Читать книгу The Secrets Of Catie Hazard - Miranda Jarrett - Страница 9

Eight years later

Newport Rhode Island December 1776

The streets that should have been alive with people at this time of the morning were as quiet and still as if it were midnight. Houses and shops were shuttered. The market house was empty. Even the church bells failed to toll the hour. Only the raucous mewing of the gulls that wheeled over the lifeless ships in the harbor proved it was indeed day, rather than night.

Uneasily Major Anthony Sparhawk of His Majesty’s Royal Welsh Fusiliers scanned the silent houses, sensing the hostility of the eyes that watched from behind the shutters. How many rifles and muskets and pistols were hiding there, too, ready to offer the only welcome he and his men could expect?

He rode at the head of his regiment, their bright red uniforms and tall fur caps making a brave show for the secret watchers on this cold, gray December morning. So far, they’d taken the island without a single casualty, and a blatant display of the king’s forces like this was calculated to keep it that way. Besides, Rhode Islanders had never been as extreme in their politics as the mob in Boston were. Here, surely, King George would have more friends than enemies.

A day for rejoicing, thought Anthony. Hadn’t they managed to capture the best harbor in the northern colonies? Perhaps at last the British luck was changing for the better. No wonder every brass button was proudly polished, every man’s hat cocked to the same degree, every musket and bayonet held at the same precise angle, as they marched in practiced unison through the Newport streets Anthony remembered so well.

Eight years had passed since he was here last. To his eyes, the town looked much the same, and yet everything—everything—had changed.

He was a major now, an officer in one of the finest regiments in the army. And because the land where he was born, the New England he still thought of as his home, was in open rebellion against the king he’d sworn to serve, he was also now the enemy.

He tightened his chilled fingers around the reins, striving to get the blood flowing through his hands again. Like the rest of the British troops, he’d been soaked to the skin by an icy rain when they landed from the transports at Weaver’s Cove, and two nights spent on a windswept hillside had left him feeling the ache in every one of the old wounds that marked his body. He’d be thirty-three his next birthday, and this wretched campaign against the American rebels had made him feel every day of it.

As if to mock his age even more, the youngest officer in the regiment, a lieutenant from Dorset whose voice had barely broken, came racing up to ride beside him.

“General Ridley’s compliments, sir, and he says to tell you that you’re to be quartered at…quartered at…” Peterson gulped and referred nervously to the crumpled paper in his hand. “At a tavern in Farewell Street. That’s three streets to the north, sir, and—”

“I know perfectly well where Farewell Street lies,” snapped Anthony irritably. He’d already received these orders once this morning, before they broke camp, and he didn’t need to have them repeated as if he were in his dotage. “And I know the tavern in question.”

“Of course, sir,” said Peterson immediately, his cheeks flushing. “Forgive me, sir. I should have recalled your familiarity with the rebels’ town, sir.”

Anthony didn’t answer. Oh, aye, he knew this town well, too well. Hadn’t he spent half his summers here as a boy, clambering up and down the entire island with his Sparhawk cousins? It was the reason he’d been chosen as one of General Ridley’s adjutants for the duration of the action in Rhode Island. A considerable honor, that, though one he hadn’t particularly wished to receive.

Still the young lieutenant hung doggedly at Anthony’s side, refusing to be dismissed. “The general said I was to take you to your quarters directly, sir. Your baggage is already there. Afterward he expects you to report to him, sir.”

Briefly Anthony glared at the younger man, then swung his horse away from the ranks to follow. He’d rather see his men properly cantoned, but being one of Ridley’s staff officers carried a whole different set of responsibilities. If the general wished him to report to the tavern now, he had no choice but to obey.

Ridley had made no secret of his reasons for quartering Anthony there, instead of with the rest of the general’s staff. Anthony was expected to make the most of his colonial background and strive to win the confidences of the tavernkeeper and his people, reporting whatever he learned.

Gathering information, Ridley had delicately called it. Spying, Anthony had thought with disgust. Listening at keyholes in a public house seemed a low, dirty task for a king’s officer. But those were his orders, and if such foolishness would help put down the rebels, then it was his duty to do it.

