The Forbidden Lady

by Kerrelyn Sparks

  “Very well. I’ll leave you to take care of it.” Johnson set down his glass, still full, and moved silently to the door. He paused. “ ’Tis a woman, is it not?” He peered over his shoulder, his eyes honing in on Quin with their usual, startling perception.

  “Dammit, Johnson. There’s a job for you on Judgment Day, giving counsel to the Lord. No one could hide anything from you.”

  He almost smiled. There was a definite twitch at his mouth. “It simply makes sense. You and your uncle are reluctant to divulge the name. Only a woman could inspire such protectiveness.”

  Quincy doubted if a woman could inspire anything in Johnson. From what he could tell, the man never ate, never drank, never laughed or smiled, and never slept. “I’ll take care of the matter. You have my word.”

  That night, Quincy sneaked into his uncle’s north-side home and entered the study to find his uncle still at his desk. “You’re working too hard.”

  Edward glanced up. “Quin, did anyone see you?”

  “No. I miss living here. I cannot continue with this charade for long, Uncle. ’Tis too expensive for you and too irritating for me. I miss my old life.”

  “Johnson is happy with your work.”

  “How can you tell? The man never smiles.” Quin sat in his favorite chair. “He tells me you had a conversation with him last night at the Bunch of Grapes Tavern.”

  “And he sent you here to find out the name of my source.” Edward pushed back his chair and stood. “I knew he wouldn’t leave it alone. So, he has my own flesh and blood spying on me?”

  “I’m not spying on you. I already know who your source is.”

  His uncle paled. “Did you tell Johnson?”

  “No.”

  Edward let out a deep breath. “Good. Would you like some whiskey? I need a drink.” He poured himself a dram and immediately downed it. “So, who do you think he is?”

  “Nice try, but this is a woman we’re talking about.”

  “Damn.” Edward refilled his glass and offered one to Quin. “And you didn’t tell Johnson?”

  “No, but he surmised we’re protecting a lady.”

  Edward paced the length of the room, shaking his head. “You must never tell. I cannot bear for any harm to come to her. She’s too important, too special to me.”

  Quin shifted in his chair to keep an eye on Edward, aware of a growing, gnawing sensation in his gut. She was special to his uncle? “Will you tell me her name, so I can be certain we’re talking about the same person?”

  “No, I promised her I would tell no one, that I would never cause her any harm. I will be true to her.”

  Quin’s stomach lurched. “You could write her name down, then burn the paper.”

  Edward looked askance at him. “ ’Twould be the same betrayal of confidence. I’ll not do it. Not to her.”

  “You . . . you care for her that much, then?”

  Edward halted in front of the hearth and gazed into the fire with a faraway look. “You cannot imagine the depth of my affection for her.”

  Quin gulped down his whiskey so fast his eyes watered.

  “She has the most beautiful shade of hair—a soft, dark red you want to lay your face in, and eyes—she has eyes like . . .”

  “Like a mermaid.” Quin banged his glass down on the table beside him. Damn it to hell! His uncle was infatuated with the same woman as he. Infatuated? Was he? Dear Lord, no.

  “A mermaid? ’Tis a bit whimsical, but—Quin, are you all right? You look a little green.”

  “I . . . yes. You don’t believe she’s a bit . . . young for you?”

  Edward shrugged. “The difference is not great. I believe we’re perfectly suited. God knows I’ve waited long enough for this. But I am distressed by this dangerous game she’s playing. I tried to dissuade her, but she’ll not listen.”

  “Aye, she has a mind of her own, a very clever one, too.”

  “Exactly. I even begged her on bended knee to no avail.”

  Quin surged to his feet. “You knelt in front of Virginia Munro?”

  “Who? Oh, you mean the niece? I suppose you could call her an accomplice.”

  “Accomplice, my ass! She’s the bloody ringleader behind the whole operation.”

  “No, you’re wrong. My Mary is the leader.”

  Quin paced toward his uncle. “ ’Tis Virginia, I tell you. I know.” He stopped with a jerk. “Wait. Who are you talking about?”

  “Mary, Mary Dover. Damn! If this was a trick to make me confess her name, so help me . . .”

