by Diana Davis
Lord David stood, cradling his daughter’s head against his chest as if to comfort her or simply cover her ears. Across the room, Papa had stood from his chair. “You would start a war!”
Temperance had never seen her father so angry. She shrank back a step but couldn’t pull herself away.
“I would not start it, but I certainly won’t allow our faces to be ground,” Lord David said, clearly continuing their argument.
Papa took two steps toward Lord David. “If we are torn from the body to which we belong, we must bleed at every vein.”
They would bring on a war? Temperance found herself reaching for something to hold onto, and Owen took her hand, his grip firm and sure.
“Dickinson again?” Lord David recognized Papa’s paraphrase and met it with one of his own. “‘Wise and good men in vain oppose the storm.’”
Papa’s volume fell to an angry edge. “Don’t you ever talk to me of war. You know nothing of it. Where are your brothers? Safe in the lap of luxury still.”
Lord David’s gaze fell.
“Mine is in a mass grave in the godforsaken wilderness! No, I shall never bring us to war! And shame and calumny on anyone who would.”
“David!” Lady David rebuked her husband first, then turned to Papa. “Uncle Josiah, we are family. We shall not allow this to come between us.” Her tone brooked not a single argument.
Papa looked away, but nodded. An uneasy stillness settled for a moment.
“It’s time.” Papa’s voice no longer held fire.
“I don’t mean to go today,” Lord David said, still fixed upon the floorboards.
“Fine.” Papa strode for the door, crossing paths with Lady David on her way to her husband. Temperance and Owen stepped aside to let Papa past. If he noted Temperance’s presence, he said nothing.
Lord David strode past them, no longer holding his daughter, and took Papa by the shoulder. “I’m sorry, Josiah. Of course I respect your opinion — your experience.”
“We cannot have war.”
Lord David simply clapped Papa on the shoulder. Papa left, and Lord David returned to the study, to his wife and daughter.
Temperance and Owen backed away from the study door a step, and she leaned against him. He still held onto her hand, but now offered steadying support.
That was what she was searching for: reassurance. She’d never, ever seen her father yell that way. He never spoke of Uncle William.
And he could only be right. Who would willingly undertake a war, knowing that the cost could be — would be — that high?
Owen’s fingers holding hers seemed to reaffirm everything she knew to be true. War was bad, dangerous, wrong. It was not the solution to Boston’s problems. Her oldest friend’s steadiness seemed to put her world to rights. She turned to him, but he was still worried. “What’s the matter?” she asked quietly.
“Your cousin left on a call with Dr. Drinker last night.”
She returned to the study. Lady David was exhausted and coming home at such an early hour after going out with Dr. Drinker last night? The man who’d clearly fallen in love with her years before and whom she’d rejected for Lord David?
Temperance rushed back to the study door, dragging Owen with her.
“I’ve done something . . . rash,” Lady David was telling her husband.
Lord David looked up at Temperance and Owen in the doorway. Was that fear in his eyes? For a moment, knowing what she knew about last night, Temperance almost wished she’d given them privacy.
“What?” he finally asked.
“There was a little girl at the house this morning. A slave.”
Lord David cocked his head, the fear gone. “What have you done?”
“Please — she was just so sad.”
“You said you’d pay them to manumit her?”
Lady David nodded.
Temperance felt as though an insect were creeping down her spine. Her mother had been raised a Quaker; their whole family hated slavery, Temperance included. But for all they’d preached against it, they’d never been able to — or just never had? — free even one. She’d been proud of herself for helping in their charitable society’s campaigns to free three indentured servants over the last year. Now the Beauforts were freeing slaves?
“Dearest, do you expect us to take her in?”
“No. Which is why I offered to free her mother as well.”
Lord David gaped at his wife in disbelief. “Cassandra —”
“Please.” She stared up at her husband. “Please understand. When I was taken to the indenture market — there was a little girl — they had the same eyes. I talked to her mother; this is something they can barely dare to dream of. All of them.”
Once again, Lord David signaled his submission in the argument by averting his gaze. “You know we can’t free them all.”
“You could. Are you sure you don’t mean to go to Congress today?”
He patted her arm wrapped around their daughter. “The hunt.”
“Oh.”
“We’ve put in a clause to end the slave trade December first, but we’re not discussing the institution, not if we hope to keep the South in the Congress. Adams promised them.”
His wife’s shoulders fell. Temperance found her disappointment echoing that of her cousin. “Then I shouldn’t tell you the rest?” Lady David asked.
Lord David rubbed his face. “Out with it.”
“The Maxsons only agreed if I managed to find and free the girl’s father. They said he was sold to a Nehemiah Bellamy of Virginia. A friend of Patrick Henry’s.”
Lord David groaned. “Patrick — fine. I’ll talk to Henry.”
Lady David threw her free arm around him.
Temperance finally backed away from the study door. That didn’t — he wasn’t — no. It didn’t matter if Lord and Lady David did something good. It didn’t change what he’d done to Winthrop. It didn’t change anything.
Owen squeezed her hand; she’d forgotten he was holding it. She’d forgotten he was there. “He’s invited me with him on the hunt today.”
