Whispers from the Shadows

by Roseanna M. White

  “Gwyneth.” Her name tasted like honey, yet it did not soothe. Not so long as he knew not where she had gone. Not so long as he feared the worst.

  He shuffled back a step and tilted his head. Her hands had put brush to this canvas, had brought to life this garden scene with the fanciful woman touching a finger to a rose. Her mother, most likely, though he could let himself imagine it Gwyneth herself in the painting.

  His Gwyneth. He had not known she painted, much less with such skill. What else had he not yet discovered? All he knew of her was that she was the most beautiful young woman in England, that she had a sweetness about her far different from most of her friends, that she could make his heart stop with one soft smile.

  He knew he wanted—nay, needed—to know more of her.

  Measured footsteps sounded from the hall, providing Arthur warning enough to face the door, straighten his waistcoat, and school his features. He even managed a tight smile when Mr. Gates stepped into the room.

  “Sir Arthur, good day.” The few times they had crossed paths, the thing that had struck him the most about Gates was neither the man’s elegant clothing nor stately bearing, but rather that look in his eyes that said he was focused, always, on something beyond a mere social exchange. “I saw that you called several times while I was on the Continent. My apologies for missing you.”

  Arthur nodded. “Had I realized you were on an extended trip, sir, I would not have cluttered your tray with my cards.”

  “’Twasn’t cluttered.” He offered a smile as measured as his gait had been and held out a hand to the sofa. “Would you sit, sir? You must have a topic of some import on your mind.”

  With another nod, Arthur moved to the sofa and took a seat on its edge. “I saw you at the funeral, of course, but it hardly seemed the time for a conversation.”

  Gates’ face went tight as he lowered himself to a high-backed chair. “Indeed. I have wanted to speak with you too. The chaps on Bow Street told me you were the one who discovered my brother-in-law’s body.”

  Arthur’s nostrils flared at the memories. The horror, the stupefaction of walking into the man’s study ready to argue about his daughter and instead finding him slain. “Forgive me, Mr. Gates, but I must get directly to my purpose. Do you know where Miss Fairchild has gone?”

  A slow blink was Gates’s only hint at emotion. “May I ask why my niece’s whereabouts are your concern?”

  Arthur’s fingers dug into the cushion beneath him. “Because she is my betrothed.”

  “I beg your pardon.” If possible, Gates went even more stoic. “Betrothed?”

  His throat tight and dry, Arthur could only nod. Heat crept up his neck at the man’s steady regard. “I asked her to marry me that morning. She accepted, and I wanted to speak immediately with the general, but she said she would talk to him first. Then…” He shifted his gaze to the window, though the passersby did nothing to soften the memory. “He must have refused to change his mind, for she came flying out the door, leaped into the carriage, and ordered it away before I could catch her.”

  A muscle ticked in the man’s jaw. “Did you follow?”

  “Nay. Not right then. I was…” He let his eyes slide shut as the disappointment and incredulity flooded him again. “I was heartbroken, Mr. Gates. I went for a ride and tried to convince myself that all would be well. That she would only be gone a short time and would then return to me. But the more I told myself that story, the more I had the feeling that if she left, I would lose her forever. So I returned to Hanover Square to speak with the general. That was when I found him.”

  Found him, eyes empty and focused on the door, hand outstretched. His study ransacked, with anything of value stolen. A robbery gone awry, Bow Street had determined.

  But why, then, had the thief only bothered with that one room, one unlikely to have many costly items? Why had the drawing room, the parlor, or the bedchambers with their jewel safes been left untouched?

  Questions Gates must have asked as well. He was too astute to let such obvious inquiries go unmade.

  Rumors flew through London, of course. That it had been some agent of the French who had killed General Fairchild. Or an American one, which was even less likely.

  A veil of sympathy clouded the older man’s eyes. “I am sorry you were the one to find him, Sir Arthur. It must have been troubling.”

