Written in My Own Heart's Blood, Page 4

  sliver of soap stood on worn wood.

  “I’ll fetch us a drink, shall I?” And with that, she was gone, bare feet pattering busily down the stairs.

  Mechanically, he began to undress. He blinked stupidly at the basin but then recalled that, in the better sort of house, sometimes a man was required to wash his parts first. He’d encountered the custom once before, but on that occasion the whore had performed the ablution for him—plying the soap to such effect that the first encounter had ended right there in the washbasin.

  The memory made the blood flame up in his face again, and he ripped at his flies, popping off a button. He was still throbbing all over, but the sensation was becoming more centralized.

  His hands were unsteady, and he cursed under his breath, reminded by the broken skin on his knuckles of his unceremonious exit from his father’s—no, not his bloody father’s house. Lord John’s.

  “You bloody bastard!” he said under his breath. “You knew, you knew all along!” That infuriated him almost more than the horrifying revelation of his own paternity. His stepfather, whom he’d loved, whom he’d trusted more than anyone on earth—Lord John bloody Grey—had lied to him his whole life!

  Everyone had lied to him.

  Everyone.

  He felt suddenly as though he’d broken through a crust of frozen snow and plunged straight down into an unsuspected river beneath. Swept away into black breathlessness beneath the ice, helpless, voiceless, a feral chill clawing at his heart.

  There was a small sound behind him and he whirled by instinct, aware only when he saw the young whore’s appalled face that he was weeping savagely, tears running down his own face, and his wet, half-hard cock flopping out of his breeches.

  “Go away,” he croaked, making a frantic effort to tuck himself in.

  She didn’t go away but came toward him, decanter in one hand and a pair of pewter cups in the other.

  “Are you all right?” she asked, eyeing him sideways. “Here, let me pour you a drink. You can tell me all about it.”

  “No!”

  She came on toward him, but more slowly. Through his swimming eyes, he saw the twitch of her mouth as she saw his cock.

  “I meant the water for your poor hands,” she said, clearly trying not to laugh. “I will say as you’re a real gentleman, though.”

  “I’m not!”

  She blinked.

  “Is it an insult to call you a gentleman?”

  Overcome with fury at the word, he lashed out blindly, knocking the decanter from her hand. It burst in a spray of glass and cheap wine, and she cried out as the red soaked through her petticoat.

  “You bastard!” she shrieked, and, drawing back her arm, threw the cups at his head. She didn’t hit him, and they clanged and rolled away across the floor. She was turning toward the door, crying out, “Ned! Ned!” when he lunged and caught her.

  He only wanted to stop her shrieking, stop her bringing up whatever male enforcement the house employed. He got a hand on her mouth, yanking her back from the door, grappling one-handed to try to control her flailing arms.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” he kept saying. “I didn’t mean—I don’t mean—oh, bloody hell!” She caught him abruptly in the nose with her elbow and he let go, backing away with a hand to his face, blood dripping through his fingers.

  Her face was marked with red where he’d held her, and her eyes were wild. She backed away, scrubbing at her mouth with the back of her hand.

  “Get … out!” she gasped.

  He didn’t need telling twice. He rushed past her, shouldered his way past a burly man charging up the stairs, and ran down the alley, realizing only when he reached the street that he was in his shirtsleeves, having left coat and waistcoat behind, and his breeches were undone.

  “Ellesmere!” said an appalled voice nearby. He looked up in horror to find himself the cynosure of several English officers, including Alexander Lindsay.

  “Good Christ, Ellesmere, what happened?” Sandy was by way of being a friend and was already pulling a voluminous snowy handkerchief from his sleeve. He clapped this to William’s nose, pinching his nostrils and insisting that he put his head back.

  “Have you been set upon and robbed?” one of the others demanded. “God! This filthy place!”

  He felt at once comforted by their company—and hideously embarrassed by it. He was not one of them, not any longer.

  “Was it? Was it robbery?” another said, glaring round eagerly. “We’ll find the bastards who did it, ’pon my honor we will! We’ll get your property back and teach whoever did it a lesson!”

