Mood Indigo (20 page)

A moment later the p
ortly Gage entered. Usually genial, he wore a preoccupied frown today. All British authority had collapsed outside his lines around Boston. And the political scuttlebutt predicted if he didn’t subjugate the rebels soon, General Howe was waiting in the wings to succeed him.

He wedged himself into the chair behind the desk and faced his most dependable spy. “From various reports, I find that you have been successfully waging a campaign with the Mingos against the settlers al
ong the Monongahela River.”

“Conducting a campaign,” the spy corrected.

He preferred not to take any actual part in the bloodbath the Mingos perpetrated, not because of any squeamish reluctance but because of self-preservation. Once the Indians worked themselves into a killing frenzy, he knew that neither political allies nor color guaranteed safety, and often the Mingos even fell to massacring one another over such trivialities as the possession of a woman’s petticoat or a child’s corncob doll.

“We lost another of our agents,” Gage announced without preamble. “To the Leper again.”

“But it is not because of the Leper that you have asked me here,” Ahmad stated.

The spy’s uncanny discernment never ceased to rattle Gage. The man had the instinct of an animal. “I have a more important assignment for you. An assignment of such delicacy that you are the only one whom I feel capable of carrying it out.”

The spy raised a sardonic brow. “An assignment of such danger, you mean.”

Gage hesitated, pulling at the lower fold of his chin. “Yes.” His glance slid questioningly to the man dressed in elegant satins, who no
dded his assent. Gage’s two visitors had come directly from a meeting at 10 Downing Street, if one could exclude the six-week voyage.

Gage’s rather nasal voice dropped to a conspiratorial tone. “Parliament is g
etting a backlash from our businessmen in England. Not only are the businessmen taxed to support a war they didn’t want in the first place, but they have lost the profitable trade they were doing in the colonies. They want an end to this war before it drags out another year.”

“And?”

Gage looked again to the man in satin, who spoke for the first time, in a falsetto voice. “We represent an important segment of Parliament that feels without this General Washington, the rebel army might disintegrate for lack of leadership. We want the man assassinated.”

“So the Roman Senate wants to do away with Caesar?” the spy asked with a caustic smile.

The grizzled man shifted uncomfortably. “We want to execute a treasonable man,” he snapped.

“Are you interested in the—enterprise?” the man in satins persisted.

Ahmad delayed, knowing that by doing so, he would drive up his bargaining price. “I am quite certain you have other agents, Gage—other fanatics willing to risk their lives for the Mother Country.”

“England has such patriotic men,” the grizzled man injected. “Men willing to die for their country.”

“True,” Gage said, “we have patriotic men willing to die. But Washington has bodyguards. Any attempt that is unsuccessful will just alert and prepare the rebel general that much more. We must succeed the first time. We need someone unencumbered by patriotism,” the general finished drily.

The spy gazed indifferently out the window, where windblown snow obliterated the landscape. The interview was following the course he had foreseen long ago.

“What about a mercenary?” the man in satins asked of Gage. “One of the Hessians?”

Ahmad chose the moment to speak, and all three men listened. “A mercenary does not act out of idealism. Thus he is more calm and less likely to make mistakes. Neither does he have reservation
s at the last minute about a bystander who might get hurt in an explosion or killed by a stray bullet. A mercenary calculates every conceivable hazard.”

He paused and asked coolly, “Yet none of the men
have come forward, have they?”

“But if we could find a patriotic man willing to attempt the assassination,” the grizzled man insisted.

Ahmad did not bother to look at him. “Your spy system is filled with more holes than a sieve,” he said. “Boston is crawling with agents and double agents. General Washington would be alerted before the would-be assassin could prime a pistol or draw a sword.” The spy came to his feet. “Gentlemen, we’ve discussed this long enough, don’t you think?”

Gage looked to the two men on either side of him. Both nodded. “All right. Will you do it—will you assassinate George Washington?”

Ahmad stared at the three for a long moment. “Yes. But it will be costly.”

“A gentleman who looks after his own interests,” the grizzled man sneered.

“How much?” asked Gage.

“Wychwood Estates and Manor House.”

“Impossible!” pronounced the man in satins.

The spy leveled his pale blue gaze at the man. “My price is high because I am risking all—and because I shall accomplish that which you wish.”

“Wychwood and Manor House belong to Lennox—one of the king’s own favorites,” the grizzled man said. “The king would never consent.”

The spy shrugged and turned to leave.

“Wait!” Gage said. He looked at the two political representatives from Great Britain whose faces wore expressions of strained uncertainty. His own military career lay on the chopping block. “Our king, I’m sure, is well aware of prior history—of monarchs like Charles I, who pushed Parliament too far and lost his head for it. I think when His Majesty is better acquainted with the facts, he will accede to this demand.”

“Naturally, gentlemen, before I undertake the task, I will want the king’s own signature on a proclamation deeding the estates over to my name upon the successful conclusion of the assassination.”

“These two gentlemen will return immediately to London with your instructions,” Gage said.

“Also, once I have the proclamation, I will not be in contact with your office again. I will make and carry out what plans are necessary on my own.”

“But suppose something goes awry? Our intelligence operations could help out.”

“Nothing will go awry, unless it occurs from your end. Once the proclamation is delivered into my hands, I will carry out the task. Good day, gentlemen.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

J
ane sat on the bed, brushing out the tangles that snarled her hair before she retired for the night. King George pawed at the wooden hairpins scattered carelessly over the quilted coverlet. The flames in the fireplace that occupied her bedroom’s north wall burned low. The bedroom was the only room in the house with wallpaper—a soft design of blue and brown leaves that ended at the dark oaken wainscot.

