Freedom's Ring (Sisters of the Revolution Book 3)

by Diana Davis

  No, not “another” war. They weren’t going to war. Even if he had just watched a cavalry form.

  “We haven’t spoken much,” Beaufort finished. Owen fit Beaufort’s stilted tone with the pain he’d seen on Hayes’s face. How much of an understatement was that?

  “Your wife said to not let it come between you,” Owen reminded him.

  Beaufort grimaced. “I wish it were that easy.”

  “Let’s not start a war at home.”

  Beaufort was spared responding as they reached the office. He took his leave and ascended the stairs, missing Hayes emerging from his study. “Owen,” he called. “Temperance was here for you. Left you this.” He held out a note.

  He’d missed Temperance? Owen fetched the letter. He’d scarcely been able to concentrate on his law books last night after simply sitting with her family for a few minutes. Between consulting on his own cases with Hayes and Temperance’s hand on his arm, it felt as though he were part of their home. Not in the way he’d always been welcome, as a friend. As a charity. But now, as . . . an equal?

  A member of the family.

  He tried not to recall Temperance urging him to drop Cooper’s case. He couldn’t do that. He had to find a way to keep Cooper and Wiscombe and the others who needed his help while still making clients like Mordecai happy.

  He could do that. He would just have to work harder. He’d never been afraid of a little work.

  He waited until Hayes retreated into his study before reading Temperance’s letter. It was short, and nothing like what he might have hoped — silly hope: what would she have done, written him a love letter with her father standing over her shoulder?

  Instead, she’d invited him to accompany her to a friend’s party in two weeks. Owen smiled to himself and tucked the note into his waistcoat pocket. She wanted to see him. She wanted to take him to a party. She wanted him to meet her friends.

  He didn’t have time for that, but if he could just work a little harder, surely he could find an arrangement.

  He’d never been afraid of a little work.

  Temperance kept careful watch on the door at Euphemia’s party. Her friend had taken two weeks to arrange this, but it definitely seemed worth the effort. The dancing bears clockwork automaton, sculpted from fine silver and on tour from France, was far better than Euphemia’s harpsichord recital last month.

  Temperance turned to where Godfrey Sibbald sat at her right. Bless Euphemia for arranging the seating as she’d asked. Temperance could only hope Euphemia saved room for Owen near her. She hadn’t gone quite so far as to promise Euphemia a handsome new beau at the party, though she’d hinted there would be someone Euphemia would want to meet.

  “Mr. Sibbald.” Temperance squeezed his hand. “How does your father’s business?”

  “Well, as far as I know.”

  She knew he was obviously not involved in the business, but she was trying to make polite conversation. Godfrey did not return the query and spoke to the person on his right.

  Before Temperance could be too upset, however, Owen was announced. She murmured her excuses to Godfrey, who was still absorbed with the man on his right, and hurried across the spacious hall to greet Owen.

  As always, he positively lit up when he saw her. She took both his hands in hers. “How are you, Owen, dear?” she asked.

  “Always better when you’re here.”

  “Oh, have you been to Euphemia’s before?”

  “No, I wouldn’t know a soul, except you.”

  “Then we shall have to change that.” That was supposed to be her segue to taking him over to Euphemia, but she found she wasn’t quite ready to let go of him yet.

  She’d missed him.

  “It’s been an age since I’ve seen you,” she said.

  “I know it has; I’m sorry. I’ve been working night and day so I’d have time to attend.”

  “Have you?” She hadn’t meant to burden him and told him so.

  “No trouble at all. Anything for you.”

  Temperance looked down at her hands in his. He had always sacrificed far too much for her. It was time for her to repay him the favor.

  In a moment. “Your new coat is even better in the light.”

  He looked down at it. “Thank you; I’m glad you like it.”

  “How is your work?” she asked.

  “Very busy, but I hope that’s a good thing.”

  “Yes, let us hope so!”

  Owen surveyed the room, and the moment his gaze was off her, he seemed to grow weary, like a candle had been snuffed. “Don’t overwork yourself,” Temperance urged. That would never do.

