Whispers from the Shadows (44 page)

Petulance? Arthur's fingers dug into the cloth of his breeches. “How very generous of you to ‘give me' two days, sir, while you have been off visiting with your
son
.”

Gates's low laugh sounded menacing in the heavy night air. “You will judge me? Judge me for doing what all men do when they are strapped to a cold, unfeeling wife?”

Arthur kept his gaze on the dancing fire. If he were to describe either of the Gateses as cold and unfeeling, it would not have been the missus. “I will judge you, sir, for your hypocrisy. You, who say you despise all Americans, yet—”

“I never said they did not have their purposes, just that they ought not be governing themselves. But my son is not the one with whom you take issue. 'Tis my niece who has you so riled.”

“Because she is no more constant than you!” He clamped his lips
shut, grateful he had at least had the wherewithal to make his accusation quiet, if ill-advised. Frustrated and angry as he might be, these days in camp had proven that Gates was held in a rather fearful respect. Those great men, the men to whom Arthur had been trained to listen above all, listened in turn to
him
.

Gates's chuckle grated on his every nerve. “She is nineteen, Sir Arthur. An impressionable young woman with a brain filled with nothing but images of pretty things. Is it so shocking that her head was turned when she was without proper guardianship?”

Arthur kept his mouth sealed tight.

Gates leaned forward, as if seeking the heat from the fire, though the night had scarcely cooled to livable. “Your anger is understandable, but do not give up so easily. She will soon realize her error.”

“And what will it matter if she does? She is married.” Married! To think of her in the arms of that man, to see her looking at Thaddeus Lane as she ought to have been looking at him…

“Again, I would remind you that she is
nineteen
. Not one-and-twenty. She can make no such decisions on her own. That marriage is not legal and can easily be annulled as soon as we can wrest her free of them.” His gaze now bore into Arthur. “The question is, are you going to fight for her or roll over and let them kick you like a mutt?”

Arthur sprang to his feet and strode away, out of the circle of firelight and into the towering shadows of trees. Seething, storming, stewing. And wishing, wishing he could let go the reins of his temper and rage. Wishing he could be every inch as irresponsible as his uncle had accused him of being. That he could do something stupid with no thought as to the consequences.

That he could—what? Fight for her? Why should he? Why should he want to? She wasn't worth it.

“If you will give up so easily, then you are no more constant than you accuse her of being.” Gates's voice came somewhere from the shroud of trees, from somewhere in the enclosing darkness. “She was vulnerable, alone, and obviously grieving after the news reached her. Lane took advantage. Will you hold that against her?”

A hot wind gusted through the trees, shook their leaves, and set his nerves thrumming. Into his mind came the image of her eyes, so large and limpid. Gazing at him in modest adoration. Those perfect rosebud lips that he had longed to kiss from the first moment he saw
her. All his friends had been as struck by her beauty as he. All had vied for her dances, for an excuse to put a hand on her waist. But he had been the one at whom she had batted those lashes and given her smiles. He had been the one with the hope of winning her.
Had
won her.

“She is yours.” Gates's voice had moved, coming from the side now rather than behind, though his footfalls had been silent on the carpet of pine needles under them. “She gave her promise, and as her guardian now, that is the one I approve. Forgive her for her foolishness, Hart, and take her back. Take what is yours. We both know you want her still.”

He turned away from the murmur that made it sound so base and shook his head. Beautiful as she was, as much as he longed to take her in his arms, his motive had not been only bound up in that, had it? He had been drawn to more than her face, more than her figure. He had…he had…

He hadn't even known her. He still didn't know her. He had simply been enamored with her pleasing disposition, been thrilled at the sound of her voice, and, yes, been so very attracted to her. He had wanted her to be his, wanted everyone to see that he had won the most beautiful young lady in London. He wanted the right to hold her. To kiss her.

The viscount had been right. He had chosen his bride not in the interest of the Hart line but in the interest of his bed.

Fire burned his throat, but he swallowed it back. Why should it shame him? If he had not chosen her because of her beauty, he would have chosen someone for her name or her dowry. Lust, either way. Lust for prestige, for money, or for a person herself. It was, it seemed, the only reasons to wed. Who was to say one was any baser than another?

And which of those things had influenced Lane? Was it the Fairchild wealth he sought, or merely the allure of Gwyneth herself?

“You have a noble heart, Arthur. A good heart.” Gates's voice came from the other side now, though Arthur had not sensed his movement. “Surely you see how she must have been hurting. Surely you see that she is a victim to her own grief, and to the vile maneuvering of a villain who would use it against her. We must free her from him. We must save her.”

Arthur turned, trying to locate Gates in the darkness. But it was
too thick, impenetrable. Not so much as a shaft of moonlight softened it. “How? You saw how fiercely he claimed her, and according to your son, his parents are staying there. I daresay after we tipped our hand that they will not let her out of their sights. She will not be left alone.”

“When Baltimore is under attack, confusion will ensue. And her militiaman husband will be at his post in Fort McHenry, too far away to help. His parents can be handled easily enough.”

Was it hope that sparked inside him? Not quite. Hope was not so dark nor so determined. “But you know as well as I that those reports about the city's unpreparedness are mistaken. We ought to advise the admiralty against attacking. We ought—”

“We ought to advise they plan an attack from the water, toward Fort McHenry. We ought to recommend they destroy that bastion and kill all within it.” How could Gates's voice be both hard and smooth? “We ought to encourage them to burn this center of commerce as they did the center of government, so that the Americans can fight no more. And when they are crushed, we can take what is ours and go home.”

