“Thank you.” He grabbed a scone, which he dropped on the saucer next to a full cup of tea. “You are . . . ?”
“Virginia Munro, sir, from North Carolina.” She bobbed a curtsy.
“You look much like Mary did . . . a few years ago.”
Aunt Mary smiled wryly as she sat. “More than a few years ago. Ginny and Caroline are the nieces I was telling you about.”
“I see.” His expression turned grim once again. “And how would their parents feel if they knew these girls risked their necks spying?”
Virginia glanced quickly at her aunt.
Mary responded with a helpless shrug.
Virginia felt the plate in her hands being lifted. She looked down to see Edward Stanton adjusting the plate. In her surprise, she had tilted it and two scones had slipped off and landed in his lap.
“Oh, excuse me.” Virginia returned the plate to the table.
Edward tossed the two scones onto the small table beside him and surged to his feet. “I will not tolerate this. This is exactly the sort of trouble that happens when there is no male guidance in the home.”
Virginia paused with a scone halfway to her mouth. “I beg your pardon?”
He paced about the room, his steps silent on the thick rug. “I insist you cease this activity at once.”
Mary stood and touched his sleeve as he paced by. “Edward, please. I need to do this.”
“Why? Why must you risk yourself? Dear woman, it is not your fault that your husband was a cruel, selfish bastard and did damage to our cause. You do not have to make amends for him.”
Mary sat down abruptly, clasping her hands together.
“I’m sorry.” Edward rubbed his furrowed brow. “I should not speak ill of the dead, but I . . . I care too much for the living.”
“I have to do this for myself, for my own peace of mind.”
He went down on his knees in front of Mary and covered her clasped hands with his own. “Stop doing it, please, for my peace of mind.”
Virginia’s mouth dropped open. The handsome man was on his knees, his passion unveiled in his eyes. A twinge of longing lodged in her chest.
She turned away, suddenly averse to witnessing a tender scene that would probably never happen to her. Why couldn’t the nephew be more like his uncle? Why did he possess such a pompous, wretched character?
Or did he? For a brief moment Saturday night, he had seemed sincere and . . . vulnerable.
Mary spoke softly, “Edward, pray, do not be vexed. You’re the only one who knows. No one else will ever suspect. If you truly care for our safety, promise me you will tell no one.”
“I could never cause you harm, madam.”
Virginia peered over her shoulder. Edward was still kneeling and holding her aunt’s hand.
Mary asked, “Will you promise to tell no one?”
He heaved himself to his feet. “Aye, I will.”
Aunt Mary rose, also. “Thank you. I knew I could trust you.”
He shook his head and trudged toward the door. “I have failed you if I cannot turn you from this folly.”
Mary followed him, smiling. “Come now, Edward, don’t be so dramatic.”
Virginia heard their voices grow fainter as they approached the front door. With a forlorn sigh, she collapsed on the settee and helped herself to one of Edward’s uneaten scones.
Mary returned. “There, it is all taken care of. Our secret is safe with Mr. Stanton.” She reached for her cup of tea.
“Of course, we can trust him. The man is in love with you.”
Aunt Mary’s cup slipped from her fingers and landed with a clatter on the saucer.
“May I sit with you during the performance, Miss Munro?” Captain Breakwell asked.
“Of course.” Virginia forced herself to smile.
A small orchestra of five warmed up their instruments for the performance Monday evening. She and Aunt Mary had come alone to the concert, hosted by the Ashford family. Caroline had stayed home, declaring that a night without dancing would be a complete and utter bore.
“I believe the composer we’re to hear is British.” The captain sat beside her. “Have you ever been to England?”
“No, but I do wander about the harbor and imagine what it would be like to travel to faraway, exotic lands.”
“It is hardly exotic, but you should consider visiting Dorset. I stand to inherit a sizeable estate there.”
“Oh, how nice.” Perhaps she should tell him she was not impressed. “I have no plans at the present to go anywhere.”
