“Scandal? Is that all you care about, avoiding a scandal?” She wrenched her arm away. “Jessie was right. You and the others, you’ll close ranks around Jamieson. Nothing, nothing will happen to him. You’ll make up some story and go on with your plays, your cockfights, your attentions to us, little things that mean nothing.”
“Miss Champion—”
“Despicable! You’re all despicable. Never set foot in Third Street again.” She picked up her skirts and stumbled to the door. Seconds later he heard her running down the stairs.
For a moment he didn’t move. Hell and damnation, this was fine thanks for his help. He might as well leave and let Jamieson take care of his sordid mess.
But as he stood there, the implications of the situation began to take hold with mounting force. Everyone had admired little Constance Brown. Her family had position and influence. Jamieson had killed the girl as surely as if he had used the knife himself.
Thrusting his hands into his pockets, he went to the window. In the courtyard below, two dogs with legs bowed from turning spits were fighting over a bone. A small child ran from a doorway. A hand pulled it back. The place was filled with people watching who came in and out. Had other girls died in this room?
He shook his head to clear it. How to confront the man? Jamieson played by his own rules, making a fortune by luring weaklings to the gambling table—and by winning the cockfights in Moore’s Alley.
Last week the betting had been high between a brown-red stag owned by Major Whitelaw and Jamieson’s Pyle. The birds had been evenly matched, but the red showed no fight. In the end, the victory— and big winnings—had gone to Jamieson’s Pyle as they often did.
Afterwards Charles talked to a seasoned handler. “Sergeant, can a bird be stopped from fighting?”
The sergeant laughed. “Don’t tell me you toffs don’t know that trick? Just take a little sulfur powder and rub it on the head. The other bird won’t touch you. Not as I’d ever do such a thing, but there’s those who will, and not too long ago.”
The smell in the little room was growing stronger. Flies were buzzing around the pile of bloody cloths. He closed his eyes and tried not to breathe or look at the little body under the quilt. Jamieson wore the uniform of an officer and a gentleman, the regimental buttons and facings, but underneath he was a scoundrel, a scoundrel who thought he could rise in the world by seducing rich girls and then forcing them to marry him. The man would use every ploy to escape responsibilities, but one thing was certain. It wouldn’t be easy, the man was clever, but for the honor of the regiment he must be made to resign.
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
February 17, 1778
Time was passing. There was shouting in the courtyard. Rain was slanting against the dirty window—and still no sign of Jamieson. At last, the sound of heavy boots on the stairs. Charles straightened, took a deep breath, and faced the door. It opened and Jamieson came in. His boots were wet and muddy. “Colborne? What the devil—” he began; then he looked at the bed.
“Dead,” Charles said. “The midwife’s knife slipped.”
“Christ.” Jamieson crossed the room and raised the quilt. Charles was silent; it was only fair to give the man time to collect himself. Then came the question he was expecting.
“Why are you here?”
“I was asked to come, never mind how.”
Jamieson lowered the quilt. He passed a hand over his face. “This is a sad business,” he said in a low voice. “I went to her father, and he refused to let us marry. A child would have brought him around, but she didn’t dare tell him.”
“Why bring her to this place?”
“The midwife is the best in the city. You’d be surprised at the ladies that come to her, not just the soldiers’ women.”
“You should have stayed.”
“There were last minute orders to intercept food going to Valley Forge. I paid the midwife extra to wait until I came back.”
“What then?”
“She wanted to go to a witless old grandmother on Mulberry Street. She said the old lady would believe a story about suddenly being taken ill and put her to bed without asking questions. I brought a carriage. It’s waiting on Front Street.”
“That won’t stop talk now.”
“Why not? Only a doctor would know the real cause. A few weeks of mourning, a certain amount of talk, and it will be over.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. Good God, man, even you can’t expect to walk away from this with a whole skin. Look outside. The courtyard is filled with people who saw you bring a woman here and know precisely how she died. By tomorrow there’ll be talk in the ranks. The officers will hear.”
