Freedom's Ring (Sisters of the Revolution Book 3)

by Diana Davis

  Still, he ought to ensure she was quite well. He should probably take the seat next to her, stay with her until she was fully recovered.

  Temperance finished her punch and set her cup on a side table. “Will you remember me to your sisters?” she asked.

  “To be sure.”

  “Thank you.” Her smile was weak.

  “Are you well again?” Owen asked.

  She drew a shuddering breath. “I don’t know if I ever can be,” she murmured.

  Owen only had a passing familiarity with Lord David’s case from the previous year, but he was fairly certain the victim had been the governor’s son. Surely that ne’er-be-good had nothing to do with Temperance’s shock.

  Even as he assured himself, however, Owen remembered what little he knew of Winthrop Morley: he was fashionable and rich. He might not compare with Lord David in either respect — on the rare occasions Owen had seen him, he’d found Winthrop’s fashion laughable rather than enviable — but surely those were qualities Temperance would prize in a man.

  And clearly they were not qualities Owen could ever possess.

  Temperance rose from her chair before Owen could offer his hand. “Thank you,” she said, and she was the one holding out her hand. He shook, gladly, even if it meant Temperance would be taking her leave.

  Obviously that was for the best if his mind couldn’t seem to accept she would never be his.

  “You’ve always been so kind to me, ever since we were children.”

  Kind. That had always been how she’d taken his every gesture. Not that he could have hoped for more at five or ten.

  They were not children any longer. “Can you believe we’ve known one another nearly twenty years?” he asked.

  “It boggles the mind. I shan’t forget this, old friend.” She pressed a kiss to his cheek and squeezed his fingers before heading out of the room by some back way.

  His mind spun with the possibilities. She’d kissed him. She’d offered her hand. She’d squeezed his fingers. Surely that meant — certainly — it could only —

  Owen sank into the chair Temperance had left. That was utterly ridiculous. Her handshake held no special significance, no lingering touch, no loving caress. Her kiss was not that of a woman in love.

  He glanced over at the younger men who worked in the office, seated across the dining room. They were studiously looking away from him.

  He had never told anyone how he felt about Temperance Hayes, but somehow it seemed the whole world knew. Except Temperance. Even when he’d gone and said something so ridiculous and obvious as “I’ve lost far too much to you.”

  She had stated her intentions straight out: old friend. That was all they would ever be.

  The day after the disastrous reception, Temperance stopped short on the brick-lined street to Papa’s law office to let Mercy catch up. Her youngest sister was the best of all of them at keeping quiet, and Temperance did not need to advertise her intent today.

  Unless everything went as she hoped, in which case, Mercy could speak as she liked, and everyone would believe her. Patience wouldn’t agree to this scheme, and no one would believe Constance with her tendency toward fantasy or Verity with her tendency toward gossip.

  “Are we seeing Papa?” Mercy asked when she reached Temperance.

  “No, we’ll go straight up to call on our cousins.”

  Mercy glanced at Temperance. It was no secret Temperance held no love for Lord and Lady David, but couldn’t a woman call on her own family whenever she pleased?

  “Why?” Mercy asked.

  Temperance sighed. She’d forgotten how shrewd Mercy had grown. Or perhaps she’d always been that way and the years had only given her leave to give voice to the sentiment. They all seemed to forget that the “little girls,” Verity and Mercy, were growing up, but Mercy was sixteen now.

  Perhaps her shrewdness could be an asset. Temperance took a deep breath. “If you must know, I mean to get to the truth of what happened that night with Winthrop. When he was killed.” She stopped short of saying by Lord David.

  As they passed under a red-leafed maple, Mercy’s brow creased with concern. Good. Someone else ought to be concerned.

  “And when you know the truth? Then what will you do?”

  “We shall see.” The answer would be obvious, if they could get Lord David to confess.

  Mercy’s concern remained, but Temperance pressed ahead, striding right into the office. Papa was not in the main room, though Owen looked up from his work at their entrance. She gave him a little wave but didn’t pause before climbing the stairs to knock at the door to the flat.