A pair of guards had already been posted on either side of the door to the tavern, marking it as officers’ lodgings, and his regiment’s flag—dark blue centered with the three plumes of the Prince of Wales—hung limply from the staff over the doorway. With disgust, Anthony wondered how many of the local townspeople, particularly those sympathetic to the rebels, would dare cross that threshold to reach the taproom on the other side.

Briefly he paused on the steps, letting Peterson swallow his impatience. Unlike many taverns that had begun life as a private home, this one had clearly been built to the purpose, a large, imposing public house with a gambrel roof and an elaborately carved pediment, complete with a pineapple for hospitality over the door. According to the gilded signboard, the tavern was now called Hazard’s, and from the fresh coat of dark red paint and the new kitchen ell to the rear, Mr. Hazard had clearly prospered.

But to Anthony’s surprise, no one came to greet them as they stepped inside. Whatever Hazard’s politics, it was poor business to keep guests waiting. Anthony unhooked his cloak and walked into the front room off the hall to warm his hands over the fire. The furnishings were elegant enough to grace a private parlor: mahogany chairs cushioned in leather, tavern tables with polished brasses, a chinoiserie mirror over the mantel and framed engravings on the walls. From the kitchen drifted the aroma of roasting, seasoned beef, tempting enough to make Anthony’s mouth water in anticipation. No ordinary rum shop, this, he thought with approval; lodging here would be infinitely more comfortable than a water-soaked tent on a windswept hillside.

That memory alone was enough to make Anthony lean closer to the fire, relishing the warmth clear through his body. “Have you met this host of ours, Peterson?” he asked. “He’s being so dilatory in his greeting that I’m beginning to suspect the fellow doesn’t exist.”

“He doesn’t,” said a woman behind him, her voice brittle with hostility. “At least he doesn’t any longer. My husband died two years ago of apoplexy, and thankful I am that he’s spared the sight of this house overrun with red-coated soldiers.”

“Then perhaps, ma’am,” answered Anthony, “it is also well that he died before he saw his colony turned traitor to His Majesty.”

Before he turned to face her, Anthony drew himself up to his full height, determined to let the woman feel the full impact of that officer’s uniform. In the black riding boots with the silver spurs, he stood over six feet, and in his immaculately cut red coat with blue facings and regimental lace over the white waistcoat and breeches, his sword hanging at his hip and the rose-colored sash of a staff officer around his waist, he was confident that he cut a far more imposing figure than any of his counterparts among the shabby American forces.

“Your servant, ma’am,” he said, and smiled, depending on the reliable charm of that smile to complete the work of the uniform. With women, anyway, it generally did.

But not, apparently, with this one. “My servant, or my oppressor?” she asked acidly. “You must be one or the other, for I can’t see how you could possibly be both.”

“Mistress Hazard,” said Peterson hastily, “may I introduce Major Anthony Sparhawk of the Twentythird Regiment, adjutant to General Ridley. Major Sparhawk, Mistress Catharine Hazard, proprietress of this establishment.”

Anthony smiled again and bowed slightly in acknowledgment, while she in her turn did nothing. Blast her impertinence, he thought irritably. Not only was it an insult to the crown he represented, but such rudeness stung his pride, as well. Mrs. Hazard was a beautiful woman, and beautiful women seldom scorned him like this.

In peacetime she’d be too young to be a widow, perhaps only in her middle twenties, and far too young for the responsibility of running so large a tavern. Her hair was the pale color of new wheat, her eyes a solemn gray that was at odds with a mouth that could, he suspected, blossom into ripe, lush temptation under more auspicious circumstances. She dressed with a peculiar blend of respectability and elegance in a flowered wool gown with a kerchief of sheer embroidered lawn tied over the front, a starched apron around her small waist and a gold locket in the shape of a heart pinned to the front of her bodice.

