Ring of Secrets

by Roseanna M. White

  An enemy who was a friend.

  She swiped away rain and tears and risked a glance up to see how much farther they must go. Only a few more buildings.

  And praise be to the Father that He did all the weighing, all the judging. She would never, could never understand His ways. And so she would always be conflicted.

  Freeman caught her elbow. “Hurry. He is locking up.”

  Winter broke into an outright run, but Robbie had still made it nearly to the corner before she caught him. She whispered his name once she was close enough for him to hear.

  Robbie spun around with a startled frown and tugged his collar up to meet his hat. “Winnie! What are you doing here?”

  “Shh.” She motioned him into an alley. A roar of thunder ripped through the sky.

  Taking what cover could be found beside a stack of crates, Robbie looked from her to Freeman. “Again, what are you doing here? If you mean to try to get me to warn seven-one-one of this possible defector again—”

  “Have you not heard?” She forced herself to take a deep breath, though her throat wanted to close off. “André has been arrested by the Patriots, and so they have discovered General Arnold’s intentions.”

  Robbie drew in a sharp breath. “Arnold? Nay, say you jest. And Major André?”

  No nod had ever felt so painful. “He will be hanged next week.”

  “Nay.” This time his denial came out as no more than a murmur. “It cannot be. He is such a fine man, so friendly and well liked by all.”

  “’Tis as true as it is terrible. Fairchild came to tell me as soon as he found out.”

  He squeezed his eyes shut as he made a visible effort to keep his breathing even. Freeman reached out and rested a hand on his shoulder. “We thought you would want to know.”

  Robbie didn’t open his eyes. “I should have sent your message. I should have warned them weeks ago, and then this meeting never would have taken place. Arnold would be the one arrested, and André would be free and safe.”

  For a moment Winter just looked at him. ’Twas the first time in months she had been so close to her old friend, had exchanged words with him. Why must they be words so laden with death? With implications so very unmistakable?

  If it could happen to André, it could happen to them.

  And she didn’t even know, anymore, how to try to comfort him. He was no longer a friend whose hand she could clasp. No longer the brother to whom she could offer a shoulder. Yet still so much a part of all she had become, one of the few who knew from whence she came.

  She must do something. And so she drew a bit closer and rested her gloved fingers on his arm. “I daresay they would not have believed it of General Arnold even if we had sent a message. They cannot deny it when they intercept the man who has turned him, but on mere rumor and hearsay?” She shook her head. “He did not manage to deliver West Point, which had apparently been his plan. So all is not as disastrous as it could have been.”

  Brilliant light arrowed through the gloom, charging the air with a snap and sizzle. Thunder pounced and rolled. Robbie’s lips turned up, but it could hardly be termed a smile. “How can you find hope in circumstances like these?”

  What was it Viney had said when Winter asked her something similar? They are only circumstances. The men out there may define me by them, but thank the Lord, He does not.

  How true those words were. Perhaps man and man’s justice doled out death and defeat. But the Lord’s hand was still outstretched with life and victory. Winter patted his arm. “It may seem impossible, but our faith is founded on what mere logic says cannot be.”

  Perhaps that was why Bennet seemed not to have made the leap from knowledge to belief.

  Emotion washed over Robbie’s features as sure as the deluge of rain, affection as piercing as the lightning. “You can always…how I wish things were different.” Shaking his head, he drew away from her hand. “In addition to faith, we also need caution. Tread with care, Winnie. Promise me.”

  “I will. And you must too, even more so. No one but you knows of my involvement, but the entire ring knows of yours.” She pursed her lips when the heavens barked their fury again, drowning out anything else she may have said.

  Freeman stepped close to her side. “We had better get back.”

  “Yes, you had better.” Robbie edged away from the crates and tugged his hat a little lower. Then he paused at her side. “Winnie…”

  She lifted her brows and waited.

