“A pretty redhead?”
“Yes, and rich. Dresses to the nines and owns an elegant chaise.”
“How was she received?”
“Well. Very well. Her husband was killed at Monmouth. The officers in his regiment are rallying around in droves.”
“Any talk of why she left Philadelphia?”
“She says the rebels were making life difficult for her. She wants to be with her husband’s friends.”
“Where is she staying?”
“At a Mrs. de la Montaigne’s Inn. The front parlor is filled with callers.”
“Any particular friends?”
“She seems to favor Andre as an escort, but she’s about to leave town. Lady Eden has invited her to stay for a few weeks in the country.”
“Indeed.” A pause. “And where does Lady Eden live?”
“Farther out on the Bowery Road. I’ve heard that the place belongs to her uncle, Andrew Elliott, the crown customs collector for New York.”
“Do you know when Mrs. Colborne leaves?”
“I believe it’s the day after tomorrow. Andre had to break the news to Sir Henry that she won’t be at his reception for Admiral Digby—why this interest in Mrs. Colborne?”
“No particular reason. I knew her quite well in Philadelphia. A very fetching young lady.”
“Who won’t be a widow for long, is my guess. About Landers. I can’t give you advance notice, so keep him ready to go.” He stood up, reached into his grubby coat, pulled out a bag, and laid five gold sovereigns on the table. “Your pay for the month. I’m off before I’m missed.” Moments later, the wagon was jolting down the drive.
“Cocky bastard,” Jamieson said aloud and drained his glass. It galled him beyond measure to be treated like a lackey by this officious double agent in Sir Henry’s headquarters. Galling that Landers was key to the operation. On the other hand, the informer had just delivered an unexpected piece of interesting news.
Slowly, he went to the long window and touched the red damask curtain. He disliked being kept in hiding, but as soon as the war was over he was going to buy this place, a suitable base for his rise to power in a new and promising country. He would marry, and his children would never know about their father’s sordid beginnings, but one danger remained. If it ever became known that he had seduced a young heiress and caused her death at the hands of a midwife, the scandal would end his dream to be recognized as a respectable citizen. Fortunately, only two people of any substance knew the truth. One was dead, and now he had a chance to silence the other.
The sun was setting on the river. He lit one of Mr. Dunn’s dry but still palatable cigars, and walked out onto the long terrace. An evening breeze was coming off the water; the birds were assuring themselves that all was well for the night. Drawing deep on the cigar, he leaned against the stone balustrade.
Suddenly a bottle came hurtling down from an open window. Glass shattered on the stones. Last July, a man had been found staggering around the city, howling about a Captain Jamieson who had ruined him. A loyalist attached to a certain network had brought Trent here and left him.
“Landers, tie Trent up and get down here,” Jamieson shouted. Keeping Trent in brandy was costing money, but there was one unexpected windfall. In lieu of paying his gambling debts, Trent had signed a paper giving Jamieson his shares in the Sage and Trent trading company, worth far more than twelve thousand pounds. When not befuddled by brandy, that damaged mind went stumbling into the past.
“You should have seen Miss Champion when she arrived from the country dressed in homespun. Hands like a peasant, but taking, very taking, that trick of looking at you from under her lashes. I taught her to dance. Might have married her if you and your lot hadn’t marched in.”
“Landers,” he shouted again. Enforced isolation was making the man lazy. He was drinking, in need of a woman, and he and the other servant, John, a deserter from a foot regiment, were starting to quarrel. There was no place for Landers in his long-range plans, but at the moment he was needed.
“Captain?” Landers came slouching through the door.
“Stand straight and come at once when I call you. Get a broom and clean up this mess. Don’t let it happen again.”
“Can’t be in two places at once.”
“No excuses.” He paused and raised his hand. “Pay attention, you useless fool. You did a shabby piece of work at Monmouth. Captain Colborne’s body was found and identified. I should have left you to rot in Philadelphia, but I’ve decided to give you another chance to prove yourself.”
