JoAnn Wendt Read online

Flavia’s cheeks heated in anger.

  “It is the hair God was pleased to give me!”

  “Yes! And He gave it to you that decent folk could easily spot a wanton and be warned. In like manner, He gave red hair to Jezebel and to Eve. The Reverend Mr. Byng says it is so.”

  It was infuriating, but Flavia bit back the words she wanted to hurl at the stupid woman. There was no argument to be offered for “Mr. Byng says it is so.” She studied her hands in her lap, refusing Mrs. Byng the satisfaction of knowing she had upset her. But Mrs. Byng found her composure incensing.

  “Oh, yes, girl. Mr. Byng discerns a wanton spirit in you. He warned me of it. Mr. Byng intends to keep a close watch on you, missy.”

  Flavia flushed in anger. A close watch? During the past weeks Mr. Byng’s eyes had followed her every movement. At times she felt stripped naked by his eyes. And she was uncomfortably aware that the last time she’d bathed in the creek someone had spied from the bushes. She’d heard furtive slaps, as though someone battled biting insects. That night Mr. Byng had come to supper with his face mottled with red chigger bites.

  “You are wasting my time, Jane,” Mrs. Byng said. “Read on in the gazette. Read the rest of the bondslave subscriptions. And mind the details. On Market Day you are to keep your eyes peeled for runaways.”

  Flavia sighed and picked up the gazette. She began to read with deliberate slowness. Detestable as the subscriptions were, they gave respite from garden work.

  She read, “Runaway from the Mistress of Spencer House, a genteel Williamsburg lodging place, an English Servant Woman called Mab Col—”

  Her voice stuck in her throat. For several seconds she couldn’t breathe. Fear pounded in her breast.

  Mrs. Byng turned sly eyes upon her.

  “Do you know this bondwoman, Jane?” she asked with feigned pleasantness,

  Flavia blinked. She drew a steadying breath.

  “No,” she said firmly. “No.”

  Willing herself to be calm, she rushed on with the reading. She mustn’t arouse Mrs. Byng’s suspicions. For what if Mab traveled north, counting on Flavia to hide her? In the eight months since they’d parted, they’d exchanged letters only once. Postal fees were too dear to permit more. But Mab’s one letter, crudely written, had hinted at escape.

  Burying her face in the gazette, Flavia read on aloud. She knew she must read every word as it stood because Mr. Byng often read the same material aloud in the evening. Where profit was concerned. Mistress Byng stayed alert. If Mrs. Byng suspected deception, she would watch Flavia carefully and Flavia would find herself powerless to help Mab.

  In a deliberately bored manner she read:

  “—an English Servant Woman called Mab Collins. Said bondslave is about twenty-three years of Age, a tall, pridey woman having insolent eyes and hair of no special coloring. She hath a tart mouth and Thieving ways. When she run away, clothed herself in her mistress’s black Allopeen Cloak with Silver buttons. It is supposed she will endeavor to pass for one Mary Percy, having Stolen Mary Percy’s Indenture papers with a Discharge thereon.”

  Flavia paused for breath. Sending up a quick fervent prayer of Godspeed to Mab, she rushed to the finish:

  “Whoever takes up Mab Collins and Secures her so that her Mistress may have her again, shall receive, besides what the Law allows, Four Pistoles if taken in Virginia, Six if taken in Maryland and Eight if taken in New-York, to be paid by,

  Mrs. Eliza Spencer

  Spencer House for Genteel Gentlemen and their Ladies,

  Williamsburg”

  When Flavia fell silent, Mrs. Byng stood up in thoughtful concentration.

  “Six pistoles, Jane. A Spanish pistole holds its value far better than shillings.” She frowned. “Keep your eyes peeled, Jane. You hear?”

  Flavia looked away, hiding the fearful excitement that danced in her eyes.

  “Oh, I shall, ma’am,” she promised. “You may count on it.”

  Chapter 10

  Garth McNeil’s footfalls echoed with hollow resonance as he hurried up the spiraling uneven stone steps of the German castle keep. The keep was the last remaining tower of what once had been Castle Bladensburg. Here each feudal Germanic lord of Bladensburg had sought to “keep” his lady and his children safe in times of siege. Encircled by its own small moat, the keep had once been the center of a proud castle. Now it looked down upon tumbled ruins, and its moat was a shallow ditch overgrown with scruffy trees and choked with wild honeysuckle vines.