  The rain sluiced down, dripping off the corners of his hat. He bent down, eyes echoing the storm, and pressed his lips to her cheek. Then he stepped back. “Thank you for being the one to tell me.”

  Winter could only nod and watch him stride away as the rain washed his kiss from her cheek.

  Twenty-One

  Ben slid behind a taller man and peeked over his shoulder at the contingent of soldiers riding down the street. At the lead trotted the traitor himself, head held high and chest puffed out beneath his pristine red coat.

  Perhaps it was his imagination that made him think the citizens around him all shrank back and hid their secrets behind their halfhearted cheers. In all likelihood that was his own frustration coloring his perception, for it seemed that ever since General Arnold arrived in New York, no honest thoughts ever found their way to lips—or, at least, no honest thought that breathed a word against the British establishment.

  How in thunder was he supposed to discover whether certain parties had been involved in espionage when anyone with mixed loyalties was all of a sudden mute?

  George, beside him, crossed his arms over his chest and glared with pursed lips at New York’s newest person of infamy. ’Twas no great mystery why. His father, along with countless others, had been hauled in for questioning under Arnold’s orders not two days ago.

  It seemed the man was determined to earn his thirty pieces of silver by finding the spies that were operating in the city. As if arresting every man who had once spoken against the Crown would lead him to the elusive ring.

  Blasted traitor. Mrs. Hampton had one thing right. No man could ever be trusted again after he turned on his cause for monetary gain. And now he was here scaring into silence everyone to whom Ben needed to talk to make the last connections in his own hunt.

  One far more orderly than this willy-nilly arresting nonsense. Arnold had no idea how to go about the business Ben had been agonizing over for so long, and he would ruin all his efforts if he kept this up. Anyone who knew anything would be frightened underground.

  George spun away and jerked a head in the direction of Rivington’s. “Coffee?”

  “I would like nothing more.” He matched his stride to his morose friend’s. “Is it me, or has everyone been looking askance at everyone else since Benedict Arnold came to town?”

  With a snort, George shoved a hand into his pocket. “’Tisn’t you. With a man of his ilk proving how fleeting loyalties can be, no one is willing to trust anyone. Every word ever spoken is being examined and judged.” He sent Ben a sideways glance. “Not that you have anything to worry about, what with Archie in the army and your father in England. You could climb up on your rooftop and scream ‘Down with tyranny!’ and no one would mutter a word against you.”

  Ben echoed George’s snort. “Somehow I doubt that, my friend. Were I to say such things, my brother and father may be the first to haul me in.” He hesitated but a moment. “And speaking of fathers?”

  His friend gritted his teeth. “They released him this morning, but with a threat to take all our military contracts from us.” An unfortunate stone met George’s shoe and went hurtling into the alley. “Blast it, Ben, I am sick to death of this supposed rule of the military. They are the most corrupt bunch of louts I have ever seen, and they are running roughshod over us all. Doesn’t matter what side you are on, not really, only whose pockets you line.”

  Oh, how he hoped none of those louts were within earshot now. Ben did a quick check over his shoulder. “Valid as that complai
nt may be, do keep it quiet, George.”

  Shoulders hunched, his friend looked the part of a disgruntled delinquent ready to pick his next fight. “Or what? Will you turn me over to your saintly Colonel Fairchild? Or maybe your reprobate of a brother?”

  It took all his willpower not to roll his eyes. “I realize you are frustrated and angry, but could you at least try not to be a complete dunderhead?”

  George came to a halt and, when Ben followed suit, glowered at him. “What am I supposed to think?” His voice was low, tight as a throb. “Every time we meet lately, you are cautioning me not to say this, not to do that, lest you have to turn me in.”

  Ben took a step closer and returned the glower. Odd—had he always been so much taller than George? It had never struck him before. “Have you ever paused to consider why I only issue warnings and have not done it?”

  George opened his mouth but then closed it again and lifted his brows.

