The Blacksmith's Daughter: A Mystery of the American Revolution

by Adair, Suzanne

  Carter studied her, his expression inscrutable. "Well, I must be on my way. I shall expect you this weekend to look over the horse." He lowered his voice. "And should you care to lose that dark-haired lieutenant back there who's been following you through the market, I recommend taking a left at the milliner's stall up ahead, a quick right onto the street, and then waiting out his passage in the apothecary's shop. Good day, madam."

  She was being followed? Betsy resisted the immediate urge to look behind or run. After Carter blended with the crowd, she sashayed to the milliner's stall, pretended to examine hat pins, and tilted her hat to allow a peek at her pursuit: Michael Stoddard, all the way from Alton.

  Panic jiggled her pulse a second or two before reasoning returned its rhythm. If he were in league with Thomas Brown and intended to arrest her, he wouldn't be dawdling over stationery at a stall in Market Square. Curiosity prodded her. Why was he in Camden? She drew a deep breath, mustered courage and a grin, and walked over.

  "Why, Lieutenant Stoddard, what a pleasant surprise! I never expected to see you here."

  When he swept off his hat and bowed, she recognized the wring of fatigue and determination in his face. "Madam, the pleasure is mine." He replaced his hat. "May I have the honor of your company for a stroll?"

  Pleasure, bah. Stoddard hadn't cracked a smile: all business. Still, he didn't seem inclined to arrest her, so she took his elbow, and he escorted her among the pedestrians.

  "I'm relieved to find you well." He lowered his voice. "Considering that your husband is a member of the Ambrose spy ring."

  Annoyance and alarm shoved a sigh from her. "Well, I'm not a member of the ring."

  "Fortunately not."

  "And I haven't the slightest idea where to find Clark. We're estranged. He hasn't confided in me, so if you're hoping I will lead you to him, I must disappoint you."

  "Mrs. Sheridan, I already know that."

  She studied him, puzzled. "Then why have you been following me?"

  "I'm investigating the Ambrose ring."

  "Good hunting, sir. Between you, Mr. Fairfax, and Mr. Neville, I expect the Ambrose ring to collapse within days."

  "Ah, Mr. Neville. I've a need to consult with him, but he's quite a mobile fellow." Stoddard released her arm. They paused, and his dark-eyed gaze pinned hers. "When was the last time you saw him?"

  She blinked at the vehemence in his expression. "Last Sunday, I believe."

  "Where?"

  "He and six Rangers were calling at the office of two surveyors in town."

  "Van Duser and der Waal? Of course. Did you see Mr. Neville elsewhere last Sunday?" Betsy glanced away for a second and felt Stoddard lean into her hesitation. "Mrs. Sheridan, was he at the Leaping Stag? I know you're living there."

  She sucked in a breath of fear and met his stare. "How did you discover that?"

  His gaze upon her was level, direct. "The O'Neals told me."

  And Betsy understood why, even though her reason tried to buck against it. From her first encounter with him in Augusta, Stoddard projected a quiet level-headedness and integrity that said trust me. "For god's sake, please don't tell Mr. Fairfax where I live."

  Some of the fervor left his expression. "I assure you that isn't my intention."

  She exhaled in relief. "Thank you. Yes, Mr. Neville was at the Leaping Stag."

  "And with whom was his business?"

  "Abel Branwell."

  "The husband of your cousin." The lieutenant nodded as if he'd expected her response. Betsy relaxed a little. They walked another quarter minute in silence. He said, "Horrendous business, the murder of that Spaniard in Camden just before you arrived."

  Betsy tensed again. "The murderer hasn't been caught yet. But another Spaniard was murdered the same way in June, in Alton. I heard you'd solved that murder." Beside her, Stoddard stared ahead, jaw stiff. Through flutters in her stomach, she remembered Joshua's theory about the murder in Alton. She pitched her tone with care: even, calm. "Do you suspect the perpetrator is here?" Stoddard said nothing. Fear cratered Betsy's stomach again. "If so, why did you let him go in Alton? Someone who tortures people to death. Ugh! He may kill again."

  Stoddard's voice sounded thick, as if he'd just coughed up a chunk of inedible gristle stuck in his throat. "I assure you I'm as appalled by injustice as you are."

