Whispers from the Shadows (38 page)

His smile was as soft to behold as hers felt. He took her hands and held them tight. “And why, my sweet, do you choose to say such things to me now, when we are in a crowd of our neighbors and I can do nothing about it?”

“Because in a crowd of your neighbors is where you are at your best. But have no fear. It will be just as true later, when we are out of the crowd.”

Grinning, he tucked her hand back into its spot around his elbow. And the band struck up a song.

Twenty-Eight

T
he faint thunder of distant cannons invaded his perception as Arthur walked up Church Street with Gates on one side and Scrubs a few steps behind. Happy as his feet—and stomach—were to be on solid ground again, he had a difficult time focusing on the city of Annapolis around him with that familiar echo in the air.

“How far away is it, do you think?” Scrubs spoke in an even tone, but the fact that he spoke at all said volumes.

Gates looked to him. Arthur shrugged. “As faint as it is, it must be at least twenty miles away, I would say. Perhaps as much as thirty, depending on how sound carries here. Not too close.”

But it made his hand reach for the sword no longer fastened to his side. For the Brown Bess no longer slung over his shoulder. It made
his ears strain for the next command from his superior officer. It made the scar throb in his leg.

“It sounds like it is from the direction of Washington City.”

Arthur would have to take Scrubs's word on that one, having never had cause to learn much by way of American geography. “Their capital, is it not? Perhaps we have made progress, then.”

Gates turned on him with an exasperated sigh. “Do watch your tongue, Hart, will you? And your very way of speaking. If we hope to discover information from the locals, we ought not shout from the rooftops that we are British.”

Yet again, Gates managed to make him feel the dunce with the aid of a few curt sentences. “My apologies, sir. I haven't your experience with the covert.”

“You could at least use common sense. Boy—what is your real name?”

Scrubs looked from Gates to Arthur, his silence pulsing with reticence. But at Gates's continued stare, he swallowed and said, “Willis, sir.”

Arthur was about to ask if that was his given name or family, but his companion apparently did not care. “You will act as our guide and mouthpiece. And rest assured that while I may not be as familiar with the area as you, I will know if you are lying about anything, and the penalty for such will be severe. Are we clear?”

“As ice.”

No, the boy had certainly not thanked Arthur for getting him off the
Falcon
. And his tone at that last burned of resentment, in fact. Arthur wiped away the sweat beading on his brow. “'Tis hot as blazes.”

“I told you it would be.” Gates pointed up ahead, past the rows of buildings, many with windows still bricked over to avoid the old window tax, toward the one at the apex of the road, up upon the hill. “The Maryland Inn is there. When we rent our rooms, Willis will tell the proprietor we are from his area in Virginia. Try to imitate his speech or, if you cannot, say nothing.”

Arthur opted for a nod. He longed again for his weapons, a uniform, and a battle plan. Far better that than this underhanded nonsense.

But it was for Gwyneth, so he would do whatever he must. Gwyneth, who he prayed was safely within this very town. Which,
given its size, would mean no more than a mile away even now. A bath, a meal, and he could be with her.

Another whisper of a boom echoed through the air. Arthur looked around to try to gauge the townsfolk's reactions but found none to study. Odd for this time of day, surely. Perhaps Yorrick's prediction was true and most of them had fled. Or perhaps the distant sound of war had scared them all indoors.

They hiked in silence up the hill, the slope of which would have seemed gentle had he not been two months aboard a vessel that afforded him little exercise, and had the very fires of Hades not been trying to devour them even now. By the time they reached the inn, Arthur was silently cursing himself for not taking better care of his condition on the
Falcon
. He ought to have anticipated this and found a way to drill in his cabin. Close quarters was no excuse for sloth. Although he had hardly felt up to exercise, what with the constant motion of the ship churning his stomach.

The door to the inn stood open, as if the meager air moving up the street would do anything to cool the interior. They moved inside, Gates having waved Scrubs into the lead, but to no purpose. No one stood behind the desk, nor was anyone anywhere within sight. Gates tapped the bell, but a full minute of waiting produced no results.

Another muted blast of a cannon.

Gates spun for the door again. “Come, this is foolishness. Annapolis has few enough residents that all know each other. We will simply ask someone.”

Arthur and Scrubs followed him back out, where he looked around and chose a house seemingly at random, marched up to it, and knocked upon the door. A door which remained firmly closed. Though after another round of knocking, and an increasing frown upon Gates's brow, a neighboring door opened and a well-dressed woman of middling age stepped out.

“Good day, there. Are you looking for Mrs. Mercer?”

They all turned to the woman, Mr. Gates presenting a smile far brighter than his usual one. “Is she in, do you know?” Gone was the clipped, upper class London accent from his voice. In its place was one a bit slower, of a different cadence. More like Scrubs's.

“She is not.” The woman's curls danced at her temples when she shook her head. “And she will not be back any time soon. With all these threats of encroaching battles, she has gone to Baltimore to
weather the war there with her son.”

“Ah.” Gates nodded and hooked a hand in the pocket of his waistcoat. “A wise decision, from the sound of it. And how is her son? I have not seen him in years.”

Arthur shifted his weight from one foot to the other. As much as he appreciated Gates's smooth handling, of what import was any of this? He needed to ask after the Lanes. After Gwyneth.

The woman's face went from friendly to merely polite. “Well enough, last I heard. Would you like me to tell her you gentlemen called when she returns?”

“That will not be necessary. We will be making our way to Baltimore ourselves.” He turned back toward the street and then to the neighbor again, as if a new thought just occurred to him. “If I might have one more moment of your time, madam, are you acquainted with the Lanes? Bennet Lane, a professor at St. John's College, and his wife, Winter?”

