staggered backward. Unable to find her footing, she landed with a flop upon her bottom, in a puddle.

  Winter winced. It hadn’t rained in more than a week, so she dared not contemplate of what it was a puddle.

  Dosia squealed too and lunged forward to help Lizzie just as Bennet spun around, presumably to offer his assistance as well. Yet another recipe for disaster. From where Winter stood, it didn’t look as though Bennet actually made any contact with her, but rather that she shied away from him so enthusiastically that she got her heel caught in something. She rocked backward, overcompensated, and lunged forward.

  Bennet caught her, his face crimson by this point, but that seemed to offer no comfort to Dosia. She probably feared he would toss her into the same puddle as Lizzie. “Unhand me!”

  Poor Bennet. He muttered a string of things like “um” and “oh” and “so sorry” as he tried to ease her back onto her feet. But silly Dosia slapped at his arms and pushed off, thereby sending herself the other direction too forcefully.

  Luckily Major André was on hand and steadied her before she could join Lizzie on her posterior. And Mrs. Parks and Mrs. Shirley rushed forward to help the unfortunate girl up, all the while dubbing Lizzy as the clumsy one and trying to assure Bennet it wasn’t his fault.

  He looked as though he wished for an earthquake, a tempest, a cyclone—anything to distract everyone from him.

  Winter pressed her lips together to hold back her smile. Oh, how she loved that man. Loved every blush, every stutter, every panicked look. Loved seeing him move from perfect ease in one discussion to total bafflement in another. Loved the way he looked over at her and seemed to find some comfort in her presence.

  “Ought I give up hope, then?”


  Winter started and turned back to Colonel Fairchild. The cheer had drained out of his face, which made her wonder what exactly had been upon hers. She lifted her brows. “Pardon?”

  Fairchild’s fingers tightened over hers as he nodded toward Bennet. “Has he proposed?”

  Not trusting herself to speak, she shook her head.

  The colonel pursed his lips. “I know he cares for you, and it appears you care for him as well. And your grandparents prefer him.”

  All true. But seeing the hurt in his eyes, she still could find no words. She drew in a deep breath and moved her hand a bit on his arm.

  He surprised her with a warm smile. “But I have not gotten where I am today by giving up at the first obstacle. Or the second or third. I will not relinquish you so easily, my love. Until you are his betrothed wife, I will be at your side every moment I can manage it, trying to convince you that, excellent man though Mr. Lane is, I will make you happier than he could.”

  Guilt wove through the relief that welled up. She smiled, though it probably looked a little sad. “I do not deserve such devotion from you, Colonel.”

  “Nonsense. You are all that is bright and good in my life.”

  Those words made her feel the opposite. “I…I thank you, Colonel. For both your devotion and your patience. ’Tis a hard thing for me, this deciding on a future. It requires far more consideration than to what I am a customer.”

  “Accustomed.” As always, his correction was given with a smile.

  Mrs. Shirley huffed, loudly enough to draw Winter’s attention that direction again. “Well, you are a fright now, Lizzie. We shall have to go home so you can change. Mrs. Parks, dear, let us meet at the milliner’s in half an hour’s time, shall we?”

  “Dosia and I will head that way now.” Mrs. Parks arched a brow Winter’s way. “Will you join us, Winnie?”

  “Perhaps shortly, ma’am. I must drop by Mr. Townsend’s store first.” She waved a hand at the storefront directly across from them. She had nearly made it there before running into the gaggle.

  Colonel Fairchild tucked her hand more firmly into the crook of his elbow. “Allow me to escort you, Miss Reeves.”

  Not good. But she could do little but agree with thanks, and then send a glance Bennet’s way. His smile assured her he would help her, somehow or another. He and Major André both followed them across the street, and the moment they were safely over, Bennet said, “Did you see the Royal Gazette this morning, Fairchild? I was hoping you could tell me a bit more about that article on rebel movements. Have they really scattered so much?”

  Undoubtedly not, but Mr. Rivington always exaggerated the bad luck of the Patriots for the ease of mind of his British readership. And it served to distract the colonel enough that she could free her hand and say, “I shall leave you men to such talk, if you will excuse me but a moment.”

  Not waiting for an objection, she hastened into the store and then sighed when a quick look around did not show her Robbie.

  “Can I help you, Miss Reeves?”

  She pasted on a smile for Robbie’s partner. “Good day, Mr. Oaktree. I am only looking for Mr. Townsend.”

  “Oakham.” The man made an obvious effort to put patience in his smile. “And I’m afraid Mr. Townsend is reorganizing stock in the back and asked not to be disturbed.”

  “Excellent. I shall see him back there.” She headed toward the door to the storeroom with all the confidence of the spoiled chit she pretended to be. Yet she still wasn’t surprised when Oakham jumped into her path.

  “Miss Reeves, I can hardly allow you into our back room. ’Tis full of boxes and crates and is a veritable mess. It’s no place at all for a lady.”

  “Nonsense.” She gave a look as if he were a slow child. “Robbie is an old family friend, and I must speak with him of family business, that is all. I will pay no attention at all to my surroundings, I assure you.”

  Oakham folded his arms across his chest. “Why don’t I bring him out here, hmm?”

  Thankfully, Robbie appeared at the door, having apparently heard her. Though he looked far from pleased to see her. “It is all right, Oakham. I promised to share the latest news from my sister, is all, and I might as well do so while working. Come on back, Miss Reeves.”