Jamieson shrugged. “Nothing that will stick. Besides, you’ve been seen here as well.”
Charles clenched his fists. “I’m not known for seducing ladies with money,” he said hotly. “Don’t forget, I was standing with you at the first ball when De Lancey pointed out the heiresses. You tried to get Mrs. Sage’s niece upstairs to the gaming tables. That didn’t work, so you settled for Miss Brown. Another heiress, like the one you compromised in New York.”
“Watch what you say, sir.”
“I say that today you’ve gone too far. This scandal will reflect on the regiment. On all of us. You must resign your commission and leave. The sooner the better.”
Jamieson straightened. He cleared his throat. “You have some very strict notions, Colborne. What if I give you my word that nothing like this will happen again while I’m with the regiment?”
“Too late for that. Miss Brown died from aborting your child. When Sir William hears the story he’ll have to act.”
“Leave with a cloud over my head? I think not.”
“You have no choice.”
“Ah, but I do.” He looked down at the bed again and then turned. “Listen to me, Colborne. For you and your friends, war is a game. Toy soldiers marching up a hill and down again, but history shows there are many ways to win a war. Achieving information is the most powerful weapon of all.”
“What are you getting at?”
“This. You’re a welcome caller at Third Street, quite the favorite there. You escort Miss Champion to all the parties. It may surprise you to hear that fine loyalist Mrs. Sage is an informer, a spy for General Washington himself.”
Charles stiffened. Then he laughed. “Mrs. Sage a spy? You might as well accuse her old black butler.”
“Laugh, but I have evidence. Last August Mrs. Sage wrote a letter to the general offering to pass on information that you and your loose-tongued friends might let fall. No doubt she brought her countrified niece to Philadelphia and schooled her to do the same.”
“Ridiculous. They don’t ask questions about military matters.”
“No, but they listen.”
“See here—”
“It so happens that I have that letter. If you don’t believe me, you may come to my lodgings and read it for yourself.”
“That’s no proof. Letters can be forged.”
“Very well. On New Year’s Eve there was a dancing party at the Chews’. Was Miss Champion there?”
“She was visiting an old lady on the other side of town.”
“That was the story, but she was twenty miles away at Valley Forge, dressed as a runaway boy and wearing a wig that slipped and showed her hair. If you don’t believe me, go to Third Street and ask her. Watch her face. The fact is, those two have been using you for their own purposes.”
Charles straightened. True, he had arrived at Third Street that night, expecting to escort Miss Champion to the Chews. Mrs. Sage had met him in the hall. “My niece is so sorry, but she was called to help an old lady who lives across the city. A family friend who came with her on the stage from Connecticut.” He had accepted the situation with good grace and gone off to celebrate the New Year. Not likely that a girl would be taken to Valley Forge in winter. Jamieson was a cornered rat who would do anything to save his skin.
He raised his hand “See here, Jamieson. Nothing changes the fact that you seduced Miss Brown. She was carrying your child, and now she’s dead. Go to Sir William tomorrow. Resign your commission, or I tell him what happened here today.”
“Indeed. Then here’s my last offer. Give me your word to say nothing. If you refuse, I will take that letter to Captain Cunningham at the Walnut Street Prison. Believe me, the gallant captain will be happy to have two fine lady spies in his hands. You know how he will treat them, especially the enticing Miss Champion.”
Charles’s head went back. He could see Cunningham’s shaved head. Smell his foul breath. Whether or not those two were spies, he could never be responsible for sending them to Cunningham— and Jamieson knew it. “You’re no gentleman,” he said thickly. “You deserve to be horsewhipped.”
Jamieson smiled. “I repeat. In return for your silence, Mrs. Sage and her niece are safe from Captain Cunningham. I sell out in the usual way. Leave the country and go back to England. A fair exchange. Do I have your word?”