Arthur swallowed as he turned toward the sound of rustling to his left. The man advised an entire campaign built around personal agenda. War to fuel their own purposes. “We ought to tell them what we observed. That the Americans are stronger than our leaders think.”

A scoffing laugh sounded, but from the right. “Tell them that and they will choose the easier target of Annapolis. Nay. They can handle those quickly built fortifications with no worries.”

Could they? “The men are tired from all the fighting in Europe, and this heat has stripped their defenses still more.”

“They are trained members of the most elite military in all the world. The Americans will pose no more a threat at Baltimore than they have anywhere else, especially after our men have rested for a week or two while the roads are cleared of trees and the fleet has moved into position.”

A moment's consideration made him nod, though Gates wouldn't see it in the dark. But he was right. The motley collections of farmers could do little more to defend themselves than brandish their hoes and mound up piles of dirt. British rockets and cannons would win the day.

And when that day came, they would seize their chance. Free
Gwyneth of the Lanes while her husband—if he could legally be called that—was being blown to bits along with Fort McHenry.

When that day came, she would, at last, be his.

“Amazing.” Gwyneth looked out at the long line of wagons loaded with produce and at the farmers who wore smiles upon their faces and determination in their eyes. And then to Winter, who surveyed the sight before them with a satisfied sigh. “All it took to convince them to come to the city was the assurance that their horses and wagons would not be confiscated?”

Her mother-in-law nodded and looped their arms together to keep them moving toward the makeshift hospital. They each carried a basket full of rolled bandages and what medicinals they could spare. And they were only two of many women about the same business.

“It had apparently been the only thing keeping them on their farms. Thad was right.”

At that, Gwyneth had to chuckle. “I imagine they are all eager to get a fair price for their vegetables anyway.” Because they all knew if they did not before the British army marched through, then their choices would be to burn it all before it could be confiscated or hand it over in exchange for their lives.

It was, had always been, the way wars were waged. And yet not at all the way the Americans were running this one. She spotted a baker up on a cart loaded with breads, heading toward one of the temporary barracks dotting the landscape. A man down the street led a group of officers into his home with the words, “Welcome” and “As long as you need” drifting to her on the wind. Everywhere, all over the city, normal business had ceased. Every effort, every person was focused on preparing for the attack they all knew was coming. The two-week lull since the burning of Washington had not seen any spirits flagging. Nay, it seemed instead that each day was viewed as a blessing and a cause for redoubled activity.

“Mrs. Lane!”

They both turned to the voice and then exchanged a smile. Gwyneth had expected it to take months before she was accustomed to answering to her new name, but with as often as people called it in the last fortnight…

A young man rushed their way with a beaming smile. His gaze was on Gwyneth, though it included Winter too. “I spoke with my
father last night, and he approved our contribution to the cause. Does that bring the total above the half-million mark?”

A little thrill moved through Gwyneth. When Thad had told her that the plan to pay for the fortifications rested on contributions and loans from both banks and private businesses, she had to admit to skepticism, but the people of Maryland had risen to the task. “It does, Mr. Jones, and well beyond. I do believe that will bring us to more than six hundred thousand dollars.”

Mr. Jones did an impromptu jig as he laughed. “He will be pleased beyond measure. I am headed to the bank now to draft the cheque. Good day to you, Mrs. Lane. And Mrs. Lane.” He reeled his way past them. “And good day to you too, Mr. Mercer.”

Gwyneth froze, willing it to be some other,
any
other Mr. Mercer. Knowing, even before the expression that stole over Winter's face when she glanced behind them, that it would not be. She started forward, hoping he was merely passing down the side street and would pay them no heed.

Yet she was not at all surprised when that too-familiar figure matched his pace to hers. “Mrs. Lane.”

Gwyneth gripped her basket tighter. “I believe you mean ‘cousin.' ” The documents Papa had sent said as much, and so much else besides. All the details of the slave trade that Uncle Gates had set up with the help of this baseborn son of his, first in foreign waters, stealing Africans from their own shores, and later, when that trade was made illegal, within the borders of the United States.

Mercer gave a small smile. “An odd discovery, was it not? Here I had resigned myself to never meeting any of my father's family. How very fortuitous that I would stumble across a first cousin in my own city.”

Her back went stiff as her step picked up still more. “I daresay my Aunt Gates would not find it so.”

Winter's hand found her wrist and gave it an encouraging pat.

Mercer breathed a laugh. “I suppose you did not realize your uncle was a bit of a rake, hmm?”

A rake. That would imply that Mr. Mercer's poor mother was not his only indiscretion. And why, knowing all she did about him, did that fact still make disappointment weep through her? “I did not. But I know he is a murderer.”

He didn't stumble, didn't so much as falter in his stride. He
merely lifted a single brow at her in the very way Uncle Gates did. “Do you now?”

She raised her chin and turned the corner with Winter, who sent her a questioning gaze. But what did it matter if she told Mercer now that she knew? The worst he could do was tell Uncle Gates, and the worst
he
could do was come for her again, which they all knew he would do anyway. He would know very well, no matter what she had said, that if Papa had sent a mask with her, he would have sent more. And he would stop at nothing to get it back, to stop them from revealing his crimes to both the American and British governments.

So she tilted her head Mercer's way, their gazes clashing. “I watched him kill my father.”