“You will forgive me, Major Sparhawk, if I have left you too long to enjoy this fine fire and this handsome, comfortable room,” she said, her sarcasm impossible to overlook. “I am somewhat shorthanded today, you see. A number of my people fled when they heard you and your brethren had come to save us from ourselves.”

“It is seldom the way of war to be agreeable, ma’am,” said Anthony evenly, determined to keep his temper. He knew she was baiting him, but the knowledge didn’t make it any easier to bear. “Perhaps you should be grateful instead that our coming was so peaceable, and that none of your people were wounded or killed in the process.”

She cocked one eyebrow and tipped her head, her gray eyes narrowing skeptically. “Grateful? Oh, I’d be a good deal more grateful if I weren’t expected to offer food and shelter to you and your men. I’m told I’ll have two dozen soldiers sleeping on mats in my attic alone.”

“You will receive just compensation for the quarters, ma’am,” said Peterson promptly, “and the men will receive their usual provisions, both fresh and salt. I thought I’d explained that well enough before.”

But Anthony doubted she even heard the lieutenant, her gaze was so fixed on him. “What of my four maidservants, major? They are accustomed to attending gentlemen and ladies of the better sort, not a troop of rough soldiers.”

“You have my assurance, ma’am, that the women will be unharmed,” said Anthony. If the maidservants were half as prickly as their mistress, then his men were the ones who’d need defending, not the other way around. “There will be no problems with my men. I give you my word upon it, both as a gentleman and an officer.”

To his surprise, Mrs. Hazard abruptly lost her studied composure as bright pink patches appeared on either cheek. “Your word as a gentleman, sir? As an officer?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, intrigued by the change the blush made in her face, “my word as both, and you’ve no reason to doubt either.”

“Indeed.” Her mouth twisted into a tight little smile that made no sense to Anthony, and then, with a sudden flurry of petticoats, she turned on her heel. “If you will but follow me. Major, I’ll show you to your room.”

Anthony gathered his hat and cloak, nodded to Peterson, and followed her to the staircase, still wondering what he’d done or said to make her blush so becomingly. He wished he knew for certain; he’d like to do it again.

Sorting through the jingling keys on her ring, she walked up the stairs briskly before Anthony, giving him an unintentional but appealing display of her ankles. Her yellow thread stockings matched her gown, the worked flowers the same pink and blue, and he smiled to himself. No matter that the British army had invaded her town. Mistress Hazard had still found the time and presence of mind this morning to match her stockings to her gown when she dressed.

“I have put you here in the green room, Major,” she said as she unlocked the door and pushed it open, standing to one side to let him pass. “I trust it will suit?”

“How could it not, ma’am?” Anthony tossed his hat and cloak on the bed, noting with satisfaction that his trunk and saddlebags had already arrived. Like the rest of the tavern, the room was simply but elegantly furnished, the tall-posted bed hung with the dark green chintz that must have given the room its name. “We poor soldiers seldom have such grand quarters.”

Her glance alone managed to scornfully dismiss his comment for the gallantry it was. “According to the lieutenant, you’ll have a cord of wood for your fire delivered here each week. I suggest you draw your curtains tightly around the bed at night, Major Sparhawk. Clearly your dear king is unfamiliar with Rhode Island winters, else he would have granted his officers three cords instead of one.”

With her arms folded over her chest, she walked across the room to the window. She moved gracefully, the ring of keys swinging from her waist and clinking with each step. “I thought you would prefer this room in the front, where you and your guards can see who comes and goes and make sure none of us wicked rebels tries to escape.”

But this time Anthony wasn’t listening to her gibes. The weak winter sun was slanting through the window, lighting the full curve of her cheek in a way that seemed oddly familiar. He thought again of how she’d blushed, and that, too, helped drag up some fragment of a memory.

“We’ve met before, Mrs. Hazard, haven’t we?” It was less a question than a statement, and he frowned as he stepped closer to her, trying to find her place in his past. “Here in Newport, long ago. At a party, perhaps, a dance or assembly?”

“You’re mistaken, Major,” she said quickly, too quickly for it to be anything but a lie. Restlessly she touched her fingers to the polished gold locket on her bodice. “You and I would never have been guests at the same houses.”