  “I thought not.” Ben loosed an exasperated breath and shook his head. “You are my friend, George. My oldest, truest friend. I would never—but if thinking I would has a chance of getting you to halt activities that could get you killed, obviously I will issue the threat.”

  Not a muscle in George’s face twitched. He just stared at him, no doubt trying to digest what exactly he meant by that.

  Ben chuckled, though he felt far from amused. “Do you think me unaware of what you have been doing? That I have forgotten that night in my garden, that I am blind to the times I have seen you sneaking off somewhere or deaf to the warnings others have given me about you?”

  Panic flashed through his friend’s eyes. “I…that is…”

  “Nay.” He put on the same expression he used when a student decided, after a small explosion, to take his word for how two chemicals would react. “I am no fool. But neither am I fond of seeing my acquaintances, much less my friends, lynched.”

  George looked off into the distance, his freckles standing out as his face went pale. “I am in no such danger. They only hang spies.”

  And he was not that. Ben had verified as much months ago. “True. Arms smugglers they would simply shoot on the spot.”

  Now ’twas George who glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one overheard. “I don’t know of what you speak, Ben old man.”

  “Mm-hmm.” Ben motioned his friend onward. Once they were walking again, he shook his head. “One would think that, given recent events, everyone would see the dangers inherit in any clandestine work and cease at once.” His, of course, was entirely different. He was trying to find the spies. He had not become one himself.

  George shoved his hands into his pockets again. “You are all logic. I daresay there is nothing in this world you believe in enough to take a risk for it. Leastways, nothing you cannot grasp with your hands.”

  “That is not true.” If it were, the accusation would not have sounded like one to his ears. “I believe that much in loyalty—if I did not, I wouldn’t have spent the last months protecting you and trying to warn you against what might get you killed. I would have consigned you to the consequences.”

  “Loyalty.” George spat the word like an oath. “The word has lost all meaning. If we side with the land in which we were born rather than some tyrannical monarch thousands of miles away, we are called disloyal. If, on the other hand, we offer lip service to the Crown while dancing through the war feasting on delicacies and tossing our sterling at the London Trade, then we are lauded as Loyalists. No Tory I know gives a whit about England or the king’s right to rule us, Ben, and that’s the honest truth. They simply lack the gumption to fight for what seems a losing cause.”

  A smile slithered its way around Ben’s frustration and onto his lips. “But you don’t care about blue coats or red, of course. Only about sterling.”

  George angled a grin his way too. “A story I intend to maintain, as no British officer can argue with it.” His gaze went over Ben’s shoulder, and sobriety won his face. “Well, most officers cannot.”

  Following George’s gaze, he saw Colonel Fairchild striding down Broadway, probably having come either from the barracks or the jail. Ben sighed. Even from here, the weight on the man’s shoulders was unmistakable. He looked as though the entire world pressed upon him, bending his spine and forcing his gaze down.

  Poor fellow. Ben had tried to distract him on the second with a fishing trip, but Fairchild had only sat on the bank and stared at his line all morning. Not surprising, but it reminded Ben of why he hadn’t attempted fishing since a boy by his father’s side. If he was going to be surrounded by silence for so long, he would prefer to do it with a quill in hand and paper before him, if not his full laboratory.

  George shook his head. “I have never much cared for Fairchild, but I feel badly for him. First he loses his ladylove to you, and now his best friend to the Patriot executioner.”

  “Thank you for grouping me with a hangman, George. Really.”

  “Well, I imagine it feels much the same to him.”

  Ben growled halfhearted agreement. He had been toying with the idea of proposing whenever the opportunity arose, but perhaps it would be best to wait, to give Fairchild time to heal. Or perhaps the merciful thing would be to do it now, so that the colonel wouldn’t put too much hope in her, only to be let down once more.

  “Toss the man a bone,” George said, elbowing him. “Break things off with Miss Reeves.”

  He returned the jab in the side. “Perhaps I shall heed your advice when you heed mine.”

