Paxton's War (40 page)

Buckley moved quickly to Colleen's side, wanting to glean as much pleasure from the evening as possible. “You look divine tonight,” he said. “You've the beguiling look of a poetess. If I didn't know you better, I'd swear you were an enchanting weaver of lyrical verses.”

The remark struck Colleen's heart, and Rianne's as well, just as Buckley knew it would. Slowly, he wanted to give her time to consider her fate. Subtly, he would let her know that she was doomed.

“Your niece is a damned rebel,” Miranda blurted out, “and my Buckley's a fool for not seeing it.”

The statement startled everyone. For several seconds, the silence was deafening.

“Oh, no, Mother,” Somerset finally piped up, continuing his charade, “you're far too harsh in judgment. Miss McClagan, like her aunt, cares absolutely nothing for politics. They, like their friend Jason Paxton, are merely lovers of art. Am I right, Miss Paxton?” Buckley turned to Joy, dressed in a delicate gown of muted pink bordered by flowery lace. “I presume that you, too, are part of this cozy little band of purely artistic souls.”

Joy, who was still not aware of either Colleen's or her brother's secret identities, was nonetheless frightened by Somerset's dripping sarcasm. In his voice, she recognized the tone of murderous intent.

“I have not the talent of my brother,” she answered discreetly, wishing the evening to be quickly over.

“Well, then, shall we make our way to see just how talented your brother is?” Buckley suggested.

“Meat,” Miranda said, sniffing tenaciously. “I smell the distinct odor of dead carcasses. Has meat been consumed in this house tonight?”

“Mother, we've no time to discuss culinary matters now.”

“Rianne McClagan, I see you for what you are.” Miranda pointed to the seamstress. “You kill defenseless animals. You train your niece to plot against the Crown.”

“My dear Mrs. Somerset,” Rianne replied coolly, her nose tilted slightly toward the ceiling, “I'm afraid it's not our evening meal you're smelling, but your son's rather peculiar perfume.”

Having seen Buckley's carriage and Hollcork's wagon pull away from Rianne McClagan's house, Frederic Pall made his move. Leaving his bag in a bush, he managed to remove the board covering the trapdoor leading to the basement. Then, after looking around to make certain he wasn't being watched, he carefully jumped into the cellar. He landed feet first and, pleased with his athletic agility, expected to quickly retrieve Colleen's latest broadside and be back out in a few seconds. What he hadn't expected was a callused hand around his neck and the point of a long knife poised a fraction of an inch from his left eye.

The knife blocked his view, but it looked as if the man holding it had only one eye.

“Tell me your true purpose, or you're as good as dead,” said a scowling Jeth Darney.

“I'm here as a friend of Colleen McClagan's,” Pall replied in a strange accent that disguised his theatrical training.

“Then why not use the front door like her other friends?”

“This is our usual way.”

“To be stealing in like a thief in the night?” asked the suspicious sea cook.

“If you'll stop choking me and take that knife away, I'll explain.”

Jeth let go of Frederic's neck, but he kept the knife in place. By Pall's very smell, he didn't trust the man. “Explain yourself—now,” Darney demanded.

“It isn't easy with that blade about to dig into my eye.”

Jeth lowered the knife, holding it close to Pall's stomach. “Who are you?”

“I might ask the same of you,” Frederic said, repulsed by the strong smell of tobacco on Darney's breath.

Jeth let Frederic feel the point of the knife against his navel. “I'm asking the questions.”

Was this one-eyed man himself a thief? Pall thought. Was he in the process of robbing the McClagan home? Frederic had no way of knowing. Still, he had to take a chance and say something. If he were a thief, politics wouldn't matter to him; if he weren't, the chances were he was a rebel associate of Colleen's.

“I'm here in the name of freedom.”

“Whose freedom?” Jeth asked, still skeptical.

“The people of this colony. Colleen and I have been working together, and I presume, if you're a good man, you honor the cause that should bind us all.”

There was something about Pall's glibness that Darney didn't like.

“You still haven't said who you are,” the actor commented.

“A guest of the family,” Darney replied, pointing to the blankets on the floor that served as his bed.

