The Charade

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  “We’re taking grave risks by meeting in broad daylight, Ethan,” Andrew reminded him.

  “Don’t waste time telling me things I already know, my friend.”

  Andrew shook his head in disapproval. “Couldn’t this wait for our usual Friday-night rendezvous at the Mermaid?”

  “I’m afraid not.” Ethan turned to the other man, whom he recognized as Joseph Bramley, one of Samuel Adams’s messengers. He knew Bramley only by sight, but Samuel trusted his messenger implicitly, and that was good enough for Ethan.

  “I’ll make this quick, gentlemen. The less we linger here, the better.” Without bothering to remove his hat, he sat down at the table in the center of the room. The others followed suit, and Ethan came directly to the point. “Governor Gage is sending two officers into the country tomorrow morning on a secret mission.”

  “For what purpose?” Andrew asked.

  “To map the countryside from Boston to Worcester. One Captain John Brown and one Ensign Henry De Berniere are to walk on foot to Worcester dressed as countrymen and posing as surveyors. Their mission is to determine the condition of the roads, paying specific attention to possible sites where troops might be ambushed.”

  The other two men received this news in silence, thinking out its implications. Finally, it was Andrew who spoke. “Gage may be pompous, but as a governor, he is not the tyrant Hutchinson was. Nor is he a fool. It seems clear that he wants to determine the safest, most discreet route by which he can send troops on the march.”

  “And those troops will be marching straight for our powder stores in Worcester,” Ethan added. He leaned forward in his chair and spoke his mind. “Gentlemen, we have to send a courier to Worcester and warn the town.”

  “So they can move our powder and ammunition to a new hiding place before troops arrive to take it?” Joseph guessed.

  “Exactly. My sources tell me Gage knows we have more than fifteen tons of powder and thirteen cannon stored there. We cannot allow that large a cache of weaponry to fall into Gage’s hands. A few months from now, we will need all the powder and cannon we can get.”

  Both men leaned back in their chairs, and a long silence followed. Finally, Joseph cleared his throat and spoke again. “You think it will come to war, then?”

  “I do. War became the only possible course when that damned Port Bill was passed.” The Boston Port Bill had closed the harbor eight months previously, a move intended to starve Boston into submission. Thanks to the generosity of the other colonies, which sent food and supplies into the city over land by Boston Neck, the marketplaces still managed to conduct business. Boston citizens were still able to eat, despite Crown Law, but it was now nearing the end of a long, hard winter, and food prices were high. As food supplies decreased, hatred increased, and war became more likely with each passing day.

  Ethan went on, “How long can colonials live under what amounts to martial law? How long before all our freedom is taken away? It is now impossible for any colonial to get a fair trial in Boston, or speak his mind publicly, or even have a mind of his own. We can’t even hold a town meeting anymore without being harassed. Three years ago, we could freely discuss our political opinions. Now, four Whigs can’t have a pint of ale together without being suspected of sedition. This situation cannot continue.” Ethan took a deep breath and looked at the other two. “Let us be blunt, gentlemen. What we are really coming to is complete independence from England.”

  Joseph’s eyes met his across the table. “Our friends agree with you. I hate to think of it, but I believe it is unavoidable.”

  Ethan nodded slowly, glad of the reassurance that other Sons of Liberty saw the situation as he did. He had often wished he could communicate directly with men such as Samuel Adams, John Hancock, and Paul Revere, but his public position as a loyal Tory made such a convenience far too risky.

  Andrew spoke again. “Let us return to the situation of Worcester. Two officers will not take the powder but will simply report back to Gage on its location and recommend the best route to take for marching there, is that not so?”

  “Exactly,” Ethan answered. “My sources tell me Gage intends to accelerate his attempts to take our powder, and in the coming months, reconnaissance missions such as this will become commonplace. Despite the failure at Portsmouth two months ago, Gage is convinced he can avoid war simply by relieving us of our gunpowder one storehouse at a time.”