  And powerless, Betsy realized with consternation and empathy, comprehending what had happened in Alton. Stoddard, the junior officer, had solved the murder but been duty-bound to swallow policy delivered by a superior. Her logic linked his line of questions then, transformed her dismay to horror. "Is Mr. Fairfax a spy, a member of the Ambrose ring?"

  "Mr. Fairfax visited the Leaping Stag a few days ago. Did you see him there?"

  She nodded, bit her lip, and turned away in terror. Stoddard hadn't answered her question — or perhaps he had, by not answering it — and he was tailing Fairfax. "I hid from him."

  He walked a semicircle to face her, again pausing their stroll. "A wise decision. Was his business also with Mr. Branwell?"

  "No. He visited one of the prostitutes."

  "And her name?"

  "Margaret." Guilt flicked her. She hoped Margaret wasn't in trouble.

  "Thank you, Mrs. Sheridan. If you see either Mr. Neville or Mr. Fairfax again, I will appreciate your sending word to me immediately through Mr. Bledsoe, the tailor on Littleton Street. He's in the shop next to the printer where you're employed."

  Where you're employed. Winter raked her ribs. She hadn't the slightest awareness that Stoddard had been tailing her and wondered whether Fairfax knew he was under surveillance. Stoddard also seemed interested in the Branwells. Did he know of their blackmail scheme?

  He said, "Colonel Brown informed me that bandits ambushed your party during your return to Augusta from Alton and that the Spaniard who killed the Givenses was among them."

  "The Spaniard wasn't exactly one of them, sir. He was following, watching the event."

  "But he was the same Spaniard that you and I saw in Alton, and the same man who threatened you at the O'Neal's house?"

  "Yes."

  "Think back for me, if you will, to the attack of the bandits. Aside from the presence of the Spaniard, did anything strike you as curious about the attack?"

  The vortex of memory flung her to those dreadful moments when, immobilized, the bandit's knife to her throat, she gaped down the barrel of Fairfax's pistol. The devil damn you black for a liar. She shuddered. What a peculiar thing for one stranger to say to another — unless the bandit and Fairfax hadn't been strangers to each other. "It was almost as if Mr. Fairfax knew the bandits."

  A thin smile of predatory resolve chiseled Stoddard's face. "Curious, indeed."

  In the swelter of sunlight, ice scraped her. Weeks before, on the road to Alton, Stoddard had enjoyed watching a hawk stoop for a field rat. Stoddard had become a hawk.

  The big picture assembled for Betsy and left her shaken. Fairfax, realizing that Stoddard had implicated him in the murder of the Spaniard in Alton, had commissioned ruffians to kill Stoddard during his trip to Augusta and disguise the deed as the work of highwaymen. That Stoddard and his men emerged the victors from the encounter didn't deter the ruffians from pouncing on Fairfax two days later in attempt to collect their commission. Stoddard's honor as an officer prevented his outright admission of the treachery, so he'd steered her to the conclusion, that she might comprehend the magnitude of her own precarious position in Camden.

  He exhaled a deep breath and said in a mild tone, "You may be in danger at the Leaping Stag. Should you need help, send for me through Mr. Bledsoe. I shall see to your safety."

  With all the surveillance he'd performed, he must know about Tom. But he hadn't mentioned helping him. Not for anything in the world would she abandon Tom. "Why should I trust you?"

  "A shrewd question to ask, madam." A quirky smile snagged one side of his mouth before it sank back into the seriousness. "But one you must answer for yourself. You know
how to reach me. Unless I'm occupied with an emergency, I shall come immediately." He touched his cocked hat. "I must be off. Thank you for the conversation. Good day." After a curt bow, he strode away, leaving Betsy to her doubts.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  "BETSY! WHAT A wonderful surprise!" Tom the journeyman navigated benches of apprentices hammering and sewing at Wade and Gamble's, hugged her, and eyed her basket. "Dinner?"

  She nodded and rubbed her temple at all the pounding in the shop. "This isn't the place to be if you've a headache, is it? Might we find a spot in the shade of the porch and eat together?"

  "Certainly. Give me a few minutes to finish a piece of cowhide, and I shall meet you there."