  Blood was running down the back of his throat, harsh and iron-tasting, and he coughed but did his best to nod and shrug simultaneously. He had been robbed. But no one was ever going to give him back what he’d lost today.

  UNDER MY PROTECTION

  THE BELL OF THE Presbyterian church two blocks away rang for half-two, and my stomach echoed it, reminding me that—what with one thing and another—I hadn’t had any tea yet.

  Jenny had had a bite with Marsali and the children but declared herself equal to dealing with an egg, if there might be one, so I sent Mrs. Figg to see whether there might, and within twenty minutes we were wallowing—in a genteel fashion—in soft-boiled eggs, fried sardines, and—for lack of cake—flapjacks with butter and honey, which Jenny had never seen before but took to with the greatest alacrity.

  “Look how it soaks up the sweetness!” she exclaimed, pressing the spongy little cake with a fork, then releasing it. “Nay like a bannock at all!” She glanced over her shoulder, then leaned toward me, lowering her voice. “D’ye think her in the kitchen might show me the way of it, if I asked?”

  A diffident rapping on the damaged front door interrupted her, and as I turned to look, it was shoved open and a long shadow fell across the painted canvas rug, narrowly preceding its owner. A young British subaltern peered into the parlor, looking disconcerted by the wreckage in the foyer.

  “Lieutentant Colonel Grey?” he asked hopefully, glancing back and forth between Jenny and me.

  “His lordship isn’t in just now,” I said, attempting to sound self-possessed. I wondered just how many more times I might have to say that—and to whom.

  “Oh.” The young man looked further disconcerted. “Can you tell me where he is, mum? Colonel Graves sent a message earlier, asking Lieutenant Colonel Grey to attend General Clinton at once, and the general was, er … rather wondering why the lieutenant colonel hadn’t arrived yet.”

  “Ah,” I said, with a sidewise glance at Jenny. “Well. I’m afraid his lordship was rather urgently called away before he received the colonel’s message.” That must have been the paper John had received moments before Jamie’s dramatic reappearance from a watery grave. He’d glanced at it but then shoved it unread into his breeches’ pocket.

  The soldier heaved a small sigh at this but was undaunted.

  “Yes, mum. If you’ll tell me where his lordship is, I’ll go fetch him there. I really can’t go back without him, you know.” He gave me a woeful look, though with a touch of a charming smile. I smiled back, with a small touch of panic in my midsection.

  “I’m so sorry, but I really don’t know where he is right now,” I said, standing up in hopes of driving him back toward the door.

  “Well, mum, if you’ll just tell me where he was heading, I shall go there and seek direction,” he said, doggedly standing his ground.

  “He didn’t tell me.” I took a step toward him, but he didn’t retreat. This was escalating beyond absurdity into something more serious. I’d met General Clinton briefly at the Mischianza ball a few weeks ago—God, had it been only weeks? It seemed whole lifetimes—and while he’d been quite cordial to me, I didn’t think he’d receive a nolle prosequi from me with any sort of complaisance. Generals tended to think highly of their own consequence.

  “You know, his lordship doesn’t hold an active commission,” I said, in the faint hope of putting the y
oung man off. He looked surprised.

  “Yes, he does, mum. The colonel sent notice of it with the message this morning.”

  “What? He can’t do that—er, can he?” I asked, a sudden dread creeping up my backbone.

  “Do what, mum?”

  “Just—just tell his lordship that his commission is active?”

  “Oh, no, mum,” he assured me. “The colonel of Lieutenant Colonel Grey’s regiment re-called him. The Duke of Pardloe.”

  “Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ,” I said, sitting down. Jenny snatched up her napkin to muffle what was plainly a laugh; it had been twenty-five years since she’d heard me say that. I gave her a look, but this was no time to be picking up the threads.

  “All right,” I said, turning to face the young man again and taking a deep breath. “I’d better go with you to see the general.” I got to my feet again and only at this point realized that, having been surprised whilst changing, I was still wearing nothing but my shift and dressing gown.

  “I’ll help ye dress,” Jenny said, standing up hurriedly. She gave the soldier a charming smile and gestured at the table, now strewn with toast, marmalade, and a steaming dish of kippers. “Have a bite while ye wait, lad. No point wasting good food.”

  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.