Ring of Secrets (35 page)

“That is not true.” If it were, the accusation would not have sounded like one to his ears. “I believe that much in loyalty—if I did not, I wouldn't have spent the last months protecting you and trying to warn you against what might get you killed. I would have consigned you to the consequences.”

“Loyalty.” George spat the word like an oath. “The word has lost all meaning. If we side with the land in which we were born rather than some tyrannical monarch thousands of miles away, we are called disloyal. If, on the other hand, we offer lip service to the Crown while dancing through the war feasting on delicacies and tossing our sterling at the London Trade, then we are lauded as Loyalists. No Tory I know gives a whit about England or the king's right to rule us, Ben, and that's the honest truth. They simply lack the gumption to fight for what seems a losing cause.”

A smile slithered its way around Ben's frustration and onto his lips. “But you don't care about blue coats or red, of course. Only about sterling.”

George angled a grin his way too. “A story I intend to maintain, as no British officer can argue with it.” His gaze went over Ben's shoulder, and sobriety won his face. “Well,
most
officers cannot.”

Following George's gaze, he saw Colonel Fairchild striding down Broadway, probably having come either from the barracks or the jail. Ben sighed. Even from here, the weight on the man's shoulders was unmistakable. He looked as though the entire world pressed upon him, bending his spine and forcing his gaze down.

Poor fellow. Ben had tried to distract him on the second with a fishing trip, but Fairchild had only sat on the bank and stared at his line all morning. Not surprising, but it reminded Ben of why he hadn't attempted fishing since a boy by his father's side. If he was going to be
surrounded by silence for so long, he would prefer to do it with a quill in hand and paper before him, if not his full laboratory.

George shook his head. “I have never much cared for Fairchild, but I feel badly for him. First he loses his ladylove to you, and now his best friend to the Patriot executioner.”

“Thank you for grouping me with a hangman, George. Really.”

“Well, I imagine it feels much the same to him.”

Ben growled halfhearted agreement. He had been toying with the idea of proposing whenever the opportunity arose, but perhaps it would be best to wait, to give Fairchild time to heal. Or perhaps the merciful thing would be to do it now, so that the colonel wouldn't put too much hope in her, only to be let down once more.

“Toss the man a bone,” George said, elbowing him. “Break things off with Miss Reeves.”

He returned the jab in the side. “Perhaps I shall heed your advice when you heed mine.”

Though Rivington's loomed directly ahead, George halted again. “Would you? Give up your foolish involvement if I did the same?”

Was that serious contemplation in his friend's eyes? Ben shook his head. “I was jesting. I cannot. I love her. I intend to ask her to marry me soon.”

“And you call
me
a dunderhead.” George looked off into the distance. “Ben, I know you cannot understand why I do what I do any more than I can understand your affection for that ninny. But if she will make you happy, you know I will wish you well. I hope you can offer me the same respect in spite of not agreeing with my position.”

Ben could nod with no compunction. But as they moved on again, he couldn't help but wonder how someone who knew him so well could know him so little.

Perhaps he was better at this covert business than he had thought.

Rob headed for the apex of Queen Street, where it angled from northeast to east. His gaze locked on the sign for Hercules Mulligan's
emporium, and he nearly bumped into two soldiers jogging across the busy thoroughfare.

“Pardon us, Mr. Townsend.”

Rob offered a smile to the officers and gave way to them. “My fault, gentlemen. I was paying no heed. And where are you headed this fine autumn day?”

The soldiers exchanged a glance, and then one nodded toward the emporium. “About some business with Mr. Mulligan, is all.”

“Ah, as am I.” Rob motioned them to go on ahead of him. They were no doubt in search of some shiny epaulettes or gold buttons. Braid. Perhaps new scarlet coats altogether. All those things that officers considered of the utmost importance.

He hoped one of the tailors under Mulligan could help them. Rob had received a note from his old friend asking him to stop by, and it could very well be because he had information to pass along. Culper Junior had yet to send any intelligence out since General Arnold descended upon the city last week, but Roe was scheduled to come by tomorrow.

The very thought of putting a letter into the courier's hand made his nerves blaze. Yes, the dangers had always been there, but never like this. The entire military was still reeling from André's execution, thirsting for blood. And Benedict Arnold had made it known to everyone that his new life's purpose was to find Washington's ring of spies in the City of New York. Rob's ring of spies. Rob himself.

Every time he swallowed, he could feel the noose that awaited him.

The soldiers in front of him opened the door to Mulligan's and held it for him. He muttered his thanks and preceded them into the warm interior. A fire crackled cheerfully in the hearth, and an older man greeted them all with a smile. “Good afternoon, sirs. Do you have appointments?”

One of the officers stepped forward before Rob could answer with an affirmative. “Nay, but we are here on order of the general. We must see Mr. Mulligan at once.”

Rob's throat closed a little more.

“Certainly. One moment while I fetch him.” The assistant disappeared into the back. While he was gone, the soldiers did a great deal of sighing and shifting but indulged in none of the chatter Rob was
used to hearing when in company with such men—and these men in particular.

He took a chair and picked up a newspaper, hoping the rustling of pages would keep them from hearing the raging beat of his heart.

