A Widow's Guide to Scandal (The Sons of Neptune Book 1)

by Hallie Alexander

  Marcus melted into the couch, becoming boneless as sleep bathed his soul.

  “Is she here?” Mouse’s low voice jerked him from near sleep. Something heavy hit the floor before a wet tongue dragged across his face.

  “Aye. Away, girl.” Tilting his head, eyes still closed, he gestured to the back of the house with one hand and shooed his dog with the other. Henrietta and Louisa were laughing. Voices rose with greetings. She belonged here.

  Hoping oblivion might return if he lay still, Marcus let his thoughts slide sluggishly through the coves of his mind. Every bone in his body weighed twenty pounds. Darkness swaddled him.

  “Does she know?” Mouse asked.

  Another thunk. A wet, ticklish sensation skimmed across his palm, followed by the velvety, hard curve of Sissy’s head.

  Sleep unraveled for Marcus. There were many things Henrietta knew. He couldn’t make himself respond. Not only did he not know what she did or did not know, those twenty-pound bones weren’t going to surrender themselves.

  Sudden pain rocketed up his leg. Eyes flying wide, Marcus found An standing by his feet, a smug smile on her face. Beside her, Sissy grinned around her rock.

  “Wake up,” An ordered.

  “No.” He rolled to his side but couldn’t escape the new throbbing. Would his misery never end? Reluctantly, Marcus sat up. “What?” It was less of a question and more of a pleading statement.

  “Is Henrietta here? Is she well? Was she hurt? What happened? Where’s Caldwell? Are you hurt?” Mouse, the unstoppable force.

  “She’s here. She’s fine. Best to avoid Caldwell for the rest of my life.”

  Louisa’s voice rose as she returned to the front of the house. She was talking about the neighbors spotting rangers in the area. Which reminded him of Shrupp.

  Marcus rubbed sleep from his face and yawned. “Is Shrupp still on this mortal coil?”

  “He was breathing when we left him,” An said. “There’s always the chance he’s strangled himself by now.” She dismissed the grim idea with a shrug.

  Behind him, Henrietta’s voice pitched with disbelief. “Mrs. Moskowitz?”

  Mouse put down a basket and caught Henrietta up in a hug, then braced her at arm’s length to look her over. “You aren’t hurt?”

  “No. Marcus, he . . .” She wrinkled her brow. “He was remarkable.”

  “That, he is. He always finds a way.” Mouse looked about a twitch away from ruffling his hair or pinching his cheeks.

  “What are you doing here?” Henrietta spotted the basket on the floor. Folded to fit, one of her dresses cushioned items from Willow’s room. The hornbook, the blacksmith’s puzzle, two dolls, and the fine, white lace of Willow’s baptismal dress.

  “We packed up your belongings,” Mouse said. “I hope we took what matters to you.”

  Henrietta knelt at the basket and handled each of Willow’s things. Sissy came to sit beside her, pressing the length of her body comfortingly against her.

  “Your manuscript is in there too. Marcus mentioned it,” Mouse added.

  Henrietta slumped against Sissy with a sigh of relief. He didn’t know what she was thinking, if they’d done right by her, or not. It was important to him they got it right.

  “Hen?” Marcus reached to touch her shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

  She turned to him, a riot of questions and emotions on her face, and there was nothing he could do to ease the pain of losing her home, the one place she felt whole and safe.

  Lips trembling and jaw tight, she nodded.

  Mouse bent beside Henrietta and lifted a doll. “I chose what I would want if it were my child’s room.”

  Marcus was glad she had friends looking out for her in the ways he couldn’t. A band tightened in his chest instead of releasing. She’d be fine when this was done, wherever she ended up.

  “I don’t understand. Why are you here?” Henrietta looked around, spotting An standing in the shadows. A moment passed as they assessed each other. One elegantly dressed, not a hair out of place, the other looking like she’d been tossed out a window less than twenty-four hours before.

  Mouse dug underneath her fichu and retrieved a medallion matching Marcus’s. “We’re all members of the Sons of Liberty, though An and I are more of the mother and sister variety. They can be a wild pack of wolves, if you can imagine. We keep them on task.”