  Temperance braced herself. She tried not to visit Papa at his office often, and her cousin in this flat even less. She had no desire to remember the years they’d been forced to squeeze their family into these four rooms. Mercy had no such memories. She’d been a baby when they moved to the tall pink house on Pine Street.

  Westing, Lord David’s valet, answered and showed them to the drawing room, where Lady David was singing a play song to her baby. Westing announced Temperance and Mercy, and Lady David greeted them. “Good morning, cousins. Do sit.”

  “Morning.” Temperance perched on the wooden corner chair with a carved seashell that she’d heard far too much about. Who honestly cared that much about furniture or whoever this Chippendale person was?

  “It feels as though it’s been an age since we’ve visited.” If Lady David knew anything was amiss in their relationship, she didn’t indicate it in her tone. “Did anything in particular bring you by?”

  Mercy caught Temperance’s gaze, but Lady David was too absorbed in her babbling infant to notice. “Is your husband about?” Temperance asked, her voice bright and brassy as a bell. “We’d hoped to visit with your whole family, as it’s been so long.”

  “He’s attending Congress this morning, but he should be home for dinner if you’d like to join us.”

  Every feeling revolted at the thought of passing two hours with these people, waiting for that murderer — but she had come here with a purpose, and she didn’t mean to leave until she’d accomplished it. “Thank you, we would.”

  “May I hold Elizabeth?” Mercy asked.

  “Certainly.” Lady David brought the tow-headed child over to her cousin, depositing it in Mercy’s lap. “Let’s see if she’ll clap.” Lady David demonstrated, her eyes and her smile artificially wide.

  But, then, why should Temperance be surprised by that? Everything about Lord David was artificial, from his wig to his paste shoe buckles.

  Mercy and Lady David played with the baby for long enough that Temperance grew bored and took stock of the room. Clearly they’d repainted since the last time she’d been here; the blue had been nicer than this yellow. When she was a child living here, they never painted. Nor did they have such nice furniture. Or rugs.

  Temperance forced herself to interact with the baby to pass the time. It wasn’t her fault who her parents were, and Temperance supposed the little girl was sweet. Finally, Lady David took the child to her nap.

  “Do they not have a nursemaid?” Temperance muttered to Mercy.

  “We never did,” Mercy pointed out.

  While that was true, Mercy couldn’t remember, as Temperance did, how great a role their servants had played in caring for the youngest sisters, once they finally could afford to move into a house of their own again.

  By the time Elizabeth was settled, the door swung open and Lord David strode down the hallway, right past the drawing room. Temperance hardly had time to fear she’d missed her chance when he reappeared in the doorway. “Oh, good afternoon,” he said. The quirked line of his eyebrows said What are you doing here?

  Mercy beamed up at him. “Cassandra invited us to join you for dinner. Was Congress good this morning?”

  “No, but thank you.”

  Both Westing and Lady David arrived in the doorway, the wife to greet her husband with a kiss — was t
hat really necessary? — and the valet to announce dinner. They crossed the hallway to the dining room, now painted Prussian blue, where waited a ham that was better than it had any business being.

  Temperance sighed. She might hate Lord David, but she still loved his cook. That was what money bought one — furnishings, decorating, the fine coat and wig David wore. Comfort. Luxury. Stability.

  That had been all she’d ever really wanted. She should be the one living like this, but not in a tiny apartment atop her father’s office. In the governor’s mansion. Now she’d never have that security.

  All because of Lord David. Temperance watched him with a hooded glare.

  How would she get his confession? Her usual armory was much depleted — she certainly wasn’t about to flirt with her cousin’s husband, so every look and touch and teasing tone was beyond the pale. Furthermore, Lord David was wearying them all with a line-by-line report of the morning’s debates. Did he not know ladies knew nothing of politics? Papa insisted he was bound to secrecy at the Congress.