The yellow eyes gleamed. “Another job? When?”
“The day after tomorrow, and this time no mistakes. Do you understand? No mistakes or John will turn the dogs on you.”
CHAPTER
THIRTY-FIVE
October 23, 1778
The weather continued hot and sultry, with no respite in sight. Early that afternoon, an elegant little chaise with red wheels stood at the door of the inn. The back was piled with trunks. Nate, the young driver, had joined Captain Warren’s network a few months ago. He knew the area, he had the bunched muscles of a fighter, and he carried a pistol. As Sarah and her maid Abigail came down the steps, Nate grinned.
“Never mind what you’ve forgotten. We’d best be off.”
Abigail handed Sarah her satchel and turned to Nate. “When you come back, be sure you stop by. That way I’ll know she arrived safely. Enjoy your stay, Mrs. Colborne.”
“Thank you, I will,” Sarah said and climbed in. She and Abigail and Nate worked well together. They made a good team.
The chaise moved forward and circled the Common, passing the steam pump designed to bring water up to the reservoir. A few days ago, at Lord Carlisle’s rented house on Cherry Street, Lady Eden’s husband had approached Sarah. “Captain Colborne was a great favorite with my wife, and she wants to make your acquaintance. She’s still in the country with the new baby, but perhaps you can be persuaded to pay her a visit.”
The invitation was quickly accepted. At Lady Eden’s there would be no need to weigh every word that came out of her mouth. She would be able to catch her breath after the whirl of morning calls, punch parties, luncheons, teas, promenades, dinners. It also meant removing herself from the attentions of certain officers. She could easily read their minds. Was the widow ripe for plucking? How soon could Charles be replaced in her bed?
As they reached the Bowery Road leading out of the city, the horse slowed to a walk. Nate shook the reins and clucked. “Feels the heat,” he said over his shoulder.”
“We all do. How far is it from here?”
“Less than an hour, I’d say.”
She sat back, glad of a chance to be alone and collect her thoughts. Face the fact that so far she had failed in her mission to find Jamieson. After making a show of her politics, she had done her best to lead conversations to Captain Jamieson with no results. Last night, as Lord Cathcart ranted on about gambling hells and greedy men making killings, she had tried again.
“It was exactly the same in Philadelphia. Captain Jamieson was forever fleecing poor little lieutenants in that upstairs room. We thought he’d gone to London, but there’s a rumor that he’s still in the country. Does anyone know if that’s true? Had any news of him?”
A lively discussion of Jamieson’s character followed. He was daring enough on patrols, but twisty. Out to make money and marry money. No one knew or cared where he was, and the conversation had turned to the latest play.
Reluctantly, she had to admit that she had counted too much on getting information from this group. Perhaps, when she returned, she should go to Andre and tell him about Charles’s death at the hands of that rogue Jamieson. Beg Andre to use his considerable resources to find him.
But first, through Abigail, she would have to get Captain Warren’s permission. Last week she had asked the girl how long she had worked for the captain.
“Not long, ma’am. The redcoats killed my father at Breed’s Hill. I carried
messages around Boston until I was almost caught, and then I escaped to New York. Captain Warren heard about me. I joined his network, but I already knew about him.”
“Knew about his network?”
“Before that. My mam did washing for the Warrens, one of the finest families in Boston. The captain, he never noticed me, I was just a child carrying laundry baskets, but there was always talk in the kitchen about his wild pranks at Harvard College. His little sister’s friends were all in love with him.”
“Wild pranks—girls in love with him—all I can say is, the war certainly has changed him. Is he hard on the people in his network?”
“Hard, but fair. He does his best to look after us, and he doesn’t spare himself.”
“No, he doesn’t.” In the past few weeks, she had been forced to swallow her former dislike. She had good reason to appreciate his ability to make quick decisions and to carry them through.