  “No, Uncle.” Quin took a deep breath. “I believe the trick was on me. You’re not in love with Virginia, then?”

  “Egad, no. She’s hardly more than a child.”

  “Believe me, she’s not a child.” That nicely rounded breast he had skimmed with his thumb was definitely larger than a plum and looked every bit as sweet and succulent. Quin closed his eyes, remembering the soft, smooth texture of her skin, the light scent of lavender in her auburn ringlets.

  Realization slowly seeped into his lust-filled brain. His uncle was not competing with him for the same woman. He blew out a breath of air and smiled. “We’re a couple of besotted fools. For a while I thought your heart was set on Virginia.”

  “No, I—oh, you have your eye on Mary’s niece, have you?”

  I’ve had more than an eye on her. Quin sat down with a groan. This was the last thing he needed right now. He was immersed in a spying operation. His business was in jeopardy, threatened by his own father. He had no time for a dalliance.

  Edward chuckled as he threw another log onto the fire. “Mary and Virginia are alike in appearance. It would seem, Quin, that you and I have similar tastes.”

  “I suppose.”

  “I’ve been in love with Mary Dover for years. I plan to marry her as soon as possible.”

  “Marry? Are you crazed? She’s a widow. You could just—”

  Edward whirled around. “I will marry her. She’s a respectable lady.” He gave Quin a pointed look. “And, by the way, so is her niece.”

  Quin gulped. “I’ll have another drink.”

  As he made his way home, Quin pondered over this latest twist in his life as a spy. How was he to stop Virginia Munro from spying? If he simply told her what he knew, she would wonder why a Loyalist refrained from turning in a traitor to the crown.

  Perhaps he could say he disliked the thought of a woman being executed. That might ring false, since executions were considered great social events with all the trappings of a fair. People came from a radius of fifty miles to enjoy the entertainment, and everyone knew a female execution drew the biggest crowd.

  You could tell her the truth—that you’re a spy yourself. Damn, as clever as she was, she might already suspect. She’d seen him upstairs at the Ashfords’ home. He wasn’t sure how much she’d seen at the Higgenbottoms. If other people thought he was sneaking about to conduct illicit affairs, he could live with it, but he hated for Virginia Munro to believe it. Her opinion of him was already low enough.

  He was tempted to confide in her. If she were truly spying for the Colonial cause, he could let her know that he secretly agreed with her patriotic feelings. He might have a chance to court her then. But if he was wrong and she was a Tory, it would be his execution advertised in the broadsides.

  No, he couldn’t confide in her. Out of the question.

  A faint glow filtered through the grimy casement windows of a seedy tavern, dimly lighting the road before him. The path he should take with Virginia Munro was just as obscure. How could he possibly deal with her without exposing himself?

  Sounds of drunken laughter and naughty songs sifted through the walls of riven siding. He recognized the words from the ballad, “Our Polly Is a Sad Slut.” A pink-and-black spotted pig rooted through the overripe garbage piled in the street, the smell bad
enough to make him wish he had one of his pungent handkerchiefs with him. He hurried past the tavern.

  You could tell her how you feel about her. Splendid notion. Tell the proper Miss Munro that the local bastard was lusting after her. That would impress her. Besides, she didn’t need his attentions. She had a redcoat captain panting after her panniers. A captain who would inherit a large estate in England. A captain who was obviously not a bastard.

  He swatted an empty bottle in the street with his walking stick. It rolled away in the dirt ’til it stuck fast in a pile of pig manure, shocking the flies into scattering away in search of another pile. They wouldn’t have to go far.

  He had to give her credit; she made a damned good spy. His accomplishment that night had been pathetic. Josiah had sneaked into the Higgenbottoms’ study and stolen what he thought was an important document. When Quin had examined it in the garden, he’d discovered it was a receipt for hasty pudding and battalia pie.

  After that fiasco, he’d sent Josiah to grammar school to improve the boy’s lamentable reading skills. In protest, Josiah decided to be the class clown and spent the last two days standing on a stool with a dunce cap on his head and a sign around his neck that said Idle-Boy.

