Chapter Four

Amid the noisy gaiety of partiers, Lily hurried through the French doors into a balmy May night. A fat moon and tallow lanterns cast a silvery light across the rear terrace of the spacious house. Propelled by an angry disappointment, she hurried to a low rock wall skirted by a sloped manicured lawn below. Two flowerpots, brimming with colorful pansies, pink geraniums and trailing ivy, flanked the gateway. “Bah,” she muttered.

The laughter of Percy’s guests and a cheery mazurka spilled from the parlor windows, and added to the burden of her disillusionment. How did Griffin transform from a boy fixated on magical fantasies to an elegant gentleman who conducted business with her vile uncle? She considered it a wonder how people changed, and often not for the better. It also made no sense how being on a ship with her could be such a problem. He was so unreasonable. If the tables were turned and he needed her help, she would have given it, gladly. You helped one another. It’s what people did.

As to the captain’s superstition about women, a generous fare would surely ease his fear. But would she have enough coins and baubles to appease him?

She stamped a foot, vexed to be almost free from Percy’s heavy thumb only to be thwarted. Had the stubborn New Yorker helped, she’d soon be on her way.

Still, no matter what occurred, no matter how difficult the quest, she would get to Papa—and soon. Jaw set, toes tapping, she focused on a way, but even the glorious scent of late blooming lilacs couldn’t dispel her impatient mood. One plan after another hatched and crumbled to nothing but broken shards.

While the musicians played the last notes and fell silent, she knew further discussion with Percy would yield another dismal stalemate. They would argue, and she would receive no delight in agitating him. How she hated the continual acrimony, and released a shuddery breath.

“Such a sad sigh, Miss Fitzhugh.”

With a gasp, she twirled around. Cecil Jones, legal counsel to her uncle, stood with his back to the double doors. “You startled me, sir.” Her hand pressed against the fast tick of her heart.

He bowed slightly from the waist. “Forgive me, madam.”

“What brings you to the terrace?” Years of experience with this slippery ferret taught her to take a guarded yet offensive position.

“Perhaps the same reason as you. To escape.”

She hated being so transparent. With trepidation, she watched him cross the terrace, his inscrutable smile in place. What did he want? “Are you not amused by the party, Mr. Jones?”

He didn’t bother to answer. “I see you are familiar with our American.”

“Our American? Surely not mine.” From now on, Griffin would never be anything except a well-forgotten memory.

He stepped closer, and her curiosity and discomfort rose in equal measure. No doubt, a matter more important than the need for fresh air propelled his visit to the terrace. “I couldn’t help but overhear a bit of your conversation.”

The smell of onion on his breath offended her as much as his admission of eavesdropping.

He lifted his chin and stared at the glowing night sky. “If your friend were of a mind, he would have found room for you on the Providence.”

Clearly, he had something important on his mind. Whether she intended to stick around to hear the ferret out remained an unanswered question.

“You should go to New York. It’s an important pursuit.”

The statement jolted her, as if someone had shaken her by the shoulders. “Have you heard news of my father?” She assessed him warily, sensing the wheels turning in his devious mind.

“Nothing specific.”

“Tell me.” Chilled, despite the mild evening, she crossed her arms and gripped her elbows.

“Illness can overtake a man with such stealth, especially someone of your father’s age.”

Goose bumps pimpled her skin. Illness loomed large in her worries. If Papa died, her dreams of a family filled with love and acceptance died, too. With a shake of the head, she chased away the fear.

“Times are unsettled.” He ground a fist into the palm of his hand, as if the two were pestle and mortar. “The line is muddied and unclear. A person must take a stand—one way or the other.”

Her forehead scrunched in confusion. “What are you talking about? I fail to see what taking a stand has to do with a man’s health.”

Treating her like a child, he flashed an indulgent, tolerant smile. “Politics, Miss Fitzhugh. One either stands behind the King or not.” His clasped hands stilled. “Tell me, on which side does your father stand?”

The question was bold and worrisome given the current political tenor with the colonies. “My father is not a political man.” At least he wasn’t until recently. “In any event, Mr. Jones, it’s no concern of yours.”

