“You going out, Cap’n?”
“There’s a new book shop on Pearl Street. Owner is a wily scoundrel named Strant. Left Philadelphia one jump ahead of the authorities.”
“What’s he done?”
“Uses his shops as a front for illegal activities. Has contacts on both sides, including loyalists, then sells the information to the highest bidder. In gold. I’ll make him an offer for any lead to Jamieson. A long shot, but there’s nothing to lose.”
At seven, the streets were still filled with people. The shop was closed, but a light shone in the back. He knocked loudly, aware that he had little evidence to use against this master of manipulation. The best he could do was to try to match wits and keep a cool head.
The door opened and Strant stood there. The light gray eyes were as bland as ever. He glanced at the workman’s clothes.
“Yes?”
“A matter of business, sir.”
“Come in.”
The shop smelled of leather and printer’s ink. Strant opened the door to a smaller room, motioned him to a straight chair, and seated himself at the scarred table. He gave Warren an assessing look. “I seldom forget a face. You came to me in Philadelphia and asked for the name of a patriot who could infiltrate Sir William’s circle.”
Warren winced. This was not a good start. “I’ll be blunt,” he said evenly. “I’ll pay fifty guineas in gold for information about an ex-captain Ian Jamieson, formerly of the 17th Light Dragoons. You knew him in Philadelphia.”
“Captain Jamieson came several times to my Cypress Street shop with young ladies. I understand he went back to England to start a gaming house.”
“He did not. Reliable sources tell me he’s hiding in the area. I want to know where.”
“No sources are reliable, sir. In any case, I sell books. That’s all.”
Warren straightened. “Sir, I’ve no time to bandy words. We know you do more than sell books. Jamieson is a wanted man for criminal activities, not worth protecting.”
“Speculation, pure speculation. I regret the chance to make fifty guineas, but I can’t help you.” He pushed back his chair.
Warren didn’t move. He had one last card to play. “So be it. A decision you may regret. You should know that a widespread search is underway for Jamieson. When he’s caught, and he will be, no doubt he’ll try to save himself by naming names, including yours.”
“A widespread search, you say. On what grounds, may I ask?”
“Abduction and murder.” He folded his hands. “I believe Miss Champion—now Mrs. Colborne—often came to your shop in Philadelphia.”
“An avid reader. I trust she will honor me with a visit.”
“That may never happen. Someone informed Jamieson that she would be on the Bowery Road today. Jamieson had her abducted and she is now in his hands. He killed her husband and he has good reason to kill her.”
Strant’s expression didn’t change, but he lowered his head and began to drum with his fingers on the table. After a minute, he looked at Warren.
“It so happens that I have a sincere regard for Mrs. Colborne. She always treated me as a friend, not a shopkeeper. She once gave me a valuable present.” He hesitated. “It’s against my principles to give away information, but Captain Andre has a new aide. A Captain Graham.”
Warren stiffened. “What about him?”
“I’ll say nothing more.” Strant stood up. “Leave, sir, and don’t come back.” He led the way into the empty shop. Closed and locked the door.
The street was filled with passersby; ladies in clogs were lifting their skirts to avoid the dirt. Warren began to walk, thinking fast. He often saw Captain Graham at Rivington’s. A well-built fellow with a pleasing smile. As an aide to Captain Andre, he was in a strategic place to receive valuable intelligence and pass it on, but why take such a risk? It could be blackmail, or else someone was paying him well, very well, to lead a double life. Strant was a wily scoundrel, but he had provided a lead. It could be followed, but with every hour, Mrs. Colborne’s chances of being found were diminishing. The clock of life was running.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-SEVEN
October 23, 1778
Time was passing as Sarah lay on the floor of the chaise, dazed and immobilized. Spasms shook her body, long shivers twisting up from the base of her the spine. With each bump, her head hit the floor, but at last the spasms began to lessen. Her head began to clear. She’d heard tales of highwaymen who robbed farms, kidnappers looking for likely victims. A lady in an elegant chaise might pay a big ransom—but what had the little man done to Nate? Where was he taking her?
As the chaise made a sharp turn, the vibration under the wheels changed. She looked up and saw that the tops of the trees were closer together, as if they had left the highway and entered a wood.
Another few moments, then another turn. The chaise slowed and stopped. She tried to lift her head. Suddenly the air was filled with the sound of menacing growls. The whip snapped.
“John, tie up the dogs,” the driver shouted. He swung down from his perch. Moving like a cat, he cut the ropes and pulled her to the seat. “Sit still,” he muttered, then snapped the whip again.
Her head spun wildly. She held onto the cushions and blinked. Two vicious looking dogs were standing a few feet away, growling in their throats. A heavy-set man came running and put chains around their necks. They backed away, ears flattened, still growling.
The dizziness passed. She looked around. She was expecting to see a highwayman’s hut or maybe a cabin in the woods. This was a large white house with long wings on either side and a glass fan over the front door. A gentleman’s home.
“Get out.” The small man seized her hand. As her feet touched the ground, her stiff legs cramped, and she stumbled. He pushed her up the steps, opened the front door, and disappeared.