  Actually, Quin thought, he shouldn’t be surprised if the lovely Virginia Munro made a better spy. All he had was a few fancy spy contraptions. She had creamy skin, silky auburn curls, and pale green eyes. The British army didn’t stand a chance.

  Neither did he.

  “And what have we here? A real fancy one, eh?”

  Quin glanced up to see three rough-looking sailors blocking the street. Damn. He should have been paying more attention. “Stand aside. I don’t want any trouble.”

  “Oh, do ye hear that?” sneered a sailor with a thin, white scar jagging through an eyebrow and down his cheek. “His Majesty’s royal ass kisser don’t want no trouble.”

  “Aye,” agreed one with an oversized, battered tricorne. “We wouldn’t want to frighten a delicate gent like you. Maybe ye be willing to pay for no trouble?”

  The third sailor laughed nervously and wiped his nose with a filthy sleeve.

  Quin eyed them carefully for signs of weapons. “I’ll find an alternate route. Good day, gentlemen.” He turned to leave, listening for a whisper of movement.

  They didn’t bother to be quiet.

  Quin wheeled around, swinging his cane hard into the stomach of the first assailant. The man doubled forward onto his knees, groaning and clutching his midsection.

  The man with the scar pulled out a foot-long knife. His eyes danced with anticipation as he crouched into an attacking stance. The third man hung back, still laughing like a fool.

  Quin twisted the knob on his cane. The knife snapped out, sharp and lethal. “I suggest you keep back, scar-face, unless you’d like a matching set. I have a much longer reach.”

  The sailor halted. “Here now, what’s a fancy fop like you doing with a weapon like that?”

  Quincy backed away. “I would love to stay and chat, but I’m late for my dance lessons.” When he spotted a side street, he sprinted down it. He heard their voices rising in anger as they rallied their courage for the chase.

  “Mister, over here!” A voice called out from a doorway. “Come in.”

  Quincy slowed his pace, wary of this sudden invitation.

  The voice belonged to a boy, about twelve. “Don’t worry, you’ll be safe here.”

  Quincy stepped inside, and the boy quickly shut and barred the door.

  “You can stay here awhile, Mister. They’ll give up soon enough.”

  “Who are you?” Quin peered around the darkened storeroom. “What is this place?”

  “A print shop. I’m the apprentice.”

  “Why did you help me?”

  The boy moved toward an open doorway. “They had you outnumbered. Come to the front room. I have a candle lit there.”

  Quin followed the dim outline of the youth. “Is your master a Tory, that you would help me?”

  The boy laughed. “The master’s a businessman. He’ll print anything, Tory or Whig, as long as they pay up front.”

  After a wait, Quin slipped out the front, thanking his young rescuer, and made his way home.

  What a rotten night, he thought, heading for his study. He might as well drink himself to sleep. He didn’t want to think about his former friends who considered him a traitor. He definitely didn’t want to analyze his feelings for a certain saucy young lady. Even so, he had a disturbing feeling that mere lust would not inspire this strong a desire to protect.

  He opened the study door.

  In front of his drop-leaf desk, reading The Gentlemen’s Magazine, sat a younger, stockier reflection of himself. Dressed in claret velvet, the man lounged in Quin’s chair with his legs propped up, his silver-buckled shoes stacked on the wooden seat of a nearby chair. He glanced up at Quin, his eyes the familiar gray that all Stanton males possessed. He lowered his magazine onto the secretaire, a cold imitation of a smile pasted on his pale, flaccid face.

  “I intended to stay with my uncle, but when I passed by his house—well, shall we say, I can see why you no longer live there. At least, your residence comes close to respectability. Your stay in England must have had a positive effect on you. Hope you don’t mind, dear brother, I’ve made myself at home.”

  Quin smiled back. Indeed, better to keep the enemy close at hand. “Welcome to America, Clarence.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Wednesday, October 11, 1769

  The next morning, Quin ambled out the back door to the detached kitchen in search of a strong cup of coffee. The cook, Mrs. Millstead, was kneading bread dough while her son and Josiah ate a breakfast of sausages and eggs.