He leaned toward her. “I fear Boston is not the safest place to be at the moment. As much as I enjoy your company, I would prefer to see you safely elsewhere.”
She was tempted to tell him the tense atmosphere in Boston would disappear if he and the army would simply go away. To her relief, the concert began.
Most of Tory society was in attendance, along with a number of British officers—some in scarlet uniforms like Captain Breakwell, some in the black uniforms of the cavalry or the red and blue of the Royal Marines. Several of the highest-ranking officers quartered here in the Ashfords’ home in grand style. Virginia hoped to acquire more information, but it would be difficult with a redcoat captain dogging her every step.
Her attention drifted to the tall man seated in the row in front of her. Quincy Stanton wore the lavender silk again with the lavender-tinted wig. To one side of him sat the young Miss Higgenbottom and on the other, the slender, silver-wigged Mrs. Ashford, tonight’s hostess.
Virginia watched, aghast, as Mrs. Ashford burrowed a gloved hand under Quincy Stanton’s coat. The woman was old enough to be his grandmother. What was she doing to him?
He calmly removed the lady’s hand from his coat and kissed her gloved fingers. She winked with a grin that threatened to crack the paint on her face. He patted her hand and held it through the rest of the performance.
Virginia noted he wore gloves again. Did he wear them purposely to conceal hands that were as tanned as his face?
He lounged back in his chair. The silk of his coat stretched across his broad shoulders, shoulders that must have experienced some sort of physical labor in the past. Curiously, her fingers itched to touch him, to slide across the taut silk in search of hidden padding.
Applause interrupted her thoughts as the concert ended. She asked Captain Breakwell to fetch refreshments so he would be occupied. She then surveyed the room, hunting for the most likely target for information gathering. A glimpse of a lavender-dressed man exiting the parlor caught her eye. Quincy Stanton on his way to a rendezvous with the elderly Mrs. Ashford? He should be ashamed.
She continued her perusal of the room, aware of the anger building inside her. Blast that Quincy Stanton. It was becoming difficult to concentrate. Why should she care if he met women in secret? She spotted Miss Higgenbottom flirting with a cavalry officer and the grasping Mrs. Ashford besieging an embarrassed young lieutenant. So, where was Quincy Stanton?
She ambled out of the parlor and into the empty hallway. Was he in the room across the hall? No light appeared at the bottom of the shut door. She pressed her ear against the door to listen, crushing her ringlets against the wooden surface.
She heard voices—low, whispering voices. Then, the sound of muffled footsteps drew near. She stepped back from the door, alarmed to see the latch slowly moving.
She dashed into the parlor and stood next to the entrance, her heart beating fast. Faint steps sounded in the hallway. She caught her breath, leaning against the wall for support.
Slowly, the footsteps faded away. When she peeked around the doorjamb, she spied Quincy Stanton ascending the last few steps of the staircase.
She darted into the room across the hall and noted that the drapes at one window stirred with a light breeze. Whoever had been talking to Quincy Stanton had exited th
rough the open window.
Another breeze of autumn air fluttered the curtains. She shivered. If she wanted to know what Quincy Stanton was doing, she would have to follow him up the stairs.
Her cautious nature rebelled as she ascended the first step. The second step creaked. She glanced about to make sure she was alone. Be brave. You’re here to discover secrets. She lifted her midnight-blue skirts and dashed up the narrow stairway.
Investigating the hallway to the right, she tiptoed down the corridor, silent in her satin slippers. Though she stopped to listen at each doorway, she heard no sound. She reached the end of the hall, where a half-full moon glowed through the casement window, casting shadows of intersecting lines onto the wooden hallway floor.
A door slowly opened.
Quincy Stanton emerged. Without a sound, he closed the door and slid something from his hand into his coat.
Virginia froze—trapped between a dead end and Quincy Stanton. If she were lucky and remained perfectly still, he would turn toward the stairs and not notice her presence.