Temperance nodded vaguely. “Good.”
Lord and Lady David brushed past them, arm in arm. “How was Mrs. Maxson?” Lord David asked his wife. Temperance trailed after them. Was this her friend Nell Maxson?
The slaves must have belonged to her father-in-law, then.
“An easy delivery, thankfully. No doctors required this morning.”
Ah, Nell had had her baby. Temperance would have to attend her sitting-up week.
Lady David kissed her husband at the foot of the stairs. “Elizabeth should be ready for a nap soon,” he informed her. “You get some sleep, too.”
“Be safe.”
“I always try.”
She shot him a dubious look and climbed the stairs. Lord David turned back. “Coming — oh, good morning, Temperance.”
Temperance bobbed a little curtsy, still uncertain how to form the right words. Or what those words were.
“Coming, Randolph?”
This time, Temperance was the one to squeeze Owen’s hand, silently wishing him luck.
And if safety was at risk, that too.
Assembled with the other hunters, Owen stroked his horse’s neck. Old Woodson had not been terribly difficult to convince, once there were a few pence on the table, and the horse he’d given Owen was strong and lean. He’d been rather impressed until he saw Lord David’s horse. And Colonel Washington’s. And Delegate Henry’s.
Owen had grown up with horses, caring for them, nurturing them. He knew how to read their moods and assuage them. He did know how to ride them.
But the merest glimpse of the likes of Beaufort and Washington proved that Owen was far out of his depth. They looked as though they’d been born to ride, all elegant lines and fluid movements. Owen had hoped he’d have the smallest advantage of understanding well how to handle a horse, but they seemed to communicate w
ith their mounts without any signal whatsoever.
Once again, rich men had all the advantages.
As soon as they’d arrived in the field, Lord David had set in on Delegate Henry, charming him to try to get after this Bellamy person. Owen had fallen back, not familiar with anyone else here, and especially not the members of Congress from other colonies. On the other hand, the visitors not wearing the uniform of the Gloucester Fox Hunting Club meant that Owen’s coat, the wrong shade of brown, stood out less.
Of course, Lord David wasn’t wearing the club’s dark brown either. He walked his horse over to Owen’s. “They’ll be starting in a moment. Is this your first hunt?”
“It is.” Kind for Lord David to not assume, since Owen was certain his inexperience was patently clear.
Before Lord David responded, the horn sounded. Owen was too far back to see exactly what was happening, but before he knew it, a mass of baying hounds took off across the field. The hunters sprang off after them, and Owen urged his horse to follow.
He’d worried he wouldn’t be able to keep up with natural equestrians like Beaufort and Washington. Actually, he wasn’t doing so badly after all, keeping toward the middle of the herd.
And then he spotted the fence.
That was one thing a stable boy never had to learn. He pulled on the reins, slowing his horse, falling to the back of the pack. The other horses and riders leapt over the fence in a long, fluid stream, not all quite so graceful as the leaders, but all making it over.
Owen’s horse whiffled and pawed at the ground. The horse probably knew how to jump the fence better than he did. “Sorry,” he murmured, patting his horse’s neck. He rode parallel to the fence as the hunters grew smaller and smaller in the distance, flowing over more and more distant fences.
Well, he’d made a fool of himself. How had he not remembered they would jump fences?
Because he’d never been on a hunt before, of course. Owen sighed and contemplated returning now. The hunters might return by another path for all he knew, and he and the horse would both be cold by the time they found him.
He cantered along beside the fence, hoping to find a gate, as if he might be able to catch up with the hunt.
Temperance was right; he’d served her very poorly.
He wasn’t certain how much time passed before he heard the hoofbeats, but when he looked up, Owen found one lone rider retracing the path of the pack. He leapt over a fence and Owen was certain it had to be Beaufort. Of the horsemen that graceful, Washington had no reason to come back for him, though Owen couldn’t really say Lord David had either.
The man was still elegant while leaping fences. Owen was certain he would have resembled a rag doll even more than a few of the delegates had.
Lord David reached the opposite side of the fence holding Owen back, amusement all over his features. “What a chance meeting,” the nobleman greeted him.
“Indeed; I was just out for a bit of a canter.”
“I suppose I should have been more specific when I asked if you rode.”
“You asked if I had a horse.”
Lord David aimed a skeptical expression at him.
“I rented it.”
He shook his head good-naturedly, then rode his horse sufficiently far away to give the horse room to build up speed for the jump. The least Owen could do was ride over to meet him where he landed, and they walked their horses to the dirt road.
“You didn’t miss anything,” Lord David reassured him. “The fox went to ground. Just as well.”
“Oh? Isn’t that a failure?”
“I take pleasure in riding, not killing.” He cast a sideways glance at Owen. “And I doubt you would have enjoyed the blooding.”
Based on the name alone, no, he probably wouldn’t.
“Did you prevail upon Henry?” Owen asked.
Lord David shrugged. “He told me where to write Bellamy. He didn’t say he’d put in a word, but he advised me not to admit to my plan. Or my politics. So hopefully that helps. You were eavesdropping this morning?”