The large tester bed, the cane-back rocking chair, the chest of drawers topped by a framed looking glass, the painted floor canvas—they added a warmth to the room. Not for the first time she reflected that Ethan had gone to a great deal of work to build and furnish Mood Hill. Had he vainly hoped that he would find someone like Susan to share Mood Hill with him, to grace the house and bring warmth and lighthearted laughter to its rooms?

She looked down at the dress of soft blue wool she wore. Buttoned to the neck, the dress was unadorned but for the simple swaths of linen that fell in graceful folds from the three-quarter sleeves. The dress was one of the many he had purchased for her. That morning at breakfast he idly commented that its color had reminded him of her eyes. Compliments those days were rare from those silent lips, and she flushed with pleasure under his scrutiny.

The abrupt knock on her door halted the sweep of her brush. “Yes?”

“I would like to talk with thee, mistress?” came Ethan’s muffled voice.

“Wait—I—just a minut
e.” Her fingers scrambled to retrieve the scattered pins. “I don’t have my cap on,” she threw over her shoulder. Where did she lay the frivolous lacy embellishment?

Ethan opened the door, and she saw his gaze catch on her unbound hair. Befo
re her hair had been either powdered or cropped and hennaed. This was the first time he had glimpsed the heavy length and black luster of her hair without its concealing mobcap. After a moment’s hesitation, his gaze slid up to meet hers, and she found only indifference registered in his sulfuric eyes. “I think it’s permissible for a husband to see his wife without her hair covered,” he drawled.

Nonplussed, she asked, “You wanted something?”

He strolled across the room to lower himself to one knee at the bedside, near where she sat, and scoop up King George in one large hand. The candlelight danced on his rich auburn hair, and she almost forgot herself in the temptation to run her fingers through its thickness.

His hand stroked the raccoon’s back. “It seems that thee has captured King George’s affection.”

His direct gaze, on a level with her own, disconcerted her. Flustered, she returned to brushing her own hair, delighting in the sudden latent flare of his pupils. “You are surprised that I could capture someone’s affection?” she asked archly.

An amused grin curved his lips. Marvelous lips, she thought. “I am surprised th
at thee could return that affection—as unhappy as thee is here,” he added with a sly glint in his eyes.

“There is no place else for me to go
now—not until the war is over.”

He set the raccoon aside and braced the heel of his palm against his bent knee to face her squarely. “Not even after the war is over, mistress.”

She opened her mouth to protest, and he silenced her with, “I come to inform thee I have to leave tomorrow for Williamsburg. My agent informs me that the market for indigo has greatly increased, and there is much paperwork to be done—accounts to be seen to, negotiations to be made. And, of course, the General Assembly is to be convened to officially transfer the power of the royal government to the revolutionists.”

She had to convince him to take her. She knew that during Williamsburg’s public sessions diplomats, spies, self-seeking businessmen, witty philosophers, scheming politicians, flaming revolutionaries, and courtiers abounded.

If the Leper and his Colony operated out of Virginia, then the Leper would be there for the public session. Only when she discovered his identity could she dare hope to be reunited with Terence. Discovering the Leper’s identity—it would be difficult, but she did have entree, through Ethan, that most Tory sympathizers did not. By watching and listening and asking discreet questions, she meant to succeed where no one else had yet. She faced him fully, the brush gripped tightly in her hand. “Please, may I go, also?”

His mouth hardened. “Thy Tory tongue would make the trip unwise.”

There was something in his expression—was he baiting her again? She could not tell. “I’ll say nothing,” she entreated.

His eyes seemed to sho
w no leniency. “I find that difficult to believe. By the end of the month thee would have us both in the jail’s stocks.”

“At the end of the month?” she echoed, dismayed. “You shall be gone that long?”

“Thee will miss me?”

“Hardly.”

“Alas!” He made to rise, and she caught his shoulders, restraining him from leaving her. Tears glistened in her eyes. “Ethan, please—please let me go with you. I—I’m so unused to the loneliness here.”

His hands came up to remove hers from his shoulders. Abruptly, he turned them palm up, and his thumb rubbed the calluses that ridged the once-smooth skin. He frowned. Still rubbing her palms, he said, “Thy life has greatly changed since coming to Mood Hill. Thee is in need of thy own chambermaid, Lady Jane.”

The gentle pressure of his thumb sliding over her palm set off turbulent sensations in the pit of her stomach. “Not Lady Jane,” she said softly, tremulously. “Madam Jane Gordon.”

He sighed. “Aye. I will take thee to Williamsburg.” The statement was said so smoothly that it almost seemed planned.

She was impulsive with gratefulness and unthinkingly threw her arms about his neck. “Oh, Ethan!” Unexpectedly she slid off the bed’s edge, and he caught her in his arms. Knee to knee, her hands splayed against his shoulders, his hands encasing her rib cage, they faced each other. Her hair tumbled down her back, somehow finding its way into his hands and wrapping about his fingers. He tugged gently, tilting her head back. His face blurred as it moved closer. She stiffened, but his lips, brushing lightly against hers, did not demand, did not insist, only gave of their wine-scented warmth.

That human need to be held, to be touched, was her undoing. Over a year had passed since she had felt the security and reassu
rance of Terence’s arms. She responded, her lips easing into a pliancy that admitted the unanticipated shaft of Ethan’s tongue. Her lungs constricted in surprise. A sinking feeling sapped all strength, and she clung to this man, her husband, as he took his fill of her mouth.

His mouth tasted of honey and wine. Kisses were given in a wild, hot desperate need. They swayed together in that flickering candlelight, fused mouth to mouth, belly to groin. She wanted to get inside him, she wanted him to crush her. Fiery wine bubbled through her veins. She was drowning. Drowning in her own body’s liquid.