“Good evening, mademoiselle.” He bowed slightly.
So much for luck.
CHAPTER FIVE
Virginia’s mind raced to furnish her with a likely excuse. She curtsied. “Pardon me, I was searching for the . . . convenience room, and I appear to have lost my way.”
“Indeed.” Quincy Stanton sauntered toward her, removing a round silver snuffbox, unlike the one he had used on The North Star. “Are you here alone?”
“I . . . my aunt is downstairs. She’ll be expecting me.” Virginia watched curiously as he held the open snuffbox at eye level and moved it from side to side, peering at it.
He shut the box without removing a pinch and pocketed it. His brow furrowed as he studied her from head to foot. “I know why you lurk about these halls. You plan to meet your young captain up here.”
“Of course not. What impertinence.” She moved to go around him.
He blocked her path. “My deepest apologies if I offend.”
“If you weren’t so offensive, you wouldn’t spend so much of your time apologizing.”
“You are correct.” He inclined his head, though the glimmer in his eyes made her wonder if he found the situation amusing. “May I introduce myself, at last? Quincy Stanton, at your service.”
She extended her gloved hand. “Miss Munro.”
His gloves were off.
It was just as she suspected. The stark white of her glove emphasized his deep tan.
He lifted her hand to his lips. Her gaze flickered to his bronzed face and discerning gray eyes and she knew, without a doubt, this man was not the simpering dandy that he pretended to be. Nor was he hesitating or unsure, now that he was alone with her.
“I am delighted, Miss Munro.” His deep voice seemed to rumble right through her bones. He continued to hold her gaze and her hand.
With a quick breath, she pulled away her hand. In spite of her gloves, she felt a curious sensation prickle the skin up her arms. His mouth quirked up slightly as if he knew.
It nettled her, his ability to unnerve her. A sudden notion urged her to turn the tables on him, to make him just as uncomfortable.
She eased toward him ’til she was only inches away. Her heart pounded wildly; her voice was whisper soft. “I won’t lie to you, Mr. Stanton. I saw you go up the stairs. And I followed you.”
She placed her hands on his shoulders, the lavender silk cool and smooth against the slightest pressure. Definitely no padding. Her fingers pulsed with each hammering beat of her heart as she raked her fingertips down his chest. With one hand, she could feel the round, hard outline of his snuffbox and with the other, the rapid staccato of his own heart as it drummed in his broad chest.
She did have an effect on him. Her fingers spread out, searching for whatever he had secreted inside his coat.
His hands covered hers, halting her quest. “You’re playing a dangerous game, chérie.”
“And what game are you playing that has you stealing into bedchambers in the dark?”
“An assignation with a lady who apparently has changed her mind.” He rested his right hand lightly on her shoulder and crooked his thumb inside her neckline, wedged between the midnight-blue silk and her skin. “But since a younger, sweeter morsel has come along . . .” He slid his thumb down, watching its descent as it followed the curve of her breast. “He put in his thumb and pulled out a . . . plum?”
Virginia jumped back, pressing her hand across her chest. Her agitated breathing caused her breasts to rise and fall rapidly against her palm. “I must ask you to keep your hands to yourself, sir.” She should have known not to flirt with a man like this, a man who radiated so much raw masculinity in spite of his silk trappings.
He shrugged. “You touched me first.” His eyes gleamed like quicksilver as he stepped toward her. “My dear mademoiselle, you would be amazed what a . . . well-placed thumb can do.”
“And you would be amazed what a well-placed knee can do.”
His chuckle was deep. “You are determined to prove yourself less than proper this evening. I’m quite intrigued.”
“You’re not what you seem, either, Mr. Stanton.”
He tilted his head as he considered her carefully. “And how, may I ask, have you reached that conclusion?”
“You pretend to be a lazy fop, yet you have the tanned complexion and muscles of a man who has known true labor.”
His dark eyebrows lifted. “Have you been studying me? I am flattered.”
