Lytton stared at the crazed turkey. “It’s attacking. Stupid bird.”
“No,” said Tremayne, understanding dawning too late, “it’s running away.”
But not from us. It was an ambush.
Most of the Jaegers were now in the bottom of the ravine, with little or no cover. Heavy fire erupted from the trees ahead and above. Some of it was buckshot, to judge by the sound of it. Ungentlemanly, but a particularly good choice in the fading light.
The Jaegers hadn’t been following turkeys into the woods. They’d been drawn by the gobbles and clucks of the Rebels.
Clever. Very clever indeed. The Jaegers were in an indefensible position. The Americans poured their fire into the bottom of the ravine, which would soon prove a killing field.
Fortunately, Ewald was no fool. He and his men had been after turkey tonight, not Rebels. Mercer remained the real goal, and to take Mercer, Donop must get his force intact to Red Bank. The young captain ordered a hasty retreat, and the Jaegers began to scrabble, tree to tree, back the way they had come. Professionals to a man, a few paused, when a convenient tree or position permitted, to return fire—hoping to unsettle the unseen ambushers and cover the withdrawal.
Tremayne motioned for silence and led Lytton to an outcropping of rock. He lay down flat over the cold stone with the Ferguson beside him. Lytton did likewise with his own gun.
The Americans were nearly invisible in the twilit woods. Tremayne would have liked to pick off their officers, but he could find none; no gold braid or silver lace to mark his targets.
Tremayne passed the Ferguson to Lytton. “Here. Give me yours.” Muzzle-loading a rifle while prone was difficult but not impossible, and Tremayne was likelier to do it quickly than Lytton was to master the art in the next few moments.
They could hear the Rebels calling to one another. The Americans knew the Jaegers were retreating, and there was clearly some disagreement about whether or not to follow. A horse whinnied. “That is the sound of a target, Lytton. An officer. Whoever is sitting that mount is paid a good deal better than the poor bastards on the ground. Kill him, if you please.”
The boy scanned the trees. There was a single rider on a massive gray horse, his face invisible beneath a crumpled brown hat. Lytton looked through the sights of the Ferguson, and took aim. The rider removed his disreputable headgear, and for Peter Tremayne, the world stopped.
Tremayne had never set eyes on the man before, but even in the moonlight there was no mistaking the quirked mouth or the peculiar set of the stubbled jaw.
Lytton drew back the trigger. Tremayne had no time to think. He hurled himself against the boy, knocking the rifle over the rock. The gun went off and the two men tumbled down the incline together, striking every root and stone in their path and fetching up at the bottom of the ravine.
Lying on his back, the wind knocked out of him, bleeding from a dozen cuts, Tremayne heard the horse crashing through the trees, knew the rider would be on him any minute.
He climbed to his feet. He left his saber hanging at his hip, unlaced his neckcloth, and when the rider was within twenty feet, held it aloft in surrender and called out, “Colonel Grey, I have an urgent matter to discuss with you.”
“Who the devil are you, sir?” Arthur Grey was not a handsome man, even in the kindness of moonlight. But his face, unlovely and masculine as it was, bore the same stamp as his exquisite daughter’s softer features.
“My name is Peter Tremayne.” He hesitated, then added, “Viscount Sancreed. I’m an officer on Howe’s general staff. And I must tell you that your daughter is in danger.”
“Title or no, if you are threatening my home, I’ll shoot you in cold blood.” Tremayne felt the temperature drop considerably. Kate Grey might espouse pacifism, but her father held no such beliefs.
On the ground a few feet away Lytton stirred and groaned. Tremayne was running out of time. Arthur Grey was quite possibly the only man in the world who could help Kate if Tremayne did not return from Mercer.
“Your daughter is not at home. She is in Philadelphia, with the Merry Widow, the woman who calls herself Angela Ferrers. She is spying for Washington. Howe knows there is a traitor in his midst. Howe’s spymaster suspects it is Kate.”
Arthur Grey said nothing, so Tremayne went on, willing Phillip Lytton to remain dazed for a few minutes longer. “There are only two men at present who can identify her. Myself and Mr. Lytton here. He wishes her caught so he may advance his career.”
