Ring of Secrets

by Roseanna M. White

  Winter’s limbs, already heavy, froze into ice.

  Bennet frowned. “Unbelievable. Espionage is not only a risky endeavor, but one so very base—and the cost is so high. Why would anyone attempt it when they know well they will pay for it with their life?”

  André shrugged. “In all likelihood, it is about money. It usually is. That is how we are enticing this high-ranking source.”

  The ice of her being cracked, a few shards splintering off.

  Of course she knew the opinion of spies, how hated they were, how reviled. How dangerous it was. But to hear these men discussing it, discussing her, and ascribing to her motives so very low…

  Bennet now smirked. “From what I hear, the Patriots have no funds with which to tempt anyone to espionage. Surely ’tis something else.”

  “Perhaps.” Colonel Fairchild shrugged. “But it hardly matters why. The point remains that it must be stopped.”

  “Well, of course it must. And seeing the quality of officers looking into it,” Bennet said with a grin, “I am certain it shall be resolved soon.”

  André breathed a laugh. “I wish I had your certainty. From what I am told, this ring has been operating for more than a year already, and we are no closer to finding its members now than when we intercepted their first letter.”

  That, at least, was a relief.

  Bennet nodded. “Well, if by chance I stumble across anything helpful, I will pass it along.”

  Fairchild sighed. “I hope you will, Lane, and I hope you will not have to. But I must caution you to caution your friend. If he is seen again in such company, we will have no choice but to arrest him so that we might question him. Frankly, I would have the other day had I not known how close the two of you are.”

  Looking as though his smile caused him pain, Bennet clasped his hands behind his back. “I thank you for coming to me first, Fairchild. And I assure you I will speak with George and remind him that we are no longer in the days when one might converse with whomever one wills so freely.”

  Winter frowned. George Knight? Was he suspected of disloyalty? She could not fathom that they would long suffer such questions of a gunsmith. Yet she happened to know that he was in fact not a member of the Culper Ring, so surely he would escape any charges if he were questioned.

  “Indeed. Sad as it is, we must—Miss Reeves!” Spotting her, the colonel’s face lit up. “When did you come out? I do hope we were not boring you with our talk of rebels in disguise.”

  Winter blinked and let the familiar, false innocence settle over her face. “Oh, no. I only just stepped out. But what of disguises? Are we planning a masquerade?”

  The gentlemen laughed and changed the subject, but even as Winter tucked her hand into the crook of Bennet’s elbow, her mind went back into the shop. Was there really a high-ranking Patriot official feeding information to the British? If so, Robbie must alert Washington at once.

  But she couldn’t go back in there now, and with Robbie feeling as he did…well, she would send Freeman the moment she arrived home, and then Robbie could include it in the package of information for Roe.

  Even as she thought it, a man rushed into the store matching the description Robbie had given her of the courier he found so unreliable. If that were Roe already…but surely they could impress on Robbie the importance of passing along this other information in the next correspondence.

  ’Twas too critical to be kept to themselves.

  Eighteen

  September 1780

  Rob trudged along the waterfront, trying to work up the nerve to care about the fleet in the harbor, but everywhere he turned, red coats taunted him. Every time he planned to meet with a source, someone else lurked where they ought not. Every time he tried to secret a note out of the city, soldiers appeared.

  The risk seemed to rise every day. The noose seemed to loom. And no matter how grateful Washington had been for the information about the British’s knowledge of Rochambeau, appreciation made his job no safer.

  “Please, Mr. Townsend.” Freeman strode beside him, face neutral but tone pleading. “You must get this merchandise to Mr. Bolton.”

  All the code names made him grit his teeth. Yes, maybe Tallmadge—Bolton—would want the information. But it was vague at best, so what good would it even do? How often had he been told not to pass along conjectures and suppositions, but only facts?

