Lavender Lies (Historical Romance) (3 page)

No one had seen the man who crept down the stairs and unsheathed his knife. Only the landlord saw the knife fly through the air and find its mark. Lavender felt her assailant stiffen and watched his pistol slide out of his hand while he loosened his grip on her arm. She gasped with relief as he fell to the floor to lie at her feet. Too astonished to move, she was quickly enfolded in Nicodemus's arms, and he turned her away, hiding her face from the grim spectacle, but not before she had seen the knife protruding from the man's back.

The landlord approached the dead man cautiously. Placing his tray on the table, he bent down and felt the man's pulse. "He be dead sure enough," he proclaimed to the man who stepped out of the shadows.

A quiver shook Lavender's body as she turned to face the stranger who had saved her life. He was tall with sun-bleached hair and twinkling gray eyes. His smile was genuine as he bowed to Lavender. "I cannot believe you were mistaken for a boy. I knew you were a woman the moment I laid eyes on you." Before the bewildered Lavender could answer, the man turned to the landlord, Angus McCree. "Dispose of the body, my friend. It would not bode well for you if he were discovered in your tavern."

Lavender took a quick step toward the door. She had seen murder done right before her eyes, and she felt sick inside. She just wanted to flee for home where she would be safe.

"Nicodemus, would you tell this young lady who I am. I have already guessed her identity. She can be no other than Chandler's twin sister."

Nicodemus grinned. "You are right, sir. This is Miss Lavender Daymond. Miss, this is Captain Brainard Thruston, of the Virginia Militia. He is assigned to special duty, of course, which I am sure you have already guessed."

Lavender nodded briefly. Her heart was still pounding, and she couldn't get rid of the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. She acknowledged the man's polite bow with the nod of her head. "You know my brother, sir?"

"Indeed I do, ma'am. I count myself fortunate to be numbered among his friends."

"The man you killed also claimed to know my brother. Why should I trust you?"

Brainard Thruston laughed heartily and plopped down on a chair. "You are right to be cautious. You see, the contact that was supposed to meet your father here was killed just outside of town and this man took his place. Angus McCree is a true patriot and alerted me that something was wrong."

"How did you find out about the contact?" she asked, still skeptical.

"Never mind that. Have you got the document?"

Lavender felt her knees go weak, and she sank into a chair. "Have you no other way to identify yourself, Mr. Thruston? My father gave me specific orders, and I was told to follow them explicitly."

For the first time Brainard Thruston's eyes went to the ale mug that was on the table in front of Lavender. "Ah, yes, I almost forgot." A smile lit his eyes. "What flower blooms in the winter?"

Lavender was flooded with relief. Her voice shook as she replied, "The cactus blooms in the desert." Reaching into the folds of her cape, she removed the documents and handed them to Brainard Thruston. "I hope these are worth a man's life."

Brainard smiled and rose to his feet. "They are, Miss Daymond. The fact that the British went to such lengths to capture them should have alerted you to their importance. Now, tell me before I go, why are you here instead of your father?"

"He was wounded."

There was a light of concern in his eyes. "I am sorry. I trust it isn't bad. I will be seeing your brother, and he will want to know your father's condition."

Her heart skipped a beat. "Chandler is alive?"

"Yes, of course. At least he was a week ago when I last saw him."

Lavender had lived through so many different emotions tonight that she suddenly felt numb. "I. . . Tell my brother that Father is wounded. I do not know how badly. The danger lies in the fact that he has lost so much blood."

"I do not think anything as insignificant as a bullet will stop your father." With a flash of white teeth, Brainard Thruston bowed to Lavender. "I will inform your brother that I met you tonight." He looked Lavender over as if he were trying to find the woman beneath the disguise. "I hope to see you again under different circumstances."

Before Lavender could reply, he had turned to Nicodemus. "I would suggest that the two of you leave immediately. It is not wise to linger any longer."

"We will do that, Captain," Nicodemus answered, taking Lavender's arm and leading her toward the door.

Brainard Thruston's voice reached them before they stepped out into the swirling snowstorm. "Merry Christmas, Miss Daymond. We shall meet again."

After the door had closed behind Lavender and Nicodemus,   Brainard   Thruston  turned to Angus McCree. "I think that girl would make a good messenger if she lost her nervousness. I watched her tonight, and I believe she would have died before she would ever have relinquished the documents to the wrong person. Did you see how angelic she looked? She would be perfect, because no one would ever suspect someone who looks like her of being a spy."