  “A shrewd maneuver,” Joseph commented. “He is absolutely correct. Our lack of weaponry is our greatest weakness if it comes to war.” He met Ethan’s eyes across the table. “Are you certain this information is accurate? How did you come by it?”

  “As Andrew will tell you, my sources are reliable. And confidential.”

  Joseph appeared satisfied by that. “I’ll deliver this news to Paul Revere. He’ll want to ride to Worcester tonight and get word to the militia there.”

  “Tell Paul to have the militia leave the powder where it is until Gage’s two officers have passed through. Then move it to a new hiding place.”

  Joseph nodded. “That way, if the troops do march on the town a few days from now, they’ll come up empty-handed.”

  Andrew also rose to his feet. “I’ll pass this information on to the Boston and Charlestown militia so we can be ready for the repercussions. If troops march and find nothing for the trouble, God knows what Governor Gage will do.” He glanced at Ethan. “Why on earth did you take the risk of coming out at this hour to bring us this news? Skulking about in patriot taverns at night posing as a dock worker named John Smith is one thing, Ethan, but during the day you could be recognized much more easily.”

  “I know, but it was necessary,” Ethan answered, and rose from the table. “I can usually tell when a Gage spy is following me. I don’t believe I was followed.”

  “If you are wrong, if you are being watched, Gage will eventually learn who you really are. You could be arrested, even hanged, for sedition.”

  “We all face that risk, if it comes to that,” Ethan answered. “But Gage isn’t arresting anyone yet. He is a fair man, despite all Samuel’s attempts to paint him otherwise in the Whig newspapers.”

  “I feel compelled to point out that arrest is not the only risk involved here,” Joseph interjected. “As Ethan Harding, you have access to many friends of the governor. If Gage discovers that Ethan Harding and John Smith are the same person, we will lose you as our most valuable source of information.”

  “Gage wouldn’t charge me with sedition without better proof than the word of an informant,” Ethan answered. “As I said, he is scrupulously fair. And, given my social position and connections, he will be especially careful to obtain irrefutable proof before arresting me.”

  Andrew came around the table and laid a hand on his arm. “Proof can be fabricated. I’d hate to see you swing on the gallows, my friend. Watch your step.”

  “Andrew is right,” Joseph said. “Be careful.”

  Ethan smiled grimly. “I am always careful.”

  2

  Had the pious ladies who ran the Benevolent Home for Unfortunate Girls in London known that Katie Armstrong would turn out to be a natural thief, a talented pickpocket, and an accomplished liar, they would have prayed harder for her soul and applied the willow switch to her backside with even more frequency. Had they known she would never suffer a guilty conscience for her sins, they would have sent her straight to a workhouse, dismissed her soul as a lost cause, and never have bothered with her at all.

  At this moment, Katie was nibbling the second meat pie of her stolen breakfast and trying to find the cheapest lodgings she could get with her stolen coins. Guilt was the farthest thing from her mind.

  She needed a place to stay. Sleeping outdoors on one Boston winter night had been enough to convince her of that. For lodgings, she needed money. The handful of silver she’d taken from James Willoughby’s strongbox had brought her all the way from Virginia, but that money was gone, and though it was nearly March, Katie had almost f
rozen to death last night. She cursed herself as all kinds of a fool for heading north instead of south when she’d run away from Willoughby, but there was no help for that now.

  The thought of her former master made her shudder. She had seen a great deal of life’s dark side, but what Willoughby had done to that unfortunate kitchen maid, Patsy Wells, had been beyond anything she had ever seen, beyond anything she could have imagined. Patsy was dead, and Katie knew she’d have met the same fate if she had not left Virginia. If she were ever caught and sent back, he’d kill her before she could run away again. No matter what she had to do, she would not return to her master.

  She forced memories of Willoughby out of her mind. That whoremaster was the last thing she needed to be thinking about just now.