“If my daughter is with Angela Ferrers—and I’m not saying I believe you, mind—then she is in no danger. I knew the lady during the last war. She is a resourceful woman, more than capable of keeping Kate safe. And my daughter is not given to wild exploits.”
“Angela Ferrers has allowed your daughter to become engaged to Bayard Caide.”
Arthur Grey laughed out loud. It was not the reaction Tremayne expected.
“You, sir,” said Arthur Grey, “are either mistaken, or a madman. My daughter is not the sort of woman to attract the attention of a man like Butcher Caide.”
In Tremayne’s mind was a picture of Kate as she had appeared the day they met. She stood beside the elegant, silk-clad Widow on the wide porch of Grey House, her faded skirts singed, pie crumbs in her hair, and a singularly unimpressed quirk to her mouth as she scrutinized him and his men. No, the Kate her father had known would not be of interest to Bayard Caide, but the woman she had become in Philadelphia was of interest to any man with a healthy carnal appetite. This, however, was not an observation calculated to win over a woman’s father, particularly when that father was leveling a loaded rifle at your chest and your own allies were slipping fast away into the woods.
“I am afraid, sir,” said Grey, pointing his gun at Tremayne, “that if you can offer me no better proof of your claims, I will feel obliged to take the surest route to protect my family, and kill you.”
In answer, Tremayne reached into his tunic and drew out a crumpled length of green ribbon. It was proof of his acquaintance with Kate Grey. And evidence that Arthur Grey ought to shoot him anyway. Because he had eaten this man’s salt, and drunk this man’s whisky, and sheltered beneath this man’s roof.
And then tried his damnedest to debauch this man’s daughter.
Nine
Kate sat frozen in her place by the fire.
John André bowed deeply in the parlor doorway.
As he rose, his gold-flecked eyes surveyed her. He was scrutinizing her, she realized, for the lingering effects of the opium. Anger put color in her cheeks. She surged to her feet in one smooth movement, and stood with the practiced grace Mrs. Ferrers had taught her.
It was a challenge, and André read it as such. He cocked his head in answer, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. For a fleeting second Kate detected in his eyes something entirely unexpected: approval.
Then Peggy Shippen was bounding past him like a puppy and the moment passed. Kate sat down with relief. The room had begun to swim when she stood so quickly.
Peggy did not sit. She circled the hearth rug in a dizzying pattern. “John is designing costumes for the new theater. My father says I may not model for him, but he says you’re already engaged to Colonel Caide so nothing you can do can bring you lower.”
André draped himself over one of Mrs. Valby’s silk damask chairs. “Charm, in the Shippen family, does not skip generations,” he drawled.
Oblivious to the slight, Peggy basked in the attention, but André’s eyes were fixed on Kate. “I’m so happy to see you recovered from your indisposition, Miss Dare.”
Something in his tone must have reached even the dim consciousness of Peggy, who disliked being out of the spotlight for even a moment. “Everyone says you were so drunk that Lord Sancreed had to take you home so as not to embarrass their family.”
It was a nasty thing to say, but there was no sting in it for Kate. Peggy was in love with André, and he had barely spared her a glance since arriving. Today, as before, Kate noted how
curiously impersonal was André’s interest in the girl. “Yes,” Kate said. “It was imprudent of me, to drink as I did. I’ll take greater care in future.”
“André says you would make a fine Kate,” Peggy offered, trying to take hold of the conversation.
André’s gold-flecked eyes flickered briefly to Peggy, then returned to Kate. He was still watching her, gauging her reaction. If he had arrived at her door with a squadron of marines and a warrant, she would have been on firmer ground. “Flattering, but of small consequence. My parents are no longer taking suggestions on the subject of my name, Captain André.” It struck her then, the reason André kept Peggy at arm’s length. Cinaedus, Hamilton had called him. A lover of men. She had thought the slur just an insult, not a literal descriptor, but now she understood. “Although yours, I suspect, might have done better to choose Alcibiades.”
