The Patriot's Conquest (3 page)

He could not concentrate on his work. The knife wound on his leg he’d received during the war rarely ached, but made a perfect excuse for inquisitive women asking about his cane. Today, however, the scarred flesh pulled and stretched. As did another wound in his heart. Jeffrey let the metal piece he’d been shaping rest in the fire. He stared into the flames. Fire. Licking at the corners of his family’s home. Torches tossed through the door accompanied by laughter. Impotent struggles against the men who held him as he watched the house rise in a tower of flames. His mother’s beloved collection of French poetry. His Brown Bess used in battles during the French and Indian war. The Boston rocker his father had bought for his mother. The polished tables, brocade drapes. Everything he had amassed in his thirty-two years. Everything his parents had worked for. Gone.

His only solace had been that his parents weren’t alive to witness it.

Never could he admit the full truth. The King’s Quartering Act gave the British an excuse to burn, but he knew their real motivation. Punishment for his patriotic activities and trusting his betrothed. Caroline had promised silence and delivered betrayal. Rage filled him remembering the colonel’s sneering laughter as he’d told Jeffrey what an excellent lover Caroline was.

These agonizing memories flickered because of beautiful, pert Amanda Reeves. Her body had felt soft in his arms; warm, and dangerously tempting. He’d been torn between an overpowering desire to kiss her and a nagging urge to toss her out on her pretty, round bottom. Something deep inside him, long dead, stirred to life around her. Something best left alone and quietly dying beneath the ashes of past failures.

With savage intensity, Jeffrey poked at the steel. When it changed color, he took the tongs and brought it to the anvil. Each powerful blow of the hammer brought satisfaction. The steel changed shape. It became the face of the British colonel. Bang. Bang. Bang. His temper blossomed into full flames with each violent, rapid stroke. A red spark flew off the glowing metal and licked his arm; another jumped on his shirt and danced. Jeffrey abandoned his tools and beat it out.

Good God
, he’d set himself on fire if this continued. He must calm down before he hurt himself.
Remember. Rogers’ Rangers. Disciplinary orders
. Taking a deep breath, Jeffrey silently recited a condensed version of each rule, counting up to ten. He lingered over #6:
If your enemy approaches you in the front, form three columns to stop them from surrounding you.

His worst enemy right now was his damnable temper.

A boisterous voice caught his attention. Jeffrey glanced up. Daniel Merton. One of Williamsburg’s wealthiest, and fervently Loyalist, residents. Owner of 5,000 acres on the James and thirty slaves, he had a grand house in town as well. The King had appointed him as a member of the Governor’s Council and Magistrate of the General Court. Friend to Lord Dunmore, Merton had inside access to the governor’s circle.

The old thrill surged through him. Jeffrey scowled and folded his arms as the portly man approached with a disdainful sniff. Merton’s ornate purple silk waistcoat and elegant lace stock gave him a foppish air. He gestured at Jeffrey with a hand-carved walking stick, topped with a silver eagle’s head.

The proud eagle’s beak stabbed the air as Merton pointed it at him. It bore a striking resemblance to Jeffrey’s cane.

“Have you my door hinge repaired yet, Clayton?”

“Nay, shall be ready on the morrow.” He watched as the older man crossed the room to his work bench. Merton propped his cane to the right of Jeffrey’s and turned with a frown.

“You are most delinquent in your work, Clayton. I shall have to speak to your master about this tardiness.”

“I have no master but myself,” Jeffrey said tightly. “You’re not speaking to one of your slaves, Merton.”

“Mind what you say, Clayton. You are no longer in Boston, roving the streets with Sam Adams’ mob. As for my Negroes, they are mine to do with as I please. I have heard how you set your sister’s slaves free. You are a troublemaker, Clayton.”

“I’ll say what comes to mind, Merton. No man shall stop me. Or stop me from freeing my slaves. ’Tis my business and Meg’s and no one else’s.”

“Have that hinge ready by the morrow, or I shall not pay full price.” He retrieved the cane on the left and strode out, his lower lip distended in clear disapproval.