  She swallowed the last bite of her meat pie and decided she’d better settle for one of the cheap rooms she’d found earlier around the prostitution district, an area appropriately called Mt. Whoredom. Though she didn’t plan to stay in Boston long, she had to remain at least a few days and rest. Two months of hard winter travel from Virginia had been grueling, and she had arrived here yesterday with not so much as pence in her pocket. With what she’d dipped from that lieutenant this morning, she could have lodgings in Mt. Whoredom for at least a month. She knew many of those rooms had fleas, but she couldn’t afford to be choosy, and it was harder to dip in a small city like Boston than it had been in London. Too much risk of getting caught and hanged. She had to make her stolen coins last as long as possible.

  She wished Meg were with her. Meg had been her partner in crime and the closest thing to a friend she’d ever had. But Meg had died in London courtesy of the hangman’s noose, and Katie knew that these days there was no one she could rely on except herself.

  Preoccupied with her thoughts, she did not notice the carriage that halted beside her or the two soldiers who stepped down from it, until a pair of hands closed over her arms and seized her.

  Struggling against the grip of her assailant, Katie let fly with a string of angry curses as she was turned around and slammed back against the wall of the alley to face the pair of redcoats. Her heart thudded with panic, but neither of these men was the dolt-headed lieutenant she’d fleeced that morning.

  The one who held her firmly by the shoulders nodded to his companion. “She fits the description.” Looking once again at Katie, he added, “We’ve been searching for you all morning, my girl.”

  They must have seen her stealing from their fellow officer. Or worse, they were friends of his, come to find her from his description. She thought of the miserable weeks she’d spent in Newgate four months ago before being transported to the colonies, and she struggled furiously to free herself. Better to die trying to escape than end up in prison living with the rats and facing the gallows again.

  A vicious kick to her captor’s shin loosened his grip, and she jerked free, but her victory was short-lived. The two men easily overpowered her. Katie struggled in vain as the soldiers dragged her into the waiting carriage.

  During the brief ride, there was little chance for escape. Both soldiers kept a firm grip on her, and both were immune to her pleas, questions, and curses. When the carriage came to a halt, she made one last attempt to break free, but it was useless.

  Her captors dragged her inside a tavern, past the doorway of a taproom empty at this hour of the morning, and up a set of narrow stairs. Katie was hauled into a large, sparsely furnished room. A man was seated at the head of a long table, and he rose to his feet as she was brought in.

  At the sight of him, Katie went still, and her curses died on her lips. This was not the lieutenant. In fact, he was not an officer at all. This man had pale skin stretched tight across his cheekbones, eyes that were dark and expressionless, and a smile that was coldly mocking. His face reminded her of a death’s head.

  He glanced to the soldiers on either side of her and gave a nod of confirmation. “Excellent work, my good men. You may let her go.”

  The two soldiers obeyed, and Katie gave each of them a resentful scowl before she turned her attention to the man at the other end of the room. He studied her as he came around the table, and she subjected him to the same thorough scrutiny he was now giving her.

  He did not look like a magistrate. Too richly dressed, she decided, studying his powdered wig, peacock-blue coat, and silver buckled shoes. He paused a few feet away from her, and, without taking his eyes from her face, he spoke to the pair of soldiers. “Leave us.”

  The soldiers departed, closing the door behind them.

  “I am Viscount Lowden,” he said.

  A British viscount? Katie was astonished.

  “What is your name?” he asked. When she remained silent, he went on, “I can easily find out. You might as well stop wasting time and tell me.”

  “Katie,” she answered.

  “Well, Katie, do you have any idea why you are here?”

  Her mind raced frantically, but she could not figure out the purpose of all this. She didn’t think she was officially under arrest. She shook her head in answer to his question.

  “I summoned you here because I have a task for you to do.”

  She raised her eyebrows at those words. “Summoned? Dragged is more like it.”

  “I suggest you curb your insolence, girl.” He took a step closer to her and grabbed her hand. Peeling back her tattered glove, he turned her palm upward to expose the T branded into her skin. The mark of a thief. “If you do not watch your tongue, I shall find another girl to suit my purpose, then I will find your master and return you to him.”