  Outside, she removed her hat, sat in the shade, and fanned herself, trying to shove away anxiety over Stoddard, Fairfax, Neville, and the Branwells. Manage one problem at a time, she told herself. In about ten minutes, the hubbub within the shop dwindled. Four apprentices filed out and scampered home for a midday break, joyous to be soaking up sunlight. In another minute, planks creaked behind her. Tom knelt to plant a kiss on the back of her neck.

  They ogled each other until his smile slanted off into a grin of apology. "What's for dinner? I'm starved."

  She laughed and shoved at his chest. Moments later they were devouring the bread, cheese, and ham Hattie had packed. "I shall spoil you if I bring dinner every day."

  "Oh, I can never be spoiled enough by you." He swigged ale. "By the by, did you hear the news?"

  "Oh, no, what is General Gates up to now?"

  "Not Gates. One of van Duser's slaves found both his bodyguards' corpses in the pond on the property this morning."

  She stopped chewing and reached for her ale, her mouth gone dry. "Abel's complained for two days that van Duser is avoiding him, not keeping appointments."

  Tom's eyebrows rose. "Both bodyguards' throats had been slit sometime late yesterday afternoon or early evening. Do you suppose van Duser met the same fate?"

  She suspected the Dutchman, deprived of the protection of his bodyguards since late Wednesday, may very well have met a different fate, and one neither as quick nor as tidy. "I'd rather not ponder it while I'm eating dinner."

  "Ah. My pardon."

  For the time, she'd decided to keep news of her encounter with Stoddard to herself. Upon hearing of it, Tom might seek the hero's ground, insist that she accept the lieutenant's protection and abandon him in Camden. She wasn't in the mood to debate it with him. "Since we're trading news, I've some you'll find quite interesting. Abel and Emma haven't made their fortune solely from the tavern."

  "I figured as much."

  "They live like nobility and support rebel spies because they also operate a blackmail business."

  Tom lifted his tankard. "Here's to Abel, the consummate businessman. Who are they blackmailing, and how?"

  "Emma becomes irresistible for wealthy men passing through Camden. When they're in her arms, Abel plays the outraged, cuckolded husband. The result being one of many charitable donations ranging from 1,200 to 2,800 pounds I found recorded in Abel's ledger dating back three years."

  Tom's jaw dangled open. "Zounds!"

  "I realize Emma's providing you with great sport these days, but I think it wise for you to discontinue your recreation."

  He snickered. "Why? No money means no blackmail."

  "Think again. Abel has a connection with Adam Neville. We could wind up in Camden jail and be hauled back to Augusta."

  He sobered and looked away in annoyance. "It won't be easy stopping it, Betsy. You don't realize the sorts of persuasion Emma uses to lure me in."

  "I can imagine. I fancy using some of it myself sometimes."

  His expression was all eagerness. "Really?"

  When it came to lust, it was true; all men were alike. "Is irresistible persuasion on Emma's part all that captivates you?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, then, let us think of a way to discourage her from using that irresistible persuasion on you."

  He shook his head. "She doesn't listen to the word 'no.'"

  "Then she must be convinced to stop persuading you."

  He narrowed his gaze on her. "You look as if you're plotting something dastardly."

  "When do you see her again?"

  "Tonight, right after I finish supper."

  "In her bedroom?"

  "Yes."

  Betsy felt a good purr coming on. "Let's arrange a surprise for my cousin. And do be certain you leave her door unlocked."

  ***

  Almost out of breath from running that evening, she flew in through the back door of the tavern and up the stairs. Hattie's voice followed: "Child, where you goin'? I got yo' supper hot." Betsy's stomach rumbled at the mention of food, but she was ten minutes late. She couldn't let Tom down.

  Outside Emma's door, she paused to catch her breath. Then she stretched a fake smile across her face and let herself in. "Hello, everyone, sorry to be late. We were having trouble with column alignment at the print shop!"

  Emma, who was nude, gawked at her from a reclining position on the satin-draped bed. Tom, who was bare-chested, winked at Betsy and resumed kissing Emma's navel. Lilac-scented candles illuminated the room.

  Betsy propped her hands on her hips and returned Emma's gape. "Didn't Tom tell you? He invited me tonight to watch. You two have been having such fun, and we've been trying some of it on our own, but there are a few techniques that I'd appreciate seeing demonstrated." She opened her arms wide. "So here I am!" She beamed at her cousin.