There was no one in the wide hall. She clutched her satchel and tried to steady herself. Whatever was about to happen, she must keep her wits. Say that she had money and that she was expected at Lady Eden’s, that if she didn’t arrive soon, her friends would organize a search. The punishment would be severe.
A door on the right opened. Ian Jamieson stood there. “Welcome, Mrs. Colborne,” he said, bowing. “Welcome to my house.”
She stared, unable to move, as if the blood in her veins had stopped running. Jamieson. Not a highwayman. Every resolution to show courage disappeared like a shadow.
He smiled, the twisting half-smile. “You must be tired after your drive. Allow me to give you refreshment in the library.”
The high-ceilinged room was lined with bookcases. He led her to a small chair near an open window. As she sat down, disconnected thoughts swarmed through her head. Somehow he had known that she would be on the road today . . . it was his man who had jumped into the chaise . . . the man who had killed Charles at Monmouth.
“It’s been some time since I entertained a lady,” he said, “but I trust you’ll join me in a glass of wine.” Without waiting for an answer, he crossed the room to a breakfront cabinet and poured from a decanter.
She shuddered and stared at his back. Out of uniform he looked even taller. He wouldn’t kill her himself; it would be the small man, but how? By now Captain Warren must know she had disappeared. He looked after his people; the search would be on, but what could he do?
Jamieson turned and came back. He handed her a glass. “To your very good health, Mrs. Colborne.” He sat down and cleared his throat. “Please accept my most sincere condolences on your sad loss. Captain Colborne was always in a good humor, ready for any sport. A true gentleman. You must miss him very much.”
The sheer effrontery hit like a blow, catapulting her out of helpless shock. How dared he speak to her of Charles? How dared he? The glass tilted in her hand.
“Be careful or you’ll stain that pretty dress.” He took the glass and set it on the nearest table. “Have I upset you? If so, my apologies.”
She didn’t answer, aware that
he was watching her intently, the cat with half-sheathed claws taunting the mouse. He was enjoying the game, but how long would that last? Not long, if she sat there cowering with fear.
Somewhere in the house, a voice was shouting. For some reason, the sound steadied her. While there was breath there was hope— and this man liked women. He was made of flesh and blood. Her only chance was to play for time, so she must amuse him. Entertain him. Pretend she was still a flighty belle.
She took a deep breath and reached for the glass. “Forgive me if I seem a little quiet, but it was such a shock to see you again. I couldn’t believe my eyes when you came through that door. Everyone said you had gone back to London.”
“My plans were uncertain. I left under a cloud. I think you know why.”
She hesitated. This was an opening, a chance to show him she was far too shallow to hold a grudge or be a threat.
“I always think it’s best to speak out. Constance was my dearest friend. For a while I was very angry with you, I could have scratched your eyes out. Since then I’ve learned to be—well, less judgmental.”
“Indeed. In what way?”
“Constance should have married you and had the baby. Mr. Brown is a stern man—I was always afraid of him—but I think he would have come around if only she had faced him.” She paused. “No one could have guessed that the midwife’s knife would slip. I cried for days, but now I think that perhaps Constance was too sensitive. Too fearful of what people might say about a sudden marriage.”
“She talked of killing herself. Getting rid of the child seemed the best course to take, but it was a day I deeply regret.” He got to his feet. “More wine? I’m glad of a chance to repay your aunt’s hospitality. A most impressive lady. I trust she is well.” Did the glint in his eye show that he knew Aunt was dead? He was trying to break her, but the primal will to live was growing stronger.
“Oh. Oh.” She put a hand to her eyes. “Forgive me, but I can’t speak of my aunt without crying. She died in June of the wasting disease.”
“My condolences. I remember her musicale Christmas Eve. We sang carols in the ballroom, then came down to a fine display of jellies and cakes.” The cat still toying with the mouse.
“That party. Aunt had to talk poor Mr. Ludwig the baker into giving her a pound of sugar for the almond cakes. She generally had her way.”
“I can believe it.”
“On the other hand, she was very open-handed. You wouldn’t know, but I was a country girl straight from the farm when I arrived in Philadelphia. Aunt had her work cut out to teach me how to dance and dress me. You wouldn’t believe what she paid for my swansdown cloak. At home I always wore homespun. I had no polish, none at all.” She stopped for breath. No matter how much he tested her, she must keep up the artless chatter.
“You in homespun? You were quite the favorite last winter in Philadelphia, and now you’re a favorite in New York. How are you enjoying your new life?”
“My new life? I’ll tell you. After Charles was killed in battle I wanted to lie down on my bed and die, but being here has eased my mind. So many parties and diversions.”
“Indeed.” He refilled his glass and went to stand under the portrait that hung over the marble mantelpiece. An ancestor of the former owner, no doubt, with a King Charles spaniel by his knee.
She watched him from under her lashes. A strange man, cruel and ruthless, but there was also a streak of perception and sensitivity, the qualities that had seduced innocent women like Constance. She mustn’t forget that he had a long history of courting rich women. The news that she was an heiress might buy her a little more time.
“This house,” she began. “It’s beautiful. It reminds me of Sageton.”
“Sageton?”