The air was growing fresher. She raised the silver-handled shield to protect her face from the sun, relieved to be free of the city and its painful stress. It hurt to call on Mrs. Chester in her shabby rooms on Pearl Street, and then ride out for a party at Mt. Pleasant, the Beekman house on loan to Sir Henry. It turned her stomach to sit demurely on the sidelines and watch Charles’s friends charming the New York girls. She wanted to scream at them, warn them not to lose their hearts.
“You must go to England and meet Charles’s family. The Colbornes would be happy to receive you,” Lord Rawdon had told her.
“Later, perhaps,” she said, but she would never go to England. She had prayed for a child, but there would be no boy with Charles’s eyes and hair. No continuation of his life. No heir for the Colbornes.
For weeks after his death, she had clung to their moments in the big bed, the feel of his body, the way he would throw back his head and laugh. At night, biting her pillow, she had cried out, “Why, why?” She had hoped that talking about Charles with his friends would keep his image strong. Instead, he was beginning to blur and fade like a sail moving out of sight. Even harder, she was beginning to realize that a few weeks of frenzied consummation was no basis for a lasting marriage, one that would have led to a life that went against all she most valued. Her family. James. Her country. She could never accept the way the English maintained a vast gap between the classes or their rigid pride in the past.
The chaise was passing maples, fiery at the height of fall color. At home the corn would be harvested; the root cellar would be filled with vegetables for the winter. Her family—she mustn’t think about Mary’s tears when she left to go back to Philadelphia or her mother’s tight-lipped sadness—
The sudden violent jolt flung her to the floor, breaking the face shield in two. The chaise lurched forward then stopped. After a stunned moment, she raised her head.
“Nate?”
No answer. A small man jumped into the chaise. His hat was pulled down over his face. With a quick flick of a rope, he tied her hands together and fastened her legs to the door handle, trussing her like a chicken. She could see only the back of his head as he climbed into the driver’s seat. With another flick of the whip, the horse snorted and began to gallop down the road.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-SIX
October 23, 1778
At four o’clock that afternoon, Rivington’s Coffee House was filled with British officers. Jemmy Rivington, the king’s printer, was an entertaining character who appreciated fine wine and could spin a good tale. It would have surprised the lounging officers to know that Rivington was a staunch supporter of American intelligence and of Captain Warren’s network. His coffee house was proving to be a prime asset; there was always a bustle of customers in front. Deliveries of wine, meat, and baked goods at the rear meant that messages could be passed without attracting attention.
As he carried trays and refilled tankards, Warren listened to what was being said at Rivington’s table. It ranged from a critique of the current play at the John Street Theatre to a discussion of local trysting places for lovers.
“I’m a respectable merchant,” Rivington said to Banastre Tarleton. “Places like that are more in your line, sir.”
Lord Cathcart snorted. “The question is, can Tarleton persuade the charming widow to visit his little love nest?”
The dashing cavalryman shrugged. “Marriage may have whetted her appetite. I don’t know what it is about that red hair, but it draws men to her like—” He lowered his voice and the others roared with laughter.
Warren refilled his tankard, wanting to throw drink at that handsome face. Abigail must warn Mrs. Colborne not to overdo her favors. A good thing she was off for a long visit in the country.
A few moments later his shift was over. He turned to another waiter. “I’ve opened a third keg of ale. It should last the night unless the heavy drinkers stay late.” With a nod, he went through the swinging door into the hot kitchens; the smell of meat roasting in the great spits reminded him that he hadn’t eaten all day. He could take a meat pie to his attic room over the coffee house. Eat while he changed out of the waiter’s clothes and got ready for his nightly rounds. Tonight he would start with the gun smith on Smith Street. Any unusual activity by the British would involve guns.
One of the cooks called out as he went by. “Girl waiting to see you at the back.”
“Obliged.” He walked into the alley. Abigail came forward from the shadows.
“What’s wrong, child?” he said loudly. “Is your mother worse?”
“She is, sir, the pains are very bad and I daren’t cross the city to the apothecary alone.”
