How could it be true? She tried to draw in a breath deep enough to soothe, but an invisible hand pressed on her chest.
Thad was a spy. Whatever he wanted to call it, that was what it came down to. That was why he heard so often from all his sailor friends. That was why Mr. Whittier had sought him out in his last moments. That was why he disappeared at odd hours. Because he was involved in espionage. Perhaps not the filthy kind, perhaps not for gain. But still he went slinking around in the dark, still he passed along information to those for whom it was not intended. Still he sought to undermine the British cause. Not openly, honorably, on a field of battle, but underhandedly.
Why, then, did her feet still want to pull her his way?
She gripped the edge of the table until her knuckles ached. “I most certainly am not involved.”
“Not willingly.” Thad pushed off the windowsill, and for half a pulse she feared he would come to her.
He walked past, to the door, and her heart sighed in disappointment. Fickle thing.
A moment later she heard him opening one of his saddlebags, though she didn’t turn to watch. Couldn’t. What did it matter what he was pulling out? Culpers. The name still reverberated, though she had no notion why it would or what it mattered.
“This arrived on the same ship as the news from Belgium.” His voice drew nearer again, but then his steps halted. “Mother, there you are.”
Gwyneth finally convinced her head to move, though the rest of her frame remained rigid. Mrs. Lane entered the room with caution in her step, her gaze wary. Her eyes were still red rimmed, her lovely face swollen with grief.
Tears threatened Gwyneth’s eyes yet again at the sight. It had been a solace to grieve with someone who mourned Papa as well. She had felt, sitting beside Mrs. Lane on the couch, as if she had a real friend again, someone who could be there when she so desperately needed Mama.
Now she wished she could spare her this truth about her son.
“What is it?” Despite the evidence of her sorrow, Mrs. Lane’s gaze was sharp as she glanced around the room. “Tell me there is no more bad news.”
Thad merely cleared his throat and motioned for her to move toward his father. “I was about to explain to Gwyneth and Father how, whether she wished to be or not, Gwyneth is irrevocably involved in our Culper business.”
Our? Gwyneth sagged against the table. They could not possibly all…
“Thaddeus.” Mrs. Lane’s outrage rang differently than Gwyneth had expected. “This had better be an exceptional explanation.”
Thad lifted the folded paper in his hand. “Like this, perhaps? ‘When we captured the ship, one rather smirking sailor told us there would be no stopping the British now that their forces were free from Europe, especially after the murder. I asked him what in thunder he meant by that, and he made mention of a beloved general, slain in his home. Said he heard from the lips of the general’s brother-in-law, who holds a government office, that an American spy was most likely responsible, and that he planned to personally see to retribution.’ ” He lowered the page and captured Gwyneth’s gaze, though she tried to look away before he could. “Sound familiar, sweet?”
She shook her head, sending a loose curl to irritate her cheek. “I have no uncle in the government. Two are in the House of Lords, but that is not exactly an office.” Although a beloved general, slain in his home…who else could it possibly mean? There was no other general so beloved in England.
“I believe you do, in fact.” He folded the page, his every move slow and quiet, as if she were a rabbit he feared startling away. “There is a Gates in the Home Office. I was not sure at first it was your Gates, but I have been convinced.”
“The Home…” Her head would not shake quickly enough to show how completely she rejected that idea. “Nay. My uncle is a…a writer.” Was he not? I deal in words, he had said. What if…? What if those words were not written in some Gothic novel, but in…this?
Images flashed, lightning-fast portraits, frozen in time. And then Papa’s accusation came back to her. The Home Office has decent men in it yet. A few at least, though you are not one of them.
How, why had she forgotten that so long? Her knees wanted to give way, but she held fast to the table. If she let herself fall, Thad would be at her side in a heartbeat. He would lift her and carry her to the couch. Touch her face and smooth her hair.
And she would enjoy it far too much. “No. Papa would have nothing to do with espionage.”
A snort of a laugh spilled from Thad’s lips. “He was a general, Gwyneth. Generals rely on intelligence to plot their campaigns.”
“Scouting is different.”