He smiled openly now. “I am more Critias than Alcibiades, I suspect.” He leapt up, took her hand, and pressed it to his lips. “And I was making reference to the character in The Taming of the Shrew. You would make a fine Kate, but we are staging No One’s Enemy but His Own instead. Will you come model my costume for Lucinda? Mr. Black assures me he has fifteen yards of spangled muslin, and his wife is, I believe, reputed to be the best dressmaker in Philadelphia.”
* * *
Anstiss Black was indeed the best dressmaker in Philadelphia. That is why Mrs. Ferrers had chosen her to outfit Kate for the role of heiress. Kate realized it was possible that André knew this, and was still testing her. His playfulness in the parlor did not mean he had forgone the option of clapping her in irons, or breaking down her door in the dead of night.
She could not recall whether Mrs. Ferrers had ever used her real name in front of Anstiss Black, had no idea how deeply the woman might or might not be in the Widow’s confidence. She must gird herself for a tricky encounter; but the burst of anger that had sustained her in the parlor dissipated in the carriage. Her fatigue returned as she sat hemmed in by bolts of cotton lawn and watered silk, the bench littered with paper-wrapped packages and spools of tasseled trim.
Fortunately André had at last turned his attention to feeding Peggy Shippen’s infatuation. The pair sat on the bench opposite, André’s fine-boned hands a supple blur. He was weaving cat’s cradles out of silver lace for the giggling girl, seemingly unaware of Kate’s discomfort.
Mrs. Black greeted Kate with the warmth reserved for a favored customer. She drew Kate into a back room and helped her into the confection André had ordered.
“She will meet you at Du Simitière’s at seven thirty,” Anstiss Black whispered as she tugged the gown over Kate’s shoulders.
When Kate emerged from the back room in the spangled muslin, André applauded and Peggy sulked. The seamstress was unused to being directed by a man, but once Kate was up on the block, professional instinct took over and Mrs. Black draped, pinned, and basted with the exacting skill for which she was famed.
The muslin was frost blue and stiff with sizing, and scratched Kate’s arms, which ached as she held them spread wide for Mrs. Black to pin the sleeves. The final concoction was a sort of polonaise, body-skimming and tied at the waist, but curiously tight through the shoulders.
Kate tried to lower her arms. The row of pins extending from her wrist to the sensitive flesh along her ribs twisted and bit into her skin, and she instantly jerked her arms upright again.
“If you want the sleeves that tight, Captain André,” Mrs. Black pointed out, “you’ll have to sew it on your actress the night of the performance.”
André stood up and made a slow circuit around Kate. “It is really quite good, Mrs. Black, but it lacks the color and panache required for the stage.” He turned to Peggy, who was still attempting to duplicate one of André’s cat’s cradles, and ruining at least three yards of Mrs. Black’s best beaded lace in the process. “I know just the thing. Peggy, dearest, would you nip out to the carriage and find that spool of tasseled cord we bought this morning?”
Peggy’s face lit up, and she jumped to do her master’s bidding. Kate hated to see it, knew by training and instinct that such slavish enthusiasm was the surest route to losing a man’s interest. But then, if Kate’s surmise was correct, Peggy had never had a chance of capturing André’s real affections.
When Peggy was gone, André’s gracious smile faded. He turned to Mrs. Black. “Get out.” His voice dropped an octave from the musical tone he had used with Peggy.
“I should like to be unpinned first,” Kate said, her arms aching.
Mrs. Black looked from Kate to André, picked up her skirts and hurried from the room.
Kate stood pinned like a butterfly on a card while André locked the door. When he turned to face her, there was none of this morning’s good humor in his countenance.
“And now, Miss Grey, let us discuss how matters stand between us.”
“Why, Captain André, I believe there must be so many ladies vying for your attention that you have begun to mix us up. My name is Dare.”
“It does suit you better than Grey. Are your arms getting tired?”
She was beginning to feel faint, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “I’m quite comfortable, thank you.”
“Good. I wish to apologize for my behavior at the concert, and to give new offense while doing so would defeat my purpose. You see, I thought you quite an ordinary little eavesdropper, as decorative and useless as you appear. The Merry Widow has a knack for training butterflies.”
“Is that what you are doing with Peggy?”
André laughed. “Not quite a butterfly, is she? More like a spaniel.”
