Camp Follower: A Mystery of the American Revolution (9 page)

An ambitious
junior officer was wise to swath himself in stardust from the tail of a rising
comet.
 
From what she'd heard of
Tarleton, she wondered how he managed all the lap dogs — not that the colonel
himself didn't practice his own version of lap-doggery.
 
It
was
what made the British Army so
interesting.

Badley
applauded.
 
"Lovely.
 
Let's have tea."

The electricity
of sparring crackled the air between Fairfax and her.
 
Weeks in his company could be horrendous for any reporter.
 
And she had that mortgage to pay.
 
Could she push Badley far enough to make the
stress and menace worth her while?
 
"Mr. Badley, if you really want me on this assignment with
him
,
I require an aggravation fee."

Badley
floundered his way back up from the couch when he realized she hadn't assumed
her seat.
 
"Aggravation
fee?"
 
He frowned.
 
"What do you mean by that?"

"I want double
the rate you quoted me yesterday."

"
What
?"
 
Badley's frown contorted, and his face
reddened.

Fairfax's
eyebrow cocked, and his lips parted.
 
Badley's indignation entertained him.
 
Not two but
three
agendas scuffled for dominance in the parlor
that moment.

Badley swabbed
his sweaty face, handkerchief flapping the air.
 
"That wasn't what the editor and I agreed!"

Four times her
daily rate was probably what papers like the
Chronicle
paid their
first-year reporters.
 
She let out a
slow breath, feeling her way with caution, an acrobat balanced over a pit.
 
"And I require an advance of fifty
percent."

"Advance?"

"You'll
find a way to make it happen.
 
I'm worth
it."

While the
publisher's face ruddied further, Fairfax restrained a sneer.
 
It would seem he shared her opinion of
Phineas Badley.

Badley worked
his mouth, pig-eyes mean.
 
"Madam,
if I accommodate such a change, the delay to rewrite your contract will
certainly be more than Mr. Fairfax's schedule can allow."

Fairfax bared
his teeth, but Helen wasn't sure whether he meant the gesture as a smile.
 
"By all means, sir, do not deny her
ample compensation on my account.
 
I
shall adapt to the delay.
 
I shouldn't
think rewriting the contract would take more than a day."

She nearly
exploded with dark humor: Badley backed into a corner.
 
For him to even consider such a rate meant
that he was desperate for her to accept the assignment.
 
What in blazes was he up to?
 
By then, her curiosity far exceeded her
instincts.
 
She simply had to know what
was driving the publisher, but she wasn't going to uncover the whole story
unless she officially accepted the assignment.
 
Fair enough.
 
"Prescott
won't mind rewriting.
 
Attorneys do it
all the time, and he seems to enjoy it more than most."

"I'd
insist that you cover Enid's expenses from your salary," growled Badley.

Helen shrugged,
nonchalant.
 
"Oh, before I forget,
what did you say was the name of the editor at the
Chronicle
, the one
who founded the new magazine?"

"That's
entirely superfluous information for you."

She glowered a
bluff back at him.
 
"I don't have
time for this nonsense.
 
Good day."

"Samuel
Kerr!" Badley barked.

"And how
did you and Mr. Fairfax become associated in pursuit of such a righteous
cause?"

"A mutual
acquaintance.
 
Lieutenant Adam
Neville."

Adam Neville:
no doubt she'd hear the name again.
 
"Yes, tea sounds delightful, Mr. Badley.
 
Thank you for inviting me."
 
And she lowered herself to the cushion with grace.

Chapter Seven

BY THE TIME the
affair concluded, she felt a migraine in her left temple: less from Badley's
jabber and Fairfax's observations of their interaction than from the suspicion
that somewhere during the afternoon, she'd sold her soul to the devil.
 
As if to assuage her uneasiness over her
capitulation, Badley had handed her the advance she demanded — more than enough
for her to hire an attorney — and notes to mantua-makers and a shoemaker in
town with whom he'd contracted.
 
Her
appointments with them on the morrow guaranteed her a wardrobe for the assignment
equal in stylishness to that which she'd sold to help pay off Silas's
debts.
 
Most women would be giddy with
delight.
 
Instead, Helen had a headache.

What happened
to David?
 
Had he escaped
Wilmington?
 
Would she ever see him
again?

Half a block
from Badley's house, faux-Carolina accent honeyed the air behind her.
 
"Dear sister, hold up so we might
chat."

Over her
shoulder, she spotted Fairfax on horseback, trotting to overtake her, every
movement that of a gentleman planter, five men on horseback accompanying
him.
 
She continued walking, and he
caught up with her afoot.
 
At a discreet
distance, his men followed, still mounted, his horse in tow.
 
She said, "Major André took acting
lessons from the wrong coxcomb."

"Thank
you, madam."
 
The Carolina honey
fled his voice, and a faint smile on his lips didn't carry to his eyes, the
color of green quartz.
 
"You
intrigue me.
 
You identified me by name
and rank in the parlor this afternoon before Badley had even introduced
us."

Her skin
crawled.
 
"What are you talking
about?"

"He
introduced us after we'd sat for tea, but just a few minutes earlier, you'd
said to him, 'Mr. Badley, I will not participate in an assignment with
Lieutenant
Fairfax
on the terms you specified yesterday.'"

Anxiety drove a
flush into her cheeks.
 
Gods, she'd
slipped, and Fairfax had picked up on it.
 
How could she prevent herself from blundering like that again?
 
She scowled, building bluster.
 
"Badley told me your name yesterday
while he and I were having tea."

"Good of
you to clarify that."
 
He affected
a disarming shrug, his eyes cold.
 
"I presumed David St. James warned you about me during his visit
early this morning."

