Sweet Deception Regency 07 - The Divided Hearts (15 page)

“The nights are getting hotter, Jimbo.” Nate
grimaced at the grinning servant. “Originally, I thought this
costume might appear most romantic. However that was in the winter
months. If this heat keeps up, I’ll suffocate before the summer is
out.”

“ ’At’s the price you pay for being the
local hero,” Jimbo answered. “Shoulda joined the navy. Sea winds
keep you cool in the summer.”

“And in the winter, they tend to freeze your
more tender parts,” Nate retorted and his servant smothered a
laugh.

Nate unclasped the cape and threw it to
Jimbo who flipped it expertly to turn the garment inside out.
Transformed now into a showy peacock blue satin with an oyster
moire silk lining, there was little resemblance to the serviceable
black it had been before. Much to Nate’s amusement, the servant
fussed with the folds, clucking his tongue over the creases in the
shimmering surface.

“My apologies, Jimbo,” Nate said. The feisty
little man muttered under his breath and Nate’s teeth flashed in an
unrepentant grin. As the cape was returned to him, he whirled it
around his shoulders and fastened it once more around his neck.

“I wouldn’t be too cheerful, me bucko,”
Jimbo said, his wrinkled face set in gloomy lines. “Trouble’s
comin’. Me big toes been throbbin’ something awful jest like it
done the last time,” he reminded Nate ominously.

Jimbo’s toe forecast bad weather, poor food
and all manner of local disasters. Nate had learned that the
frequent prognostications should be taken more as a bellwether to
Jimbo’s disposition than any true indications of second sight. The
wiry servant reached behind his saddle and unwrapped a powdered wig
which he extended wordlessly to his master.

Nate hated wearing the thing, but accepted
it with only the usual mutterings. The worst part about his daily
masquerade was the powdered hair. He disliked the artificiality,
the discomfort and the heavy scented smell. Since his white hair
would surely mark him despite the hat and mask, the nights he rode
in disguise he wore his black hair naturally, liking the clean feel
of it against his neck.

Since the local interest in Palatine had
increased, returning home after the meetings was the most dangerous
time. If they were accosted he wanted nothing to give hint to his
double life. He knew that his effectiveness required that he keep
Palatine’s identity a secret. His elaborate precautions had been
amusing at first, but after the incident at the logger’s cabin, the
game had taken on a more serious stamp. Twitching the wig into
place, he shrugged. Safety was more important than comfort.

From his saddlebag, Nate took out a wide
peacock blue sash which he wound around his waist and a spill of
oyster-colored feathers which he wedged into the band of his hat.
He placed it on his head and pulled the brim down rakishly on one
side. The black gloves disappeared into the saddlebag to be
replaced by blue gauntlets with a thin oyster banding at the
cuffs.

Jimbo moved to the horse’s head, reaching
out for the bit. He used his handkerchief to wipe the boot blacking
from the blaze on Touro’s forehead. The distinctive mark would be
an easy identification but in the dark an all black horse looked
much like another. The servant squinted in the night, then spit
gustily on the handkerchief to help in removing the stubborn paste.
The horse arched his neck disdainfully when the man finished the
undignified operation.

“Soon, old son,” Nate said to the restless
stallion.

He checked his clothing carefully, refusing
to give in to carelessness. He waited for a nod of approval from
Jimbo before he considered the ritual completed. As a final
precaution, Nate dipped once more into the capacious saddlebag,
removing a flask of brandy. Unscrewing the top he took a long
welcome swallow, then bsplashed his clothes with some of the rest.
The sharp alcoholic aroma cut through the humid night air. He
passed the flask to the eager servant who growled under his breath
at the sacrilegious waste of good brandy. Like a true son of the
sea, Jimbo tipped his head back in a satisfying swig. Then, Nate
took a final swallow before returning the flask to the
saddlebag.

“That always seems the best part of the
evening,” Nate said as the liquor rejuvenated him.

“Aye, sir,” Jimbo echoed with feeling.