  The scrape of spoons on pewter plates reverberated painfully through his head. “Josiah, hurry it up. You’ll be late for school.”

  The youngster took a quick gulp of weak ale. “I was thinking, Mr. Stanton, that I’d be more help to you if I stayed close at hand.”

  “You’ll help yourself to an education first. Off you go.”

  “But—”

  “Go!” Quin rubbed his forehead. He should know better than to yell after all the drinking he had done the day before. He winced as the door slammed, signaling Josiah’s protest of his cruel fate.

  Mrs. Millstead punched the dough with a meaty fist. “ ’Tis a queer way to treat an indentured servant, sending him to school.”

  Quin sighed and sat at the kitchen table. He missed his ship and the crew that never questioned his orders. “Make me some coffee, please, Mrs. Millstead.”

  She continued to complain as she prepared his coffee. “Don’t see why that little orphan should get an education and not me own boy, Samuel.”

  Quin examined Samuel, who held a plump, greasy sausage in his equally plump, greasy hand, calmly chewing on one end while his dull eyes focused on the wall in front of him. “How old are you, Samuel?”

  The boy chewed slowly while he frowned over the difficulty of the question. “I dunno, about fifteen.”

  “Why don’t you apprentice yourself to learn a trade? ’Tis not too late.”

  Samuel shrugged. “I tried working at a chandler’s shop. He made me work too hard.”

  Quin closed his eyes and massaged his aching head. The boy thought cutting candlewicks was hard work? “Has my brother wakened yet?”

  “No, his lordship gave me instructions last night,” the cook said. “Gave me a complete menu of what he expected for breakfast. Said he always slept ’til noon and don’t want nobody bothering him before then.”

  “He’s not a lord, Mrs. Millstead. Not unless my father has died.”

  “Well, he was very precise about that, he was. Insists that we all call him ‘his lordship.’ ” Mrs. Millstead’s eyes shone with a malicious gleam. “Said he was the heir and not you.”


  “I see.” Quin rose wearily to his feet. So, his younger brother was wasting no time informing everyone that he was a bastard. “I’ll have my coffee and breakfast in the study, Mrs. Millstead, and you can remember that ’tis I, and not his lordship, who is paying your wages.”

  Quin wandered into his study. He sat at his drop-leaf desk, dipped a quill into a crystal inkwell and began a letter.

  Dear Edward,

  Clarence arrived last night and is staying with me. Notify our solicitor. There must be a legal way to outmaneuver him.

  Meanwhile, I’ll keep him occupied with a hectic social life. If he goes to parties all night and sleeps most the day, he’ll not have time to cause trouble.

  Regards, Q

  Quin folded the letter and secured it with sealing wax. When Samuel stumbled in with his breakfast tray, he jumped to his feet to relieve the boy of the burden, fearing the clumsy Samuel would spill his coffee.

  Quin set his tray on the walnut table as the man in brown entered the room. “Good morning, Johnson. Would you care for some breakfast?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Quin noticed Samuel hovering at the doorway. “Samuel, the shoes I wore last night need to be cleaned and polished.”

  “Yes, sir.” The boy shut the door after him.

  Quin poured himself a cup of coffee and sat, waiting for Johnson to join him.

  His employer remained at the door, cracked it open for a peek, then closed it. As he approached Quin, he withdrew a small cloth pouch from an inner pocket of his coat.

  “The latest from Revere.” Johnson removed a pair of silver shoe buckles from the pouch and laid them on the table next to the breakfast tray. “They each hold a small amount of gunpowder. I suggest you wear them always.”

  Quin took a sip of coffee. “Very well.”

  Johnson placed a silver ring on the table and returned the empty pouch to his pocket.

  Quin cocked an eyebrow. “I’m touched. Does this mean we’re betrothed?”

  With a faint twitch at his mouth, Johnson pulled back a chair to take a seat. “This is no laughing matter, Stanton. I hear your British brother has arrived and is staying here. While it may confirm everyone’s belief that you’re loyal to the crown, it makes your situation more dangerous. Watch your back. Trust no one, not even this enterprising female you’re determined to protect.”