Besides the chalice, there was a sword, a dagger, a ring with a raised stone, a small book much like the one I was reading, and an odd shaped box with symbols all over it.
“Is this the black box?” I showed the drawing to Bess.
Bess nodded. “Pierre said that Levitas was after Ma belle, and Jeremiah said to retrieve the box and give it to Ma belle.”
As I turned the page, I sucked in a quick breath. Bess leaned over and looked at the page. She mumbled a curse.
There was a sketch on the page of the final artifact; a ring in the shape of a coiled snake.
“Could it be the same one you have?” I asked Bess, since she had taken such a ring from the hand of her attacker two years ago.
She slowly shook her head. “The eyes are different. See how these are raised like gemstones, mine are smooth gold.”
So those men who had attacked Bess and murdered Ben worked for Levitas did they. At least we now had a general idea of who was responsible. One thing was plain; Ma belle was the connecting component.
We reached the Inn, and I pulled my eyes away from the book. The building was a two story brick structure with a small, wooden sign hanging over the door, but I knew that the outside belied the ambience to be found within its walls. We had spent many evenings in that hostelry while on missions. Leo left the carriage to go purchase my cognac.
“Does the letter say anything else?” I asked as I closed the book.
Bess stared at the letter for a moment and then refolded it. “A name only. Nicholas Mansfield. He must be in some way connected to Levitas. He may be their leader.”
“So, we find this Nicholas Mansfield, and we find Levitas.”
“Or Ma belle,” Bess said. I gave her the book, and she slipped both back into the packet.
Bess and Mariah started chatting about dress fashions, so I stared out my carriage window in time to see Leo reaching the front door of the Inn. It suddenly swung open, and he nearly collided with a young woman as she was stepping out. She smiled, and something within me stirred, like a sudden wind. I leaned closer to the window to gain a better view.
She looked to be near my age. By the expensive cut to her clothing and the tilt to her chin, I would guess her to be a lady of breeding. What, then, was she doing at an Inn alone? She walked toward a black carriage across the yard, lifting her navy skirt and revealing a pair of small boot-clad feet. The door to the Inn flew open again, and my eyes shifted to it as a young man stormed out of the building, charging toward the young woman’s carriage. My head struck the glass of the window as I craned my neck to watch. He grabbed her arm as she was climbing into her carriage. I could hear his voice shouting even through our closed carriage door. Their argument was none of my business; she could have been his wife, but I could not pull my eyes away. The man pulled the young woman away from the carriage and threw her across the yard, pointing at the Inn. She stumbled and dropped in a heap against the dirt.
A deep anger that I had not felt in a long time overtook me, and I snapped. Grabbing my walking stick, I threw open the carriage door, leapt to the ground, and ran to where the man was towering over the young woman as she knelt on the dirt.
“You there, I say halt!” I shouted as I ran forward, placing myself between the woman and the man.
He had to be at least six feet tall, a good six inches above me, because I found myself looking up into his thin, long face, which closely resembled the face of a horse. Patches of yellow hair stuck out at all angles from under his hat, and small, protuberant, blue eyes stared down at me. His mouth was hanging open like a fish for a moment before he again found his tongue.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.
“That is what I would like to know. I shall not allow you to mistreat this lady,” I said and turned, holding my hand down to her.
My eyes locked on hers, and the angry man, the dusty yard, the gawking eyes of the stable boys all faded away. My breath felt labored; I could not move, her eyes were holding me transfixed. My heart started to beat as if it were playing along to a highland reel.
Her eyes that were between a blue and a purple reminded me of my mother’s favorite flower, the hyacinth, and I suddenly understood her liking for it. The young woman’s oval face, the color of purest ivory and untouched by blemish, was framed by a bonnet that covered her hair, but a few strands fell across her smooth brow. The corners of my lips creased into a smile. Two years past, I would have called her hair red, but a mission in which Bess had donned a red wig, she taught me that the color was auburn, not red.
Her small eyebrows lifted, causing me to snap out of my stupefaction.
“Allow me to assist you to stand.” As my fingers wrapped around her gloved hand, our hands fit as if they were two pieces of the same puzzle, finally finding their match. I shoved such ridiculous thoughts away and helped her to stand.
The man again demanded my attention. With a growl, he grabbed the young woman’s wrist, jerking her hand from mine.
The dog! I struck his arm hard enough to bruise it with the ball of my walking stick. He leapt back rubbing the offended place.
When he took a step forward and grabbed the front of my coat, I lost my will to remain calm. I threw my fist against his jaw with enough force to make him stumble back.
With a hand against his jaw, he shouted, “Do you know who I am?”
“No. Nor do I wish to know a man who mistreats women. You, sir, are a pestilence, and I shall not stand by as you force your plagued attentions upon this lady.”
The man sputtered in rage. “Those are fighting words, boy,” he said, as if he were so many years older than I. “You had better be able to stand behind them.”
“When and where you please,” I replied, my gaze never wavering.
The man looked like he wanted to murder me. We held each other’s gaze for a few warring moments; then his eyes fluttered to something beyond me. He slammed his mouth shut, took a step back, and turned his eyes upon the woman, snarling.