  Speechless, Emma sat up, fumbled for her sheets, and shoved Tom off her. With a growl, he buried his face between her breasts. Emma panted and pushed him away again, dangling her leg over the side of the bed in attempt to escape. "Stop it, you dolt, don't you see your wife is here? My cousin!"

  Tom scooped her back into bed. "Join us, Betsy."

  "I thought you'd never ask." She sashayed over pulling the tucker from her jacket and leered at Emma. "You don't mind, do you? Or is the thought of tender play with your own kin a little too bizarre, even for South Carolina?"

  A choking noise issued from Emma's throat. Tom kissed her nose. "Aw, Emma, honey, didn't Betsy's kin ever show you a real Georgia welcome? Maybe you'll come back with us next time we visit my kin. My little sister Diana is the prettiest thing."

  "Aargghh!" Emma flung Tom off her. "Get out, both of you!"

  Betsy glanced over her shoulder at the open door. "Isn't Abel going to join us? The more the merrier, you know."

  "Didn't you hear me? I said out!" Emma backed into the corner, a silk dressing gown covering one pendulous breast, and burst into tears.

  Tom dragged his shirt, waistcoat, and coat off the floor, his expression grumpy. "Well, all right, if you say so, but I didn't expect this of you, Emma." He bundled up his stockings and shoes and patted Betsy's shoulder in consolation.

  As they were closing the bedroom door on a shocked Emma, Betsy leaned back in. "Let us know if you change your mind." A small object flew through the air and smacked the doorframe near her right ear. She jerked the door shut.

  Tom bounded down the hallway to the other end of the floor, and she bustled after him. Inside their room, they collapsed on the bed in laughter so merry it mingled with tears. After a few minutes, he caught his breath. "You're damned lucky she didn't take you up on your offer. God almighty, Betsy, you scare the saints out of me sometimes with how well you sham."

  "How well I sham? I'm wondering now what sort of company you keep with your little sister."

  "Are you now?" With a villain's leer, he rolled over and tickled her ribs. "Here's a sampling of the torture you'll incur should you ever breathe a word of that scene to Diana."

  Betsy yowled and wiggled free a hand to jab his armpit. "And I possess retaliatory measures both excruciating and effective." They wrestled, legs tangling in her petticoat. She pinned him on his back, straddled him, and laughed. "Surrender!"

  "Tell me your terms." Lips parted, expres
sion relaxed, he gazed at her in the waning daylight, and his heat seeped through her shift to permeate her inner thighs. She loosened a hand and ran fingertips over his naked chest. When his groin stirred, he grasped her hips and nudged a pulse of hardness up against her. "Remind me who's the captive."

  She slid down so her chest pressed to his and kissed the corner of his mouth. Her nostrils filled with his scent: clean, grassy. "You are."

  He flipped them over so she lay beneath him, her head dangling off the bed: daring, different, decadent. A shudder rippled through her at the warmth of his lips on her shoulders and upper chest, so naked and vulnerable without the tucker. Far too often she'd wanted him when the timing wasn't quite right. But at that moment, she couldn't imagine why the whole night shouldn't be theirs. She seized his hair in her fingers and met his kiss with a mouth just as hard and wet as his.

  Three hours later, he rolled to a sitting position on the edge of the bed and struck flint on steel. Light blossomed in the salty darkness. He lifted the candleholder to illuminate the gleam of sweat on her naked skin and the mellowness in his own expression. "Lie there and let me look at you a moment."

  She smiled, and, since the looking went both ways, allowed her gaze to ramble the slender line of his pelvis into his nest of dampened pubic hair, where arousal already engorged him for the fourth time. The child within her kicked. She reached for Tom's free hand and drifted it over the spot on her belly. Amazement roved his face. He set down the candle and curled up with his cheek on her belly, his palm stroking her hip, while she ran her fingers through the sweat-darkened hair on his head.

  How wondrous it felt to lie so at rest within a man and not fret over the sensation of incompleteness she'd experienced too often after making love to Clark, the knowledge of superficial lust satiated without either of them having penetrated the other. No matter how many times Clark brought her to le petit mort, she'd suspected she was connecting with but a fragment of life. His deep insecurity had deprived him of being the friend to her that Tom had become.