  Assistance he needed—sympathy he did not. Arthur lifted his chin and rested an elbow on the arm of the couch. “I would invite you to remember that I earned my knighthood through my service in France, Mr. Gates. I am no stranger to death and cruelty. My finding the body was a far better alternative than one of the servants or, may the Lord forbid it, Gwyneth.”

  Sharp respect replaced the veil over his gaze. “My apologies. It is easy to forget your service in the face of your geniality. As for my niece…” He reached over to the table beside his chair and flipped open the lid on a wooden box. After withdrawing a cigar, he tested its fragrance and then picked up the cutter. “I am afraid I am as unaware as you of her whereabouts. I know only what she told her friends—that her father was sending her away for several months.”

  “But what if it is not so simple?” Arthur leaned forward and pitched his voice low. “You would have seen what I did, Mr. Gates, that General Fairchild’s murder was not a random act. Someone targeted him, and the timing of the attack leads me to believe he suspected the danger. That is why he sent Gwyneth away. What if she is in danger too?”

  For a long moment Gates studied him, immobile. Then with a quick snap, he sliced the end off his cigar. “I had the same thought, I confess. Which is why I have been out of the country these past weeks, searching likely places the general would have sent his daughter. No one has heard from our missing sparrow.”

  No surprise, yet Arthur’s chest squeezed tight. What if she were even now hunted by her father’s murderer? What if it was some agent of espionage, and he was on her trail, hidden in the shadows? “We must not give up, sir. You have invaluable resources, but I have a few you do not as a knight of the realm and a friend of the prince. I propose we join forces for Gwyneth’s sake.”

  Gates rolled the cigar between his fingers as he kept his gaze on Arthur. Perhaps weighing whether he would be help or nuisance. Perhaps judging whether Arthur was a good match for the niece he loved like a daughter. Perhaps wondering what General Fairchild would have wanted him to do.

  At long last he lowered the cigar and held out a hand. “You have a deal, Sir Arthur. Consider us allies.”

  Thad shuffled the paper onto the stack to his right, the one with the other correspondence from the privateers in the Caribbean and Atlantic. He read each one several times to pick up any subtleties, and then he encoded the news of import and sent it to Congressman Tallmadge.

  Simple, compared with trying to uncover the meaning in General Fairchild’s letter. He unlocked his desk drawer, pulled it out, and stared at it for what felt like the millionth time. Tight, elegant script covered the page, but the words meant nothing to him. Prattle about family plans, as if nothing but a missive sent to update someone in regular communication with him.

  But Thad had never received a letter from the general before. His parents did, to be sure, but when they had read this, both had shaken their heads and insisted the facts were all wrong. There must be more to it.

  Mother had tested a few codes, but she couldn’t decipher anything without knowing what book he had used as a key. Father had tried the counter liquors to known invisible inks, but all that had gotten him was burnt edges and a few blurred words.

  Please, Father. Open my eyes. Help me discern what secrets this letter holds, for I feel in my spirit it is critical. I need Your wisdom.

  He shut his eyes and waited, waited for that quiet whisper, that gentle prod. The one that so often steered him toward the tavern whose gossip was useful, or toward the docks when a privateer had just run the blockade.

  He heard instead a rap upon the door. Raising his head, he
smiled when he saw his mother in the doorway with Jack nestled against her shoulder. “Up from his nap already?”

  The boy whimpered and stretched out an arm for Thad. He accepted the burden with a chuckle, happy to wrap his arms about the little one and ignore work for a while. ’Twas beyond his power, it seemed, to rein in his affection for the boy after he had started loving him as his own.

  Mother peeked at the pile of correspondence with a frown. “I still cannot fathom that you send intelligence to and from the sea without either codes or a sympathetic stain.”

  A point she had made time and again. Thad rubbed a hand over Jack’s back and reclined in his chair. “I cannot equip every privateer with a code book and stain. ’Twould be too dangerous with so many of them losing their ships to the British. Besides which, we fight a different war now than you did during the Revolution. The greatest danger is not that our neighbors will turn against us; rather, it is that our neighbors will do nothing at all.”

