Camp Follower: A Mystery of the American Revolution (30 page)

"Treadaway
is
a satyr."
 
The warmth of
his forefinger traced her jaw line and swept across her lips.
 
"But I think he knows your husband from
Wiltshire, and you recognize him."
 
His right arm encircled her waist, and his lips brushed her neck above
her tucker.

Gooseflesh
rocketed down her side.
 
"Preposterous."
 
When
she wedged her hands between their chests and tried to push him away, he reeled
her up against him.
 
"Stop that
—"

"You never
told me your family name, so I suspect you and Chiswell eloped against their
wishes, and they disinherited you.
 
Treadaway has repute for dark dealings.
 
Perhaps he and your husband procured young women for Arabian
sheikhs.
 
You lured them into the trap
by advertising for a lady's companion, and Treadaway peddled them."

Helen stared at
him in horror, his salty, musky scent and the solid heat of his chest enhancing
the gooseflesh each time she inhaled.
 
She turned her face away, toward the door.
 
"That's — that's absurd —"

"Simple to
verify my theory.
 
I ply Treadaway with
spirits until his memory returns."
 
He guided her face back around with his left hand.
 
"Care to join me and observe my skill
at communication?"

The rasp of her
breathing echoed in the corridor.

"Ah, what
was I thinking?
 
You're sleepy.
 
Well, off to bed for you."

She anticipated
his dive in for a kiss, shoved him out at arms' length at the inception, and
grasped for the cohesion of outrage.
 
While outrage took its time arriving, waves of gooseflesh raked her
nipples out into hard points.
 
She
snarled.
 
"How dare you!"

His deep
exhalation subsided into the rumble of a playful panther.
 
"Shall I return in an hour to share
Treadaway's memories?"
 
He stepped
back, and light from the doorway spilled over magnificence in his face.

Outrage snared
her mouth.
 
"Go rot."

His tongue ran
over his lips.
 
With a grin, he bowed
and sauntered back up the hallway for the stairs.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

AFTER HANNAH
LEFT, Helen dropped the bar on the door and took a brass candleholder to bed
with her, ears trained on every creak in the inn.
 
Later, she realized that Fairfax never intended to return, but he
had
intended for her to lie awake and think about him.

That
bastard.
 
Again, he'd manipulated her.

In disgust, she
returned the candleholder to the nightstand and crawled back into bed
considering his attempt to maneuver her into a relationship with Neville.
 
He wanted something from the ranger, who'd
declined to deliver.
 
Her lips
torqued.
 
Before they caught up with the
Legion, she'd have plenty of time to acquaint herself with Neville.
 
If she played the piquet with a deft enough
hand, she might get to the bottom of the mysterious relationship between him
and Badley.

Piquet.
 
David.
 
Humor leaked from her soul.
 
She
rolled on her side and hugged a pillow.
 
David — paid to help Badley and Prescott swindle her?
 
Anger at such a revelation made it easy for
her to be finished with David, so why couldn't she just cast him off?

Perhaps because
such a move justified her not doing penance in that aching, vacant place in her
soul.
 
Perhaps because instinct affirmed
that David hadn't swindled her.

In a world of
scarce love, he'd adored her beyond their shared physical passion.
 
She realized that she'd never been able to
return his degree of love, yet she'd selfishly kept him in orbit about her, a
desperate attempt to confer wholeness upon herself.
 
David, like an Argonaut ship, beat himself against the
treacherous shoreline of Nell Grey.
 
Year after year, he'd returned to her, certain she'd give him the Golden
Fleece.

But she had no
golden fleece.
 
If her soul weren't
frozen, she'd have released him years ago to find his heart's rest in another
woman.
 
Maybe Helen deserved to orbit a
star just as dark and damaged as she was.

***

"We heard
they'd carried Sumter out of Blackstock's on a litter, so we gave chase
north.
 
By the twenty-second of
November, we tracked them to the Pacolet River."
 
At ease in the saddle beside Helen, Neville shook his head.
 
"Never did catch up with them, but we'd
heard reports that Sumter was dead.
 
So
Tarleton headed back south, and we reached camp near Brierly's Ferry around the
first."

Challenge rode
with Neville.
 
The iron-laden wagon, its
horse team and driver, and six mounted infantry Legionnaires had joined their
party that morning and brought up the rear.
 
"And now you've the responsibility of escorting iron to the Legion."
 
She smiled at the ranger.

His response ghosted
hers, the first cheer she'd seen in him.
 
Then it sank into the reclusive look his face often wore.
 
Seconds later, Fairfax trotted his horse by,
headed for the rear of the party.

Helen waited a
moment.
 
"Colonel Brown interests
me.
 
I'd like to hear about your time
with him in East Florida."

He lowered his
voice.
 
"That's superfluous to your
assignment."

She
chuckled.
 
"True, but I'm curious
about everything, Mr. Neville.
 
Do
entertain me with your anecdotes during our next break."

His silence
stretched long enough to convey refusal, and she shifted, disappointed, in her
saddle.
 
Gaining Neville's confidence
would take months, not days.
 
Perhaps
Fairfax manipulated her for another purpose.
 
Preoccupied all morning, he'd paid her only the minimum civility.
 
Maybe he sulked because he'd wrung nothing
incriminatory from Treadaway.

"I'm a
flawed Loyalist, sir.
 
Unable to see in
black and white.
 
Makes for interesting
writing, don't you agree?"

His expression
cryptic, he scrutinized her.
 
"You're a curious choice for the assignment.
 
I wonder why Badley chose you?"

A quick gaze
around assured Helen that no one else was close enough to hear.
 
"He thought my cover would be easier to
maintain than that of one of his men.
 
How do you know Badley?"