He waved his hand impatiently, as if to brush aside her denial. “I told you it would have been long ago, long before this rebellion. I was sickly as a lad, and my grandparents sent me here to take the sea air. Even after my health improved, I returned from affection alone. I stayed with my uncle, Captain Gabriel Sparhawk. Perhaps at his house, we might have—”

She stared at him, openly incredulous. “You truly have no shame, no loyalties, do you? For you to dare to speak of a gentleman as fine and good as Gabriel Sparhawk, a gentleman I’ve been honored to know both in business and in friendship?”

Anthony’s frown deepened. “And why should I not speak of my own uncle?”

“Why not, indeed, considering everything else that has befallen him and his poor wife these last days?”

“I do not—”

“No, you do not and you did not,” she said sharply, her eyes flashing. “Or will you pretend that you didn’t know your uncle was on your general’s list of rebels to be taken prisoner? At least his true friends saw to it that he escaped in time, he and Mistress Sparhawk and their last daughter Rachel. At least now they’re safe from you.”

Anthony listened, considering how much of her raving to believe. In Boston and on Long Island he’d seen himself how cunning the rebels could be at manipulating emotions with half-truths for their own purposes, and Mrs. Hazard could well be doing exactly that

He had not heard from his uncle or his cousins for years, but given the mails between old England and new, that was hardly unusual. As soon as he learned that the regiment was bound for Newport, of course he’d thought of his relatives there, but it was inconceivable that a gentleman as intelligent and respected as his uncle Gabriel would have let himself be swayed to support treason.

For whatever reason, then, the Hazard woman was lying. But what the devil did she hope to gain by doing so?

“My uncle and his family would never have cause to fear me,” he said, carefully watching Mrs. Hazard’s face. “He must know that, but if you tell me where I might find him, I’ll be happy to reassure him and my aunt myself.”

Instantly the woman’s face shuttered against him. “Forgive me, Major Sparhawk, but in truth I cannot say.”

“Cannot,” he asked, “or will not?”

“Either one amounts to much the same thing, doesn’t it, Major?” She smoothed the sleek wings of her hair with her fingertips, making sure no loose strands trailed from beneath her cap. “Now, if there’s nothing more you’ll be requiring from me, I have other matters to tend to.”

She left him by the window, her head bowed to avoid meeting his eyes as she began to close the door after her.

“One last question, Mrs. Hazard,” called Anthony, and reluctantly she looked back. He smiled slowly, almost teasingly, holding her attention for a fraction longer than was necessary.

“Mrs. Hazard, ma’am. You’ve been so good as to house my men in your attic and my junior officers in your lesser rooms, and you’ve been especially kind to grant me this splendid chamber for my own use. But where, ma’am, will that leave you to lay your own weary head this night?”

“Your concern touches me, Major Sparhawk. Where shall I sleep?” She smiled with an insolence that challenged his own. “In my own bed, behind a locked door, with a loaded musket on the pillow beside me. Good day to you, Major. And may the devil rot your red-coated soul in the black hell you deserve.”

The door clicked shut, and Anthony smiled. If she wanted a battle from him, then a battle she’d get. He’d make her his second, more personal, Rhode Island campaign, another chance to subdue another rebel. And before he was done, he meant to make her surrender every bit as complete.

An hour later, her heart still beating too fast, Catie watched from the window of her bedchamber as Anthony Sparhawk finally left the tavern with two other officers, his unpowdered golden hair gleaming in the moment before he settled his hat. With a muffled groan, Catie closed her eyes and sank into the nearest chair, and wondered at the impossibly cruel trick that fate had played upon her.

At least she’d had some warning from the young lieutenant. If she’d walked into the front room to find him there without it, she felt sure, she would have fainted dead away from the shock. He was, if anything, more handsome than she’d remembered, his face more ruggedly masculine, and the easy, inborn charm that had been her undoing so long ago was there still, too.

A week ago, she would have laughed at anyone who told her that Anthony Sparhawk would come back into her life. Didn’t she have more than enough Sparhawks in it already?