  He turned back to her and the candle lit again. “Anything for you,” he repeated.

  It was time. Temperance tucked her arm in his and casually walked to the table where Euphemia sat. She felt oddly possessive of Owen. What if Euphemia didn’t like him? What if she rejected him? Temperance glanced up at Owen, who was looking down at her.

  How could anyone reject this man? He was light incarnate. And certainly no one here held a candle to how handsome he was.

  Reluctantly, she addressed the table. “Euphemia,” she called.

  Their hostess hopped up from her chair, her many ruffles fluttering as she hurried over to Temperance. “I have someone I’d like for you to meet.”

  Euphemia’s eyes grew wide, and she shot Temperance a look that seemed to say, Where did you find such a man? Euphemia put out her hand as Temperance made the introductions, and Owen bowed over it with surprising grace.

  This was the point at which Temperance was supposed to invite Euphemia to take Owen. But she found she would much rather bring him back over to join her dinner table. He’d certainly be easier to talk to than Godfrey. She would have done it without hesitation had there been any open seats.

  Perhaps she didn’t feel like eating at the moment after all.

  “Where is your family from?” Euphemia was asking Owen.

  “I was born here, but my parents are Cornish.”

  Euphemia sent another obvious look to Temperance, but, typical for Euphemia, was not content to leave her thoughts unsaid. “Temperance, wherever have you been hiding Mr. Owen Randolph?”

  “Oh, Owen and I have known each other since we were children.”

  Owen joined in her laughter, and then he did it again: he placed his hand over hers where it rested on his arm.

  Temperance drew a sharp breath. That was exactly what she wanted.

  And the last thing she needed.

  She slid her hand free from his. “Euphemia, Owen has never had the opportunity to meet all of our friends. Would you do the honors?” She addressed Owen. “And you should ask to see more of their estate. It’s really one of the finest houses in all of Philadelphia — and to think, one day it will all be Euphemia’s!”

  With every word that crossed her lips, Owen grew dimmer and dimmer. She found she had taken two steps back, as if distance would help her clear her mind.

  She definitely needed distance between her and Owen.

  Euphemia took the opportunity to seize Owen’s arm and tug him away, and Temperance stood there and watched him go. He inclined his head toward his new companion, but after a moment, he glanced up over her cap, his gaze instantly locking with Temperance’s.

  The confusion there was more than she could bear. Should she have explained her plan better? Or at all?

  Temperance turned away first to return to her seat by Godfrey. She inquired what he thought of the entertainments, and for once, he actually had quite a bit to say about the silver clockwork bears with their intricate moving parts.

  Temperance didn’t hear a word of his voluble opinion. She couldn’t blink away the image of Owen, his brow furrowed, his candle snuffed.

  Temperance forced herself to smile at Godfrey, agree with his assessment of the bears, trail her fingers down his arm, take his hand. She wished his cold fingers were Owen’s warm hands. />
  No, no. Euphemia could help him be happy in a way she couldn’t. Just as Godfrey could do for her something Owen couldn’t. They would both be better off secure and taken care of. Wouldn’t they?

  She dared to sneak a look his way, but he was occupied with Euphemia.

  Good. Her plan was working.

  Though she was no longer entirely certain she wanted it to.

  Owen watched Temperance cross the white marble floor to take her seat next to Sibbald’s son. Suddenly he wished he’d never heard of the man, no matter how much money his success had brought him. If he hadn’t met Sibbald, he never could have introduced Temperance to Godfrey, and perhaps — perhaps — she wouldn’t have let go of him and walked away.

  Was what he saw in her eyes merely his imagination? Was he reading something that wasn’t there out of his sheer, stupid hope?

  “Mr. Randolph — Temperance called you Owen; may I call you Owen? Oh, I probably shouldn’t; I’m forever being overly familiar.” Miss Goodwin forged ahead without waiting for an answer. “Did Temperance say you worked for her father? I believe she did, didn’t she? You practice law then? How do you like it?”

