JENNY POKED HER head out into the corridor and listened, but the faint sound of a fork on china and Mrs. Figg’s voice from below indicated that the soldier had accepted her suggestion. She quietly closed the door.
“I’ll go with ye,” she said. “The town’s full of soldiers; ye shouldna go out by yourself.”
“I’ll be—” I began, but then stopped, unsure. Most of the British officers in Philadelphia knew me as Lady John Grey, but that didn’t mean that rank-and-file soldiers shared either that knowledge or the sense of respect that it normally engendered. I also felt like an imposter, but that was rather beside the point; it didn’t show.
“Thank you,” I said abruptly. “I’d be glad of your company.” Unsure as I felt about everything save my conviction that Jamie was coming, I was glad of a little moral support—though I wondered whether I might need to warn Jenny of the need for circumspection when I talked to General Clinton.
“I shallna say a word myself,” she assured me, grunting slightly as she pulled my laces tight. “D’ye think ye should tell him what’s happened to Lord John?”
“No, I definitely don’t,” I said, exhaling forcefully. “That’s . . . tight enough.”
“Mmm.” She was already deep in the armoire, picking through my gowns. “What about this one? It’s got a deep décolletage, and your bosom’s still verra good.”
“I’m not meaning to seduce the man!”
“Oh, yes, ye are,” she said matter-of-factly. “Or at least distract him. If ye’re no going to tell him the truth, I mean.” One sleek black eyebrow lifted. “If I were a British general and was told that my wee colonel had been abducted by a wicked great Hieland man, I think I might take it amiss.”
I couldn’t really contradict this piece of reasoning and, with a brief shrug, wriggled my way into the amber silk, which had cream-colored piping in the seams and ruched cream ribbons outlining the edge of the bodice.
“Oh, aye, that’s good,” Jenny said, tying my laces and stepping back to eye the effect with approval. “The ribbon’s near the same color as your skin, so the neck looks even lower than it is.”
“One would think you’d spent the last thirty years running a dressmaker’s salon or a brothel, rather than a farm,” I remarked, nervousness making me rather cross. She snorted.
“I’ve got three daughters, nine granddaughters, and there’s sixteen nieces and great-nieces on Ian’s sister’s side. It’s often much the same sort o’ thing.”
That made me laugh, and she grinned at me. Then I was blinking back tears, and so was she—the thought of Brianna and of Ian, our lost ones, coming suddenly—and then we were embracing, holding hard to each other to keep grief at bay.
“It’s all right,” she whispered, hugging me fiercely. “Ye’ve not lost your lass. She’s still alive. And Ian’s still wi’ me. He’ll never go from my side.”
“I know,” I said, choked. “I know.” I let go and straightened up, smudging tears away with a finger, sniffing. “Have you got a handkerchief?”
She had one in her hand, in fact, but reached into the pocket at her waist and pulled out another, freshly washed and folded, which she handed me.
“I’m a grannie,” she said, and blew her nose vigorously. “I’ve always got a spare hankie. Or three. Now, what about your hair? Ye canna be going out in the street like that.”
By the time we’d got my hair done up in something resembling order, corralled in a snood and pinned respectably under a broad-brimmed woven straw hat, I’d come up with at least a rough notion of what to tell General Clinton. Stick to the truth as far as possible. That was the first principle of successful lying, though it had been some time since I’d been last obliged to employ it.
Well, then. A messenger had come for Lord John—one had—bringing a note—he did. I had no idea what was in the note—totally true. Lord John had then left with the messenger but without telling me where they were going. Also technically true, the only variance being that it had been a different messenger. No, I hadn’t seen in which direction they had gone; no, I didn’t know whether they had walked or ridden—Lord John’s saddle horse was kept at Davison’s livery on Fifth Street, two blocks away.
That sounded good. If General Clinton chose to make inquiries, I was reasonably sure he’d discover the horse still in its stall and thus conclude that John was somewhere in the city. He would also presumably lose interest in me as a source of information and send soldiers round to whatever haunts a man such as Lord John Grey might be supposed to be visiting.
And with any luck at all, by the time the general had exhausted such possibilities as Philadelphia offered, John would be back and could answer his own damned questions.