“Then surely you know of our work together.” One way or another, Pall was determined to get to the printing press and find that broadside. He wanted his extra twenty pounds.

Colleen had told Darney about her surreptitious lyrics. She'd also expressed her fears about this evening's recital—another reason Jeth was doubly suspicious of Pall.

“I'm the printer,” the actor finally said.

“I see,” Darney said.

“If you allow me,” Frederic went on, “I'll prove it to you.”

Jeth, his knife pointed at Pall's back, allowed the actor to lead him to the darkest corner of the dank, musty cellar, where Frederic removed a large cloth revealing the hidden press. Pall's eyes looked around quickly and spotted a sheet of parchment on a stool next to the press. He knew it was Colleen's latest lyric. “I was to run off a broadside tonight.”

“Colleen and her aunt said nothing about your coming.”

“Maybe they forgot.”

“Maybe they didn't know.”

“They knew, all right,” Pall said, thinking quickly. “But on the other hand, I'll not stay if my presence makes you uneasy. I can come back. Wait.…” Frederic suddenly tensed his body and pointed toward the open hole through which he had descended. “Do I hear someone coming?”

At that moment—when Jeth turned to look—Pall slipped the parchment under his soot-soiled blouse.

“I don't hear a blasted thing,” Darney said.

“Probably just a dog. No matter, I'll be leaving. When Colleen returns, please be good enough to say I was by.”

How did this printer know Colleen was gone? Had he been watching the house? Did he know about the recital? Jeth silently debated whether to keep him at bay in the shadows of the cellar or let him go. Strange, how anxious he seemed to leave.

“No harm, then,” Darney said, deciding he'd learn nothing by detaining him. “I'll tell the lady you were here. On your way, then.”

“We're all in this fight together, aren't we?” Pall asked rhetorically.

“I suppose,” Darney answered.

“If you'll give me a hand, I'll be out of here in a jiffy.”

Jeth helped him up through the hole, and as he did, he noticed something under Frederic's blouse. What was that parchment he was carrying next to his heart?

“Better stay where you are for just a minute,” Darney warned, quickly deciding on a course of action. “The greencoats have been swarming around this place. Let me just go 'round the house to make sure the coast is clear.”

“You're kind to do so,” Pall replied, secretly gloating that another one of his performances had been so well received.

Jeth quickly gathered up an assortment of weapons, hid them on his body, and then ran up the stairs, through the shop, out onto the street, and met the actor in the backyard. “All clear,” he said.

Frederic was off into the night. He could almost hear the jingle of those silver pounds in his pocket. What he didn't know, though, was that, from a few dozen yards back, armed with pistols and knives, Jeth Darney was following his every move.

Chapter 10

“No, you fool!” Randall Embleton barked at his aide, who carried a dark uniform ito the major's dressing room. “I want my whites for tonight along with the fringed red epaulets, the full assortment of medals, and my white braided campaign wig. Hurry! I hear some of the guests arriving already.”

The aide saluted and left promptly as Embleton turned back to the mirror, where he continued curling his eyelashes with a special scissors, a chore he had always carried out in strictest privacy. He was as happy as a man who had certain knowledge that a voluptuous and eager lady awaited his attention. Perhaps happier. Never had he anticipated an evening with greater pleasure.

His aide returned, leaving the white uniform behind. Slowly, relishing all that was to come, Embleton stepped out of his dressing robe and donned his formal attire, silently rehearsing his speech. Once dressed, he regarded himself in the mirror with enormous satisfaction. The trousers were a bit snug—the major had grown fond of the Carolinian fried foods—but his girdle lent him a smooth, altogether presentable appearance. Dressed all in white—even his special officer's tricorn was white—he appeared absolutely dazzling to himself. Peering out his bedroom window overlooking the street, he smiled smugly at the sight of the arriving carriages and the presence of a dozen red-coated soldiers standing smartly at attention by his front door. It would all happen too quickly—that was Embleton's only concern. He wanted to—nay, he
intended
to—savor every second of this delectable soirée, where each detail had received his undivided attention. Spraying himself with a variety of substances—powder for his wig, perfume for his neck—he caught one last glimpse of himself in the mirror and wholeheartedly approved of what he saw.