“My aunt’s place in the country. You won’t have heard, but Aunt left me all her money and her properties. I’m rich now, very rich. I can do whatever I like, but having such a big estate is more than I can manage.”
“Why, may I ask?”
“Because I have no head for figures, none at all. It’s not fair to burden me with all this, and now I have another worry.”
“Which is?”
“If anything should happen to me, it all goes to my little sister.”
“Your little sister?” He raised his eyebrows.
“My little sister. She’s only twelve and not very bright.”
He smiled. “An interesting dilemma, but no doubt there’s a solution.” He turned. “Yes?’
“Sir.” The manservant who had controlled the dogs was standing at the door. He was wearing a patched uniform. “Everything is ready, sir.”
“You’ve carried out my instructions?”
The man glanced at her, then ran a finger around his collar as if it was too tight. “Yes, sir. Everything is ready for her.”
“Thank you, John.” Jamieson walked toward her and held out his hand. “This way, Mrs. Colborne.”
She sat still. There was no mistaking the signs. It was over. The heiress ploy to interest him had been useless. So had her attempts to entertain him. There would be a search, but no one would ever find her body—or know how she died.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-EIGHT
October 23, 1778
It was only a short distance from Strant’s shop on Pearl Street to Number One Broadway. A number of carriages were lined up at the front entrance. Sir Henry must be entertaining.
Keeping in the shadows, Warren slipped down a side alley and knocked at the back door. It was opened by a harried looking servant in shirt sleeves. He eyed Warren and frowned.
“What’s wanted?”
“Message for Jason Biggers.” He put two shillings into the man’s hand.
“He’s working, but wait here.”
“Obliged.” Jason Biggers was one of Warren’s prize recruits, a footman who had sailed over with Sir Henry and decided to make his way in a new country. As a reward for keeping his ears open, he was well paid by Warren and would be given acres of land when the war ended.
Moments later Biggers came down the hall. He was wearing livery and a powdered wig.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he muttered.
“There’s trouble. When did you last see Captain Graham?”
“Don’t remember. Been run off me feet with this reception.”
“Never mind the reception. Think, man. When did you last see him?”
“Wouldn’t swear to it, but I’d say he walked out of his office around four by the clock. Saluted the guard and left.”
“Do you know where he was going?”
“Do I know what makes rain fall? Mebbe to his lodgings to change clothes. Should be back by now, bowing and scraping.”
“Where are his lodgings?”
“Wall Street, a Mistress Holden. Is that all? There’s people wanting to be served, and the old fart is in a temper.”
“Go, but if Graham comes back, get yourself straight to headquarters and tell us.”
“Leave tonight and I’ll lose my job.”
“Do it or you’ll lose your land. Ever notice anything out of the ordinary about Graham?”
Jason scratched his head. “Nothing—no, mebbe one thing.”
“What?”
“Happen I was in the alley last week having a smoke. A hay wagon stops at the end. Driver unhitches and takes it into one of the stalls. Dressed like a farmer he was, I couldn’t see him plain, but something about him had the look of Captain Graham.”
“Good God, man, you should have reported this. We could have had him watched. If he comes back tonight, you damn well get yourself to headquarters. We can find you another job. Understood?”
“Understood.” Jason straightened his wig and disappeared. Warren turned and started back along the alley. Jason was getting lazy, but it would be hard to replace him. There should be more spies at Sir Henry’s, but his network was spread too thin. He needed more recruits.
At the corner of Wall Street, he seized a young boy by the col
lar. “Mistress Holden. Which house?”
“Next on the right.” The boy ran off, rubbing his neck.
The house was small, squashed into a row of larger houses. A disheveled looking woman stood in the door, holding a crying baby. He went toward her and made a small bow.
“Mistress Holden?”
“That’s my name. What’s wanted? Hush you, Nancy,” she said. Then she shouted into the house, “Annie! Come out, you slut, and mind the baby.”
“Ma’am, I’m looking for Captain Graham. Important business.”
“He’s gone. Told me he wouldn’t be back tonight.”
“Was he wearing his full dress uniform?”
“He went out like he was dressed to ride. He had his whip.”
“Was this the first time, or does he often ride this late in the day?”
The woman rolled her eyes. “Mister, I’ve five brats, two of them down with the cough. He pays me rent regular and I mind my own business.” She hoisted the screaming baby onto her hip and went into the house. The door slammed shut.
He gritted his teeth and turned. Bloody hell, if he’d been here a short time ago, he might have caught up with Graham.
Even at this hour, the air was still heavy and sultry. Only a bad storm could break the heat. Piles of rotting garbage littered the walkways. He stepped around them and hurried back to Number One Broadway.
The officers kept their horses in an alley nearby. At this hour, they were quiet in their stalls, but the smell of manure was powerful. A vacant looking boy was sitting on a water trough, scratching his head.
Warren handed him tuppence. “Pay attention, boy. Did Captain Graham come for his horse?”
“He come.”
“When? What time?”
The boy dug his fingers into his scalp. It was covered with lice. “Mebbe an hour ago, mebbe longer. I was eating me bread and cheese.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
“Nah.”
‘Does he often go out this late?”
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