“And what about Jamie?” Jenny asked, her face showing small signs of anxiety. “He’ll not come back into the city, surely?”
“I hope not.” I could scarcely draw breath, and not merely because of the tight lacing. I could feel the thudding of my heart against the placket of the stays.
Jenny gave me a long, considering look, eyes narrowed, and shook her head.
“No, ye don’t,” she said. “Ye think he’ll come straight back here. For you. And ye’re right. He will.” She considered for a moment longer, her brow furrowed. “I’d best stay here,” she said abruptly. “Should he come back whilst ye’re wi’ the general, he’ll need to know what’s the state o’ things. And I dinna think I trust her in the kitchen not to stab him wi’ a toasting fork, should he loom up in her doorway without notice.”
I laughed, all too easily envisioning Mrs. Figg’s response to a sudden Highlander in her midst.
“Besides,” she added, “someone’s got to clear up the mess, and I’ve had a good bit o’ practice wi’ that, too.”
THE YOUNG SOLDIER greeted my belated reappearance with relief and, while not actually seizing my arm and hustling me down the pavement, offered me his own arm and then walked in such a fashion that I was urged into a near trot to keep up with him. It was not far to the mansion where Clinton had made his headquarters, but the day was warm and I arrived moist and gasping, with tendrils of hair escaping from under my straw hat and sticking to my neck and cheeks, and tendrils of sweat snaking their tickling slow way down inside my bodice.
My escort delivered me—with an audible sigh of relief—to another soldier in the spacious parquet-floored foyer, and I had a moment to shake the dust from my skirts, straighten and re-pin my hat, and blot my face and neck discreetly with a ladylike lace hankie. I was sufficiently taken up with this that it was a moment before I recognized the man sitting on one of the little gilded chairs on the other side of the foyer.
“Lady John,” he said, standing up when he saw that I had noticed him. “Your servant, ma’am.” He smiled slightly, though it lent no warmth at all to his eyes.
“Captain Richardson,” I said flatly. “How nice.” I didn’t offer my hand and he didn’t bow. There was no point in trying to pretend that we were anything but enemies—and not very cordial ones, either. He’d precipitated my marriage to Lord John by inquiring of John whether he, John, had any personal interest in me, as he, Richardson, was contemplating my immediate arrest on grounds of spying and of passing seditious materials. Both charges were quite true, and while John might not have known that, he took Richardson’s word regarding his intentions, told Richardson politely that, no, there was no personal interest—also true as a statement, so far as it went—and two hours later I was standing in his parlor in a daze of shock and grief, mechanically saying, “I do,” in response to questions that I neither heard nor comprehended.
I had barely heard Richardson’s name at the time, let alone known him by sight. John had introduced me—with cold formality—when Richardson came up to us at the Mischianza, the huge ball thrown for the British officers by the Loyalist ladies of Philadelphia a month before. And only then had he told me about Richardson’s threats, with a brief admonition to avoid the fellow.
“Are you waiting to see General Clinton?” I inquired politely. If he was, I had half a mind to execute a quiet sneak through the house and out of the back door whilst he was ensconced with the general.
“I am,” he replied, adding graciously, “but you must certainly go before me, Lady John. My business will wait.”
That had a mildly sinister ring to it, but I merely inclined my head politely, with a noncommittal “Hmm.”
It was dawning upon me, like an incipient case of indigestion, that my position with regard to the British army in general, and Captain Richardson in particular, was on the verge of a marked reevaluation. Once it became common knowledge that Jamie wasn’t dead—then I was no longer Lady John Grey. I was Mrs. James Fraser again, and while that was certainly cause for ecstatic rejoicing, it also removed any restraint on Captain Richardson’s baser urges.
Before I could think of anything useful to say to the man, a lanky young lieutenant appeared to usher me into the general’s presence. The drawing room, which had been converted to Clinton’s main office, was now in a state of organized disarray, with packing crates lining one wall and bare flagstaffs tied together like a bundle of faggots, the military banners they usually sported being folded briskly into tidy packets by a corporal near the window. I’d heard—the whole city had probably heard—that the British army was withdrawing from Philadelphia. Evidently they were doing so with considerable dispatch.