After an interminable minute, Mulligan appeared. He was dressed with his usual impeccable style, his usual perfectly arranged wig, his usual smile. But Rob detected uncertainty in the eyes of his father's friend even as he clapped his hands together. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. What can I do to assist you today? Do you need to place an order?”

The men looked to each other as if silently urging the other to speak. Both shifted from foot to foot. At length, the same one who had spoken before stepped forward. “I am afraid such happy business is not what brings us here today, Mr. Mulligan. We have been given orders by General Arnold to arrest you.”

Mulligan's only visible response was the arch of a single brow. “On what grounds, sir? Did I cut his new coat incorrectly? For I assure you, I have done nothing else that could possibly be of interest to him.”

The second soldier drew in a long breath. “'Tis nothing you did—recently, anyway. The general wishes to question anyone who expressed loyalty to the rebels before we won the city. Your name came up.”

“Did it now?” With a cool efficacy Rob could never hope to emulate, Mulligan folded his arms over his chest. “If he wishes to speak with me, then perhaps we ought to have a drink together.”

“I am sorry, Mr. Mulligan.” The first soldier put a hand on his saber and stepped toward the tailor. “I am sure you will be released after you have been questioned, but right now you must come with us.”

It took all Rob's willpower not to fist the newspaper, but rather to lower it calmly. To make his face reflect curious concern rather than outright panic.

Hercules Mulligan, though, seemed determined to live up to the fortitude of the original bearer of his name. “If it is a matter of ‘must,' then I suppose there is no point in arguing.” He cleared his throat and glanced past them to Rob. “Mr. Townsend, my apologies. It seems I chose an inopportune day to ask you to come by for that list I need filled.”

Rob set the
Royal Gazette
aside and stood, clasping his trembling
hands behind his back. “'Tis hardly something
you
need to apologize for, Mr. Mulligan.”

The elder man motioned toward his assistant. “Would you fetch me my cloak, please, Mr. Anders? I fear if I move to get it myself, these fine young men may think I am trying to escape.”

The talkative soldier sighed. “Mr. Mulligan, please. We mean no disrespect—”

“You are following orders, I know. But your superior, good sir, most assuredly
does
mean disrespect.” Mulligan tugged his coat into place and rolled back his shoulders. “Mr. Townsend?”

Rob drew in a breath meant to steady him. It failed, but he hoped it helped him look calmer than he felt. “Sir?”

Mulligan walked past the soldiers and stopped before him. He smiled, though a myriad messages clamored in his eyes. “You are still leaving for Long Island tomorrow?”

Though Rob wanted to frown—he had no trip planned until Christmastide—he forced a tight smile instead. Mulligan's meaning was clear. “I am, yes.”

His friend nodded. “Do give your family my regards. And I must say again how glad I was to hear you planned to visit with them for a goodly while this time. Your parents will relish your company.”

“And I theirs.” He would hurry home as quickly as he could manage. Tell Oakham he had received a letter saying Mother had taken ill, and he wanted to care for her. Stop by Hampton Hall to let Winter and Freeman know he planned to lie low on Long Island until Arnold's spy hunt had relaxed.

And get out of town with the evening tide. If Arnold had discovered Mulligan's ties to the Patriots, Rob's would come to light soon too.

The assistant returned with Mulligan's cloak, and he donned it with chin held high. “Very well then, men. Let us be away. Mr. Anders, do go round my house and let Elizabeth know I won't be home for dinner, if you will.”

Mr. Anders didn't look nearly so unflappable as his employer. His eyes bulged and looked suspiciously damp. “Yes, sir.”

Rob shut his eyes rather than watch the Redcoats escort his compatriot away. He gave them a moment's lead, and then he fled the shop and headed for his own. All the way he attempted to turn his thoughts
to prayer, to put a cork on the rising panic. A few more hours of calm 'twas all he had to manage. Just a bit longer to hold himself together.

He hurried into his shop and was grateful to find no one there but his partner. For that matter, he was grateful for the first time that he had brought Oakham into his business, because otherwise he wouldn't have been able to leave it for any length of time.

It took only a few quick exchanges to tell his false story and be assured that the store would be taken care of. A few minutes longer than that to hurry to his room and pack a bag with two changes of clothes and a few necessities. Then he walked to Hampton Hall, valise in hand, praying all the while he wouldn't find Winter in Lane's company as he seemed to do so regularly. If he did…well, he could make his meaning clear, as Mulligan had. But, oh, how he wanted to say farewell without modulating his every syllable.

Following his hopes, he headed not for the front of the house, but around to the back gardens. It was Winter's favorite spot, he knew, other than her secret lair. So long as the air had a hint of warmth, she would likely spend every moment she could manage out here.

And yes, praise the Lord, there she was kneeling amid the chrysanthemums. Alone.

A kernel of peace burrowed into the roiling ground of his spirit. “Winnie.”

Jumping up, Winter turned wide eyes upon him and brushed the soil from her skirt. “Robbie! What are you…?” Her gaze landed on his valise. “Are you going somewhere?”

“Oyster Bay.” He drew near, but not so near that he would be tempted to touch her. This vision of her, concern in her eyes and sweetness upon her lips, would have to suffice. “They arrested Mulligan.”

She pulled in a quick breath and tugged at her cloak. “For…?”

A glance around him showed him no other listening ears, but at this moment he wanted no unnecessary risk. “So far as I could tell, just for questioning, as with so many others. But…”