  Henrietta stole another glimpse at An. “And Louisa?”

  “Nah,” Louisa said with a hearty laugh. “I’ve seen enough trouble in my day. Let them have their fun.”

  Henrietta took this in, blinking curiously at Mouse. “What shall happen to Turtle Bay?”

  “We dispatched warnings. Some shall stay, some shall leave.”

  A shadow fell across the open front door. Asher held himself up with a hand gripping the lintel.

  “Come in, Asher sweeting,” Louisa called.

  He took a few steps into the house and paused to catch his breath. Determination made him look fiercer with his jagged scar.

  Marcus tensed to get up, to help. Asher shook his head. “Save your strength, brother. We’re going to need it.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Henrietta leaned heavily against the bedroom door, counting her breaths as her eyes adjusted to the dark, clenching the ceramic doorknob in hand as if doing so might channel her nervous energy into it, away from her. It wasn’t working.

  Three feet away, Marcus slept in his bed.

  Moonlight painted a pale slope along his shoulder and emptied into the dark valley formed by the contours of his chest. The bright white sheet gathered at his waist, tangling with a colorful quilt that was nothing more than patches of grays in the dark. A restless sleep, then. She understood. It was what propelled her down the hall, skulking like a stray cat in the shadows, finding refuge in his room.

  She let go of the doorknob. It gave a slight clink. The steady pattern of his breath hitched. Though she couldn’t see his face, especially his eyes, she knew he had to be awake and trying to make sense of her by the door. Her joints softened, and she moved toward him, tugging the bow of her shift until the ribbons eased, loosening the fabric to slide down her body, leaving a path of aching desire.

  Her nipples tightened from the friction spurred by the soft fabric, the cool night air, and the knowledge that he was watching her.

  The ropes of his bed creaked as the shape of him rolled, meeting her at the edge of the mattress. She stepped from her shift, planting a knee beside him. A calloused palm claimed the back of her thigh, pulling her on top of him.

  Her senses filled with Marcus. She could still smell the faint scent of sawdust and the earthy tang of the river on his skin, down to the singular raw materials that defined him. He knew who he was, and she admired him for it.

  She trailed her hands across his broad shoulders, down his hard chest. She kissed his neck, tasted the salt on his skin, drawing out a groan that vibrated against her lips.

  “I have you.” His rough words entered her as one hand tangled in her hair and the other locked onto her hip. His mouth sought hers. “I have you.”

  He could have said he wanted her, or he loved her. The former being obvious by the thick ridge pressing against her aching emptiness. The latter would have been a lie. All the love she felt for him couldn’t make up for the love he couldn’t give.

  But in the darkness, their bodies gave and received what their hearts couldn’t speak.

  She broke their kiss and tipped her head back, surrendering herself to him. His teeth trailed down her neck, nipping sensitive skin and turning need into a hunger only he could sate.

  Moving in tandem, asking and answering, sheets rustling and mattress creaking, they came together until there was nothing left between them.

  Chapter 29

  Lou
isa laid breakfast on the table at six. Henrietta dragged herself into the kitchen some time south of ten. What remained were a few limp flapjacks, three boiled eggs, tepid coffee, cold fish which hadn’t been cold since it left the lake, and a sad rasher of bacon.

  “Morning.” Louisa sat at the worktable, snapping ends from early beans and tossing them into a large wooden bowl.

  Henrietta pursed her lips, ashamed for sleeping late. When had she last lay abed? “I’m sorry. I should have helped you cook.” She plucked a boiled egg and stood beside Louisa at the table where she worked.

  “Nonsense. I’m up doing every day. I wish I could sleep in. I just don’t have the constitution for it. The minute the stars start to dim and the first bird chirps, I’m up.” Louisa offered a bean pod.

  Henrietta took it and snapped off the end before taking a bite. “I’m the opposite. Give me a long night and let the bird sing me to sleep.”

  “Amen.”