There were several other soldiers carrying things in and out, but two men were seated, one on either side of the desk.
“Lady John,” Clinton said, looking surprised but rising from his desk and coming to bow over my hand. “Your most obedient servant, ma’am.”
“Good day to you, sir,” I said. My heart had already been beating fast; it speeded up considerably at sight of the man who had risen from his chair and was standing just behind the general. He was in uniform and looked strikingly familiar, but I was sure I’d never seen him before. Who—?
“I am so sorry to have disturbed you, Lady John. I had hoped to surprise your husband,” the general was saying. “But I understand that he is not at home?”
“Er . . . no. He’s not.” The stranger—an infantry colonel, though his uniform seemed to sport even more gold lace than the usual—raised a brow at this. The sudden familiarity of the gesture gave me a slight spinning sensation in the head.
“You’re a relative of Lord John Grey’s,” I blurted, staring at him. He had to be. The man wore his own hair, as John did, though his was dark beneath its powder. The shape of his head—fine-boned and long-skulled—was John’s, and so was the set of his shoulders. His features were much like John’s, too, but his face was deeply weathered and gaunt, marked with harsh lines carved by long duty and the stress of command. I didn’t need the uniform to tell me that he was a lifelong soldier.
He smiled, and his face was suddenly transformed. Apparently he had John’s charm, too.
“You’re most perceptive, madam,” he said, and, stepping forward, smoothly took my limp hand away from the general and kissed it briefly in the continental manner before straightening and eyeing me with interest.
“General Clinton informs me that you are my brother’s wife.”
“Oh,” I said, scrambling to recover my mental bearings. “Then you must be Hal! Er . . . I beg your pardon. I mean, you’re the . . . I’m sorry, I know you’re a duke, but I’m afraid I don’t recall your title, Your Grace.”
“Pardloe,” he said, still holding my hand and smiling at me. “But my Christian name is Harold; do please use it if you like. Welcome to the family, my dear. I had no idea John had married. I understand the event was quite recent?” He spoke with great cordiality, but I was aware of the intense curiosity behind his good manners.
“Ah,” I said noncommittally. “Yes, quite recent.” It hadn’t for an instant occurred to me to wonder whether John had written to tell his family about me, and if he had, they could barely have received the letter by now. I didn’t even know who all the members of his family were—though I had heard about Hal, he being the father of John’s nephew Henry, who—
“Oh, of course, you’ve come to see Henry!” I exclaimed. “He’ll be so pleased to see you! He’s doing very well,” I assured him.
“I have already seen Henry,” the duke assured me in turn. “He speaks with the greatest admiration of your skill in removing pieces of his intestine and reuniting the remnants. Though eager as I naturally was to see my son—and my daughter”—his lips compressed for a moment; apparently Dottie had informed her parents about her engagement—“and delighted as I shall be to meet my brother again, it is actually duty that called me to America. My regiment is newly landed in New York.”
“Oh,” I said. “Er . . . how nice.” John plainly hadn’t known that his brother, let alone his regiment, was coming. It occurred dimly to me that I ought to be asking questions and finding out what I could about the general’s plans, but it didn’t seem the time or place.
The general coughed politely.
“Lady John—do you happen to know the whereabouts of your husband at the moment?”
The shock of meeting Harold, Duke of Pardloe, had quite wiped the reason for my presence out of my mind, but this brought it back with a rush.
“No, I’m afraid I don’t,” I said, as calmly as possible. “I told your corporal. A messenger came a few hours ago, with a note, and Lord John went off with him. He didn’t say where he was going, though.”
The general’s lips twitched.
“Actually,” he said, still polite, “he didn’t. Colonel Graves sent the messenger, with a note informing Lord John of his re-commission and directing him to come here at once. He didn’t.”
“Oh,” I said, sounding as blank as I felt. Under the circumstances, it seemed all right to let that show, and I did. “Dear me. In that case . . . he did go off with someone.”
“But you don’t know with whom?”
“I didn’t see him go,” I said, neatly avoiding the question. “I’m afraid he didn’t leave word as to where he was bound.”
Clinton raised a strongly marked black brow and glanced at Pardloe.
“I suppose in that case he will return shortly,” the duke said with a shrug. “The matter isn’t urgent, after all.”