  McNeil vaulted up the steps, ignoring the gloomy stone alcoves where, in olden times, frightened ladies had clutched their children as they peered out of the narrow archers’ slits to watch the terrible battles unfold.

  McNeil reached the top of the keep and stepped out into the sunshine, leaving gloom behind. A square scalloped wall circled the top of the keep, and from here a marching army could have been seen at ten miles’ distance. But an ancient medieval army was not what McNeil was interested in. He was here to absorb the lay of the land, the layout of Bladensburg, the German estate belonging to the duke of Tewksbury.

  He prowled the wall. Below lay sprawling ruins where wild flowers grew upon stone outcroppings. Peacocks roosted upon ruins, and their peculiar shrieks echoed off the stones and out over the river that ran past Bladensburg. A hundred yards north of the keep there began a formal garden, terraces that marched up to an imposing three-story villa. McNeil looked at it with distaste. The duke of Tewksbury’s German bastion.

  He went to the north side of the keep and studied the densely forested countryside. The Rhine River snaked through the land, rushing north, rushing toward the lowlands of Holland, rushing toward Amsterdam. In Amsterdam, the Caroline waited, prepared, ready to sail at a moment’s notice.

  He paced the windy tower, studying river and rolling countryside, planning . . .

  “It is a lovely view, isn’t it, Captain McNeil?”

  McNeil started. Jerking around he found Eunice Wetherby smiling up at him. Miss Wetherby was a plain young woman with a pert, birdlike face and hen-like, fussy ways. Her young but spinsterish bosom rose and fell breathlessly as though she’d found the climb to the top of the keep taxing. As he looked at her, she smiled eagerly. Then, perhaps fearing her smile had betrayed too much eagerness, she reined it in to controlled, ladylike dimensions.

  McNeil smiled back.

  “The view is very lovely,” he said pointedly, looking at her and not the view.

  She reddened at the possibilities underlying his words, ducked her head and turned away slightly, pretending to study a fishing boat that was passing by out on the river. Her manner corroborated what McNeil suspected: Eunice Wetherby fancied herself in love with him.

  He scowled in irritation. ‘It didn’t fit his plans to have Lord Wetherby’s cousin following him about like a devoted puppy. She could be a danger. Unknowingly, she could scuttle his mission, sabotage his careful plans. And those plans had been long in the making.

  His scowl deepened as he forced Lord Wetherby and Eunice from his mind and concentrated upon his mission. The past months had been intense. The coming months would be more so.

  It had begun in May, three days after the governor’s royal birthday ball in Williamsburg. Abandoning a furious Annette with no more adequate explanation than “Keep my bed warm, Baroness,” he’d sailed out of Norfolk. He’d caught the prevailing westerly winds and loosed the Caroline to run before them. Like a mistress flying to her lover, the Caroline flew toward England.

  Matching the loosed madness of the Caroline, McNeil’s own thoughts and passions had rioted. Wildly, he had vowed to confront the duke and demand his son. This foolishness he likely would’ve committed had the Caroline magically leaped between Norfolk and England in a day. And it would have meant the death of his son he realized after he’d finally cooled down.

  For the duke of Tewksbury had struck him as a ruthless man. If the duke should suspect that Tewksbury blood didn’t flow in the baby’s veins, the duke would not hesitat
e to kill him. God! McNeil was stupefied at the thought of what he might have brought upon his and Flavia’s son by rash action. No, he must never confront the duke. He must never endanger the baby’s life.

  From an extreme of rash foolhardiness he’d swung to meekness. For a time, he had meekly planned only to try to catch a glimpse of his son. Simply a hasty glance through a nursery window. Then, so be it. But he yearned to lay eyes on the boy, yearned to look and absorb the boy into his heart, keep him there in the center of himself where he guarded memories of Flavia.

  He was almost inured to the unhappy idea of contenting himself with just seeing the boy when he’d awakened one night in a cold sweat, in bondage to a new and infinitely more chilling thought: he had learned of the existence of his son by piecing bits together. A chance remark by Annette had been the catalyst, the spark that exploded those bits and caused them to reassemble in his mind in new, meaningful shapes. Suppose the duke had a similar experience someday? Suppose His Grace put the bits and pieces together. What would the duke do? Would the duke hesitate to have the child murdered? McNeil knew the duke would not hesitate for an instant.