  Henrietta ate the rest of the egg and poured herself coffee. The awful taste was worth the sacrifice of not having to face Marcus across the table.

  “You missed the boys,” Louisa said, making conversation. Or maybe she recognized Henrietta’s avoidance for what it was.

  Heat rushed to Henrietta’s face and in places concealed by her dressing gown. She didn’t regret what she’d done. Good chance she’d do it again. But she knew she wouldn’t be able to look at Marcus in the bright of day and not ache for him.

  Over the next few days, Henrietta easily avoided Marcus. He and Asher spent long hours in Augie’s workshop, going over plans to stop the British from attacking Turtle Bay when the Valiant returned.

  A vague timeline hung over them. Any day, a messenger would arrive, bringing news of the Valiant’s approach.

  Tension worked its tendrils, knotting everyone’s nerves. When Henrietta wasn’t helping Louisa, she forced herself to write the end of Bethia’s story. The sooner she finished, the sooner she could publish her novel and earn her own money.

  After finding the Farenghetti painting, she sold it at auction, paid the back taxes on the castle, and invested in a new roof. Lord Markham, bless his heart, insisted he do the work himself. He’d come a long way from his scoundrel, highway-robbery days. Though, Bethia figured, as soon as the money ran out, so would he. She didn’t particularly want to test his commitment. Not yet, anyway. There was still a new roof needed over the East Tower.

  One blustery day, Lord Markham fell from the eaves and broke his arm. Bethia’s first concern was for Lord Markham, her second for the unfinished job.

  “Oh, flumadiddle!” Bethia took in the man lying upon a sea of broken tiles and launched herself to his side.

  “It hurts. I think I broke it.” He cradled his arm. Tears glistened in his eyes and attached themselves like jewels to his long lashes. Lashes that would have looked wondrous on Bethia.

  “Oh, you horrible man! You drive me to despair and make me lose my sense of reason! How else can I explain how I have fallen in love with you? What madness!”

  “I’ll take most of the blame, madam. But I beg your mercy, as you are the conqueress of my affections. Kiss me, Bethia. Share this madness with me.”

  She kissed him, a smoldering seal to his lips. Then she broke from him. “I’ve made my decision. I’m hiring proper help. There are far better ways to spend our time. But first, the doctor!”

  “Not the doctor! That man is a blockhead. If you send for the doctor, I’ll climb back on the roof. Try to stop me.”

  With a lift of her elegant eyebrow, Bethia purred, “That might be fun.”

  “Middleton!”

  Henrietta jolted. Her quill streaked black ink across her writing. Sissy jumped to her feet, ears slanting back and fur rising along her spine. Fear flooded Henrietta.

  As she rose from the desk in the library, she heard Louisa hurrying down the hall. She went out to join her.

  “What’s happening?”

  “Not sure. Stay here.” Louisa held a musket. She ripped a cartridge with her teeth and poured gunpowder into the firing pan. Her hands moved fast, practiced. The musket rose to eye level as she left the house through the backdoor.

  Henrietta watched at the window, breath frozen in her lungs. Sissy stood in the open doorway, growling around her rock. In the distance, a man rode through the fields on horseback.

  “What d’ya want?” Louisa called out.

  “Message.” The man on horseback slapped his hat against his thigh, releasing a plume of dust. Saddlebags bulged on either side of his winded bay. The horse blew from his nose, shaking his head.

  Louisa kept her aim steady as she waited for the message.

  “Valiant passed Sands Point.” Where Long Island Sound entered the East River.

  Louisa lowered her musket. “Tie up your horse. Come in for a meal.” Her grip on the musket hadn’t eased. The pearls of her knuckles shone pale against her dark skin. “Hen, go tell the boys.”

  Chapter 30

  The East River, New York

  The oar dipped into the water, glossy with moonlight. Henrietta pulled it toward herself as the water pushed away. Her muscles squeezed, firing fresh agony through her stomach, back, and arms with each pull. The whaleboat glided toward the middle of the river. Beside her on the thwart, Louisa let out a small, concordant grunt.