“Please be good enough to follow me,” said the Redcoat standing directly at the front door to Buckley Somerset, Miranda, Joy, and Colleen, who was already alarmed by the number of British soldiers. Was this a military or cultural affair? Inside, they were escorted through the house to the rear parlor, a large room where some fifty chairs had been neatly set up. Half the seats were already occupied, and against two walls another dozen Redcoats stood, muskets in hand. Why so many soldiers, and why were they so blatantly positioned? Buckley's party was taken to the very front row, where seven chairs sat directly before the pianoforte. Two of those chairs were occupied by Robin Courtenay and Piero Sebastiano Ponti, who had arrived only minutes before. The gentlemen arose and, with formal graciousness, greeted Colleen, Joy and Somerset, and Miranda.

“It's been several years, madam,” Robin said respectfully to the great-wigged woman.

“It was several lifetimes ago that we knew each other,” Miranda replied. “I presume that you do believe in reincarnation, an ancient belief held sacred in certain corners of the world. I, for instance, am certain that, religious differences aside, I embody the spirit of Joan of Arc, who …”

“Mother,” Buckley interrupted, afraid that this would happen. “I'd like you to sit next to me.”

For the moment, Miranda was silent, seated at her son's left. Colleen sat between Somerset and Piero. She resisted asking the Italian about Jason's whereabouts. Reading her mind, though, Piero whispered, “The maestro is in the garden relaxing before his performance.” Colleen looked beyond the glass doors, where she saw her lover seated on a bench in a corner of the garden, a short brick wall to his back, his eyes calmly closed, the very portrait of the artist in gentle meditation. He was wigless, dressed in a simple gray waistcoat as the light from the parlor's torches and candles lent his lanky figure a shadowy glow. Oh, how she longed to go to him, to sit beside him, to wish him well and tell him how much she loved him! She admired him even more for enduring this charade so that his fearless work might continue.

A few seconds later, almost sensing the warmth of Colleen's loving stare, Jason opened his eyes and smiled into hers. His smile spoke volumes. Colleen could see the love and concern in his eyes. In fact, the musician had been preoccupied with the same thoughts as hers.

At the last recital, not a single guard was in evidence. This time he counted at least two dozen. Why? What was the purpose, especially inside the parlor itself? Was Embleton worried about a rebel attack? It seemed hardly likely. No matter; Jason struggled back toward relaxation. In a few moments he would begin to play, and this composition, which had been boiling within him ever since he had returned to America, would finally find formal expression. It was enough to look up and see Colleen's lovely golden eyes. In returning her glance, he offered her a deep measure of sympathy, an unmistakable look of love.

Buckley intercepted the silent exchange. He was barely able to contain his fury. How these lovers pined for one another! Oh, to see them strung up, side by side! He knew he had no more than two hours to wait for his sweet reward, and yet seated there, his index finger playing compulsively with the break in his nose, Somerset counted the seconds ticking away as he turned to greet the arrival of a group of wealthy Tory friends and wondered when in hell Embleton would appear so that the festivities might begin.

“Lovely setting for a recital,” he said to Colleen, forcing her to divert her eyes from Jason. “If you were only a poet, you could compose a sonnet about an evening such as this.”

Colleen didn't reply as waves of terror chilled her bones.

Dressed in full dress uniform, Peter Tregoning left the officers' quarters of the Old Customs Exchange and walked to the stables, where he saddled and mounted his steed. He had supervised a meaningless practice maneuver all afternoon—another frivolous assignment he'd been given—and was tired, thus the decision to ride rather than walk to Major Embleton's. The sky was already dark, and leading his horse around the front of the massive building, he saw a number of flaming torches. When he paused to inspect the nature of this unusual activity, he felt his throat turn dry and his heart beat madly against his chest. Dozens of workmen were hurriedly putting up gallows. There could be no doubt about it. He tied his horse and walked toward the front of the building, his mind racing with questions: Why? Why this time of evening? Why so many workers? And why the frantic pace? This was evidenced by the shouts of the greencoat in charge: “Hurry! We've got only an hour to get this thing up! You lugs over there—move those beams!”