FERGUS MADE HIS way through the shambles left by the exodus of the army, holding Germain firmly by the hand. The camp followers and such men as had been left behind as unfit were setting to the work of salvage, and no one gave the Frasers more than a glance. He could only hope that the horse was where he had left it. He touched the pistol tucked under his shirt, just in case.
“Frog?” he said to Germain, not bothering to keep amusement out of his voice. “Damned frog, you said?”
“Well, he is, Papa.” Germain stopped walking suddenly, pulling his hand free. “Papa, I need to go back.”
“Why? Have you forgotten something?” Fergus glanced over his shoulder at the tent, feeling an uneasiness between his shoulder blades. Beauchamp couldn’t force him to listen, let alone to do anything he didn’t wish to, and yet he had a strong aversion to the man. Well, call it fear; he seldom bothered lying to himself. Though why he should fear a man such as that . . .
“No, but . . .” Germain struggled to choose among several thoughts that were plainly all trying to emerge into speech at once. “Grand-père told me I must stay with his lordship and if Monsieur Beauchamp should come, I must listen to anything they said.”
“Really? Did he say why?”
“No. But he said it. And, also, I was—I am—his lordship’s servant, his orderly. I have a duty to attend him.” Germain’s face was touchingly earnest, and Fergus felt his heart squeeze a little. Still . . .
Fergus had never mastered the Scottish way of making crude but eloquent noises in the throat—he rather envied them—but was not bad with similar communications made via the nose.
“According to what the soldiers said, he is a prisoner of war. Do you mean to accompany him to whatever dungeon or hulk they put him in? Because I think Maman would come and hoick you out of it by the scruff of your neck. Come along, she’s very worried and waiting to hear that you’re safe.”
Mention of Marsali had the hoped-for effect; Germain cast down his eyes and bit his lip.
“No, I don’t—I mean, I’m not . . . well, but, Papa! I have to just go and be sure that Monsieur Beauchamp isn’t doing anything bad to him. And maybe see that he has some food before we leave,” he added. “You wouldna have him starve, would you?”
“Milord looked reasonably well nourished,” Fergus said, but the urgency on Germain’s face drew him a reluctant step back toward the tent. Germain at once glowed with relief and excitement, seizing his father’s hand again.
“Why do you think Monsieur Beauchamp means his lordship harm?” Fergus asked, holding Germain back for a moment.
“Because his lordship doesna like him, and neither does Grand-père,” the boy said briefly. “Come on, Papa! His lordship is unarmed, and who knows what that sodomite has in his pocket?”
“Sodomite?” Fergus stopped dead in his tracks.
“Oui, Grand-père says he’s a sodomite. Come on!” Germain was nearly frantic now and drew his father on by sheer willpower.
Sodomite? Well, that was interesting. Fergus, observant and very much experienced in the ways of the world and of sex, had some time ago drawn his own conclusions regarding milord Grey’s preferences but had naturally not mentioned these to Jamie, as the English lord was his father’s good friend. Did he know? Regardless, that might make his lordship’s relationship with this Beauchamp a good deal more complex, and he approached the tent with a heightened sense of both curiosity and wariness.
He was prepared to clap his hand over Germain’s eyes and drag him away, should anything untoward be going on in that tent, but before they came close enough to see through the flap, he saw the canvas quiver in a very odd way, and pulled Germain to a halt.
“Arrête,” he said softly. He couldn’t conceive of even the most depraved sexual practices causing a tent to behave in that way and, gesturing to Germain to stay put, moved soft-footed to one side, keeping a little distance among the camp debris.
Sure enough, Lord John was wriggling out under the back edge of the tent, cursing quietly in German. Eyes on this peculiar exhibition, Fergus didn’t notice that Beauchamp had emerged from the front of the tent until he heard Germain’s exclamation and turned to find the boy behind him. He was impressed at Germain’s ability to move quietly, but this was not the time for praise. He motioned to his son and withdrew a little farther, taking cover behind a pile of spiled barrels.