General Clinton looked as though he differed somewhat with this opinion but, with a brief glance at me, said nothing. He clearly had little time to waste, though, and, bowing politely, bade me good day.
I took my leave with alacrity, barely pausing to assure the duke that I was pleased to have met him and to ask where might his brother send word . . . ?
“I have rooms at the King’s Arms,” Pardloe said. “Shall I—”
“No, no,” I said hurriedly, to forestall his offer to see me home. “It’s quite all right. Thank you, sir.” I bowed to the general, then to Hal, and headed for the door in a whirl of skirts—and emotions.
Captain Richardson was no longer in the foyer, but I hadn’t time to wonder where he had gone. I gave the soldier at the door a quick nod and smile and then was out in the open air, breathing as though I’d just escaped from a bathysphere.
Now what? I wondered, swerving to avoid two little boys with a hoop, who were caroming down the street, bouncing off the legs of the soldiers carrying parcels and furniture to a large wagon. The boys must belong to one of Clinton’s officers, since the soldiers were tolerating them.
John had spoken fairly often of his brother and had remarked upon Hal’s tendency toward ruthless high-handedness. All the current situation needed was a nosey parker with a taste for authority mixing in. I wondered briefly whether William was on good terms with his uncle; if so, perhaps Hal could be diverted and put to good use in talking sense to—no, no, of course not. Hal mustn’t know—yet at least—about Jamie, and he couldn’t exchange two words with Willie without finding out—if William would talk about it, but then—
“Lady John.” A voice behind me stopped me in my tracks, only momentarily but long enough for the Duke of Pardloe to come up beside me. He took me by the arm, detaining me.
“You’re a very bad liar,” he remarked with interest. “What are you lying about, though, I wonder?”
“I do it better with a little warning,” I snapped. “Though, as it happens, I’m not lying at the moment.”
That made him laugh. He leaned closer, examining my face at close range. His eyes were pale blue, like John’s, but the darkness of his brows and lashes gave them a particularly piercing quality.
“Perhaps not,” he said, still looking amused. “But if you aren’t lying, you aren’t telling me everything you know, either.”
“I’m not obliged to tell you anything I know,” I said with dignity, trying to retrieve my arm. “Let go.”
He did let go, reluctantly.
“I beg your pardon, Lady John.”
“Certainly,” I said shortly, and made to go round him. He moved smartly in front of me, blocking my way.
“I want to know where my brother is,” he said.
“I should like to know that myself,” I replied, trying to sidle past him.
“Where are you going, may I ask?”
“Home.” It gave me an odd feeling, still, to call Lord John’s house “home”—and yet I had no other. Yes, you do, a small, clear voice said in my heart. You have Jamie.
“Why are you smiling?” asked Pardloe, sounding startled.
“At the thought of getting home and taking off these shoes,” I said, hastily erasing the smile. “They’re killing me.”
His mouth twitched a little.
“Allow me to offer you the use of my chair, Lady John.”
“Oh, no, I really don’t—” But he had taken a wooden whistle from his pocket and uttered a piercing blast on it that brought two squat, muscular men—who had to be brothers, such was their resemblance to each other—trotting round the corner, a sedan chair suspended on poles between them.
“No, no, this isn’t necessary at all,” I protested. “Besides, John says you suffer from the gout; you’ll need the chair yourself.”
He didn’t like that; his eyes narrowed and his lips compressed.
“I’ll manage, madam,” he said shortly, and, seizing me by the arm again, dragged me to the chair and pushed me inside, knocking my hat over my eyes as he did so. “The lady is under my protection. Take her to the King’s Arms,” he instructed Tweedledum and Tweedledee, shutting the door. And before I could say, “Off with his head!” we were jolting down the High Street at a terrific pace.
I seized the door handle, intending to leap out, even at the cost of cuts and bruises, but the bastard had put the locking pin through the outside handle, and I couldn’t reach it from the inside. I shouted at the chairmen to stop, but they ignored me completely, pounding along the cobbles as though bringing the news from Aix to Ghent.
I sat back, panting and furious, and jerked the hat off. What did Pardloe think he was doing? From what John had said, and from other remarks made by the duke’s children about their father, it was clear to me that he was used to getting his own way.