  “Fine,” he answered.

  “Oh, how wonderful! I do so love lawyers. So very smart. You must have such interesting things to say about your work. I’m sure you’re a great scholar of the law now; Mr. Hayes is such a brilliant lawyer. He’s saved my father’s business time and again, I tell you. Is law terribly difficult?”

  Owen tore his gaze away from Temperance and tried to focus on the woman clinging to his arm. “The law can be very complex.”

  “Mr. Randolph, I must tell you that everything Temperance said was true, but it was terribly immodest of her to tell you such things about my wealth.” She scanned the room. Even if he hadn’t already taken in the life-size, moving bear sculptures at the end of the room, everything from the gilded plasterwork of the ceiling to the tall windows filling the room with light to the marble columns and statuary would have betrayed the Goodwins’ wealth.

  “But let’s not talk of such things.” Miss Goodwin giggled. From another woman — fine, Temperance, he meant Temperance — a laugh there might have seemed coquettish, but Miss Goodwin’s expression held only delight. She wasn’t trying to flirt, then, simply talk at great length.

  “Ah, yes. Your father is Humphrey Goodwin?” He tried to be a good guest. Because that was what Temperance wanted. Wasn’t it?

  “He is indeed!” Miss Goodwin launched into another soliloquy.

  Why had Temperance invited him here? At first, it seemed she wanted to see him, to talk to him, to introduce him to her set. And then she’d left him here with Miss Goodwin.

  “So,” Miss Goodwin pivoted the conversation abruptly away from the subject of her father. “Temperance tells me you’ve a great many cases you’ve undertaken out of charity?”

  “Ah, yes, a fair few.”

  “How lovely. I can tell already you’re such a genuine, good person. It’s written all over your face.”

  Owen quickly looked away. He certainly hoped she couldn’t see what was written on his face.

  As always, he found Temperance immediately. She was trailing her fingers down Godfrey Sibbald’s arm. She took his hand.

  For a very long minute, Owen’s world seemed to freeze. He couldn’t hear Miss Goodwin or the music of the silver dancing bears. He couldn’t breathe or think or feel.

  Temperance Hayes had not invited him here today to meet her friends or to join her set or simply to see him. No matter what had happened that night at her parents’ house two weeks ago or at the last party they’d attended, nothing had changed in the way she felt about him.

  A rush of words washed over him: Miss Goodwin was still speaking. He tried to do the polite thing and focus on her, but he couldn’t seem to distinguish the words from the rushing in his ears.

  “Oh, Mr. Randolph!” Miss Goodwin exclaimed. “Are you quite well? You’re suddenly very pale just now.”

  “I’m well enough,” he managed.

  Even he didn’t think he sounded convincing. Miss Goodwin tugged him over to the food, a vast repast the likes of which could have fed his family for a year. “Please, eat,” Miss Goodwin urged. “The food will all go to waste if you don’t.”

  As if he needed another insult. They were going to throw away this food? “You know, I’m certain my sisters would be happy to take anything you didn’t use, any small amount.”

  “Oh, are they jealous of the party? You must bring them next time! How many sisters do you have? Are they older or younger than you?”

  “Four, younger.” And between the four of them, they couldn’t have scraped together a single gown that was fit for this company, but he didn’t say that. He wasn’t certain the six pounds Mother still had could have fetched even one robe half as extravagant as what his hostess wore.

  Miss Goodwin took a fine porcelain plate and began to lade it with everything Owen didn’t refuse. In his stunned state, he couldn’t think to refuse very much. She forced the plate on him, and he stared at the roast turkey and gammon and floating islands in front of him as if he didn’t know what any of these things were for.

  He couldn’t possibly stand to eat right now.

  “Here, you must sit, quickly. You’re getting paler by the minute.” Miss Goodwin pulled him to the nearest empty table and practically pushed him into a chair. “All that lawyering must have exhausted you!”

  For once, she was quite right. The last two weeks — two months — of his doubled work suddenly caught up with him all at once, and all he wanted to do was sleep.