“Yes, you have my word and be damned to you,” he gritted; then he picked up his cape and hat and rushed down the stairs.
Dogs were still fighting in the court. He strode by, aware that eyes were watching from windows. Out on the street, pigeons were picking at a pile of garbage. He kicked at them, feeling like a schoolboy outwitted by a clever bully. He needed a drink before going back to work and facing the others.
“Christ,” he muttered, startling two passersby. “Christ,” he said again, louder. A day that had started badly at the Walnut Street prison had gone from disaster to disaster. With no warning, his pleasant, orderly life had suddenly become a hell hole of lies and deception.
CHAPTER
TWENTY
February 24, 1778
Captain Jamieson’s lodgings were situated in Ewing’s Alley, next to the Weekly Advertiser. His elderly landlady, a Mrs. Cove, almost cried with relief when he told her he was selling out and leaving the city. In her eyes, the captain was a cold man, never a polite word in passing or a small present of food. Worse, his batman, Landers, was a sneak with the yellow eyes of an animal. A few nights ago he had slunk in, too drunk to climb the stairs. He had even stolen a key to her back door and refused to give it back. A nasty pair, and anyone could see that the captain’s business was not all military; in the past few days an odd mix of visitors had come knocking at her door.
Early that evening, Jamieson was sorting out his possessions when Landers slid into the room. “Are you needing me tonight, sir?”
“No, but watch what you do. Get into more trouble and I’ll leave you behind with your whores.” It would never happen—they knew too much about each other—but it was essential to keep a whip hand over Landers.
A year ago, when he heard a private in his company was in prison for violence, he saw a potential use for this man. He had him freed and brought him to this country as his personal servant. Landers was now a profitable asset, but there was always a risk. Drinking and whoring loosened the man’s tongue. On the other hand, he had an uncanny skill of killing with a knife and then slipping away unnoticed, a skill that came to him as easily as breathing. His reputation as a killer had spread and was in demand, which was why a spy named Coomes had paid a high price for his services and taken him to Valley Forge.
Eight days later, Landers had staggered into the lodgings in Ewer’s Alley, half dead from walking twenty miles in the snow. Braced with large doses of brandy, he was finally able to talk.
“I were staying between the beams in the hayloft when Coomes come flying up the ladder. ‘I been outed,’ he says. ‘An aide was at the stable, then an officer I never seen before rides up with what he says is a runaway boy but it’s a girl. She’s looking at me. The wig slips. Long red hair falls down over her face.’”
“A girl with long red hair. Interesting. Then?”
“Coomes give me this here packet of letters he took from a courier’s bag. ‘For your master, if I’m caught,’ he says. He was. I waited till dark and got away.”
In the end, Landers recovered, Coomes was hanged, the attempt to assassinate the general failed, but the letter from Mrs. Sage was being put to good use. There would be no scandal, no forced departure.
He finished with the shirts and was starting on the epaulettes when his landlady came lumbering up the stairs. “A Captain Trent to see you,” she called. He closed the trunk and went to open the door.
“You took your time getting here,” he said coldly.
“I couldn’t get away sooner.” Josiah looked around. “When do you leave?”
“Monday. Lieutenant Mencken is buying me out and taking the horses.” He went to a table and picked up a packet of notes. “I’ve done my accounts. You owe me twelve thousand, seven hundred and fifty-one pounds.”
Josiah jumped as if stung. “Twelve thousand—good God, it can’t be that much.”
“To the penny. Chits signed by you and dated.” He tossed him the packet. “Sit down at the table over there and check for yourself.”
After a few moments Josiah raised his head. Sweat was running down his face. “Paying you back will take time. You’ve already had most of my skin.”
“You know the rules. The alternative is to tell the world that Trent plays but he doesn’t pay.”
“Installments. I can do it in, let’s say, yearly installments.”