It was Gabriel Sparhawk who had long ago loaned Ben the money to buy Hazard’s, with the stipulation that the tavern serve only Sparhawk rum, and even after her husband paid back the debt, Gabriel had remained involved with the business as a silent partner. After Ben’s death, Catie had come to regard Gabriel as a friend, as well, a trusted and powerful business advisor who helped make certain she could keep the tavern in her name. With his support, she’d been able to prosper where most other widows would have foundered and failed.

But she’d gained more than mere bookkeeping from the Sparhawks. Through the example of the old captain’s wife, Mariah, Catie had learned to speak and act like the gentry, and to match her manners and clothing to theirs. Soon more and more of the tavern’s customers had been gentry, as well, drawn by curiosity and the Sparhawks’ recommendations and won by Catie’s hospitality.

Yet not once in all that time had either Gabriel or Mariah mentioned a nephew named Anthony, and Catie had secretly rejoiced. It made perfect sense: Anthony had chosen to be a soldier, and soldier’s lives were notoriously short.

But not, it seemed, short enough. What were the phenomenal odds that Anthony Sparhawk’s regiment would be among those sent to subdue the American colonies, and then, even more unlikely, one of the three sent to invade Newport? Before this, the island had been considered impregnable, protected by nature and defended by the fort on Goat Island, and no one had seriously thought the British would even attempt to take the best harbor in New England.

But dare they had, and, worse yet, they’d succeeded, and now here she was, with Anthony Sparhawk beneath her roof. Once before, he’d come close to ruining her life, and now—Lord, he could bring her whole careful world crashing down around her.

With trembling fingers Catie unfastened the locket from her bodice and opened it. Inside one half lay curled a wisp of her daughter’s silvery baby hair, tied with a red thread, while on the other was the portrait Catie had had painted of Belinda two years ago, on her fifth birthday. The artist had perfectly captured the little girl’s serious smile and the wide green eyes that looked upon the world with a wisdom beyond her years.

So much like her mother, everyone said, the very image of Catie. Ben had always laughed and said what a blessing it was that his darling Belinda hadn’t favored her father instead.

But Belinda did favor her father, thought Catie miserably. Lord help them both, she did, more than anyone could ever have dreamed possible.

“Mrs. Hazard, there be—Oh, forgive me, mistress, but the door was open.” Self-consciously Hannah ducked her head, giving Catie time to compose herself. Hannah had worked for Ben Hazard long before he hired and then wed Catie, and the older woman’s cookery was one of the main reasons that he had prospered.

“No harm done, Hannah,” said Catie as she dabbed at her eyes with the corner of her apron and forced herself to smile. “’Twas my fault, leaving the door ajar like that. With all these wretched Britishers underfoot, I’ll have to change my ways, won’t I?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Hannah with obvious relief. Though she was at least thirty years Catie’s senior, Catie was the mistress, and mistresses were supposed to be the strong ones that everyone else depended upon.

But where, thought Catie unhappily, was she supposed to turn for comfort?

“Yes, indeed, Hannah,” she said, closing the locket with a soft click to repin it to her bodice. “There are many things that must change, whether we wish them to or not.”

Hannah’s glance followed the locket. “You’re fretting over your little girl, aren’t you?” she said sympathetically. “I’m sure Miss Belinda’s worrying over you, as well. But you did right to send her away, mistress. A house full o’ rough men’s no place for a sweet angel like Miss Belinda.”

Catie nodded, her smile tight. It wasn’t the score of rough men under her roof that she feared so much as the one very polished major. When two nights ago, at the first news of the invasion, she sent Belinda from Newport to stay with a married couple she knew near Nantasket, she’d had no idea how wise a precaution it would prove to be.

She rose briskly, determined to put aside her own worries. “Now, Hannah, I want you to make sure that you keep the cellar locked, and that you leave nothing—nothing—unattended in the kitchen as long as we must house these particular guests,” she warned. “While that puppy of a lieutenant assured me his men will receive daily rations from their quartermaster, I don’t believe for a minute they’ll be able to resist trying to steal a taste of your cooking.”