Owen grimaced. “I didn’t mean to.”
The nobleman fixed him with a pointed look. “I think you owe me an explanation.”
“I — ah —”
“You agreed to come to a meeting last night when you clearly had no interest. You agreed to come on a hunt this morning when you clearly had no experience. Why?”
“Um.” Owen swallowed. He couldn’t tell the truth, obviously, but he did have to say something.
Lord David reined in his horse and stood, waiting for Owen to come up with something. “You were just so kind to me. And you were so kind to my mother.”
“That was after you brought up the meeting.”
Had Lord David been any farther away, Owen would have sworn under his breath. “You seemed . . . worried last night.”
“Of course I’m worried. Have you seen the state of the colonies?”
Owen nodded. Obviously conditions were worrisome. “I just wanted to help you, Lord David.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Temperance Hayes.”
“What?”
“Temperance is the only person who knows me and calls me that.”
Owen rubbed his horse’s withers, as if that would keep his palms from sweating. “Is she?”
“And you were with her this morning.”
“She came by her father’s office.”
“And said not one word to him.”
Perhaps Lord David was the one who would have made the better investigator.
“Why does she call me that?” he continued.
“It’s your title.”
“Which I’ve asked not to be used.”
He had? Owen’s horse sidestepped beneath him, and he tightened his grip on the reins. “I didn’t realize you could drop a title you were born with.”
“It isn’t even really a title, merely a courtesy, so should I choose not to use it, there’s no reason to continue.”
He didn’t have a real title? “I — I thought —”
Lord David sighed and tapped his chest. “Third son of a marquess. Pointless courtesy title.”
“Then . . . Beaufort?” Owen guessed.
Lord David — Beaufort — gave a curt nod. Apparently, he really didn’t like the courtesy title.
“I must confess, I’m a bit mystified,” Owen said once they’d started down the road again.
“Oh?”
“I didn’t know a person could walk away from a title and all it entails.”
Beaufort snorted. “Didn’t entail much.”
“Got you to the Congress, didn’t it?”
“And put me in a bind there.” Beaufort urged his horse to go faster.
“Still.” Owen nudged his own mount to match Beaufort’s speed and raised his volume to be heard over the hoofbeats. “I can’t imagine you’d want to drop your heritage entirely.”
Beaufort pulled his horse up in front of Owen’s, and Owen had to stop short. “Your mother loves you and your sisters,” Beaufort stated.
“Yes.” Once again, he was truly mystified.
“I never knew what that would be like, not until Elizabeth was born. My parents could hardly stand the sight of me. So, no, I do actually wish to be shut of them.”
“Oh.” Perhaps the rich and the titled didn’t have everything presented to them on a silver platter.
Owen mulled over all he’d learned in the last twenty-four hours about Lord — David Beaufort. He was a good father, though his own had been terrible. He didn’t take pleasure in killing. He was kind and principled and loved his wife and her family.
And Temperance was certain he was a murderer.
“May I ask you something impertinent?” Owen said before he could stop himself. Temperance would surely skin him alive for this. She’d won every game of strategy they’d played since she was six years old. This was not the careful investigation, the clever trap, the trick t
o elicit a confession that she certainly had in mind.
“About my parents?” Beaufort’s tone was still curt.
“No, no.”
Beaufort signaled him to continue.
“The business with Winthrop Morley.”
That took him by surprise. Both his eyebrows shot up.
“Was it an accident?”
“I hit him on purpose,” he admitted with no more guile than Owen had used. “He was going to shoot one or both of us. But he was alive when we put him in his carriage, I swear it.”
Almost against his will, Owen found himself . . . believing Beaufort.
“Now I’ve an impertinent question for you,” Beaufort said.
Of course, there was a deal to be struck. Owen nodded his permission.
“What has this to do with Temperance Hayes?”
Owen’s eyes fell. One title and one meeting and Beaufort had the right of it? “She wants to know what happened,” he managed.
David Beaufort laughed. No, he didn’t just laugh. He guffawed. He laughed so hard, he nearly fell off his horse. Well, it wasn’t that close, but he made a show of it. He held up a hand to tell Owen to wait until he’d contained himself. “She put you up to all this?”
Owen figured the chagrin he couldn’t keep from his expression was answer enough.
“I see.” Beaufort’s gaze turned upward as if he were calculating something. “Hm.” He urged his horse forward again, and Owen followed. “Tell me of your family,” Beaufort asked. “Three sisters?”
“Four. Mother and I work hard to make sure we don’t have to bind any of them out.”
Beaufort nodded, quiet. “And your father?”
“Worked himself to death, when I was ten.” That was when their hardships had really begun. They’d nearly ended up in the almshouse more than once. That was precisely why Owen had spent the last six years working so hard at schooling. Josiah Hayes had convinced a few others to join him in sponsoring Owen through the College of Philadelphia and had made him into a passable lawyer, nearly done with an apprenticeship.
But it would take far more than that to provide for his mother and sisters, let alone a wife, if he could ever find someone who’d take him. And what woman would ever want a man who couldn’t provide her with a home, a life, a modicum of stability?