"I've
already said —"

"— you
don't know him, oh, that's right.
 
Well,
then, why not save us all some time and tell me what old Badley is up to?"

She stared
ahead, tried to calm her pulse.
 
"Is old Badley up to something?"

"The
London
Chronicle
has no editor named Samuel Kerr."

Eyes widened
with surprise, she swiveled her head to look at him.
 
"Are you certain of that, Mr. Fairfax?"

"Dunstan.
 
Dunstan Fairfax.
 
Yes, I'm as certain of it as I am that Sutton and Miles haven't
been in business above five years."

She frowned at
him.
 
"Sutton and Miles?
 
Who are they?"

"The
makers of that fashionable hat adorning your bedpost."

Heat snaked up
her neck.
 
She jerked back around and
again focused ahead.

He never
gives up on a scent
, David had said.
 
Embarrassment became wariness.
 
Her head throbbed.

"Since the
Chronicle
doesn't employ Samuel Kerr, Mr. Badley lied to you and is up
to something.
 
Since Silas Chiswell died
nine years ago — suicide, wasn't it, tragic, my stepfather was also a suicide —
that gentleman's hat couldn't have been Mr. Chiswell's, and you lied to
me.
 
I've serious doubts about exposing
Colonel Tarleton to such a formidable pack of liars."

Of course he
hadn't ceased hunting David St. James.
 
She glared at him.
 
"By all
means, poke your snout into Badley's affairs and dig up filth about him.
 
It appears that's the only way you'll be
satisfied as to my innocence."

Mockery hovered
on Fairfax's mouth.
 
"No love lost
between you and Badley.
 
How long have
you danced this minuet — nine years?"

She sighed and
faced him.
 
He stopped walking,
expectation supplanting the sarcasm on his face.
 
The men halted the horses.
 
She lowered her voice.
 
"Cease snooping into my life."

"I cannot
help myself.
 
As I said, you intrigue
me."
 
He flashed his teeth.

She felt a
sneer curl her lips.
 
"Oh,
poppycock."

"And
there's something tantalizingly familiar about you."

Oh, no, he
recognized her from Wiltshire.
 
Dread
pressed her chest.
 
"Why not be
helpful instead of boorish and repair the damage your man did to my study
window?"

"Damage?"
 
Fairfax sounded puzzled.

Ire added to
the weight on her chest.
 
"Your man
forced the window open from the outside during the search this morning.
 
He broke the latch and tracked mud on the
floor."
 
Exasperated, she flung up
her hands.
 
"Don't you see?
 
I cannot secure my own home until a
carpenter repairs the damage.
 
You and
your ruffians are responsible."

A furrow
appeared between Fairfax's eyebrows.
 
At
that moment, she realized she'd told him unexpected information; his man hadn't
admitted an act of vandalism.
 
Fairfax
didn't know
everything
.
 
Some of
the tightness in her chest eased.

After a
sideways glance at his men, he returned a thoughtful expression to her and
fished around in his purse.
 
"Madam, my sincere apologies.
 
I was unaware.
 
Allow me to
compensate you."
 
He held out a
sovereign.
 
"Please inform me if
you require more."

"Thank
you.
 
Good day."
 
Snatching the coin, she strode down Market
Street, relieved that he didn't follow.

Concerned over
David, baffled how to break the news to Enid that she'd be spending weeks in
the company of Fairfax, Helen arrived home to a quiet house.
 
Presuming Enid had stepped out to market,
she mounted the stairs to her bedroom and hid her new cache, including
Fairfax's sovereign, in several wall panels that Silas designed.
 
When she glanced out the window, she spotted
Enid kneeling in the garden, her shoulders slumped.
 
Was she weeping?

She hurried
downstairs and out the back door.
 
The
servant lifted a grief-blotched face, and the realization that she was sitting
before her shrine to her most beloved goddess, Rhiannon, shot dread through
Helen.
 
Ah, no.
 
"Enid, whatever is wrong?"

Enid wrung her hands.
 
"Charles has been murdered."
 
Welsh accent wrapped her tongue.

"Murdered?"
 
Helen's knees gave way, and she sank beside
Enid.
 
Peculiar noises issued from the
back of her throat, as if her larynx had been paralyzed, and the garden tinted
gray.
 
It couldn't be true.

Enid
snuffled.
 
"Someone shot him in the
head.
 
The Morrises' washerwoman, Molly,
came by a quarter hour ago to say they'd found his body at the wharf."

Charles had
been the closest person to a caring parent Helen had known.
 
Through her mind flashed images of him as
she'd last seen him, pale and worried.
 
And the butler's final words, conveyed by David.
 
They'll kill Madam if they find it
.

Loss and horror
compressed her lungs.
 
She gripped
Enid's quivering shoulder.
 
"I'm so
sorry!
 
I know how much you loved him,
and — and — who would do such a thing to a good, kind man like
Charles?"
 
But the Welshwoman was
beyond consolation.

Releasing her
shoulder, Helen stood and steadied herself.
 
Her knees still shook.
 
"I'm
going to the wharf.
 
Perhaps an
investigator from the Committee can tell me more.
 
I shall return before dark."
 
With an hour of daylight left, and the wharves just a few blocks
away, she needn't worry about being out after sunset.
 
Enid's weak nod communicated that she'd understood.

Cloak draped
over her shoulders, Helen let herself out the front door.
 
As usual, the docks were so cluttered with
stacks of lumber and barrels of naval stores that she had to thread her way
around the goods.
 
Men from a boat
unloaded crates of live chickens, contributing blown feathers and the sharp
stink of chicken turds to the smells of tar manufacture, tobacco smoke, and
unwashed humans.