The Patriot's Conquest (16 page)

It must be the drink, she assumed, making him daft. She glanced at his half-filled tankard. They had been there for some time and she had seen him take only a few sips. Her heart beat faster as he continued studying her softly, almost with tenderness.

“What time is it?” she asked.

Jeffrey dug out a gold watch from his waistcoat pocket. “Nearly one.”

“Mercy,” she cried out, putting a hand to her spinning head. “I’d no idea the hour drew so late. I must beg your leave now.”

Giddiness turned to pure fear. Surely Papa would be furious. Amanda rose on two unsteady feet.

“Good day, gentlemen, ladies, I am heading for the door. I shall not be making merry any more.”

“Time for me to leave as well, as grand a time as I’ve had in ages,” Meg said. “Wait Amanda, I’ll walk with you.”

“Meg, you are not leaving alone. Come, I’ll escort you both,” Jeffrey sprang to his feet.

“I am perfectly, capab-capable...” Her tongue tripped. “Able to walk home.” Amanda hated the slurred words. Her head spun more. Was this why Papa liked to drink? It made no sense to her after all.

She was sober enough to see the keen look Jeffrey gave her. “Walk? Nay, I’d say stumble more’s like it. Come, Miss Reeves, you are a trifle tipsy.”

They walked out of the Raleigh, Jeffrey providing a steady grip on her elbow.

At her house, he paused. Relief filled her as she realized no candlelight shone within.

Perhaps they were asleep. Meg had continued down the street, leaving them some privacy.

“Thank you for walking me home.”

“You are most welcome,” he said. “Couldn’t let you go off alone. Not with the drink you’ve consumed.”

“’Tis a powerful brew Mr. Southall makes,” she muttered. “I confess I did see things tonight.” Like the look on his face, as if he cared for her. It was a manifestation of the drink, nothing more.

“Drink loosens a person’s inhibitions. Their true desires surface.”

“Such as?” Amanda felt longing and sadness, looking up into his stark expression.

“As this.” Jeffrey bent his head and cradled her face gently with his hands. The butterfly brush of his lips against hers felt so soft as if he whispered into her mouth. The kiss was delicate and almost cherishing. He stepped back and gave her a mocking grin.

“Good night, Amanda. I’ve a feeling you’ll stay abed a while when the effects of that rum call on the morrow.”

Rum! She put a hand to her mouth. “I’ve forgotten Papa’s rum,” she cried. Amanda cursed herself, realizing she let the secret slip. Bloody hell!

Jeffrey frowned. “’Tis too late to retrieve it. Too late for drinking anyhow. He’d best get it on the morrow.”

Tears filled her eyes. She began to shake violently. “Oh no, he will be so furious, Papa will ...”

Fighting for control, Amanda bit her lip. Jeffrey narrowed his gaze. She had to flee before he asked questions.

“You are quite right. Thank you for walking me home, Jeffrey. Good night to you and Meg.” Lurching through the garden gate, she fled for the house, praying her father was fast asleep.

But upstairs, light shone beneath the door in Papa’s study. Amanda slid out of her shoes and tiptoed past the chamber

Too late. The door flung open, her father stood in the hall, gripping his walking stick. She smelled the drink on him. He’d found his rum somewhere, so maybe he wouldn’t be as angry. But the naked fury on his face told her otherwise.

“Amanda,” he roared. She backed off in terror as he rapped the cane against his palm. “When I tell you to fetch me drink you get it. ’Tis time I showed you a lesson!”

She cried out as his cane descended upon her.

Jeffrey escorted Meg back to the Wythe house, declining an invitation from George and Elizabeth for a nightcap. He walked back toward the Raleigh, pausing only to glance up at the Reeves’ store. A light upstairs. Amanda’s room?

Terror had crossed her features as she mentioned her father’s rum. Jeffrey knew she bought rum for her father. Amanda hid a dark family secret. He felt only renewed disgust for Arthur Reeves. He wished he could pull her into his arms, soothe away her fright and keep her from all harm.

All his carefully honed instincts told him she spied. His “friend” promised to check on the matter and return with information.

Passing by the magazine, he glanced at the dark brick building. Protected by a tall wall, it resembled an impenetrable fortress. His hackles rose. No one guarded it. Days earlier Dunmore had forced the keeper to hand over the keys.

Something prickled his nerves. Jeffrey tried to brush off the feeling as he regarded the silent building. All the city’s arms were stored there. Amanda had prattled something about Dunmore having plans for land defense. He suspected she didn’t merely refer to her cousin’s collection in his own palace.

Minutes later, he entered his room at the Raleigh. He stripped naked and climbed into his bed with a grateful sigh, and drifted off to sleep.

He dreamt. He took out his knife, ready to attack. Dawn was coming soon; he must not be discovered at dawn, must conceal his actions...

Dawn coming soon. Jeffrey awakened. Hair rose at the back of his neck. Infernal nightmares. But something else was amiss. He lit a candle and opened his small gold pocket watch. After three.

Quickly he dressed. Stupid of him, rushing out in the middle of the night, just to prove his instincts wrong.

Slipping out of the Raleigh, he strode down the street. Town was quiet as a cemetery. Even the night watch was nowhere to be found. Jeffrey supposed all were abed. As he neared the brick building of the magazine he heard murmuring voices. A clattering. British voices uttering low, harsh with great urgency. His guard rose. British soldiers. What were they doing at the magazine?

Jeffrey cursed. He’d left the Raleigh without a weapon. He crept closer to the armory. Alarmed, he saw the gate wide open, and a heavy wagon in front with a team of patient horses waiting. A line of men passed something back and forth, loading the wagon. Ignoring good sense, he stalked closer. One of the soldiers glanced his way and froze.