When Merton left, apprentice blacksmith Jonathon loped over like an eager puppy. The teenager had ogled Miss Reeves the whole time she’d been in the shop. Jeffrey resisted a chuckle. That spitfire lady would turn the youngster into pulp with one look from those blazing violet eyes.

“That Mr. Merton don’t like you. Neither does Miss Reeves. She sure is pretty, Miss Reeves.”

“Prettier than Mr. Merton,” Jeffrey agreed.

“Well, I’d watch it, Mr. Clayton. Most gentry don’t care about freedom from England like you do. Can’t go against Dunmore and the power of the king.”

“That so?” Jeffrey darted a glance at the remaining walking stick, its eagle’s beak shining and whole. No broken tip. Then again, it wasn’t his cane. His smile widened.

“Maybe for now. But things will change around here.” He worked the steel, honing the edge so he could forge-weld it into an ax head.

If he had his way, maybe sooner than everyone thought.

“
M
ORE TEA
, A
MANDA
?”

She murmured a polite decline to Elizabeth Wythe. Sassafras tea. A vile brew, but the Wythes participated in boycotting English tea. Amanda sat on a gilt chair at a small lace-topped round table in the Wythe’s parlor. Late afternoon sun streamed through the polished glass windows and pooled on the rich crimson walls.

“Now, my dear, tell me about this unfortunate soul you wish my husband to defend.” Elizabeth sipped from a china cup.

Amanda explained Sam Henderson’s plight. A resident of the parish almshouse, the daft, middle-aged man stood accused of robbing a Williamsburg resident of a chicken. Sam had been caught, hen in hand, outside the backyard coop. Robbery was a grave offense.

“Well, my dear, you are a kind soul to valiantly assist such a poor soul. The Lord will reward you for your charity,” Elizabeth said.

She felt a flush of guilt. Elizabeth, dear lady, made her sound saintly. If she only rubbed Amanda’s halo, she’d see the tarnish lying beneath it—spying on Jeffrey Clayton.

“Do you think your husband would deign to defend Sam without compensation? Without just representation from a lawyer, he stands not a chance and could be flogged. ’Tis not a noteworthy case, and Mr. Wythe might stand to public ridicule as well.”

“Why not ask him? He is in his study, talking with his friends. I am certain George will be moved to defend him. Come, I will take you.”

As they walked down the darkened hallway to the study, Amanda’s ears pricked at the sound of male voices arguing and laughing.

Elizabeth knocked at the door and called to her husband. Amanda sucked in a cautious breath as the two women walked inside the hallowed male sanctuary. Three men sitting at a round table stood immediately as they entered.

“George, you remember Amanda Reeves? She has a petition of you.” Elizabeth smiled encouragement and withdrew from the room.

“Of course. Miss Reeves. How are you? Come in, come in.” The lawyer nodded his balding head. He had a long, hooked nose, an intelligent brow and a kind smile.

“Meet my acquaintances, Mr. Thomas Jefferson and Mr. Jeffrey Clayton.”

“Mr. Wythe, gentlemen.” Amanda nodded a greeting, her stomach clenching as she remembered Jefferson’s snub.

Volumes of law books lined a tall wood case. A polished fruitwood secretary sat opposite a fire crackling merrily in the marble hearth. Amanda stifled a startled gasp at Jeffrey Clayton’s appearance. Gone were all traces of his smith’s profession. He wore a white shirt with a starched stock, fawn waistcoat, well-tailored brown coat and matching breeches, white stockings and buckled shoes. But for the beard and mustache, he looked as much the gentleman as the other two.

An odd glass contraption dominated the table. Overcome by curiosity, Amanda approached and pointed, fascinated by the large dome. “What, pray tell, is that, sir?”

“George’s toy,” drawled Jeffrey. “A vacuum pump.”

“Not a toy,” protested the lawyer. “A scientific experiment.”

“Will you not admit its real purpose, George? He wishes to remove the air from the heads of vapid members of the House of Burgess.”

“’Tis quite a feat then, Mr. Wythe, that you endeavor to accomplish, for many members have much of that air whirling about in their heads,” Amanda shot back, then gulped, realizing her error. Oh bother. She’d just insulted Thomas Jefferson.

Jefferson forced a smile while George Wythe chuckled, but Jeffrey threw back his head and laughed.