  Oakham relented with a roll of his eyes and retired to the counter. Once past him, Winter let her smile fade and ducked through the curtain, which Robbie pulled closed behind her. He led the way silently to the rear of the storeroom and indeed got to work pulling items from a box rather than facing her.

  Winter twisted the strap of her reticule between her fingers. “Robbie—”

  “Please don’t.” He took a handful of bottles from the box, their contents a mystery, and shoved them onto a shelf. “You ought not to have wasted your time in coming here. Go home, back into the arms of Mr. Lane. Or Fairchild, or whoever your choice beau is this afternoon.”

  The censure in his tone struck her so forcefully that she drew in a quick breath to try to combat it. “You make it sound…Robbie, I did nothing wrong. Bennet was injured, and it scared me so much—”

  “Bennet now, is it?” He halted and spun on her. “I know you feel you must marry one of them to escape your grandfather’s threats, Winnie, but I didn’t think…you are surely running out of time, right? Are you only trying to hurry him along?”

  She expected such thoughts from Grandmother, but from Robbie? “You know I would not—”

  “Do I? Frankly, I cannot say what you might do. In spite of all reason, all logic, you are set on marrying one of those pompous, England-bound men.”

  She drew in a long breath in an attempt to steady her temper. There was no use fighting with Robbie when he was in one of his moods. It would only make things worse. “I came to see if you were well, Robbie. You looked so upset, and I feared…” She couldn’t say it. It sounded too ridiculous. Too arrogant an assumption.

  He halted in the middle of reaching into the box again. Straightening, he let his hands fall and stared at her. “You fear for me? And I fear for you. Why not resolve it all, Winnie? Why not be done with the family that is bent on terrorizing you? Be done with their expectations?”

  Her stomach clenched, dread settling in it like something sour. “How?”

  “’Tis simple.” His smile barely flashed before disappearing. “Marry me.”

  And now her eyes burned. “That is not simple, Robbie.”

  “It is.” He took a step toward her, though he halted again two steps away. He didn’t reach for her but just looked long into her eyes. “You can join the Friends, and we can marry in Quaker fashion, so your grandparents’ disapproval will mean nothing. And you know your father would approve. I may not be wealthy, but I am well enough off.”

  Her throat was so dry she could hardly force a swallow. Hardly dared to move. “But then I…the Culpers…”

  “I don’t care.” Now his voice came out low, quavering. “I thought I did, Winnie. I thought last night that it was all I needed to shake off this dreadful mood of mine. But it isn’t. It cannot. Only you can help me.”

  “No, I can’t.” Why must he do this to her, put this burden upon her? She shook her head, wishing she in fact could make his troubles go away so easily. If she thought she could manage it, if she thought she could make him happy…well, maybe she would have proposed this course of action months ago.

  But the sorrowful truth was that she had no such power over him, no more than any other outside force. His melancholy came from within. She moved forward, took his hand, and squeezed his fingers. “I wish I could, Robbie. I wish I could offer something, do something, that would help. But I would not be enough. My presence always irritates you as much as it soothes.”

  He gripped her hand. “Because there is always conflict within me, born of my feelings for you. I love you, Winnie. I have loved you so long.”

  Blink as she might, tears still welled.

  Robbie sighed and let go of her fingers. “But you love Mr. Lane. I saw i
t clearly this morning, and now…even if you agreed, it would only torment me. I would always wonder if it was him of whom you dreamed.”

  “I am sorry.” An ache wrapped itself around her, squeezing until she thought she might crumble within it. Part of her wished he had spoken long ago, before she had ever met Bennet. She would have been happy enough to join the Townsend family, to live in the modesty she best liked. To try to be what he needed. But another part wished he had never spoken at all. Wished he hadn’t made her love for Bennet so bittersweet. “I never realized…had I known how you felt, Robbie—”

  “An irrelevant hypothetical.” He waved a hand and turned back to his box. “If you were ever going to love me, you would already. I should never have spoken. Just…go. Go back to your grandparents. Marry your Mr. Lane. Be happy.”

  That command came out so miserably that she had to press a hand to her lips to stop the cry that wanted to escape. “Robbie, you are important to me. One of my only true friends—”

  “’Tisn’t enough anymore, Winnie.” He pulled out another bottle and gazed into it as if it contained a serum for everlasting youth. “Not now, with you knowing how I feel. Please, spare me this embarrassment. Leave.”

  She spun but only took a step before pivoting back. “But what of—”

  “I don’t know.” He raised a hand, and though his back was still to her, she suspected he rubbed his eyes behind his spectacles. “Send Freeman whenever you must pass something along.”

  “Robbie.”

  He shook his head and somehow made his stance seem as though he turned his back on her anew. Perhaps because of the way he straightened his shoulders. “Go away, Winnie. I beg you.”

  Disobeying would have been too cruel, so she left. Slowly, with every step feeling as though she had a weight strapped to her ankles. She managed to avoid Oakham in the store and slipped out the door as silently as she could manage, given its bell.

  The gentlemen had moved a few steps away and didn’t notice her. Major André was speaking, his face sober. “I admit it is worrisome. My source is quite adamant that Washington has placed a ring of spies within the city, though he has been unable to learn the specifics.”