“It’s cruel. She’s in love with you.”
“And Bayard Caide is in love with you. Or is cruelty acceptable in his case?”
“What is it you want, Captain André? If you have the proof to move against me, I wish you would do so, as my arms are getting tired.”
“I have all the proof I need to make you disappear forever, Miss Grey.”
“Bay wouldn’t like it.”
“No, proof wouldn’t sway him. But if he knew you were sleeping with his cousin, he’d wield the knife himself.”
“I barely know Peter Tremayne. I’ve only just met him,” she countered. She was prepared to face her own fate, afraid though she was, but she would not drag Tremayne down with her.
“Please, Miss Grey. I wish this to be a new beginning between us, and for that we must have honesty. As soon as I saw you with Tremayne at the concert, I knew. It was the work of a few hours to retrace Lord Sancreed’s steps the day his dispatches were stolen. And Quakers, with rare exception, have no talent for prevarication. Your name is Katherine Grey. You are the only daughter of Arthur Grey, who was known in the last war as the Grey Fox. A very capable commander at present absent from home and believed to be serving with the Continentals, despite his adoptive faith. You have a very pretty friend named Milly who survived some rough handling from a party of dragoons and has just been brought to bed of a healthy baby boy. Sadly for the child, his father is imprisoned in the State House for treason. And it was not Angela Ferrers who distracted Tremayne the night he lost the dispatches. It was you.”
Kate refused to faint. Her tired arms were sagging, the pins scoring her flesh, prickles of blood beginning to well, but she continued to meet his golden gaze steadily. “Then arrest me, and be done with it.” It would, she realized with a sickening sense of fatalism, be a relief. It must be how Angela Ferrers faced death with such calm, because it held the promise of an end to the gut-wrenching tension and fear.
“I have no desire to arrest you, Miss Grey. I wish, instead, to employ you. The Merry Widow has a rare eye for talent. To find amidst the rye and barley fields of New Jersey a girl who could captivate not only Peter Tremayne but also Bayard Caide is testament to the Widow’s acumen. And your nerve. Few women could stomach the two of them, knowing their relationship.”
“Their grandfathers were cousins. They are distant re
lations,” she said.
“They are surely more than that, Miss Grey. Only close kinship could produce such congruity of form and figure. And the eyes, Miss Grey. Such strikingly pale blue eyes are rare. Neither Bayard Caide’s mother, nor Tremayne’s, had such eyes.”
She realized that he was talking about more than illegitimacy, which was common enough. He had her at a disadvantage, knew some secret about this ancient family that he hoped to use against her, so she said, “No man is responsible for the circumstances of his birth.”
“Quite so. And yet he must live with them nevertheless. I am an ambitious man, but I labor under the taint of my proclivities, with which I assure you I was born, and of my French blood. Through you, I could wield power over the Tremaynes. It is a difficult choice: to make you the mistress of a lord with the ear of the king, or the wife of a coming man who might rise even higher.”
“My services are not for sale, Captain André.”
“No? Then consider this. You have been under constant surveillance since the concert. When the Merry Widow next tries to contact you, my men will take her. You will be alone. If you try to leave the city, you will be arrested. You were, until a few months ago, the spinster daughter of a man loyal to the king. Now you are the daughter of a traitor, and living under an assumed name. You have only the skills of a spy or a courtesan, and to practice either craft you must have a protector. Work for me, Miss Grey.”
André stepped back, inspected Kate dispassionately. “Become my agent, or the next garment I fit for you will be a shroud.”
* * *
And Mr. Lytton?” Donop asked, when the turkey had been eaten. They were seated in the Haddonfield farmer’s snug kitchen, around a table littered with the remains of the crazy-eyed gobbler from the woods.
“Taken by the enemy,” Tremayne replied smoothly. The turkey had tasted like ashes in his mouth. He’d handed a man under his command over to the enemy. Arthur Grey had agreed to take Phillip Lytton prisoner, and let Tremayne go. In return Tremayne had sworn to return to Philadelphia to rescue the man’s stubborn daughter. Tremayne wondered what Kate would think of the sacrifices made in her name.
The Turncoat Page 13