  Though Rivington’s loomed directly ahead, George halted again. “Would you? Give up your foolish involvement if I did the same?”

  Was that serious contemplation in his friend’s eyes? Ben shook his head. “I was jesting. I cannot. I love her. I intend to ask her to marry me soon.”

  “And you call me a dunderhead.” George looked off into the distance. “Ben, I know you cannot understand why I do what I do any more than I can understand your affection for that ninny. But if she will make you happy, you know I will wish you well. I hope you can offer me the same respect in spite of not agreeing with my position.”

  Ben could nod with no compunction. But as they moved on again, he couldn’t help but wonder how someone who knew him so well could know him so little.

  Perhaps he was better at this covert business than he had thought.

  Rob headed for the apex of Queen Street, where it angled from northeast to east. His gaze locked on the sign for Hercules Mulligan’s emporium, and he nearly bumped into two soldiers jogging across the busy thoroughfare.

  “Pardon us, Mr. Townsend.”

  Rob offered a smile to the officers and gave way to them. “My fault, gentlemen. I was paying no heed. And where are you headed this fine autumn day?”

  The soldiers exchanged a glance, and then one nodded toward the emporium. “About some business with Mr. Mulligan, is all.”

  “Ah, as am I.” Rob motioned them to go on ahead of him. They were no doubt in search of some shiny epaulettes or gold buttons. Braid. Perhaps new scarlet coats altogether. All those things that officers considered of the utmost importance.

  He hoped one of the tailors under Mulligan could help them. Rob had received a note from his old friend asking him to stop by, and it could very well be because he had information to pass along. Culper Junior had yet to send any intelligence out since General Arnold descended upon the city last week, but Roe was scheduled to come by tomorrow.

  The very thought of putting a letter into the courier’s hand made his nerves blaze. Yes, the dangers had always been there, but never like this. The entire military was still reeling from André’s execution, thirsting for blood. And Benedict Arnold had made it known to everyone that his new life’s purpose was to find Washington’s ring of spies in the City of New York. Rob’s ring of spies. Rob himself.

  Every time he swallowed, he could feel the noose that awaited him.

  The soldiers in front of him opened the door to Mulligan’s and held it
for him. He muttered his thanks and preceded them into the warm interior. A fire crackled cheerfully in the hearth, and an older man greeted them all with a smile. “Good afternoon, sirs. Do you have appointments?”

  One of the officers stepped forward before Rob could answer with an affirmative. “Nay, but we are here on order of the general. We must see Mr. Mulligan at once.”

  Rob’s throat closed a little more.

  “Certainly. One moment while I fetch him.” The assistant disappeared into the back. While he was gone, the soldiers did a great deal of sighing and shifting but indulged in none of the chatter Rob was used to hearing when in company with such men—and these men in particular.

  He took a chair and picked up a newspaper, hoping the rustling of pages would keep them from hearing the raging beat of his heart.

  After an interminable minute, Mulligan appeared. He was dressed with his usual impeccable style, his usual perfectly arranged wig, his usual smile. But Rob detected uncertainty in the eyes of his father’s friend even as he clapped his hands together. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. What can I do to assist you today? Do you need to place an order?”

  The men looked to each other as if silently urging the other to speak. Both shifted from foot to foot. At length, the same one who had spoken before stepped forward. “I am afraid such happy business is not what brings us here today, Mr. Mulligan. We have been given orders by General Arnold to arrest you.”

  Mulligan’s only visible response was the arch of a single brow. “On what grounds, sir? Did I cut his new coat incorrectly? For I assure you, I have done nothing else that could possibly be of interest to him.”

  The second soldier drew in a long breath. “’Tis nothing you did—recently, anyway. The general wishes to question anyone who expressed loyalty to the rebels before we won the city. Your name came up.”

  “Did it now?” With a cool efficacy Rob could never hope to emulate, Mulligan folded his arms over his chest. “If he wishes to speak with me, then perhaps we ought to have a drink together.”