"Her pa would never allow it," Angus reminded Brainard. "You had better step easy."

Brainard threw his head back and laughed. "Her pa will never have to know. I will appeal to Miss Daymond's love for her father and brother."

"That hardly seems fair, Captain. She ain't more than a little girl."

"What is ever fair in war, Angus? We all do what we must to win."

"I still say leave her be. I know Samuel Daymond. He will kill you if anything happens to her. He might have sent her into danger tonight, but he wouldn't allow anyone else to do the same."

On the ride back to Williamsburg, Lavender felt an urgency to be with her father. She prayed he was still alive—he just had to be.

As the snowflakes continued to drift earthward, and heavy drifts piled up in the road, Lavender's mount carried her homeward. In her mind she relived the events as they had happened at the Swan Tavern, and she began to experience the first true stirring of patriotism in her soul. She had done something tonight to strike a blow against tyranny.

Suddenly she was no longer weary but felt invigorated, and wished she could do more to help the United States of America gain its freedom from England! She doubted it would be possible while she was subject to Aunt Amelia's damnation.

Brainard Thruston's handsome face flashed through her mind. He had saved her life tonight. She wondered if she would ever see him again.

2

South Carolina, 1780

Wind-driven rain pelted against the windows of the Fife and Drum Inn with a force that rattled the old building to the very foundation. The two-story, boxlike structure that served as a coach stop between Charlotte and Salisbury was deserted but for two men who sat at a corner table talking in lowered voices. One man was a British colonel hiding his rank beneath the clothing of a humble tradesman, while the other gentleman was huddled beneath the folds of a stylish black cloak.

Colonel Grimsley, a man of fifty with powdered hair and clear gray eyes, looked over his shoulder to make sure the landlord was not near enough to overhear their conversation. "Tell me again what the note said," he urged the second man.

His companion, a thin-faced man named Cleave Wilson, leaned in closer. "As I told you before, the note was from the Duke of Mannington. He told me to get in touch with you and that we should meet him here at nine to discuss a matter of extreme importance. The note said we were to practice extreme caution and we are not to reveal our identities to anyone."

Colonel Grimsley glanced at the wall clock, then removed his pocket watch to check the time. "It is but ten minutes until the appointed hour."

Cleave Wilson stared into the face of his companion, noting the colonel's long, aquiline nose and his heavy eyebrows, guessing that both men were of the same age. While they were from different classes, and would never have crossed each other's paths back in England, the war and a common cause had united them. Grimsley's family was in trade, and he had worked his way up the ranks in the military, while Wilson's family was of English aristocracy.

"Do you have any notion why His Grace wanted to see us? And why in such secrecy? A man of his standing would not have come to the Colonies unless it was a matter of extreme importance. I will wager it has to do with his younger brother, Lord William Westfield. 1 know that the young man was an aide to General Clinton, and was sent back to England in disgrace, but 1 never quite understood why."

"It is not surprising that you have not heard all the details. The matter was hushed up at the highest level." Cleave Wilson took a sip of mulled wine and frowned at its poor quality. He set the tankard down and eyed his companion before continuing. "I mean the very highest level, if you know to whom I'm referring Are you aware that the Westfield family are second or third cousins of the royal family?"

"I had heard that."

"I was told that the king was most displeased about the whole affair and had young William Westfield drummed out of the guard. I believe he was banished to one of the duke's numerous country estates."

"As you know, I have but newly come to this godforsaken country and know little of what has occurred before my arrival. Are you privy to any of the particulars about young Westfield?" Colonel Grimsley asked with interest.

Wilson nodded his head and stared at the colonel, his eyes secretive. "Yes, somewhat. His trouble had something to do with the Swallow!"

Grimsley's face reddened, and he shook his head in disbelief. "You don't mean to tell me that His Grace's brother came up against that spy?"

Wilson looked uncomfortable for a moment, as if discussing the duke's brother disturbed him. "I have been sworn to secrecy, but I can tell you this much: young Westfield allowed secret documents that had been entrusted to him to fall into the hands of the Swallow."