  Chilling as it was to consider that a Patriot officer might defect, he could offer no information on whom, where, or when. And who was to say it would even happen? No, it was not worth the risk of getting a message out. He had sent off intelligence about the ten sail of the line and other warships that left New York under Admiral Rodney two weeks ago, but that had represented clear and unquestionable danger to the American fleet. Not some specter of a threat like this.

  ’Twasn’t worth the risk, not without more details than Winter could offer him.

  “I am sorry, Freeman.”

  The older man tugged his hat lower. “Sir, she is adamant that—”

  “Tell your mistress that I have endured trial enough with all this business. I will not needlessly invite more. So please stop coming every week on her behalf. ’Twill do nothing to convince me.”

  And he could do without the constant reminders of her. He hadn’t spoken to Winter since July and had done his best to avoid the need to see her. Oh, he had caught glimpses of her at social events now and then when he must attend for the newspaper. One time, in August, he had even slipped a note into a drawer for her, to pass along the thanks from Washington about the French information. Another time she had signaled she had information for him, so he had taken her note home and uncovered it with the counter liquor.

  But he must get used to doing what was necessary without her aid. She would marry Lane soon, and be off to…somewhere. If he intended to persist in this business, he must do so without her.

  Rob should have spoken months ago. A year ago, when they first met up in the city. He had known then that she was the only woman he could ever admire enough to marry, so why had he dawdled? He should never have recruited her into the Culper Ring. Instead, he should have run away with her and made her his wife. Perhaps then the help she would have offered would be different, but still she could have assisted him.

  Freeman came to a halt, his expression now beseeching. “Mr. Townsend, you know she does all she can for the good of the business. Please don’t cut her off. Already you will not speak to her, but if you now refuse to speak to me…”

  “It has nothing to do with you, Freeman.” He tried a smile, but it felt foreign to his lips. “I am merely focusing on different aspects of the business for now.”

  Freeman opened his mouth as if to reply, but then a frown wrinkled his forehead as he looked at a point beyond Rob’s shoulder. Rob turned to see what had caught his attention and found himself frowning too. “Is that George Knight?”

  He had kept his voice low, but still Freeman shushed him. With a roll of his eyes, Rob subsided, content to cast another glance toward the wharf, where an ill-dressed Mr. Knight was helping a few fishermen load crates aboard a small rowboat.

  Curious. Knight may not be the wealthiest man in the City of New York, but he could certainly afford better than the patched-up breeches and coarse shirt he wore now, not to mention the slouchy, filthy-looking hat. What was the man up to? Surely he wasn’t assisting the fisherman for social purposes or out of a deep desire to heft what looked like heavy crates.

  Freeman pressed his lips together and turned away. “Excuse me, Mr. Townsend. I had better get home to Winter. You have a good day.”

  He nearly told Freeman to give Winter his greetings but stopped himself in time. No use in keeping even that much communication open between them. ’Twas time to sever ties. Time to admit he hadn’t a good disposition for this work, at least right now, and resign himself to a life of quiet.

  Alone.

  “Townsend!”

  Rob jumped when a red coat blazed to a halt in
front of him, and then he forced a smile at the always-exuberant face of Archie Lane. “Good afternoon, Major.”

  The young man grinned. “I was headed next to your shop to see how you fared on grog.”

  Rob cleared his throat. “I was down here checking on my next shipment, but alas, no new supplies arrived for me today. Perhaps tomorrow.”

  “A shame.” Major Lane nodded and turned away. “I shall check with you tomorrow then. Good day.”

  “And to you.” Rob loosed a long breath and turned inland. Perhaps the major’s inquiry was innocent enough—or rather, safe enough—but it also proved Rob’s point to Freeman. One never knew when a British officer might all but jump upon one.

  Just as one never knew when an acquaintance would serve to put one in mind of things one had no desire to think about. From Major Lane to his brother, and from Bennet Lane to Winter.

  Winter, with her courageous heart and deep faith. Winter, with her gleaming eyes and brilliant smiles. Winter, smiling always at someone else.