  The horror of the thought choked him day and night. With desperate urgency, he knew what he must do. To save the boy, he must steal him.

  Cool-headed at last and as much the master of himself as he was master of the Caroline, he had carefully made his plans. Three weeks out of Norfolk, the wind-favored ship penetrated English waters. A few days more and the Caroline dropped anchor at Plymouth.

  From Plymouth, Garth sent Tom Jenkins, his trusted first mate, to London to make discreet inquiries: Was the colonial Captain Garth McNeil still wanted by authorities on charges of stealing a jade piece from Tewksbury Hall?

  Jenkins brought back the answer. No. Not only no, but all charges had been dismissed as an unfortunate administrative error. The error had been laid to a steward of the duke, and the erring steward had been discharged.

  “The bastard!” Garth had snarled to Jenkins. “His Grace wants everything swept under the rug and forgotten. Why?”

  Jenkins had smiled his solemn, intelligent smile.

  “I pursued that question in a discreet way, sir. And very handy was the fifty pounds sterling you sent with me. I greased a few palms, loosened a few tongues w’rum.”

  “Well?”

  “I got nothing certain, Captain. A tad of information here, a tad there. But tads add up, don’t they?”

  “And?”

  “And it looks like His Grace planted the jade on the Caroline for an interesting reason. He wanted all eyes on the Caroline while a certain other ship sailed out of London without no port authorities botherin’ her. His Grace chose the Caroline because you was the only shipmaster at the ball that night. When that certain other ship sailed out safe, His Grace dropped the charges, sayin’ that the jade found on the Caroline was not his.”

  McNeil had ruminated long on the information. What in hell?

  “What ship was His Grace protecting? And why? Smuggling?”

  Jenkins had shrugged.

  “No tellin’, sir. Maybe smuggling. Or not. There was a dozen ships in and out at that time—the Cluny, the Aberdeen, the Bountiful Lady, a Dutch ship called the Schilaack . . . ” Jenkins had gone on naming them. Then he’d tossed in a tidbit of gossip: not six weeks after the death of his wife, His Grace had wed his late wife’s sister, Valentina, and made her his new duchess.

  As the days went on, Jenkins’s theory of why Tewksbury dropped charges had satisfied Garth less and less. It was too simple. He had chewed at the mystery. Gradually, his puzzlement had chilled to new apprehension. Suppose, as sweet Flavia had lain in her death agony, dying of smallpox, she’d let slip the truth about her son. Supposing the duke knew he’d been cuckolded and was merely biding his time to strike against the boy?

  McNeil had gone numb with fear. The child was helpless, a potential pawn in a vicious and deadly game.

  * * * *

  Learning that the duke had sent his son to Bladensburg, the duke’s Rhine River estate in Germany, McNeil had sailed for Amsterdam with a shipload of English trade goods. Though his heart was in his mouth for fear of what might be happening at Bladensburg, he conducted his Amsterdam business at a leisurely pace, accepting all social invitations that came his way. At each dinner or ball he probed the guests, sifting out those who might suit his purpose.

  The Wetherby party had suited him best. The party consisted of six young persons and two elderly chaperoning aunts. Lord Wetherby was an English earl from Sussex. He was also a penniless spendthrift who sailed through life leaving a wake of unpaid tailors and irate shopkeepers. Eunice Wetherby, his cousin, was unmarried and about twenty-three years old. Her marital chances had suffered, no doubt, because of her guardian’s embarrassing financial state. Three male cousins and Eunice Wetherby’s female companion completed the party. Lord Wetherby was in Amsterdam, preparing to take a holiday junket up the Rhine. Lord Wetherby carried letters of entry from the duke of Tewksbury, inviting Wetherby and his party to stay at German estates on the Rhine, including Bladensburg, the estate of the duke of Tewksbury.

  Flirting with Eunice Wetherby at a ball, McNeil had easily insinuated himself into the circle of Wetherby females. Access to Lord Wetherby’s circle was equally easy. The young spendthrift enjoyed nothing so much as keeping company with an openhanded rich colonial. When McNeil offered use of a Rhine River barge he’d hired, Lord Wetherby had jumped at the invitation. McNeil had found himself in the inner circle.

  “You are frowning, Captain McNeil.”

  Garth jerked as Eunice Wetherby’s anxious voice broke into his intense thoughts.