“Don’t know a man what can, mistress,” said Hannah proudly. “But any of them lobsterbacks come creepin’ into my kitchen, an’ they’ll answer to my cleaver.”

“We should have had you and your cleaver on the beach at Weaver’s Cove instead of that fool militia,” said Catie wryly, only half jesting. Certainly she and Hannah would have made a better show of defending their home. “Now, as for supper—”

“Beggin’ your pardon, mistress,” Hannah interrupted, “but Cap’n Jon’s still waitin’ downstairs at the back door. That’s why I came up here, to tell you.”

“Captain Sparhawk’s here? Now?” Without waiting for an answer, Catie gathered her skirts and hurried down the back stairs to the kitchen. Jon Sparhawk was known to be a brave man, a daring man, but he was tempting fate to come to Hazard’s when it was so full of British soldiers.

Yet when she reached the kitchen, the room was empty, Hannah’s pie crust sitting half-crimped in its pan on the table, the back door closed and latched. Puzzled, Catie went to bolt the door. Perhaps Jon Sparhawk had left to avoid one of the British guards, or perhaps, more likely, he’d simply realized how foolish it was for him to come to the tavern now.

The man’s hand closed over Catie’s mouth before she could scream, his other arm locking around her waist to drag her back from the door and window beside it. Frantically Catie plunged against him, struggling to break free, but the man only tightened his grip further, pinning her arms against her sides. He was so much bigger than she was, so much stronger, and, terrified, she instinctively seized the one defense left to her: as hard as she could, she bit the palm of his hand.

With a yowl of pain, the man released her. Stumbling forward, Catie grabbed the rolling pin from the table and wheeled round to face him.

“For God’s sake, Catie, did you have to bite me?” demanded Jon Sparhawk indignantly as he cradled his wounded hand.

“Did you have to scare me out of my wits?” Catie glared at him, the rolling pin still in her hand. In all the time she’d known Jon, he’d never dared treat her this way, and she didn’t like it, not at all. “With everything else that’s happening in this town, I certainly don’t need you creeping about my house playing footpad!”

“I’m not ‘playing’ at anything, Catie. No one in Newport is.” He scowled down at the bright red marks Catie’s teeth had left in his hand. “I didn’t want you to scream and raise a fuss, that was all. Did you know your yard is full of those British bastards?”

“They’re in my yard, my attic, and my best bedchambers,” said Catie with disgust. She tossed the rolling pin back on the table, dipped a rag in the water bucket and held it out to Jon for his hand. “They’re probably under the very bedsteads, as well, if I cared to look. How else would I know your cousin is one of them?”

Jon looked up sharply. “Then it is Anthony?”

“Of course it is,” said Catie, praying she’d be able to keep her voice even. Though she had known Jon for years, he had never made the connection between Ben Hazard’s wife and the nervous serving girl she’d been at the Crossed Keys, and she had no wish for him to realize it now. “I wouldn’t have sent the message to you if it wasn’t your cousin. There is, you know, a certain family resemblance.”

“Oh, aye, no doubt of that,” he said. “Even though Anthony’s turned traitor, his face would still mark him as a Sparhawk.”

He dropped into the chair beside the table, the skirts of his coat falling back so that Catie could see the pistols in his belt, silver-mounted and deadly elegant.

Purposefully she looked away. No matter what the circumstances, she didn’t approve of guns in her house, but she didn’t wish to challenge Jon on it now. “He thinks we’re the ones who are the traitors, Jon.”

Wearily Jon shook his head. His jaw was stubbled black, his eyes ringed from sleeplessness, and his clothes so rumpled that Catie doubted he’d been home to sleep since the British landed.

“Anthony wouldn’t say that if he’d stayed here at home, where he could see how bad things have become. He’ll come round to our side. You’ll see. Once he learns how Father’s been driven away—”

“He knows already.” Catie’s hands tightened into fists at her sides. “Though he pretended not to, and tried to trick me into saying more. Not a quarter hour past, he left for the general’s headquarters.”