Beauchamp, with a high color in his face, walked off briskly, dusting chaff from the elegant skirts of his coat. Lord John, scrambling to his feet, made off in the other direction, toward the woods, not bothering about his own costume, and no wonder. What on earth had the man been doing, dressed in such a way?
“What shall we do, Papa?” Germain whispered.
Fergus hesitated only a moment, glancing after Beauchamp. The man was heading toward a large inn, likely General Washington’s erstwhile center of command. If Beauchamp were remaining with the Continental army, he could be found again—if that proved necessary.
“Shall we follow Lord John, Papa?” Germain was vibrating with anxiety, and Fergus put his hand on the boy’s shoulder to calm him.
“No,” he said, firmly but with some regret—he himself was more than curious. “Clearly his business is urgent, and our presence would be more likely to cause him danger than to help.” He didn’t add that Lord John was almost certainly headed for the battlefield—if there should be one. Such an observation would only make Germain more eager.
“But—” Germain had his mother’s sense of Scottish stubbornness, and Fergus suppressed a smile at seeing his small blond brows draw down in Marsali’s exact expression.
“He will be looking either for your grand-père or for his compatriots,” Fergus pointed out. “Either will take care of him, and in neither case would our presence be useful to him. And your mother will assassinate both of us if we don’t return to Philadelphia within the week.”
He also didn’t mention that the thought of Marsali and the other children alone in the printshop caused him a great uneasiness. The exodus of the British army and a horde of Loyalists hadn’t rendered Philadelphia safe, by any means. There were a good many looters and lawless men who had moved in to pick over the leavings of those who had fled—and there were plenty still left with Loyalist sympathies who didn’t admit them openly but might easily act upon them under cover of darkness.
“Come,” he said more gently, and took Germain by the hand. “We’ll need to find some food to eat along the way.”
JOHN GREY MADE his way through the wood, stumbling now and then by reason of having only one working eye; the ground wasn’t always where he thought it was.
Once away from the campsite, he made no effort to keep out of sight; Claire had packed his eye with cotton lint and wrapped his head in a most professional manner with a gauze bandage to keep the lint in place. It would protect the bad eye while allowing air to dry the skin around it, she said. He supposed it was working—his eyelids weren’t as raw and sore as they had been, only rather sticky—but at the moment was only grateful that he looked like a wounded man who’d been left behind by the rushing American army. No one would stop or question him.
Well, no one save his erstwhile comrades of the 16th Pennsylvania, should he have the misfortune to encounter them. God only knew what they’d thought when he surrendered to Jamie. He felt badly about them—they’d been very kind to him and must feel their kindness betrayed by the revelation of his identity, but there hadn’t been much bloody choice about it.
There wasn’t much choice about this, either.
“They mean to take your son.” It was probably the one thing Percy could have said that would have made him attend.
“They who?” he’d said sharply, sitting up. “Take him where? And what for?”
“The Americans. As to what for—you and your brother.” Percy had looked him over, shaking his head. “Do you have the slightest notion of your value, John?”
“Value to whom?” He’d stood up then, swaying perilously, and Percy had grabbed his hand to steady him. The touch was warm and firm and startlingly familiar. He withdrew his hand.
“I’m told I have considerable value as a scapegoat, should the Americans decide to hang me.” Where was that bloody note from Hal . . . who had it now? Watson Smith? General Wayne?
“Well, that won’t do at all, will it?” Percy appeared undisturbed at thought of Grey’s imminent demise. “Don’t worry. I’ll have a word.”
“With whom?” he asked, curious.
“General La Fayette,” Percy said, adding with a slight bow, “to whom I have the honor of being an adviser.”
“Thank you,” Grey said dryly. “I am not concerned with the possibility of being hanged—at least not right this minute—but I want to know what the devil you mean about my son, William.”