  Blast. He may as well go home, pull the drapes, and lock himself in for the night. Perhaps wallowing was unhealthy, but it was a far sight better to do it in private than before the eyes of all of New York.

  Winter let another candy melt on her tongue and grinned. She exhaled an exaggerated sigh of pleasure and batted her lashes at Colonel Fairchild.

  If she had to eat one more marshmallow, she might lose her dinner. Sweets had been an unaccustomed treat when she first arrived in the city, and she had indeed partaken of more than she ought, but at this point she craved only the vegetables from the farm. Carrots and potatoes sounded like heaven.

  But then, carrots and potatoes didn’t make for very romantic gifts. Anything made primarily of white sugar, however…

  She wondered if Colonel Fairchild knew the long and ancient history of the confection. Of the many medicinal uses of the root of the marsh-growing mallow plant, or how the Egyptians once combined it with honey and offered it to their gods. She suspected not. And suspected too that if she were to educate him, he may think she had lost her mind.

  “I knew you would like them,” he said as he watched her indulge with a warm smile. “Do save some for later though, my darling, for I shan’t be by to bring you more for several days.”

  Praise the Lord for a reason to put the box aside. She did so with another supposedly happy sigh, sliding it onto the bench beside her. A cool breeze blew through the garden, toying with her hair and teasing her nose with the scent of autumn leaves. “Will you be away, Colonel?”

  He pursed his lips. “Not I, but I want to be at the ready. André has set up another meeting with the Patriot defector as last week’s did not work out as planned. And he says that Washington may visit him while he is in the area, so we may even…oh, I dare not hope for that much. ’Twill be enough to gain the general and his post, however many men he brings with him. The rebels will not be able to recover from such a coup. This blasted war may be over soon, my love.”

  The marshmallow churned in her stomach. She smiled brightly. “That is certainly welcome news. I do so tire of all the tinfoil.”

  It took him a moment. “Oh, you mean turmoil. Yes, it wears on us all.”

  “Although…” She pulled forward a whitened curl and twined it around her finger. “What happens when it is over? Do you return to your family in England?”

  His shrug looked so peaceful that her heart had no choice but to worry all the more. “Perhaps, or perhaps I will receive a grant of land here or in Canada. I do like this continent, I confess. I shouldn’t mind making a home here.” He took her hand and kissed her fingers. “Of course, such decisions must also take into account the preferences of the one with whom I intend to build this life.”

  “That is very gracious of you, sir. Many men take no such interest in the preferences of their families.”

  He arched a brow. “Mr. Lane?”

  “Oh!” Bother, she hadn’t thought of how he would interpret that. She had only been thinking of her grandfather. “We have not talked much of his plans beyond returning to Connecticut soon. He does so miss his classes. And his lavatory, of course.”

  Fairchild choked down a laugh that time. “You mean laboratory, my darling.”

  Well, she had to do something to entertain herself. “Yes, of course. That is what I said.”

  “Mmm.” He smiled and stood. “Well, I suggest you talk with him about these matters soon, my dear. While Mr. Lane is a man of many admirable qualities, he can be absentminded about some things. You must be sure you can suffer whatever future he envisions, if you intend to accept his proposal, which will surely be coming soon.”

  She gave him a small smile. He had taken hope from the fact that Bennet hadn’t yet made an offer, she knew, but she could hardly tell him that they had spent the past two months sharing whispered details of their hearts and had been enjoying it too much to rush through it.

  Nor did she want to think of all she could not tell Bennet. The truth of her father, of her loyalties. Of how she prayed that what she did share—her faith, her intellect, her love of simpler ways—would somehow be enough.

  “Well, I must be going. I imagine I will see you, if only briefly, at the Shirleys’ ball tonight, and I will try to come by again on Sunday.”

  She rarely spent time with any gentleman but Bennet at social gatherings these days. Fairchild usually stayed close to André’s side and stared at her half the night. Tonight would they be talking of this upcoming meeting?