The soldier stared then yelled to his compatriots. “Ho, we’ve been spotted. Hurry men!” They climbed aboard the wagon and then raced away.

Jeffrey ran through the gate around the building to the rear of the magazine. The wood double doors stood gaping open like a fresh wound. A sliver of moonlight spilled onto the brick floor. He rapidly assessed the room. Fifteen half-barrels of gunpowder, most of the town’s defenses, were gone.

H
E SOUNDED THE
alarm. News spread quickly. By early morning, townspeople gathered on the palace green. The frothing, angry mob seemed in almost as militant a mood as Jeffrey himself.

Drums beat with a fury. Men in fringed canvas shirts shouldered muskets and Kentucky hunting rifles. Anger tightened their faces as they lined up toward Dunmore’s residence.

“The cowardly Lord Governor dares to steal our powder in the dark night, leaving us defenseless because he fears for his own neck. Return the powder or we’ll give you just cause to fear,” Jeffrey shouted.

Others added their own taunts. The angry mob pressed closer to the governor’s palace. He spotted Amanda in a long red cloak. He stopped yelling for Dunmore’s neck. Instead he thought about the danger her own neck was in. If anyone saw her...

“’Tis treason you commit if you press further toward the mansion. Lord Dunmore had every right to remove the gunpowder, for as King’s representative, he controls the town’s arms,” Amanda cried out. Her lovely face flushed with dark anger. Jeffrey groaned. Her damn stubborn bravery would cost her.

A man leered at her. Even from his vantage point, Jeffrey smelled the stench of old rum drifting from him. The sot advanced toward her.

“Ho, ’tis Dunmore’s relative! If not him, then claim her, for she’s in league as well! Tory wench!”

The besotted man, staggering, reeled toward her. Most times citizens would have paid him little mind. But the furious mob, heated and sassy from too much celebrating, wanted Dunmore. And if they couldn’t have him, then the next best thing would be...

“Amanda,” Jeffrey cried out sharply as he saw her recoil, her lovely face paling with shock. His stomach clenched in fear.

A small detachment pressed toward her. She turned to run, but was pressed in by the crowd.

Jeffrey pummeled his way through the angry throng and reached her side. She shrieked as he laid a hand on her shoulder. Then she relaxed.

“Jeffrey, thank heavens ’tis you.”

The drunk tried to grab her arm, but Jeffrey slugged him with a punch powered by muscles toned by years of wielding steel. The sot grunted and doubled over. Jeffrey seized the advantage. Using his body as a battering ram, he elbowed his way through the crowd, holding Amanda close behind him. They barely made it eight feet before they were hemmed in again.

Her lips drew back as she covered her mouth with a trembling hand. Jeffrey swung her up into his arms. Her slender body felt light as air.

“What are you doing?”

“Saving your lovely bottom. Quiet now.”

Like a blustering bull, he shouldered his way through the packed crowd. Jeffrey felt her hands curl trustingly about his neck. Halting at the edge of the palace green, he set her down. Her huge eyes became luminous. Only her wildly shaking hands revealed the depth of her fright.

He sobered, realizing she could have been seriously hurt.

“Come,” he said, stretching out a hand. “I’ll take you to George Wythe’s house. It will be safe for you there until this dies down.”

The crowd calmed after town leaders promised to draft a letter of formal protest. Dunmore, claiming to have removed the powder fearing a slave uprising for he’d heard rumors in a nearby county, railed against the mob action. Sitting in the formal parlor of the palace, his face flushed with anger as Amanda faced him, for he’d summoned her to the mansion. And then he increased the stakes against her.

A day after that meeting, Amanda found herself outside the Raleigh. She slipped up the stairs. Desperation, not her father’s thirst for rum, drove her there this morning.

Lord Dunmore had been explicit. Angered and fearful of the mob’s threatened violence, he wanted Jeffrey. She had two weeks to produce incriminating evidence of treason against him, or Dunmore would call in her father’s debt.

She’d made inquiries among Lord Dunmore’s kitchen staff about who was the most useful servant at the Raleigh. One who could be discreet if given a few coins. This time of day few frequented the tavern. Most had finished breaking their fast and were about their business. Amanda nodded to a serving maid carrying a large tray into the dining room. A Negro man exited the private club room opposite the hallway from the dining room. Moses. Must be, for he wore spectacles as she’d been told.

Amanda spoke in a low, urgent whisper. “I need your help.”

He approached, wiping his hands on his apron. “Yes, Miss?”

Looking around furtively, she saw no one else near. “I need to gain entrance to Mr. Clayton’s room upstairs. The blacksmith.”

As his forehead creased into a puzzled frown, she slipped two shillings into his hand. “I require the greatest discretion, you understand?”

The man stared at the coins in his palm. He jerked his head toward the stairwell and pocketed the money. “This way.”

Amanda scurried after him up the narrow wood staircase.

“Master Southall, he be out back now.” After leading her down the hallway, Moses stopped outside a closed door and unlocked it.

“This be Mister Jeffrey’s room. But why you wanting to git inside?”

“Personal reasons.” Amanda lifted her finger to her mouth.

When the servant left, she studied the room. Sunshine spilled through two narrow dormer windows. A bed sat flush against one wall. A washstand, chair, and small desk were the only other furniture. Buckled shoes shoved carelessly under the bed. Clothing, good linen brown breeches and a rumpled white shirt lay crumpled on the chair. Amanda made a clucking sound with her tongue.

“Jeffrey, you must learn to be more tidy.”

She closed the door, then crossed over to the tiny desk. Papers, a quill, inkwell, brass candlestick with a candle nub and a gentleman’s purse. She ruffled through the papers. Accounts, nothing more.