Nate tossed his reins over Touro’s head and
the adept servant caught them handily. They listened once more to
the night sounds, until satisfied, Nate kneed his horse toward the
road. To a casual observer it looked as though Jimbo was leading
his master home after a night of carousal.

“We’ll leave tomorrow for Boston. Captain
Olney will need this report.” Nate sounded distracted as he ticked
off the arrangements necessary for the trip.

“Horseback?” Jimbo asked.

“Yes. Touro here could use the exercise,”
Nate leaned over to caress the neck of the restive stallion. “These
late nights are not to his liking. We’ll give him a good run.”

Keeping the horse at an easy trot, Nate let
his mind wonder back to the night’s meeting. He had gathered a fair
amount of information, thanks to the enterprise of his agents. All
of it would have to be carefully recorded while it was still fresh
in his mind. Bits and pieces picked up by rumors and chance
conversations. It always seemed a jumble but when added together
gave an indication of what was happening within the English
circle.

But more important, he was usually able to
piece together a picture of how the English war against the French
was going. The American intelligence officers were aware that as
long as Napoleon was keeping the British forces occupied, the
English would be unprepared to concentrate any large forces against
America.

It always amazed Nate how indiscreet
soldiers were in letters to their relatives. Most of the English
set had strong ties to the mother country and many had friendships
in England. In the last six months, his network had been able to
pick up a phenomenal amount of intelligence on troop movements and
other highly sensitive military matters.

“Stopped by Perry House to see the Captain,”
Jimbo said, breaking into Nate’s thoughts.

“I didn’t know Oliver was in town.” Nate
spoke quietly, conscious of the distance noise traveled at night.
It was a constant source of amusement to Nate, the ability his
resourceful servant had to ferret out information. The old salt’s
waterfront grapevine surpassed anything he was able to set up.
“Will he be in port long?”

“A week,” was the laconic answer. “Told him
you’d stop by.”

Nate chuckled, delighted that he would have
a chance to see his old friend. Oliver Hazard Perry was three years
younger than Nate, but even so, as boys they had been involved in
many adventures together. Growing up in Newport, they had both been
drawn to and fascinated by the sea. Oliver, whose father was in the
navy and consequently gone for great periods of time, had far less
supervision than Nate. Best of all, Oliver had access to a
boat.

Nate could still remember the joy of freedom
he had felt the first time he had held the tiller of the little
sloop. They had skimmed across the harbor, dodging in and out of
the coves of the bay. They swam buck-naked, dug for clams and
talked the long summers away. Those had been golden years, full of
the blazing sun and tangy salt breezes. Like most good times, the
period had ground to an abrupt halt when Oliver turned fourteen and
signed on his father’s ship as a midshipman. However the friendship
forged in the shell of the little sloop remained viable despite the
length and distance of their separation.

“How’s young Matthew doing?” Nate asked. He
had always liked Oliver’s younger brother.

“Three years a midshipman,” Jimbo replied.
“You’ll see a change in the sprig. He’s much like the Captain, but
more sober.”

Jimbo had served on Oliver’s ship until age
forced him to stand down. Nate smiled, realizing that no matter
what exalted rank his friend achieved, for the wizened old man, he
would always be the Captain. He wondered if Oliver’s marriage this
year had wrought many changes. Nate had always liked Elizabeth and
thought she would be able to enter in the adventures of the
carefree sailor. It would be good to see Oliver since it was
through his machinations that Nate had gotten involved in
intelligence work. Over dinner one evening about a year after
Nate’s return from England, his friend had asked if he would be
interested in working with the military. Knowing that there was
bound to be more trouble between England and America, Nate had
jumped at the chance and his boyhood friend put him in touch with
Captain Olney, father of another school chum.

Captain Stephen Olney was a crusty veteran
of the Revolutionary War. Nate could still recall his discomfort at
the scrutiny of the steely eyes under the fiercely-bunched eyebrows
of the old man. Olney glowered over the desk; his eyes narrowed as
they swept Nate’s elegant figure.

“Want to sign up, do you?” The captain’s
voice rasped in the otherwise silent room. “Actually, son, I doubt
if the uniform would meet your impeccable standards.”