She felt her face redden with a rush of heat. “I’m merely an observant person.”
“You’re very clever, Miss Munro, but other equally observant people may have noticed your disappearance. I suggest you return at once to the parlor. To be seen with me will only harm your reputation. I’m rumored to be . . . insatiable.”
“I’m not sure what you are, Mr. Stanton.” Virginia whisked by him and down the hall. She heard his soft voice behind her.
“Likewise, chérie.”
Quincy glared at his glass of Madeira, his fourth one this afternoon, and set it down on his drop-leaf desk. If he kept up this pace, he would be unfit to work tonight. He rubbed his forehead. He had been doing so well. No one knew of his secret profession. Until last night, when a beautiful, clever girl with mermaid eyes had seen right through him.
You’re not what you seem.
At first, he had been delighted by whatever accident of fate had caused him finally to be alone with her. But had it been an accident or, as she claimed, a deliberate design? Damn, she had tempted him like a siren at sea, the way she had touched him.
What was the purpose of her saucy behavior? Did the prim and proper Miss Munro enjoy torturing men in private? His grip tightened around his glass, threatening to crush the crystal in his hand. Did she flirt that shamelessly with that damned captain who followed her around like a sick puppy?
He gulped down more Madeira. Captain Breakwell had the luxury of oozing out charm with every well-rehearsed compliment.
I’m not sure what you are, Mr. Stanton.
He was an ass. Every time he was near her.
He sighed and finished his drink just as Mr. Johnson sauntered into his study.
“Do you have anything for me, Stanton?” The short man, dressed as usual in plain brown buckram, sat in the corner chair next to the secretaire.
“Aye, I do.” Quin retrieved a paper from a small drawer and handed it to his employer.
Johnson scanned the contents of the military report, which named the new quarters a British regiment was moving to in a few weeks. “Where did you acquire this?”
“I found it last night in Colonel Farley’s bedchamber. He’s quartering with the Ashfords.”
Johnson nodded. “And servicing his hostess, I hear.”
Quin rose from his chair, frowning. �
��I’m not surprised.” The rapacious old woman had tried to fondle him in public. He had been forced to hold the lady’s hand all through the concert to keep her fingers from roving about. He stopped at the walnut sideboard and poured two glasses of Madeira.
Johnson folded up the paper and pocketed it. “I hear the British are preparing for some kind of trouble. This is old news.”
“It was new to me.”
“Someone found out last Saturday.”
“Who?” Quin handed him a glass.
“I don’t know where the information came from. That’s why I’m here—to see if you know.”
Quin lounged back in his chair. “I don’t follow you, Johnson. If I had known before, I would have reported it. How did you find out about it?”
“I was at the Bunch of Grapes Tavern last night, meeting with the Sons of Liberty, when your uncle asked for a word with me in private. He gave me the report but refused to name his source. Said the information was gathered at the Higgenbottoms’ ball.”
Quin set down his glass. “I was at the Higgenbottoms’ ball.”
“Exactly.”
“ ’Twas not me.”
Johnson leaned forward. “Then who was it? Think about it. Who was there, acting a little peculiar, disappearing for minutes at a time, being nosy?”
Nosy? An instant vision of a pretty face with an adorable, turned-up nose flitted through his mind. No, impossible. But a redcoat officer had fainted at her feet, and last night, she had wandered alone upstairs and traced the outline of a paper in his coat with her fingertips. “Bloody hell.”
“So you know. Who is he?”
“I . . . I cannot say for sure.”
Johnson’s eyes narrowed. “I will not have amateurs snooping about, Stanton. My professionals will be tripping over some well-meaning fool in the dark. He must be either stopped or brought into the organization. Understood?”
Quin nodded his head slowly as his hands balled into tight fists. “Don’t worry. This . . . amateur will definitely stop.” I’ll wring her pretty little neck . . . if the British don’t do it first.
The Forbidden Lady Page 7