  “And when do you mean to vote on Galloway’s plan?” Lady David asked her husband.

  She was actually paying attention to his ceaseless droning? She really did deserve the man.

  Lord David told her, then asked Temperance. “And what do you think of the goings-on of Congress?”

  “I think it’s hardly a woman’s place to discuss politics.”

  Lady David squared her shoulders but merely pursed her lips.

  Lord David addressed Mercy. “Do you share your sister’s opinion?”

  Who cared what a sixteen-year-old thought of this nasty business?

  Mercy answered anyway. “I think the Intolerable Acts are . . . well, intolerable.”

  “In a word.” Lord David winked at her. “So would you stand with Boston?”

  “Why should we?” Temperance snapped. “They’d hardly stand with us.”

  Lady David finally turned to her. “You don’t know they wouldn’t.”

  “Come, now. If ‘responsible citizens’ are going to run about destroying private property, how can they possibly expect Parliament to take their grievances seriously?”

  “Parliament has already trampled their rights, including the right to petition the government,” Lord David countered, then echoed her own question back at her: “How can they possibly expect Parliament to take their grievances seriously?”

  She harrumphed. “I suppose you’d volunteer your own imports to be sacrificed by these mobs?” He didn’t directly import anything, but she hoped he’d take her meaning.

  “You think I haven’t lost investments in this unpleasantness?”

  “And you welcome those losses?”

  Lord David was unperturbed. “I’m not above sacrificing for the greater good. Are you?”

  “Whose greater good? Certainly not Philadelphia’s.”

  His expression showed exactly how little he agreed with her.

  “Mobs are looting and destroying property in Boston,” she insisted. “Why should any reasonable person think those people have any right to behave that way? They deserve the punishment they got, and we should all be grateful to our king for mercifully continuing to protect us.” She glanced back and forth at her cousin and her husband. “Listen to the two of you, a pair of English-born, seditious Whigs.”

  “You know, Temperance,” Lord David began in a light tone, as if she’d never insulted him at all, “I think I have to agree with you.”

  She lifted her chin, wary of the trap. “Oh?”

  “Indeed.”

  He let the silence hang so long Temperance was forced to capitulate: “How so?”

  “It’s hardly a woman’s place to discuss politics.” Before Temperance could respond, he flinched and shot an accusatory look at his wife.

  “Sorry, dearest,” Lady David said, her voice exquisitely demure. “My foot slipped.”

  “Did it, now?”

  She smiled at him, all innocence, and his replying expression was somewhere between dubious and diverted. And adoring.

  He leaned closer to his wife to murmur something to her, which sounded like French. How very pretentious. Whatever his remark was, Temperance waited until he took a bite of tea bread to address him. “Lord David,” she began, and as always, a query flickered in his face.

  Let him wonder why she’d begun using his title again.

  “I heard your legal case’s record has been expunged.”

  Lord David silently consulted his wife as he chewed. “Indeed,” he finally said.

  “That must be awfully gratifying to you both.”

  “To be sure,” Lady David said. Like her husband, she sounded as though she were treading on ice, willing to take the first step or two, but certain this could only end with hurt.

  “Well, now that that business is all over, don’t you wish to unburden yourself about what really happened that night?”

  Lord David’s features grew incredulous — and amused. “Certainly,” he said.

  Temperance waited for him to continue. He didn’t.

  “We’re all here for you, should you choose to do so now,” Temperance said.

  “Oh, now?” Something about his posture shifted the balance of the conversation. Temperance had been so sure she’d had the upper hand, but if Lord David’s eyes held that much calm calculation, she couldn’t be quite certain of her strategy any longer.

  Lady David laid aside her silverware and rested a hand on her husband’s wrist. He patted her fingers without ever taking his gaze from Temperance.

  “Here’s what I know of that night: we all went to the governor’s ball. You opened the ball with Winthrop. I left. Winthrop tried to take Euphemia to the garden.”