“One must make sacrifices for one’s country,
sir,” Nate said, grinning into the twinkling eyes across from him.
Smoothing an invisible wrinkle on his neatly crossed leg, he waved
his hand negligently. “My man Jimbo will desert me in a huff, but
I’m willing to do my bit.”

“Your father won’t be best pleased, lad,”
Olney charged.

“Father died early this year, sir,” Nate
answered.

“Damn! Didn’t know, my boy,” the captain
apologized. “For all that your father was English to the bone, he
was a good man. Bought many a fine bit of blood from Tregonwell. No
matter his loyalties, lad, he’ll be missed.”

“Thank you, sir.” Nate sat at his ease
waiting while the captain studied him. Finally the old man nodded
his head in decision and leaned forward, elbows on the desk.

“I’ve a job for you, Nate, but it’s not in
the army,” Olney said. “I want you to stay in Newport and gather
information for me.”

“The devil, you say!” Nate said,
disappointment uppermost in his mind. Then as he took in the import
of the old man’s words, anger replaced all other emotions. “I’m not
a spy, sir!”

“Not enough glory for you?” Olney
snapped.

Nate paled but held his place, his hands
curled into fists. It took all his control not to leap across the
room at the insult.

“My apologies, Nate,” the captain said.
“That was uncalled for. Put it down to the pressures I’m under. I
know you well enough to recognize your worth and that’s why I want
you to listen to my proposition. I need good men. The bloody
English have little respect for this country. They’re used to
having us under their thumb and can’t understand what we’re about
when we balk. There’ll be war again. Hopefully not too soon.”

Despite himself, Nate was intrigued when
Captain Olney outlined his ideas. Newport, with its constant naval
traffic, was a prime source of information. Nate’s main purpose
would be to establish an organization to gather information around
the dock area and among the sailors from other ships. He would be
given a list of contacts who could be trusted. The strategy was
that, if and when war came, a network of experienced American
agents would already be in place.

Aside from trying to make some sense out of
the pieces of intelligence, Nate was to disseminate information on
a local level in order to keep the populace well apprised of the
situation. Olney needed someone articulate who could explain the
issues and encourage support for the government without fomenting
dissension or violence.

“The English war against Napoleon is heating
up. Both countries are seizing ships in an effort to ruin the
economy of the other. If this keeps up, war with America will no
longer be a threat; it will be a certainty,” Olney explained. “In
Newport many are looking to expand their trade and the British
actions act as a restriction. But if war comes, this town is
vulnerable to attack.”

Nate agreed. “There are practically no
fortifications in Narragansett Bay.”

“The government is well aware of that, son,”
Olney said. “But what we need now is to plan ahead.”

After much thought, Nate had agreed to take
on the task of building an organization. He began slowly,
recruiting only those he had known for years and whose loyalties he
was sure of. Only this small core was aware of his real identity.
Through these lieutenants he broadened the base of his network.

In the beginning, Nate used the Newport
Mercury as a forum. But as the population became more unsettled, he
was afraid of reprisals against the paper and decided to send out
information via broadsheets. The enterprising Jimbo had somehow
garnered a printing press from sources left unquestioned. To Nate’s
utter amazement, the sailor turned out to be a fast-learning
printer and a demanding editor. The man had even organized a troop
of hooligans to distribute the broadsheets.

“You’ll have to contact the boys,” Nate said
as though continuing a conversation with Jimbo. The little man
nodded his head in understanding. “When I get back from Boston,
we’ll run off a sheet to be delivered the first dark night.”

The gates of Tregonwell loomed out of the
darkness and the two men began the last stage of the masquerade.
Jimbo kicked his lumbering plug, pulling the reins of Nate’s horse
behind him. Touro snorted in disgust as the unprepossessing mount
passed him. They started up the drive and Nate slouched drunkenly
over his saddle, singing in a raucous voice a highly salacious
version of a popular song. They approached the stable complex and
Nate slid to the ground, oblivious to the groom who raced to take
his horse. He wove his way unsteadily toward the house, his song
floating naughtily through the silent garden.