  Her spirit weighed heavy within her, making her smile waver. “I shall look forward to it, Colonel. Do caution the major to be careful.”

  He looked surprised by the serious admonition. “Of course. Good afternoon, my dear.”

  “And to you.”

  The moment he disappeared into the house, she ran toward the stable. “Freeman!”

  He waited in the empty stall and motioned her down the stairs. A light already burned. “Mr. Townsend wouldn’t budge, Winter. I did my best to convince him, but I fear he is losing his heart for it again.”

  Thanks to her. She squeezed her eyes shut, that weight only growing. “We must keep trying. André is leaving tomorrow for a meeting with this general who has promised to defect. A general, Freeman. One who has just traveled into the area. Surely Tallmadge and Washington would know who it is with that much information. We must get word to them. We must.”

  Freeman motioned toward her stain and paper. “Write him, then. But, Winnie girl, I rushed home for another reason.”

  She hurried to the shelf and pulled down the invisible ink, her regular ink, two quills, and a sheet of white paper. “What is it?” Onto the table by the lamp she spread out her tools.

  Freeman leaned against the table. “I saw George Knight at the wharf. Dressed as a fisherman and helping load crates onto a small vessel.”

  Easing onto her chair, Winter kept her gaze on Freeman. “Was he with anyone else? Did you recognize them?”

  Freeman nodded. “A few other fishermen from the looks of them. I think…I could be mistaken, but I thought I recognized them from Long Island. Patriots.”

  Once before George Knight had aided a Patriot—Silas, from her farm. And then in July, Fairchild had warned Bennet that his friend was seen in dubious company. Was it possible that Mr. Knight was friendly toward their cause? “Were they crates of weapons, do you think?”

  Though he shrugged, Freeman’s eyes gleamed. “Looked heavy enough to be, though of course I could not investigate it. Winter, is he—”

  “I cannot say. I did not think so.” She sent a whoosh of breath through her lips and focused her gaze on nothing. “He always makes himself sound simply mercenary. Yet to be smuggling crates of weapons in the middle of the day…he either has great love of every coin he can find, or something else driving him to such risky actions.”

  “There remains the possibility that they were not weapons, and the risk therefore not so great.”

  Then why disguise him
self? Winter shook her head and turned to her paper. “A possibility, yes. But if you thought that were the case, you would not have rushed back here.” Angling a smile his way, she opened the inkwell and dipped in her quill.

  They would be at the Shirleys’ tonight, where Winter had attended enough balls that she and Robbie had designated a few locations to slip notes to one another. She would use the bureau in the hallway. And so the logical thing to write in her visible message was a laundry list.

  Freeman chuckled. “True enough. It struck me, for certain. If a gunsmith of Knight’s ilk is making weapons for the Patriots, he could be a friend indeed.”

  Tension made her stomach clench again. “I cannot say if he is our friend—but he is Bennet’s, and he has said on several occasions that if he catches Mr. Knight in dubious enterprises again, he will turn him over to the military.”

  Freeman held her gaze as he rested his hand on her shoulder. “And so if he knew our secret…”

  “He cannot. ’Tis as simple as that.” A realization she came to anew at least once a week, and which never failed to pull her spirits down into the abyss. It seemed every day she loved him more, wanted more to reveal every crevice of her being to him. She wanted to believe he loved her as much.

  But these were strange times they lived in, when family members turned against one another for their loyalties. If Bennet would really offer up his oldest friend to the authorities, then he would certainly do the same to her, whom he had known for less than a year. His reason would rule his heart.

  It always did. And she could hardly resent him for one of the things she loved about him.

  Pushing that aside, she finished her visible writing, put a tiny A in the top corner, and took the cork from the vial of sympathetic stain. She held it up to the light with a frown. So little left—and with the way things were going, Robbie was unlikely to give her more. But she must use it tonight. There was no help for it.