“We shall see what your guardian has to say about this.” He cast me a look of pure hatred before stomping to where his horse was tied. He rode wildly out of the yard leaving a cloud of dirt behind.
There. I tossed my stick lightly in the air, caught it and turned to look at the young woman beside me. I was not a tall man by any means, but the beauty smiling at me was even shorter than I.
She held out her hand. “Thank you, sir, for your gallant rescue.” Her voice was sweet, musical.
“It was a pleasure, madam,” I said as I bowed, raising the back of her gloved hand to my lips.
The feeling that I had met her before was strong. She reminded me of a girl that I met once three years ago, but I knew that she could not be the same girl. I shoved the painful memory away as the door to the Inn opened and a stout woman bustled out, exclaiming in a high pitch.
“My dear! I saw the entire episode from the window, but that fool of an innkeeper would do nothing but say that the young gentleman could handle himself.”
The stout woman looked me over like she was appraising a horse at the auction house. I watched her, my mouth in a full smile. She gave me a nod before walking toward the black carriage. I exchanged an amused glance with the young beauty beside me.
“I do believe you have found favor with Martha,” the young lady said softly, and I wanted to say that it was she and not her companion whom I wished to please, but I kept my mouth shut—for once.
Her companion cleared her throat loudly from inside the carriage, so I offered my arm to the young woman. I helped her into her carriage, and once she was seated, she leaned her head out of the open door. Her eyes again held me mesmerized.
“I shall remember you, sir, and what you have done for me this day. That I promise you.”
My smile was wide as I closed the door and stepped back. As the carriage moved away, I stared after it for a moment, then my eyes slid shut in exasperation. I had forgotten to ask her name.
I stared where
her carriage had been sitting, and my smile slowly returned. I would have to find her. I was a spy, after all. Turning toward my carriage, I halted. Bess and Mariah were leaning half out of the carriage; Leo was standing beside the door, and Jericho was smiling at me from the box, a pistol resting in his hand. That must have been what made the vile man leave without trying to fight me.
When we were again on our way, Bess nudged me with her shoulder. “How your poetical friends would stare if they saw what we witnessed.”
A groan escaped me. My cover when at home was that of a devout poet who engaged in nothing but literary pursuits and was destined for the church. So far it had served me well, but Bess was correct; if my fellow poets had seen my actions in going to the beauty’s rescue, they would most definitely stare.
Chapter 4
Bess
26 May 1816
Philadelphia
When we arrived home, mingled feelings of resignation and contentment washed over me. The knocker was on the door. It could only mean one thing; our mother was home.
When my father moved us to Philadelphia, he accomplished a great feat. Suddenly, we were an affluent family living in a mansion and accepted into the elegant circles of society. Jack and I never learned how our father accomplished such a coup, but William Martin was a man of many talents and even more lies. What was truly shocking was finding out that he indeed had a fortune, and I was an heiress.
When we entered the foyer of our house, it was in a bustle. Maids that I did not know were cleaning, men in their shirtsleeves were carrying furniture from the drawing room, and our mother’s housekeeper was standing amongst it all issuing orders in an authoritative voice. I removed my gloves and bonnet, tossing them on a side table as I looked around. I had only moved back into this house three months ago, a few days before my mother left for Savannah. Shortly after that, Jack and I had left for a mission in Washington, but I knew enough about my mother to know when she was up to something. Jack was speaking with Arnaud, our mother’s French butler, when a gasp came from the stairs. Standing on the landing was my mother. A white lace cap sat jauntily over her black hair. Her blue eyes shimmered with tears as she lifted her skirts, floated down the stairs, and wrapped her arms around us the moment she reached us.
Mother was small in stature, but one hardly noticed her size when she spoke or moved. She had all the grace of a queen and the personality of a warrior. Jack had once compared her movements to an autumn leaf in the wind; one moment it is there, and the next it is carried off to someplace else.
As I bent to kiss her cheek, I caught her scent of roses, and my childhood flashed in my mind. My mother loved roses, and my father would bring her a bouquet every time he came home from a mission.
Since my father was gone, I was the tallest in our family. Being tall had its advantages when masquerading as a man, but that was the only time. No man wanted a wife, or a dancing companion for that matter, who would tower over him.
As she released us, Jack asked lightly, “Did you know of our coming, or does this bustle spring from some other celebration?”
“Shall we adjourn to the library?” Mother pointedly ignored his question as she walked across the tiled floor to a tall, ornately carved wood door.
Jack glanced at me with raised brows, and we followed in our mother’s wake.
Standing in the room with its floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and a large walnut desk brought back many memories of my father, but I pushed them resolutely away. This was Jack’s room now with new memories to be made.
“What is this party, Mother?” Jack asked as he entered the library. I watched my mother as she walked across the carpeted floor to the marble fireplace. She pretended to have an interest in the fire.
“Why, Bess’s birthday celebration of course,” she said as she turned to smile at us.
She was lying. When my mother lied; she always took a moment to compose herself before speaking. “I have sent out cards, and we will have a full house with only the best company that this metropolis has to offer.”
I closed the door before advancing into the room and sitting upon one of the two sofas. “We will have the truth now, if you please.”