A mirthless chuckle tolled. It dashed any hopes he might cease with his questions. “Good answer. Do I dare inquire as to your political leanings, Miss Fitzhugh?”

These cat-and-mouse queries fueled her caution. What mattered most was a home with Papa. “I don’t concern myself with politics, but I stand behind the King and always will.”

“Well spoken, young lady.” His sharp gaze swept over the deserted veranda, as though he feared an eavesdropper lurked in a nearby bush. “About New York…”

Her pulse quickened.

“Perhaps I can be of assistance.”

Hope shot in the air like a cannonball and plummeted a second later. Cecil would want something in exchange for his help. Tit for tat and miserly, he never did a favor without expecting one in return. She might not be willing to pay his price. Countless games of chess with the man had proved his cunning. She shifted on her feet, cautious yet curious enough to play along. “It would be exceptionally kind, sir, but why go out of your way to help me?”

“You may not be politically inclined Miss Fitzhugh, but these are political times.” He spoke in a low voice, meant only for her ears. “We may not like the current state of affairs, or even care, yet sides have been drawn. Everyone will land in one camp or the other, whether one involves himself or not.”

She waited, aware of the noisy thud-thud in her ears, afraid to hear more.

“I fear Mr. Faraday plays at both sides.”

For a moment, her heart stopped. Then it kicked in, drumming louder than normal.

“The young man expresses his eloquent and rather voluble support of the King. Yet it’s rumored…” A shift of his crafty gaze sent a chill along her neck. “He has deep ties to New York.”

The ludicrous implication prompted a swell of hearty outrage. “The connection doesn’t make him a traitor,” she pronounced irritably and huffed at the ridiculous suggestion. “Don’t forget, I lived in New York too, at least for a few years. I support king and country and don’t wish to sever ties.” For some reason, she wanted to strike out, to fight, and she couldn’t say why. “Many New Yorkers support English rule. How dare you suggest—”

“Yes, yes.” He fluttered his hands so she’d lower her voice. “You may be correct, but Mr. Faraday isn’t just anyone.”

Well, neither was she. Anxious to hear what sort of man Griffin had become, she angled her head closer.

“He ingratiates himself into the highest of circles, English venues where the most important decisions regarding the colonies are only whispered.”

Every breath, every pulse beat, fell silent. “The highest circles?”

“Should his sympathies lie with his native home…”

Here he gave a dramatic pause. Any simpleton could deduce he believed Griffin was a spy. With a brittle stare, she debated whether to argue the point. For once, the lawyer had his information wrong. “You’re suggesting Mr. Faraday is a danger to England?” She almost laughed. If she wanted, she could tell him a few things about Griffin Faraday. He was a dreamer and a jokester, a prattling charmer and regrettably, a selfish toad. Goodness. The man conducted business with her uncle. Birds of a feather…She shuddered in distaste.

As if he sensed her doubt, Jones gave a stiff, dismissive tug to his coat sleeve. “The young dandy is wealthy and well connected both in London and in the Colonies. The father is even wealthier and holds vast acreages essential to England’s interests. We cannot afford to lose these resources. The elder rails about…” He lowered his voice forcing her to strain her ears. “He speaks ill of the King’s directives.”

This was all too much to swallow. “Are you suggesting the son is but a puppet for the father?”

Cecil answered with a sour face. “There are those who think he works on behalf of the King. In addition, there are those who believe he is a rebel agent. I need to know on which side he stands.” He leveled her with such ominous consideration she rocked back on her heels. “I believe you can help me find the answer.”

The stone slab beneath her feet seemed to shift. She struggled to breathe. This would be her repayment for Cecil’s help—spying on Griffin. What a sordid, ugly affair. Against her soundest wishes, he meant to yank her into this conflict. She’d be pitted against her countrymen and used for political gain. Sadly, what choice did she have if she hoped to get to New York? She couldn’t laugh and walk away now. Her father needed her. And she needed him.

She took a deep swallow, clenching and unclenching her hands. “They hang spies, don’t they?”