  “I should not have come up to the top of the keep, Captain McNeil. I fear I am disturbing your meditation. I fear you are angry with me.”

  He’d not been aware of the ferocity of his concentration until Eunice’s voice ended it. Collecting himself, he cast a last glance out over the rolling forest, then turned, forcing a smile.

  “Angry with you, dear Miss Wetherby? Impossible.”

  She flushed. She looked away, then peeked back at him. A sudden half-shy, half-bold expression crossed her face. She gazed up at him. To ignore the invitation in her eyes would’ve been ungallant. So he bent and lightly kissed her trembling lips. She drew back in propriety. But not immediately. Blushing deeply, she forbore commenting on the daring intimacy. Instead, she gulped air and chattered on as though it had not happened.

  “Captain McNeil, my aunts sent me to find you. The tour of the castle begins shortly. The chief steward will lead us through Bladensburg and will explain all of its treasures. We mustn’t miss the tour.”

  She drew a shallow, uncertain breath and echoed her own words. “We mustn’t miss the tour?”

  Her eyes begged him to disagree and continue flirting with her, but he could not. Involvement with Eunice Wetherby must be proper and superficial. He would leave her virginity intact. Let someone else reap it. There would be unhappiness enough for the prim spinster when he would suddenly receive news of his “aged, ailing grandmother,” and would leave at once.

  “I—I—suppose we could miss the tour,” she whispered anxiously.

  He gave her a hearty smile.

  “Miss it? Not for the world, Miss Wetherby. I know how fervently you’ve looked forward to examining His Grace’s Oriental collection. My arm, Miss Wetherby?”

  The corners of her mouth twitched in vexation, but the expression was gone in an instant. Granting him a bright smile, she accepted his proffered arm.

  He escorted Eunice down the ancient stone stairwell that spiraled gloomily down the castle keep. Her voice echoed off the stone walls as she chattered happily.

  There was a slightly proprietary weight to the small hand on his arm, and the bounce in her step as they crossed the castle yard, scattering peacocks, was unnervingly victorious. So! She considered him hers. All the better. It suited his purposes. He led her along, up the terraces, through the garden and into the vil
la where the Wetherby party was assembling in a sunny, greenery-filled breakfast room.

  As he and Eunice stepped into the fragrance of fresh coffee and warm yeast buns, all heads swung their way. Eating stopped. Conversation died, then instantly resurrected itself and burst on with masquerading gaiety. But eyes met knowingly. Lord Wetherby winked at a cousin, and behind fluttering fans the fat, chaperoning aunts nodded to each other excitedly. Garth drew a deep breath.

  Wonderful, McNeil, wonderful. You’re as good as trussed, tied and delivered to the altar.

  * * * *

  “There are one hundred and fifty-six mullioned glass windows in Bladensburg Castle. Each window reaches the height of twelve feet and spans three feet. The glass is imported from Venice. You will notice, my lord, my ladies, gentlemen, that each pane of glass is beveled. The mullioned fittings are brass. The brass is acid-bathed so as not to distress the eye when sunlight enters the window.”

  “The draperies, Parkinson?” It was the fatter of the two aunts who spoke.

  “Flemish, my lady,” replied the steward whose job it was to extend the absent duke’s hospitality. “If you will kindly examine the warp and woof of the weave, my lady, you will note that each tenth thread is gold- dipped. It is the gold that brings an especial luster to this fine Flemish silk.”

  Lord Wetherby yawned.

  Lord Wetherby and his cousins lasted through the draperies, an El Greco painting, a life-size tree of jade, and a tall curio case containing golden multiarmed tantric statues. Murmuring apologies, the men drifted off to sample the duke’s riding stock. As the men left, McNeil was suddenly aware of Eunice’s hand tightening on his arm. It was only a slight pressure, but he was surprised at the imperiousness it conveyed. He was both amused and irritated. So he was the property of a plain-faced spinster, was he?

  The gesture was annoying enough to make him want to wheel round and join the men. But he didn’t. While the tour was merely recreation for the ladies, it was a crucial event for him. If he were to make a success of stealing Robert, he must familiarize himself with every inch of Bladensburg. He must be aware of the location of every window, every door, every corridor. He must know where any odd creaking board lurked and how to avoid it in stealth of night. He must count the servants, become familiar with the routine of each. Were footmen posted at night? Or did all servants, except the night steward, retire and sleep soundly in belief that nothing wayward ever occurred in the country?