  She probably would have argued the point had the front door not banged open with suspicious enthusiasm. Thad stood, supporting Jack with an arm under his bottom. The only one to ever disturb him so gleefully ought not be back on land yet.

  Why, then, did the “Hallo!” that filled the house sound so very much like Arnaud’s?

  “Thad!”

  “Alain?” He strode down the hall, smiling at the way Jack perked up at the beloved voice. “Why are you back already?”

  His friend stood just inside the door, a crooked grin upon his mouth and his arms folded across his chest. “Is that any way to greet a returning hero?”

  “Allow me to rephrase.” He handed over Jack when the boy lunged toward Arnaud. “Did you bring me a present?”

  His friend laughed and pulled his son tight to his chest. “As a matter of fact, I did. Come outside and see.”

  “Outside?” Thad exchanged a glance with his mother, who had followed him through the hall. “Let me guess. You brought another letter from Fairchild with instructions on what to do with his first.”

  Arnaud pressed a kiss to the top of Jack’s head and led the way out the door. “Better.”

  “What could be better? Fairchild himself?”

  “Close.” Arnaud motioned to a carriage pulling up to the curb.

  Thad halted on the lawn, noting the three silhouettes within the coach. “Who is that?”

  “Fairchild’s daughter.”

  “What?” He turned his back to the new arrivals lest they see his frown. “Why in blazes is she here?”

  Arnaud shifted Jack to a new position and blinked in that way of his. “Were you not expecting her?”

  “Would you not have known if I were?”

  He granted that with a tilt of his head. “I did wonder. But she had this.” He pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it over. “We took the ship on which her father had bought her passage.”

  Thad unfolded it and held it out so Mother could read along with him. Dear Sir…

  By the time he read the signature, he had to bite back a choice word. If he had needed more proof that something was amiss with the British general, here it was. “And you brought her here?”

  “Of course he did.” Mother turned back to face the carriage, her eyes lighting with a smile. “The last time we saw Gwyneth she was no bigger than Jack.”

  “Mother.” Was she not usually the suspicious one? The one who worried about traitors hiding among them? “You cannot even be sure it is her.”

  She swatted at his arm, a smile blooming. “Nonsense, Thaddeus. ’Tis Isaac’s hand, and look—she is the image of Julienne.”

  He had only the vaguest memory of Mrs. Fairchild from one weeklong visit with them in London fifteen years ago, but he remembered her as lovely. When he pivoted back to the street and saw the young lady descend, however, his eyes went wide. And his heart twisted.

  No doubt she was as lovely as her mother under normal circumstances. She had the bones of beauty in her face, which were protruding too prominently, with hollows in her cheeks and bruises under her eyes. Her hair glinted in the sun, with shades from gold to red, yet it lacked a natural luster. And the fine dress she wore, no doubt in the height of London fashion, looked as if it had been made for a larger woman. “Seasickness?”

  “Hmm.” Arnaud stepped up beside him. “Resulting in insomnia. Her guardians say she has scarcely had two hours sleep together since they left England. She keeps going utterly still and then lashes out as if a monster is after her.”

  He had heard tales before of hallucinations chasing those whose minds were overtired. Such things happened too often at sea when weather or illness forced a crew beyond its limits.

  “Poor darling.” Mother pressed a hand to his arm and then swept across the yard, her arms extended toward Miss Fairchild. “Gwyneth dear.”

  Thad edged closer, his gaze not leaving the haunted face of his supposed guest. The way she blinked made him wonder if it took her a few seconds to process the greeting, or if perhaps her vision were unclear. When she attempted a curtsy, her knees buckled, and the woman behind her had to steady her.

  “Mrs. Lane?” Her tremulous voice was as wispy as a cloud.

  “Yes.” Mother took the girl’s hands and squeezed them. Though Thad could not see her face, he knew the smile she would give Miss Fairchild, all warm welcome and limitless compassion. “I daresay you do not remember me, but I fondly recall our last visit. Welcome to Maryland.”