  When Marcus asked, both volunteered. That didn’t mean Henrietta wasn’t twisted up inside about what tonight might bring. Everyone she cared about was in danger. She’d come to terms with the notion that life, no matter how she wished it, included the good with the bad, and there wasn’t a way to avoid one over the other.

  Beneath a black cloak, Henrietta’s borrowed clothes fit too long in the sleeves, the breeches like trousers. The air was thick and briny, making her curls protest beneath a brown knit cap. Sweat dripped between her breasts and pooled at her waist under soft stays that allowed her freedom to move.

  Mrs. Moskowitz, kneeling on a plank fitted across the stern of the boat, hands firm on the long steering oar used as a rudder, guided them through the water.

  Oars dipped, muted by rags stuffed in the oarlocks. Henrietta, Louisa, Marcus, and Asher heaved in unison. Eddies churned away from the whaleboat, propelling them forward.

  At the front, An perched with a spyglass in hand. Moonlight and the stars lit the way, though a light fog was beginning to roll in. On the starboard side, the twinkling lights of Turtle Bay glinted. But port side held her attention. Kip’s Bay sat half a mile south with a British ship moored in her waters.

  “A little further.”

  A quarter of an hour later, they laid their oars against the gunwales and bobbed with the current. To the east, at Corlears Hook, where the meadows of Manhattan gave way to the city, the groans and clanks of the shipyard carried their nightmarish rhythm across the river. The hairs on Henrietta’s body rose as if touched by a ghost.

  Marcus and Asher looked over a hand-drawn map and quarreled in hushed tones over distances and angles. Though they’d had the mathematics of the plan figured out in the workshop, and both had experience navigating the river known for its unreliable tides and quicksilver winds, it was hard to assess distance at night.

  A low thrum came from the west. Henrietta squinted through the darkness. A large silhouette, formless and daunting, broke away from the shape of Blackwell’s Island rising from the middle of the river.

  “There she is.”

  Captain Turk’s ship, the Valiant, on the approach.

  Nothing changed in Kip’s Bay. The ship An spotted sat shrouded in darkness, sails furled and silent. She was either tucked in for the night, or lying in wait.

  Long moments passed. The Valiant advanced, taking on the shape of a full sailing vessel. Charging through the river, she pulled back the webbing of fog trying to cling to her bars
and masts.

  Henrietta met Louisa’s steady gaze. Her dark eyes held starlight and understanding. The whaleboat jounced on a wave, and their gazes fell away.

  Asher muted a cough in a balled-up rag. The ship in Kips Bay, appearing larger, was on the move. A spot of light flitted along the deck. Soon, the ship lit with a hundred lights and the main sails unfurled like the flapping of a thousand wings.

  A wind blew northerly, and Henrietta shivered.

  The ship was Lord Tryon’s frigate, the HMS Remus. With a row of fourteen guns on each side, she was larger than the Valiant, though not as fast or agile.

  “Row us east.” An’s voice crept up Henrietta’s spine. They had drifted too far from their destination.

  The Remus made a slow turn, aiming her broadside up river.

  When An was satisfied with their progress, Asher crawled to the back of the whaleboat beside his mother and grabbed the rope lashed to a blacked-out skiff.

  Cargo in the middle of the whaleboat lay hidden under a pile of quilts. Marcus peeled them back. A vulgar ticking beat against the surface of the water, reminiscent of her mother’s clock.

  Marcus and Asher lowered a keg of gunpowder into the skiff and attached the ticking contraption to it. They made the ropes taut, allowing the tar-pitched black sails to fill, and tied them off at the cleats. The skiff vaulted forward with the wind. They let her go, watching her disappear into the darkness, sailing with the tide toward the Remus.

  Marcus fished out his pocket watch. “Ten minutes.” The hands of the watch glowed with dust from foxfire gathered from the old oak woods behind Swiftwater.

  Asher held An’s spyglass to his eye.

  Henrietta shifted uneasily on the bench. How was Marcus calm? She was a riot of energy. Put her in the skiff, she’d explode at the smallest provocation.