Jon swore, long and furiously. “To my father’s house, you mean.”

Catie nodded. “The only loyalty your cousin has now is to that blessed red coat of his.”

“Then they’ve poisoned him against his own people,” he said flatly. “There’s no other explanation. I cannot believe—”

“Believe it, Jon, for it’s true,” said Catie vehemently. “Two minutes in your cousin’s company and you’d see for yourself. He’s not an American any longer. He’s one of them now, the worst kind of arrogant British officer, and he doesn’t care a fig for what happens to you or your parents.”

Jon’s expression hardened, the lines carved deep on either side of his mouth. “Then we’ll have to treat him with the same high regard, won’t we?”

He lowered his voice to a conspirator’s rough whisper. “As long as he’s under your roof, Catie, I want you to watch him. Listen to his conversations, note who comes to see him, charm him into trusting you. Then tell me whatever you learn.”

Startled, Catie drew back, her hands clasped tightly together at her waist She hadn’t expected Jon to ask her to do that, and she didn’t want to, not at all. To charm Anthony Sparhawk no, she couldn’t do it.

“I can’t, Jon,” she said, faltering. “I just—I can’t.”

“Oh, aye, you can, Catie, and you will,” said Jon firmly. “You’ll have chances to be near him that none of the rest of us will. It’s not that much to ask. Think of all the men risking their very lives for the cause.”

But if she did as he asked, her own life would be at stake, too. Already Anthony had nearly recognized her. The more time she spent in his company, the more likely it was that he’d be able to remember who she was. And once he did, her carefully ordered world would collapse like a wobbly house of playing cards.

“You don’t know what you ask, Jon,” she said miserably, unable to explain. “I can’t—”

“You will do it, lass,” said Jon, and the harsh edge in his voice warned Catie to obey. “Not just for the cause of freedom. You’ll do it for my father and my mother, as well. After all my family’s done for you, Catie Hazard, you will do this for us.”

Her conscience twisting the fear around her heart, Catie stared down at the pistols at his waist. Such guns weren’t an affectation with Jon; he’d use them if he had to. She thought again of how he’d trapped her earlier, and now she shivered at the thought of what he could have done. This was the other side of the Sparhawk family, the ruthless, violent side that she’d heard whispered of, but had never seen in the front room at Hazard’s, the side that had made them their fortunes as privateers and in a score of other risky ventures.

Including, she realized now, her own.

Her shoulders drooped, and she touched the locket with her daughter’s picture. For Belinda’s sake, she didn’t want to do as Jon asked, but for Belinda’s sake, too, she knew she had no choice.

“Very well,” she said softly. “But I’ll send word to you, mind? You must promise me not to come here again. It’s too dangerous.”

Jon’s heavy brows curled down with contempt. “War is dangerous, Catie. If I hadn’t wanted to do what I could against the British here in Newport, why, I would have taken the children and scurried off to Providence with my parents.”

“I almost wish you had,” said Catie wistfully, thinking not only of Jon’s family, but of Belinda, too. His three children had dozens of doting aunts, uncles, and grandparents to watch over them, but she and Belinda had only each other. “You know that’s what Betsey would have wished.”

His face grew studiously emotionless, the way it always did when he spoke of the pretty young wife he’d lost in childbirth two years before. “Betsey wished for many things.”

“This is one wish you could grant her,” said Catie gently. “All I’m saying is that I—that we—must be careful, Jon, very careful. Your cousin Anthony is not a man to take lightly.”

“And you be careful, too, Mrs. Hazard.” Unexpectedly he smiled, almost ruefully. “I know what I’m asking, Catie, and what it must cost you. You’re the most kindhearted woman I know, and here I am trying to turn you into a low, sneaking spy.”

But Catie’s smile in return was bleak. He didn’t know what he asked, and, God willing, he never would. As for being low and sneaking, she’d crossed that boundary long ago.

“It won’t be that hard for me, Jon,” she said softly. “I’m wonderfully good at keeping secrets.”