“Miss Reeves has a rather fine wit, I see,” he commented, tipping his glass at her. “Almost as seasoned as this brandy.”

“Aye, ’tis a fine wit you have indeed, Miss Reeves. But sparring with my good friend Jeffrey is not why you came. Pray tell, dear child, what distresses you that I may assist you?” He pulled out a chair for her. As Amanda sat, the men resumed their seats.

“I am sure Miss Reeves has a matter of grave urgency to discuss with you, George. Perhaps she needs a good lawyer to bypass the boycott and negotiate import of more English fabrics to her father’s store,” Jeffrey suggested.

“Nay, ’tis not necessary, for my father has more than enough stock to tide him over for many months. And not all are heeding your boycott,” she shot back.

To avoid his penetrating gaze, she glanced about the room once more. Atop the bookcase, swimming in fluid, was a jar filled with strange creatures.

“What are those?” Amanda pointed.

Jeffrey leaned back. “Those are the pickled remains of the last Tory to ask a favor of the esteemed Mr. Wythe.”

Arrogant cus. “Indeed? It would seem parts of some poor unfortunate’s organs. Perhaps even a brain. Dare I ask if you are missing that particular organ, Mr. Clayton, since you seem to have ill use of it?”

That laugh again. Jeffrey raised his glass. “Touché, Miss Reeves.”

“They are preserved specimens; an eel, a frog and some others,” George countered hastily. “’Tis science then, the reason you came, Miss Reeves?”

She smiled at George, knowing her words must be chosen with care to impress upon him the gravity of the case.

“Not science, Mr. Wythe, but the need of your brilliant skills as a lawyer. Not for myself, but an ill-fortuned member of society who has fallen into unfortunate circumstances. A Mr. Sam Henderson. He stands accused of robbery, stealing a chicken.”

“Ah yes, the daft one. He lives in the almshouse.”

Amanda nodded eagerly. “I am hoping you would defend him in court as he is too feebleminded to speak adequately. And he cannot afford as fine a lawyer as yourself.”

“This Henderson,” Jeffrey interjected, “if he is daft, why did he steal the chicken?”

His bearded face was expressionless, gray eyes sharp with intelligence. Under his gaze she felt as flustered as if he were the King’s Attorney and she a witness he ruthlessly questioned. All the gentlemen now looked at her.

“’Tis my understanding that Mr. Henderson did steal the chicken, but he did so to save it from the ax.”

Jeffrey leaned forward. “Who told him the chicken was destined for the ax?”

Amanda drew in a deep breath. “Mr. Henderson said the chicken told him it feared for its life.”

Loud guffaws greeted her ears. Amanda winced. But Jeffrey looked sober and thoughtful.

“’Tis a good case for you, George. Such a poor man, ill with brain fever, could use your services. It will not be your most challenging case, but one that requires a thoughtful orator who can be discreet and yet convincing.”

He flashed her a crooked grin. Truly, the man was an enigma! One minute he interrogated her, the next, pleaded her case.

George bobbed his head in agreement. “If you think so, Jeffrey. I trust your opinion, as you are a man of balance. Yes, Miss Reeves, I will take the case.”

As she thanked the lawyer, Jeffrey’s pewter eyes sparkled. “And pray tell, Miss Reeves, what is your interest in Mr. Henderson that you would plead with my good friend George to take him as a client? Is he a special friend? I had not thought those close to our governor to make acquaintanceship with daft men, although one would presume ’tis a natural bond of Lord Dunmore’s.”

Rogue. The man had a serpent’s tongue. Amanda stood and the men stood with her.

“That, Mr. Clayton, is a matter too trite for gentlemen of your stature who have more important matters to discuss. But I can certainly assure you Lord Dunmore is far from daft, despite your treasonous opinion. Good day, gentlemen.”

He executed a mocking, courtly bow as she stormed out.

“Damn, Jeffrey, will you have no end to exercising that virulent tongue of yours against Dunmore? Poor girl nearly choked after you called her relative daft!”

Jeffrey ran a finger down his glass. “George, relax, I merely made the insinuation he was daft. Didn’t call him daft.”