“I think not. Time and distance have a way of dulling the memory where money’s concerned.” He smiled. “Brace up, Trent. I’ve known men to drop twice that much in an evening. You must have assets that can be converted into cash.”
“Not twelve thousand pounds—it used to be a bad day if I lost five at backgammon.”
“Come now. Your father was a partner in a big shipping business before the war. Worth a great deal.”
“I gave my shares to Mrs. Sage to pay you back in December. I could sell my house, but no one’s buying.”
“Mrs. Sage has all your shares?”
“All. Don’t ask me to go to her for more money. I’ve tried, God knows, and failed.”
“Not even to save your good name?”
“Not she. You should have heard her the last time. ‘Never ask me again,’ she said. ‘You won’t have another shilling.’ Once she makes up her mind, she doesn’t change it.”
“A pity she’s so tight-fisted. No one could blame you for feeling resentment. Still—” He went to the window, hesitated, and turned. “Who inherits the estate when she dies?”
Josiah stared. “I do, or so I believe. She has no children. Why?”
“Just a question. The lady appears to have a strong constitution. She could live to be a hundred. Still, accidents do happen.” He stopped as shouts of “Fire! Fire!” came from the street below. Horses clattered over the cobbles. As the cries grew fainter, he walked back. “Yes, accidents can happen.” A pause. “Enough talk. When will I be paid in full?”
Josiah clutched at his neckcloth. “In time. You have my word.”
“Ah, your word.” He smiled again. “Well, I’m not one to kick a man when he’s down. See here, Trent, I’ve decided to act against my better judgment. You may have six months to pay in full, but no more. I’ll leave my address with Strant, the bookseller. He’ll know how to reach me.”
Josiah’s forehead twitched. “Why would he know? I hear you’re going back to England. That may make it difficult.”
“But not impossible. Don’t delude yourself into thinking that I can’t reach out and make you a pariah. Gold, not paper money. To be known as the Captain Trent who reneges on his debts—no, the life of a social outcast is not for you.”
“Six months is too short a time, and you know it.”
“Six months. A man of your intelligence is sure to find a solution.” He moved forward and held out his hand. “No hard feelings, I trust. No one forced you to play.”
Josiah stumbled to his feet. “You’re a devil, Jamieson. You led me on like you did with Carstairs, the lieuten
ant who blew his brains out the day after Christmas. You were forever telling me my luck would change. ‘Just one more game,’ was what you said. Christ, it was a cursed bad day when you came to this city.” He wiped his eyes with his sleeve, headed for the door, and crashed down the stairs. The front door slammed shut.
With a shrug, Jamieson crossed the room and poured himself a glass of Madeira. The man was a weakling, crying out to be fleeced, but with any luck, a seed had just been planted in that addled brain, a seed that might bear profitable fruit.
Pushing the papers aside, he sat down and studied the color of the Madeira. Maybe this was the time to take a moment and assess his future with a cold eye. His arrogant fellow officers believed he was going back to England, but they were wrong. He now had a foothold in the colonies. A certain loyalist group was about to pay him well to go into hiding with Landers.
He took a sip of Madeira. After a number of false starts, this was a chance to bury a past that had begun in Liverpool with a sordid childhood. His mother had been a prostitute. He never saw his father, a disinherited gentleman who refused to acknowledge him. At sixteen, when his mother died of infections, he took himself off to London. Driven by the will to better himself, he acquired dubious skills on the streets and began to make money at cards. Learned from the toffs how to speak without an accent. Years later, with a bit of blackmail, he was able to buy into a regiment.
His sharp intelligence and ability to take on hard jobs had earned him quick promotion, but he had never been accepted by his fellow officers. The most promising solution was to marry a lady with money and position. Constance Brown would have suited him very well, but when he asked for her hand in marriage, her father had put his foot down.
“I know very little about you, sir, and my daughter is too young to marry.” Drugged wine on Christmas Eve and seclusion in the carriage had broken her resistance. A child would have brought the old man around, but the girl had no backbone.
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