Mother huffed crossing her arms. “It is as I say.”
My eyes narrowed in on her finger. She looked down at it then lowered her arms to hide her hand in the folds of her skirt, but it was too late. She wore a gold ring with a large sapphire stone that was not a part of our family jewels.
“Mama, where did you get that ring? You promised to economize and rein in your incessant spending habits.” My mother had no thoughts for budgets of any kind. In the years that she had lived in this house, she had redone the drawing room no less than five times. Mother’s man of business had been to see us three times in as many months because of her spending.
“It was a gift.” She looked between us and sat on the sofa across from me. She breathed a deep sigh, and as she smiled at us, the tiny lines around her mouth became more pronounced. “I am betrothed.”
The clock in the foyer ticking by the seconds was the only sound as we stared at her as if we were frozen.
Jack’s bark of laughter broke the silence. His laughter was always swift and loud. Suddenly, I started to see the hilarity of the situation. Our mother was the most devoted wife imaginable. She would no sooner become engaged to another man than she would dress up as King Lear and perform on the stage. I put my hand over my mouth, but could not contain the laughter that spilled forth. I hiccupped, and Jack pointed at me, laughing even harder. Pulling my handkerchief from my sleeve, I dabbed at my streaming eyes while Jack collapsed beside me on the sofa, his shoulders still shaking in mirth.
“It is no joke!” our mother exclaimed with an appalled frown.
Jack and I laughed louder.
Mother stood and clapped her hands to get our attention. “I speak the truth.”
I blinked several times, trying to regain my control. “You cannot possibly be betrothed,” I said, but the look in her eyes made me doubt my own beliefs. I lowered my handkerchief; an icy wind climbing inside me as the realization slapped me in the face.
Jack leapt to his feet, placed his hand to his side, and drew it out as if he were holding a sword. “Who is the rogue who has seduced you, Mother? Hmm? I will run him through again and again.” Jack lunged forward with his imaginary sword poised before him, and I wanted to laugh at his absurdity, but only a choking noise came from my throat.
“Jack! I have not been seduced. Think better of your mother, I pray.”
Jack lowered his hand, all amusement fading. Now he understands.
“You are in earnest? You have indeed accepted the hand of some unknown man?” Jack asked.
“I love him.” Tears had formed in her eyes before she turned away from us.
Pain mingled with guilt as it sailed across my chest. “Mama, we did not mean to hurt you, but it has come as a shock. Please tell us how this came about.” I held my hand out to her.
She moved to sit beside me. I glanced over at Jack, but he was scowling at her. In his eighteen years, he had perfected that scowl; the dip of his black brows, the hard lines around his mouth mixing with the stormy color of his eyes.
“How was your trip?” She dabbed the corners of her eyes with her handkerchief.
“We ran into some disturbing weather, but we are as you see, unharmed and happy to be home,” I explained. Not unharmed, but we would not tell her that. The high collar of my gown covered the bruises around my neck that were fading, but still visible.
“Now it is your turn,” Jack said.
She slowly explained that the name of her betrothed was Richard Hamilton. She met him on the ship to Savannah, only to find out that he owned the ship. He was a wealthy merchant from Baltimore, who owned a large import export business. I continued to hold her hand, but I felt utterly betrayed. Mother’s two year period of mourning ended only six days ago, and she was already contracted to a new man. It made me sick to my stomach to th
ink that she contracted such an alliance without our knowledge. Casting a quick look at Jack, I could detect a hardness to his face. His lips were compressed tightly, his jaw working while he was grinding his teeth. I knew he felt the same.
“Richard has an appreciation for the finer aspects in life. He called on me every day in Savannah, and when we sailed back to Baltimore, he admitted that he could not live without me."
Jack snorted, and we both looked up at him.
Mother bristled. "I was not looking for love, but it found me, and I will not fight it." She was always defensive around Jack. I thought it was because his mulishness reminded her of Father.
“We must meet your Richard, mustn't we, Jack?” I asked, trying to keep the two of them from arguing.
Jack turned to look at the fire refusing to reply.
“Have you decided upon a date?” I asked softly.
She did not have a chance to reply, as Jack turned toward us, his eyes burning with restrained anger. He shook his head then smiled, but it was an unpleasant tilt to his lips. “Do you expect us to believe this farce?"
Before Mother could speak, a knock fell upon the front door. A deep voice came from the foyer that caused Mother to rise.
Wringing her hands in agitation, she whispered, “It is Richard. Please, Jack, please play your part, Richard knows nothing about our work.” Without awaiting our reply, Mother pasted a smile upon her lips and called entry.
Richard Hamilton bounced into the room on high heel shoes that were no longer fashionable and bowed low before my mother. He was a trim man with a head of black hair and straight black mustache stretching along his upper lip. Holding him up against my father’s regal bearing, I failed to see why my mother liked him. He was dressed neatly in a cranberry colored coat and a silver waistcoat, but he held his chin too high and the look he cast my mother made me want to box his ears. I moved to stand beside Jack.
Mother bestowed a dazzling smile upon him, murmuring, “My dear Richard.”
Phantoms In Philadelphia Page 4