A shrug rolled
off Neville's back.
 
"He was a
friend of my father's."
 
With a tip
of his hat, he trotted on ahead, joining Davison in the lead.

Helen sighed,
annoyed.
 
The aloof ranger had told her
little, and she doubted she'd left a favorable enough impression on him to
stimulate further conversation.
 
Neville, bless him, was stubborn enough to withstand a tornado.

An hour later,
the party paused in a clearing for a break.
 
While they stretched, other groups of soldiers and civilians rode by on
the busy, well-trod road.
 
Pine barrens,
sandy soil, and flat terrain bordered by pockets of swamp surrounded the road
southwest of Camden.
 
Hardwoods denuded
by winter and a high overcast bleakened a countryside bereft of much
wildlife.
 
The view wasn't worth a
charcoal sketch.

Side by side,
Helen and Hannah watched Roger strut in Sullivan's cavalry jacket, a saber in
his hand.
 
Hannah's amusement at the
drills had degenerated, and Helen couldn't blame her.
 
She hadn't bargained on trading a locksmith husband for a
soldier.
 
"Sullivan's jacket is a
perfect fit.
 
It isn't the first time
the Legion has recruited from the field."

"Recruit?
 
Hrumph!
 
Not while I have any say in the matter."
 
Hannah's gaze drifted to Neville, who adjusted a horse's bridle, and
she lowered her voice.
 
"I've seen
him before yesterday."

"Have
you?
 
Where?"

"In
Wilmington, in Mr. Badley's house.
 
He
tried to hide from me both times."

"Hide?"
 
Helen frowned.

"Yes.
 
In September, I helped Papa prepare for a
dinner that Mrs. Badley was hosting.
 
Both nights, it was late, past nine o'clock.
 
The first night, we were in Mr. Badley's dining room with the
chef when Mr. Neville arrived.
 
That
lawyer, Prescott, answered the door as if he'd waited for him all day and
hurried him past us into Mr. Badley's study.

"The next
night, the door was open to the study, and he paced in there, waiting for Mr.
Badley.
 
When he saw me, he ducked out
of sight and shut the door."

Intuition
zinged Helen.
 
Badley, Neville, and
Prescott as a team — and that team aroused suspicion in Fairfax.
 
She considered anew Neville's gaunt
appearance and Fairfax's suggestion that she talk with the ranger.
 
Neutrals.
 
Not seeing the war in black and white.
 
Gain the cooperation of a "valuable resource."
 
Bah.
 
Fairfax's true motive wasn't so benign.

What
irony.
 
Rather than querying Helen about
Neville's association with Badley, Fairfax should have asked Hannah.
 
Helen grasped her upper arm and steered her
around so the two of them faced away from Neville and the parading Roger.
 
"Hannah, are you certain it was Mr.
Neville?
 
From your account, you but
glimpsed him both nights."

"I
recognized his voice when I heard it last night.
 
I'd heard him talking in the study with Mr. Prescott."

"What were
he and Prescott discussing?"

The younger
woman shrugged.
 
"Mr. Prescott said
someone named Epsilon would have to make do, even though he didn't have enough
supplies, and Mr. Neville responded that Epsilon might be forced to
withdraw.
 
Epsilon's a peculiar name,
don't you think?"

It was a code
name, Helen was sure.
 
Possibilities
crowded her head.
 
"Have you
mentioned Mr. Neville's September visit to him?"
 
Hannah shook her head.
 
"Does he recognize you from those two nights?"

"He hasn't
shown any signs of recognizing me, no."

"Good.
 
Don't mention it to him.
 
Pretend you've never seen him before last
night.
 
And don't discuss any of this
with Roger."

"Yes,
madam."

Skeptical of
the team of Badley, Neville, and Prescott, Fairfax didn't trust her, yet he
upheld her cover because he needed her to achieve his own ends.
 
He didn't give a damn about winning her
trust, and he reveled in any discomfort he caused her.
 
She was his message-runner on a battlefield.

Hannah glanced
around, and her shoulders drooped.
 
"At least Roger has given Sullivan back his coat.
 
Here comes Mr. Fairfax.
 
Looks as though he wants a word with
you.
 
I shall have Roger ready your
saddle."

"Thank
you, Hannah."

The younger
woman curtsied and left, and with a slight bow of his head, Fairfax stepped
into the place she'd vacated, his face impassive.
 
"Let us be off."

Helen declined
to take his arm, and they started for the horses.
 
"Your friend Neville is almost as unsociable as you
are."

She heard humor
in his voice.
 
"Helen, you've read
my mind.
 
How did you two get on during
your discussion about Blackstock's this morning?
 
You won a smile from him.
 
He never smiles at me."

She exhaled
exasperation.
 
"Why should he smile
at you?
 
You're spying on him, and
you've left him with the impression that you sent me to spy on him, too.
 
I shan't get more than general conversation
from him."
 
She strode ahead for
her mare.

His amusement
trailed after her.
 
"Carry on, dear
sister."

Chapter Twenty-Nine

MID-AFTERNOON
DECEMBER THIRTEENTH, a Legion sentry challenged Helen, Fairfax, and
Campbell.
 
After they were permitted
passage, Helen drew back on Calliope's reins a moment for her first view of the
British Legion.

The regiment
sprawled through bands of wood smoke across several acres of Woodward's
plantation near the Broad River.
 
Triangular white tents and bells-of-arms gridded avenues of churned mud
and straw.
 
Civilians and
green-uniformed soldiers afoot navigated past boggy areas, and dragoons on
horseback rode around them.
 
Above the
throb and hum of hundreds of people crammed together inside garrison lines, axes
split timber, farriers' hammers clanged, and stock lowed and squealed.