“This would be much easier over a bottle of port,” Percy said, with a sigh, “but time doesn’t permit, alas. Sit down, at least. You look as though you’re going to fall on your face.”
Grey sat, with as much dignity as he could muster, and glared up at Percy.
“To put it as simply as possible—and it’s not simple, I assure you—there is a British officer named Richardson—”
“I know him,” Grey interrupted. “He—”
“I know you do. Be quiet.” Percy flapped a hand at him. “He’s an American spy.”
“He—what?” For an instant, he thought he might really fall on his face, despite the fact of sitting down, and grasped the cot’s frame with both hands to prevent this. “He told me that he proposed to arrest Mrs. Fraser for distributing seditious materials. That was what caused me to marry her. I—”
“You?” Percy goggled at him. “You married?”
“Certainly,” Grey said crossly. “So did you, or so you told me. Go on about bloody Richardson. How long has he been spying for the Americans?”
Percy snorted but obliged.
“I don’t know. I became aware of him in the spring of last year, but he may well have been at it before that. Active fellow, I’ll give him that. And not content with merely gathering information and passing it on, either. He’s what one might call a provocateur.”
“He’s not the only one who’s provoking,” Grey muttered, resisting the urge to rub his bad eye. “What’s he got to do with William?” He was beginning to have an unpleasant feeling in his abdomen. He had given William permission to undertake small intelligence-gathering missions for Captain Richardson, who—
“Put as bluntly as possible, he’s tried more than once to lure your son into a position where he might appear to have sympathies with the Rebels. I gather that last year he sent him into the Great Dismal in Virginia, with the intention that he should be captured by a nest of Rebels who have a bastion there—presumably they would let it be known that he had deserted and joined their forces, while actually holding him prisoner.”
“What for?” Grey demanded. “Will you bloody sit down? Looking up at you is giving me a headache.”
Percy snorted again and sat—not on the conveniently placed stool, but beside Grey on the camp bed, hands on his knees.
“Presumably to discredit your family—Pardloe was making rather inflammatory speeches in the House of Lords at the time, about the conduct of the war.” He made a small, impatient gesture that John recognized, a quick flutter of the fingers. “I don’t know everything—yet—but what I do know is that he’s arranged to have your son taken, during the journey to New York. He’s not bothering with indirection or politics; things have changed, now that France has come into the war. This is simple abduction, with the intent of demanding your—and Pardloe’s—cooperation in the matter of the Northwest Territory—and possibly something else—as the price of the boy’s life.”
Grey closed his good eye, in an effort to stop his head spinning. Two years before, Percy had abruptly reentered his life, bearing a proposal from certain French “interests”—to wit, that these interests wanted the return of the valuable Northwest Territory, presently held by England, and in return for assistance in achieving that goal would offer their influence to keep France from entering the war on the side of the Americans.
“Things have changed,” he repeated, with an edge.
Percy inhaled strongly through his nose.
“Admiral d’Estaing sailed from Toulon with a fleet, in April. If he’s not already off New York, he will be shortly. General Clinton may or may not know that.”
“Jesus!” He clenched his fists on the bedframe, hard enough to leave marks from the nailheads. So the bloody French had now officially entered the war. They’d signed a Treaty of Alliance with America in February, and declared war on England in March, but talk was cheap. Ships and cannon and men cost money.
Suddenly he grasped Percy’s arm, squeezing hard.
“And where do you come into this?” he said, voice level and cold. “Why are you telling me all this?”
Percy drew breath, but didn’t jerk away. He returned Grey’s stare, brown eyes clear and direct.
“Where I come into it doesn’t matter,” he said. “And there isn’t time. You need to find your son quickly. As to why I tell you . . .”
John saw it coming and didn’t pull away. Percy smelled of bergamot and petitgrain and the red wine on his breath. John’s grip on Percy’s arm loosened.
“Pour vos beaux yeux,” Percy had whispered against his lips—and laughed, damn him.