Now the woman's eyes lit up, and her smile returned bright and cheerful. “Of course I am. Everyone is. Oh, but they too are gone to Baltimore to be with Philly and Thad until the college resumes its classes after the war. No point in staying here, they said.”

Arthur's fingers curled into his palm, but he kept his face from so much as twitching. If only he could keep his heart from sinking so easily.

Gates sighed. “Again, logical if disappointing. Did they have a young lady traveling with them, do you know?”

“A young lady?” Her face went blank. “No, they have had no guests for a year or more.”

The sharp teeth of fear bit down, dug in, threatened to tear away Arthur's careful control. That the Lanes were gone was no more than a disappointment, one easily dealt with. But Gwyneth was not with them?

Had they been wrong? Had Fairchild not sent her here after all? Or had she arrived after the Lanes left? Which would mean that even now she could be alone somewhere, unguarded but for her aging servants. Where? Here, in Annapolis? Or had she followed them to Baltimore?

Gates was uttering his thanks and leading them back toward the street. His gaze latched hold of Arthur. “What do you think? The day is young yet. Shall we rent horses and head to Baltimore?”

For once Arthur got to look at Gates as if he were the idiot. And he put to voice the facts coalescing into a list in his mind. “No. First we check the inns and rented houses in Annapolis to be sure Gwyneth and the Wesleys did not decide to wait here for her father. Then we find our commanders in the area to ascertain where this action is taking place, where they are marching next, and how we can best stay out of their way and still make the trip in safety. Then, and only then, do we head to Baltimore.”

Gates seemed to ponder that advice for a long moment, and then he nodded and held out a hand toward the Maryland Inn. “Back we go to await the proprietor. We will settle in and afterward begin our search.”

On the night of August 24, pacing the rooftop widow's walk long after darkness had fallen, her arms wrapped around her middle, Gwyneth figured no one would accuse her of unreasonable insomnia. They were all there with her, keeping watch for familiar figures on the street. Their eyes were all cast toward the southwestern horizon, where the orange glow had grown from a suspicion to a terrible certainty.

Something big was ablaze. And the only thing in that direction that could put up such a glow from this distance was Washington City.

Winter rubbed a hand over Jack's back, though he had been asleep on her lap for hours now. “I should put him to bed. We should all go to bed. We can help no one by being exhausted come daybreak.”

Yet she made no move to rise from the single chair they had brought up, and no one else acknowledged her statement. Just as they hadn't the last time she had made it, an hour earlier.

The heat had dulled, but not by much. Even at midnight it hung heavy as a drape over them and thrummed with a sizzle that seemed to denote a storm was on its way. Perhaps if it hurried, it would put out the fire.

“I sure wish they would come home.” Rosie rubbed her hands over her arms as if she were cold. She leaned on the rail next to Gwyneth, her eyes locked on that eerie, flickering orange glow. “Knowing them, they are out there helping folks secure their belongings, never giving any mind to the fact that we all be waiting to hear what happened.”

“Of course they are.” Gwyneth expected nothing less of either Thad or Arnaud. She hadn't been surprised when they lit out at midday. They promised they wouldn't get near the battle itself—they had
promised
, so she tried to take solace in that—but they had been gone twelve hours, and now Washington was burning.

Congressman Tallmadge had come by at dinnertime, long enough to let them know that their forces had fallen back from the battle at Bladensburg, outside Washington, in disarray. Thad had been helping organize the removal of all of the most precious American documents from Washington, and Arnaud had been tasked with warning the first lady away from the White House. Tallmadge had assured them that the president and cabinet were all evacuated, and he had insinuated that their men would return to them soon.

That was six hours ago, and still no familiar silhouettes.

Gwyneth drew in a long breath. “I have a confession, Rosie.”

The woman looked her way. “Make it a good one, child. I'm in sore need of a distraction.”

She chuckled. Perhaps it was halfhearted, but she would take any ounce of amusement she could find today. “I thought I had fully conquered the insomnia while Thad was in Bermuda, but I have been sleeping even better in the fortnight since he returned.”

Rosie made a dismissive sound. “Lands, girl, that's one sorry confession. We all sleep better when he's home. Leastways, I do. Comes of caring for someone and from knowing they care for you.”

Care for
. A mild way of putting the joy that saturated every inch of her being when she was with him, that spun over her nerves when he took her hand, that twirled in her stomach when he smiled at her. And the ache that took its place now, when he was not only away from her, but somewhere out there where danger scorched the sky.

A hot wind blew over her face. Was it her imagination, or did it smell of smoke?

Eventually, they moved their vigil inside. Winter put Jack to bed, Rosie made coffee and tea, and they pulled out the remains of a cake. Gwyneth had no appetite, no more than the Lanes or Rosie. She turned her slice into crumbles on her plate and forced a bite past her lips now and then.

At some point she gave in when Mr. Lane urged her to the sofa. She even closed her eyes.

And she jerked awake in a panic when a noise pulled her from the
silence of sleep. A panic that flipped to excitement in one accelerated beat of her heart when she realized the noise was Mr. Lane declaring, “They're here!”

Gwyneth shook the cobwebs from her mind, stumbled to her feet, and charged toward the door. She collided directly into a solid chest. Arnaud's, given the height of it and the accompanying chuckle.

“Whoa, there. I believe you meant to throw yourself into the arms behind me.” He grinned as he delivered her into Thad's embrace.

She was laughing as she wrapped her arms around him and nestled in. Dawn, she saw when her face turned toward the window, had crept upon them. “You must be exhausted.”