"Good Lord, that would explain why His Grace wants to see us. We are both involved with trying to capture the Swallow. You have been asked by Parliament to look into the situation, while I have been assigned to investigate the matter on a military level. But if that is the case, what does His Grace hope to gain by talking to us? We have found out very little."

Wilson lit his clay pipe and watched the smoke circle his head. "I believe I can guess why he's here. Are you aware that the duke's brother killed himself?"

Colonel Grimsley stared at his companion in amazement. "I had heard that he was dead, but I wasn't told that he died by his own hand."

"Apparently he could not live with the disgrace he had brought upon the family name. I suppose the Duke of Mannington is here to find out all the details leading up to his brother's ignominy."

Colonel Grimsley nodded in agreement. "It galls me to know that the Swallow is making fools out of our men. I hope His Grace will put his energies and influence to work on this matter. Perhaps he will be instrumental in capturing this woman . . . if indeed she is a woman at all."

Cleave Wilson sipped his wine and then toyed with the glass. "Let's assume it is a woman. Who else but a woman could charm so many of our men and make buffoons of them? It is believed that the Swallow's list of conquests is far larger than we know. We suspect some of her victims are too ashamed to come forward and admit they have been tricked by her."

"Perhaps the duke will put an end to her tricks."

"Perhaps. I have met Julian Westfield at court on several occasions. He is arrogant as hell, but highly intelligent and respected. 1 can tell you one thing, I would not like to be on the receiving end of his anger. I have heard him referred to as the Meticulous Duke. He never makes allowances for unfinished business, especially when it pertains to his family's honor. It must be extremely distasteful for him, knowing a mere woman brought about his brother's downfall. He must have trouble accepting the fact that some will-o'-the-wisp outsmarted a Westfield."

"Tell me more about the duke, Cleave. What's he really like?"

"I don't know if anyone can answer that. His Grace is an extremely private person. He is a handsome rogue, and it's a well-known fact that many a fair lady has lost her heart to him. However, he retains his own heart, even though I hear there is some dispute as to whether he even has a heart. Pity the poor woman he finally decides to make his duchess. He will expect her to be a saint or a paragon of virtue."

"I take it he is not married then?"

"No, but if one can overlook his domineering ways, he would be a brilliant catch. His mother and father both died when His Grace was but a boy, leaving him in charge of numerous holdings and estates. I believe he and his brother were raised by their grandmother, the Dowager Duchess of Mannington. It is said Julian is extremely shrewd. I would wager the Swallow is about to sing her last song if he has come to put an end to her treachery."

At that moment the front door opened and a blast of cold wind swept through the room, its icy fingers rattling the pewter plates that were lined up across the mantel.

Colonel Grimsley and Cleave Wilson turned to observe the men who stood in the doorway. It was easy to see that the newcomer was someone of importance because he was flanked by a second man who was obviously a servant.

As the newcomer's eyes moved over the room, he appeared to view his surroundings with remote indifference. Slowly and deliberately, he removed his silk-lined cape and handed it to his attendant. His knee-high boots, though muddy, still held a high shine. His dark blue jacket and trousers were of the finest material and were London-cut. His black hair was without benefit of powder and tied back in a queue. His face was handsome despite the supercilious expression he wore. Tall and broad of shoulder, the Duke of Mannington looked out of place in the quaint country inn.

"It's him," Cleave Wilson remarked, rising respectfully to his feet. "He's here!"

Julian Westfield, Duke of Mannington, surveyed the common room of the inn with distaste. To him, the room was drab, like everything else he had encountered since first stepping ashore. He paid little heed to the innkeeper, who rushed forward to greet his important guest. Julian Westfield brushed the little man aside with a haughty glance, and moved in the direction of the two men who were standing respectfully, waiting for the duke to be seated at the table.

"Good evening, Cleave," he said in a deep, clipped voice. "Will you present me to your friend?" There was neither warmth in Julian Westfield's voice nor in his dark eyes that swept across Cleave's face.

Cleave Wilson almost choked on his pipe smoke, and after a fit of coughing, he cleared his throat and made the customary introductions. "Your Grace, this is Colonel Grimsley, whom you asked to see tonight. Colonel, I have the great pleasure to present His Grace, the Duke of Mannington."

Both men bowed politely, while the innkeeper lurked nearby, straining his ears, hoping to overhear scraps of conversation between the three men.