“Well, we’ll bloody see about that,” I muttered, stabbing the long, pearl-headed hatpin through the hat brim. The snood that had contained my hair had come off with the hat; I crammed it inside and shook my loose hair out over my shoulders.
We turned in to Fourth Street, which was paved with brick rather than cobbles, and the jolting grew less. I was able to let go my grip on the seat and fumbled with the window. If I could get it open, I might be able to reach the locking pin, and even if the door flew open and decanted me into the street, it would put a stop to the duke’s machinations.
The window worked on a sliding-panel arrangement but had no sort of latch by which to get a grip on it; the only way of opening it was by inserting the fingertips into a shallow groove at one side and pushing. I was grimly attempting to do this, in spite of the chair’s renewed bucketing, when I heard the duke’s voice choke and stop in the midst of some shouted direction to the chairmen.
“St . . . stop. I . . . can’t . . .” His words trailed off, the chairmen faltered to a halt, and I pressed my face against the suddenly motionless window. The duke was standing in the middle of the street, a fist pressed into his waistcoat, struggling to breathe. His face was deeply flushed, but his lips were tinged with blue.
“Put me down and open this bloody door this instant!” I bellowed through the glass to one of the chairmen, who was glancing back over his shoulder, a look of concern on his face. They did, and I emerged from the chair in an explosion of skirts, stabbing the hatpin down into the placket of my stays as I did so. I might need it yet.
“Bloody sit down,” I said, reaching Pardloe. He shook his head but let me lead him to the chair, where I forced him to sit, my feeling of satisfaction at this reversal of position somewhat tempered by the fear that he might just possibly be about to die.
My first thought—that he was having a heart attack—had vanished the moment I heard him breathe—or try to. The wheezing gasp of someone in the throes of an asthmatic attack was unmistakable, but I seized his wrist and checked his pulse just in case. Hammering but steady, and while he was sweating, it was the normal warm perspiration caused by hot weather rather than the sudden clammy exudation that often accompanied a myocardial infarction.
I touched his fist, still embedded in his midsection.
“Do you have pain here?”
He shook his head, coughed hard, and took his hand away.
“Need . . . pill . . . b . . .” he managed, and I saw that there was a small pocket in the waistcoat that he had been trying to reach into. I put in two fingers and pulled out a small enameled box, which proved to contain a tiny corked vial.
“What—never mind.” I pulled the cork, sniffed, and wheezed myself as the sudden fumes of ammonia shot up my nose.
“No,” I said definitely, putting the cork back in and shoving vial and box into my pocket. “That won’t help. Purse your lips and blow out.” His eyes bulged a bit, but he did it; I could feel the slight movement of air on my own perspiring face.
“Right. Now, relax, don’t gasp for air, just let it come. Blow out, to the count of four. One . . . two . . . three . . . four. In for a count of two, same rhythm . . . yes. Blow out, count of four . . . let it come in, count of two . . . yes, good. Now, don’t worry; you aren’t going to suffocate, you can keep doing that all day.” I smiled encouragingly at him, and he managed to nod. I straightened up and looked round; we were near Locust Street, and Peterman’s ordinary was no more than a block away.
“You,” I said to one of the chairmen, “run to the ordinary and fetch back a jug of strong coffee. He’ll pay for it,” I added, with a flip of the hand toward the duke.
We were beginning to draw a crowd. I kept a wary eye out; we were near enough to Dr. Hebdy’s surgery that he might come out to see the trouble, and the very last thing I needed was that charlatan to materialize, fleam at the ready.
“You have asthma,” I said, returning my attention to the duke. I knelt so that I could see into his face while I monitored his pulse. It was better, noticeably slower, but I thought I could feel the odd condition called “paradoxical pulse,” a phenomenon you sometimes saw in asthmatics, wherein the heart rate speeded up during exhalation and dropped during inhalation. Not that I had been in any doubt. “Did you know that?”
He nodded, still pursing his lips and blowing.
“Yes,” he managed briefly, before breathing in again.
“Do you see a doctor for it?” A nod. “And did he actually recommend sal volatile for it?” I gestured toward the vial in my pocket. He shook his head.