  “I thank you. Papa…Papa sent me to you. He said there was no one else he could…” The trail of her voice sounded not as though she was unsure of what to say next, but rather as if she forgot she had been speaking. Her gaze wandered past Mother and locked upon him.

  Where manners said he should take his cue to step forward and welcome her to his home, those eyes held him riveted. A blue-green to put the Caribbean waters to shame, just as light and clear, just as fathomless.

  And just as troubled as the sea when a tempest tossed it.

  His fingers curled into his palm. Why had Fairchild sent his daughter here, now, to him? Clearly she had something more than seasickness stalking her, something born of the storms within herself. And, blast it all, Thad hadn’t the time to put her pieces back together.

  As if reading his thoughts, Mother sent him a pointed look and moved one palm across the other. Be nice.

  As if he needed to be told that.

  His mother tucked her arm securely around Miss Fairchild’s waist and led her forward. “Allow me to make introductions, as no doubt you two do not recall each other. This is my son, Thaddeus. ’Tis his house in which we will all be staying for the duration of the war.”

  The nearer his mother brought her, the more intense her gaze seemed. When they halted, she tilted her head back to look up at him. Searching, it seemed, for something to latch onto. After a moment she drew in a sharp breath and let it slowly out. “You gave me a doll.”

  He nearly chalked it up to meaningless prattle—until the memory descended and brought a smile to his lips. “The one I had been whittling for my cousin. But she was a fright and you were far more charming.” He remembered her now, small and dainty, with a riot of red-gold curls and mischief sparkling in those oceanic eyes.

  Eyes that now went damp, though surely not over that ugly little doll. “My father trusts you.”

  So it would seem. Or else he intended to use him for some complex scheme. Though that, somehow, did not fit with the image he had of General Isaac Fairchild.

  He held out a hand and, when she settled her fingers upon his, bowed. “Your father is one of the best men in my acquaintance, Miss Fairchild, no matter that politics has once again deemed us enemies.”

  For a moment he feared she would burst into tears, the way her face contorted, but then it relaxed and she swayed. Mother steadied her, but perhaps she overcompensated, for the girl then teetered forward. Thad had little choice but to release her hand so he could catch her when her knees buckled again.

&n
bsp; He pulled her against him when she went lax. The older woman who must be her servant fluttered up, her countenance cloaked in worry. “Did she faint? Oh, my poor love.”

  He looked down at the young woman, but her face was not the empty mask of one who had fainted, nor did she hang limp in his arms. Her arm had curled against his chest, her cheek pressed to it. Her breath came in and out, slowly and steadily.

  “Nay.” He bent enough to scoop her up, and she didn’t so much as stir. “She is sleeping.”

  Five

  Gwyneth jerked upright, her chest heaving and arms raised to fight off the darkness. But the phantasms fled, their flashing fangs and dripping claws evaporating into mist. “Only a nightmare.” How many times had she whispered the same thing in the past weeks?

  Perhaps she would better believe it if the monsters didn’t take Papa with them every time they disappeared.

  She rubbed a hand over her face and then froze. The walls around her neither dipped nor swayed. The mattress felt feather stuffed, and no salt tinged the air. Obviously she was no longer aboard a ship, but in the shadows of the room, she could not place where she was.

  Scrambling to her feet, she headed to the strip of golden light glowing between the heavy drapes. Perspiration dripped from her forehead and made her dress cling, and the air felt heavy and wet. Where was she? Some outer ring of Dante’s inferno?

  A tug upon the curtains brought sunlight flooding in, saturated in shades of pink and violet. Sunset—of what day? And over what land?

  The street brought a tickle of memory and the crawl of heat up her neck. Her eyelids slid shut. Baltimore, at the home of the Lanes. And given that she had no memory between staring up at the towering son of the family and waking up a moment ago, she could only assume that she had made a cake of herself in some fashion or another.

  “Perfect.” She loosed the fabric in her fingers and turned to examine the room in the fading light. Smaller than her room at home, but comfortable. The furniture looked relatively new, absent the flourish of decoration Mama had always favored but lovely in its simplicity.