Julian gave the innkeeper a scalding glance that sent him out of the room. "I would ask that you keep my title to yourself, gentlemen, and address me only as Julian. If at all possible, I want to keep my identity a secret."

Wilson and Grimsley exchanged glances, each wondering how they could dare bring themselves to call a man of such distinction by his given name. It was Wilson who first found his voice. "How may we be of service to you, J-Julian?"

The duke rested his arm on the table and lowered his voice. "May I assume that both of you know about the death of my brother, Lord William Westfield?"

Wilson and Grimsley nodded grimly, each reluctant to speak on such a delicate matter, not knowing how the duke would react to their limited knowledge of his brother's death.

Julian sensed the men's hesitation, and his irritation was apparent in his tone of voice. "Let us not pretend ignorance. I believe we can all safely assume that both of you know the circumstances surrounding my brother's death?"

"I .. . the details are a bit vague, Your Gr— Julian. Colonel Grimsley and I assumed his untimely death had something to do with his . . ." the words seemed to stick in Grimsley's throat, ". . . dis . . . grace."

A muscle twitched in Julian's cheek, and a coldness touched his dark eyes. "You have assumed correctly. I want to know about this woman who calls herself the Swallow. Don't leave anything out, no matter how insignificant you think it might be. I will need to know everything about her, if I am to succeed in capturing her."

Colonel Grimsley stared into the face of the duke for a fraction of a second, before he felt compelled to turn his gaze away. He wondered if anyone could withstand the  duke's  penetrating  gaze  for very  long.  "The information we have on her is sketchy at best. Some say she has red hair, while others swear her hair is black. We have had reports that she is a young girl, and even some who insist that she is past her prime. We have even been told that she is not a woman at all, but a man dressed as a woman. Of course, it is my belief that she is a woman. How else could she wheedle secrets out of our soldiers?" The colonel's voice trailed off, remembering the duke's brother had been one of those soldiers who had been tricked by the Swallow.

The duke absently ran a lean finger across his ruffled cuff. "I have it on good authority that the Swallow is a woman," he said. "Make no mistake about that. Tell me, have either of you come close to catching her?"

Grimsley shrugged his shoulders, looking uncomfortable under Julian's close scrutiny. "1 am sorry to say we have not. I begin to think she is a myth. Surely you can see what we have been up against."

"She will not be easy to catch," Cleave Wilson added, coming to the aid of Colonel Grimsley. "She is too elusive and strikes where we least expect, only to disappear without a trace once she has achieved her objective. She has been responsible for freeing traitors from the guardhouse, capturing sensitive documents, and wheedling secrets of the most delicate nature from her unsuspecting victims. Once she even enticed a high-ranking officer into drawing the entire plans of our headquarters in New York."

"Surely you have some notion as to where she is operating from?" Julian stated flatly. "You have been on her trail long enough to have made at least that much progress."

Wilson leaned back in his chair and glanced into the handsome face of Julian Westfield. "I have been led to believe that she may be operating out of Williamsburg, Virginia. However, as you can imagine, I have not been able to substantiate that fact. Of course, the evidence is inconclusive since we cannot go unmolested among the people. Williamsburg is a hotbed of Whigs. As you may know, some of the first rumblings of war came out of the capital there."

Colonel Grimsley leaned in closer. "It is said the Swallow uses her charms to entice her victims to do her will. I believe we can assume she is a woman of little virtue. I... of course you are aware of what she did to your . . . brother."

Julian's jaw tightened. "Am I to deduce that she does not confine her activities to one area?"

"That is correct. She has been known to operate as far north as Philadelphia and beyond both Carolinas," Colonel Grimsley confirmed.

"Can you tell me anything else about her?"

"Not much," the colonel replied. "Two months ago I was assigned to track her down. In that time there has been no word of her. It is as if she knows what we are doing every step of the way. I had begun to hope that she has ceased her traitorous activities."

Julian studied Colonel Grimsley's face closely. "Williamsburg." He became thoughtful. "I wonder?"

"Perhaps we have heard the last of her, Your Gr—" Wilson's face reddened. "I mean, Julian."

"Do not delude yourself into thinking she has retired, gentlemen." Julian lowered his eyes and stared into the flickering flames of the fireplace. "I would think she has become too valuable to the rebellious cause. She will strike again, and when she does, I will be waiting for her!"