“I’ll go with you.”
They crossed the street. He looked around. No one was sight.
“What?” he asked softly.
“It’s Mrs. Colborne,” she whispered. “She left for Lady Eden’s this afternoon. Nate was to let me know she arrived safe. He never came. I went to the livery stable. He wasn’t there, not him nor the chaise. It’s not like him to forget.”
“What time did they leave?”
“At two. I heard the clock striking the hour.”
“It may be nothing more than an accident to the chaise. Go back to the inn. If you have any news, come to headquarters by the wharf.” She nodded and slipped away to the corner.
He leaned against a lamppost and stared at the water. A victualler from Ireland was entering the busy harbor. The warship Trident rode at anchor. By now he had learned to assemble facts before leaping to conclusions. With any luck, a wheel had come off the chaise, nothing worse. Pogy, his most trusted lieutenant, knew the area well. He’d send Pogy down the Bowery Road, alert for trouble.
Headquarters at the moment was a cellar under a former marine warehouse. It was a damp, rat-infested place, but the location near the wharves meant that agents could come and go both on foot and by boat.
Pogy was there. He listened then nodded. “I’ll put on me farmer’s clothes and ride past the sentry what looks the other way. Be back soon as I can.”
The cellar was hot; even the stones were sweating. Warren lit a candle, sat down on a pile of rotting sails, and pulled the meat pie from his pocket. As he ate, he went over Mrs. Colborne’s recent activities. As predicted, she had established herself quickly. Last week she reported that Sir Henry had received orders from Lord Germain to send five thousand men to the West Indies; it seemed that securing those profitable sugar producing islands was more essential than supporting his general in New York. As a result, Sir Henry was irritable and hard to please, though she herself was still singled out to receive his favors. Useful information, but nothing about Jamieson.
As well, his own efforts to find the man were failing. Inns, bars, and boarding houses had been checked with no results. His agents had worked the area around Trinity Church, known as Holy Ground. The offer of a big reward might have produced information from that lively scum of criminals and prostitutes. It hadn’t.
Time passed. Not a good sign. Where the hell was Pogy? He got up and
began to walk around. At last footsteps sounded above. The trap door opened and Pogy came down the ladder. He was breathing hard.
“Bad news, Cap’n. Very bad. I were halfway to Lady Eden’s when I seen Nate lying in a ditch. Stabbed in the back he was. I laid him down in the grass. Went to the nearest house and told the farmer the lad was an apprentice to a shoemaker. His master would pay well to have the body moved to a barn and another apprentice would come for it.”
“What about Mrs. Colborne?”
“No sign of her or the chaise. I rode on to Lady Eden’s. Told the servants she was still in the city, not to expect her. Figured you wouldn’t want to raise an alarm—”
“I should never have let her out of the city. And Nate, that good lad—” he hit the wall with his fist.
“An only son. Cap’n, what’s to do?”
“Christ.” He rubbed his fist. Somehow he must block out anger and keep a cool head. “This looks to me like Jamieson’s work, and he’s in the area. He found out she’d be on the road today. He sent that killer servant of his to attack Nate and go off with her.”
“Poor young lady. Do we make a search, Cap’n?”
“Where? How? She could still be in the country or back in the city. It would take an army to go door to door.” He shook his head. “Someone must have passed the information to Jamieson. Could have been someone at the inn, more likely an officer who knows her well.”
“A two-faced redcoat—”
“Who’d be devilish hard to find. Jamieson had her husband murdered because he knew too much. So does she. He saw a chance to silence her. If she’s in his hands, she may not last the night.”
For a moment neither man spoke. Then Warren straightened. “Go out and get word to the network to spread this news. Spread the word that there’ll be a large reward for information about a young woman being held captive by two men. They could be in a cellar or an attic.” He hesitated, then took off his waiter’s apron and went to the far wall. Moved a slimy stone, took out a pouch of gold, and put it in his pocket.
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