  Especially if that could somehow mean never having to confront how Temperance really felt.

  Miss Goodwin scooted her chair closer to his and propped her chin in her hands, gazing at him expectantly. He took a bite of eel pie, but it didn’t taste of much. He was fairly certain that wasn’t the fault of Goodwin’s surely well-paid cook.

  Once again, he turned to where Temperance sat, leaning into Godfrey. He hadn’t seen the man pay her much heed in the past — though, truth be told, Owen tried not to look at him, especially if Temperance wasn’t around — but now he seemed to be responding. Grasping her fingers. Laughing with her.

  What had he done, introducing them? Why had he ever agreed to help Temperance, with anything?

  “Mr. Randolph?” Miss Goodwin murmured.

  She’d practically been shouting at him for the last fifteen minutes. Owen was so surprised by the subdued tone that he had to make sure he was still talking to the same person.

  “How long have you known Temperance?”

  “Since we were five or so,” he said. That had been their very first conversation. She’d asked his age and then taken it as a challenge. But I’m five, she’d insisted, as if only one of them could lay claim to the age. Owen had been at a loss for a moment before he responded, Then we’re the same! Her sour pout had instantly brightened and she’d beamed at him and he’d been hopelessly lost ever since.

  “And have you been in love with her all this time?”

  Owen set down his fork, focusing on his plate.

  “Temperance told me how generous and kind you are,” she continued. “She told me you take on so many charity cases that you worry you won’t be able to support your mother and sisters.”

  He continued to stare at his island of meringue floating on custard on his plate, pressing his lips together.

  “It’s true that I am a great heiress. And that means even my dear friends sometimes try to introduce me to men if they think I might be of assistance to them.”

  He finally managed a nod.

  “Usually, it’s the men themselves who are scheming for that introduction, but it’s quite obvious that is not the case this time.”

  “Well,” Owen said. He set aside the napkin Miss Goodwin had thrust on him at some point. “I’m sorry she did that.”

  “I know. You do seem like a
very nice man. And easily the most handsome one shoved at me so far.” Miss Goodwin patted his arm.

  “Which is not enough.” The words were out before Owen could stop them.

  Miss Goodwin’s mirth dropped away. “Not enough?”

  He’d come this far, and clearly Miss Goodwin had had a better grasp of the situation from the start. Might as well say it. “Not enough for her.”

  “Oh, Mr. Randolph.” Miss Goodwin grasped his elbow. He couldn’t bear to see yet another person’s pity, especially not over this. “It’s all so very tragic.”

  It didn’t have to be. All Temperance had to do was keep doing what she’d done two weeks ago and two weeks before that. Looking at him like she loved him. Taking his hands. Kissing him.

  But she’d always treated him that way. They had been friends for so long that all her casual affection felt like more.

  How had he been so wrong?

  Miss Goodwin craned her neck to catch his gaze. “Would you like for me to talk to her?”

  “I daresay she knows me better than you do.” He glanced at Temperance. Godfrey Sibbald was thoroughly engaged in their conversation, still holding her hand. “What could you possibly say that would change her mind?”

  “That sometimes we fail to see the things that are closest to us.”

  Owen forced himself to offer his hostess a smile. “Very kind of you, but it’s rather obvious it’s too late.”

  Miss Goodwin peered across the room at where Temperance and Godfrey sat. “You know, it’s almost amusing.” Miss Goodwin sat back in her chair. “We all thought of Temperance as a silly coquette for all those years she pined for Winthrop Morley.” She sighed. “Now I see she has always been playing her own game. And doing it very well.”

  “Yes.” Was this supposed to make him feel better?

  “You’re a better choice than that dissolute waster.”

  “Sibbald?”

  “Winthrop Morley. But yes, Godfrey Sibbald, too. I’d never have invited him if I’d known.” Miss Goodwin suddenly broke into giggles and laid her forehead on the table. “Listen to me! I’ve had far too much punch. It always makes me so dreary.”