  Dread seeped into her bones at the idea of returning to Willoughby, and Katie felt a sickening twist of fear in the pit of her stomach. Steady, she told herself, and looked the viscount in the eye. She jerked her hand away and put just the right hint of defiance in her voice when she said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He smiled. It was a benign smile, but Katie felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck. The survival instincts honed by a life on the street told her that this man was dangerous, and she’d best watch her step.

  “Let us stop the pretenses, shall we? I know you are a thief. I know this not only by your brand but also because I myself witnessed your little escapade in North Square this morning.”

  He grabbed her hand again and turned her around, the movement so sudden she had no time to defend against it. He pulled her back against his body and wrapped his arm around her, but she sensed it was not a sexual gesture. He began fumbling in the pockets of her cloak and pulled out the lieutenant’s velvet money bag. The moment he had it, he let her go.

  She whirled around and opened her mouth to give him a few choice words, but one look at his eyes silenced her. God, he was a cold one, this man.

  He held the purse aloft. “What have we here? The theft of an officer’s money is a serious offense.”

  She licked her dry lips and did not reply.

  “You are a thief,” he went on, “and I can tell by your brand this is not your first offense. I conclude you are indentured but too young to have worked off your seven-year term. So, you are obviously a runaway. Don’t look daggers at me. I am no stupid fresh-faced lieutenant, and I didn’t bring you here so I could have you hanged for something as mundane as stealing. Nor am I in the business of finding runaway servant girls for colonists careless enough to lose them.”

  Katie was fatalistic by nature. She knew when rage was futile and lies became useless. Her only option was to cooperate and see what happened. She shrugged. “Very well, then. What do you want of me?”

  He pulled a folded sheet of parchment out of his pocket. “This is an arrest warrant against you for your crime. It is signed by Lieutenant Weston. It was his purse you lifted this morning in the marketplace.”

  “God’s blood, you’re a lying bastard,” she ground out between clenched teeth. “You just told me that you didn’t bring me here to have me hanged for theft, yet you have an arrest warrant!”

&n
bsp; He was unperturbed by her rage. “Mind your tongue,” he said softly. “Insult me again, and I’ll not bother with warrants. Make no mistake, I could kill you right now, and no one would ever know.”

  She knew he spoke the truth. He was a man with money, title, and power. She possessed none of those things. He could debauch her or kill her or both, and no one would ever know or care. She stiffened and glared at him. “I’ve faced the gallows before, and I got used to the idea of dying a long time ago, so your threats are wasted. I’m not frightened of you.” The last was a lie, but she had her pride. By God, she’d not cower before any man. Katie held out her hand. “Let me see the warrant. I want to read the charges against me.”

  For the first time, she seemed to surprise him. “You can read?”

  His reaction reminded her of Meg, who had also been astonished that she could read and write. Meg had figured out a way to put that particular knowledge to a profitable use, of course. She had concocted a swindle with compromising love letters, forged by Katie, and used against various peers of the realm. It had been a very lucrative scheme. By the shrewd gleam in Lowden’s eye, Katie judged he was thinking of how he might also make use of her education, and she decided it would be wise not to mention her talent for forgery.

  She gave the viscount a mocking smile. “Don’t expire from the shock, my lord. Yes, I can read. Let me see the warrant.”

  He handed her the document, and she read it all the way through. It was a detailed account of her escapade that morning. She handed it back. “All true,” she said with a blitheness she was far from feeling. “Except about my hair. It’s more blond than brown.”

  “Better and better,” he murmured to himself as if she had not spoken. He folded the warrant and put it back in his pocket. “The fact that you can read is an unexpected bonus. Can you write as well?”

  “Aye. English and French.”

  “Excellent.” The viscount drummed his fingers on the table beside him, staring at her thoughtfully. “Despite the fact that you can curse like a sailor, you speak with a cultured voice. Despite your insolent tongue, you seem to have some knowledge of good manners, polite society, and civil conversation.”