  Lady David’s grasp tightened on his wrist, probably at the outrageous lie. Euphemia? Hardly.

  Lord David glanced at his wife, then covered her hand with his other one before continuing with a little less fire in his voice. “A drunken Winthrop cornered me at the docks with a pistol, which he then brandished against Nathaniel — and which he fired. In defense, I hit him with a lantern, but he was only rendered unconscious. He was alive when we put him in his carriage, and if you still don’t believe that, you can ask his driver.”

  Temperance sat in silence for a long moment, as Lord David silently dared her to challenge him on the facts of that night.

  To be quite honest, she hadn’t heard the details of that night laid bare in such a shocking fashion. He showed no remorse? No admission of guilt?

  This had been a complete waste of time. Temperance stood. “Come, Mercy. Our business here is finished.”

  “We won’t stay for the second course?”

  Blast her sweet tooth. “Mama expects us home.”

  Lord David stood out of respect as they left. Mercy waited until the stairs to launch her reprimand. “Did you not hear Westing say they had a raspberry tart for the second course?”

  “Oh, who likes tarts?” Hadn’t they had enough of them during their other cousin’s ridiculous little baking venture last year?

  “You used David very ill just now.”

  Temperance whirled on her sister before she reached the foot of the stairs. “I daresay he’s caused the greater offense.” She stepped off the stairs and bumped into someone. She reached out to steady the shriveled old woman at the office door. “I’m so sorry, mother,” she said, using the term from respect.

  The old woman took her hands. Her skin was papery and cold.

  Without hesitation, Temperance fished in her pocket for the mitts Mama had insisted she bring despite the beautiful October weather. “Here, let’s put these on.”

  Temperance helped the old woman, and Owen appeared at her side to help with the other hand. “Thank you for coming, Mrs. Schmidt.”

  Mrs. Schmidt took Owen’s face in her hands. “Thank you, dear boy.”

  Owen blushed and sent her on her way. Temperance watched her go. That woman was
exactly the kind of person she’d hoped to help as Mrs. Winthrop Morley with far more than giving her her own mitts.

  Temperance took a steadying breath. Her visit had certainly not gone to plan. How would she ever find justice for Winthrop if Lord David insisted on repeating those lies to her?

  “Temperance?” Owen addressed her.

  She looked up at him. Kind, dependable Owen. The single bright spot in the years they’d been forced to live here. The only person even remotely understanding of her situation with Lord David.

  And her father’s law apprentice for three years now.

  A plan began to form in her mind, and she greeted her old friend. “Owen, how do you do?”

  “Are you . . . well?” Owen asked.

  “I am now, thank you.”

  The door at the top of the stairs opened, and Temperance moved out of the line of sight. There were no other clerks about, but someone could come down at any moment, and Mercy was right there. She couldn’t linger here with Owen, and she needed more time than she had today to make a persuasive argument. She wouldn’t use her wiles on Owen; she could never beguile him, even if she had some inkling that tactic might work on him. Hopefully he would help her simply because they were friends of such longstanding.

  She pointed toward the ceiling. “Do you know Lord David well?”

  “Uh, somewhat?”

  “Will you be here tomorrow?” she asked.

  “I should be. Why?”

  Temperance beamed at him, and Owen smiled back, tentative. “I have a sensitive matter I wish to discuss with you,” she said.

  That piqued a look of intrigue in his countenance, but he didn’t press for details. “I shall see you tomorrow then.”

  “First thing in the morning.” She squeezed his hand. Once again, Owen would be the one to rescue her from Lord David, and she would finally have justice.

  After all, Temperance Hayes always got what she wanted.

  Owen was early to work Friday morning, entirely because he wanted to work on the Cooper case.

  He didn’t believe himself for a minute, but once he was certain Temperance hadn’t arrived yet, he settled at an empty table and began reviewing his notes. Mr. Cooper hardly seemed capable of hurting anyone, even with his cane, and yet he stood accused of assault, the poor old man.