Sarah sat up waiting for Benji in the parlor of Trent’s house, long after the clock in the hall had struck midnight and the household had all gone to bed. It gave her precious time alone to think.
A little after four she heard the brass key turn in the lock and her brother’s heels upon the marble tile.
“Do not,” she said, “go upstairs.”
He stopped, turned, and padded lightly into the parlor, the pale blue silk of his coat and breeches shimmering in the candlelight. He wore knee bands embroidered with pink and yellow flowers, a waistcoat embellished likewise, and a diamond pin in the folds of his neck cloth. His cologne tonight was different, bergamot and bitter orange layered over his more familiar sandalwood.
“You knew,” she said. “About Sparhawk.”
Her brother took the seat opposite and crossed his legs. The diamond buckles on his shoes sparkled. They had not come from Trent.
“I only learned this week, when it was announced he would be transferred to Ansbach’s ship, but Sparhawk’s fate is none of our affair,” he replied smoothly.
“The man saved Ned’s life.”
“And you repaid his bravery by returning him to his people. The matter must end there,” said her brother. “Even if,” he added, “you repaid him in other ways. If the man has any fondness for you whatsoever, he will agree with me.”
“He probably would agree with you,” Sarah replied. “That doesn’t change his need of my help. He is in the dock because I put him there, and if he hangs, it will be my fault.”
“No. It is Admiral Graves and a corrupt government that have fit Sparhawk for the noose. You cannot become involved in this affair, or you will incriminate yourself, Ned, and Father in a hanging matter.”
She looked him straight in the eye and said, “You have already incriminated us in a hanging matter, Benji.”
His golden brows, as pale as her own, shot up in disbelief. “Are you trying to blackmail me, sister mine?”
“Yes.”
He laughed. When she didn’t, he fell silent.
“Help me to save James Sparhawk,” she said, “or I will tell Trent about the papers in your desk.”
“My desk,” he said, “is locked.”
“Was locked,” she corrected. She held up the set of thief’s picks she had borrowed from Mr. Cheap.
“Of course,” said her brother. “I had forgotten whom I was dealing with. Salem’s own Anne Bonny. I suppose you have already enlisted Mr. Cheap in this escapade.”
“And Father too,” she said. “But we cannot do it without you.”
The next morning, Sarah instructed Mr. Cheap to take her to the King’s Head tavern in Cornhill. Benji had tried to talk her out of it. He’d unlocked his desk himself this time and showed her a half-finished mock-up of the “Bloody Butchery” broadside, the nameless black coffins marching across the top. It was all rhetoric, devoid of details, but the date in the corner told its tale.
“April eighteen,” Benjamin Ward had said. “The day before the skirmish. This Angela Ferrers is no ordinary revolutionary,” said her brother. “She is a Machiavelli, like Adams, and she gets people killed.”
But Sarah was determined, so he had drawn out another paper, an ink-stained map of Boston with a wordy advertisement for the King’s Head, a public house that sold looking glasses, tea tables, china ware, English and Dutch toys for children, by wholesale or retail. Its location, only a block removed from the seat of the provincial government, the Town House, with its gilt lion and unicorn on top, was conveniently and prominently marked with a pointing hand.
The taproom of the King’s Head was bright and modern, with tall windows and fashionable silk drapes. In the room behind the stairs Sarah found the promised mirrors, china, toys, and all manner of maps, prints, and engravings as well as carved and gilt frames and stacks of pamphlets and books. The pamphlets were tepid sermons, the toys had a dusty, disused look, and the chamber itself, positioned at the back of the building overlooking a small garden, well away from the bustle of the taproom, was hushed and quiet.
A bespectacled publican in an apron came and asked her if she wanted to purchase anything, and she replied that she had hoped there might be a lady who could help her. The barkeep considered a moment and decided that there might be a lady who could help her, if Sarah could be persuaded to wait. He offered to bring her a shrub. She asked for a glass of punch instead.
While she waited, she pretended to examine the maps for sale. She was alone for a few minutes before she detected it, a consistent thump beneath her feet. Sarah, born aboard a schooner, was used to feeling the motion of the Sally through her deck. But land, in her experience, tended to stay still.
She ventured into the hall where the vibration died entirely, lost in the competing clamor of pots and dishes and the liquid sounds of the taps and kettles. Back in the room it was unmistakable. It was not the clip-clop of a horse or beast of burden or the click-clack of shoes across tile, but the steady mechanical rhythm of a loom or saw, over and over again.
Curiosity drew her out the back door into a yard where a set of stone steps descended to batten cellar doors. Latched from the inside. It was the work of a moment to fish her whalebone busk out of her stays, slide it between the doors, and lift the latch.
The tannic smell of a printing press, of linseed oil and urine, met her on the threshold. A boy in an ink-stained leather vest was setting type while a black child stood by with leather swabs. Stacks and stacks of pamphlets, decidedly not for sale upstairs, Letters from a Pennsylvania Farmer, The Rights of the Colonists, and more of those “Bloody Butchery” broadsides, black coffins across the top, were piled on every available surface.
“Miss Ward.”
Sarah turned. Angela Ferrers stood silhouetted in the doorway. Her Salem silks were gone. The dun-colored petticoat and jacket she wore, pinned over a homespun shift, would have attracted no attention at the market or in the tavern upstairs. A plain cap hid her hair. Even the rings on her fingers, genuine mementos, Sarah had somehow felt sure, were missing from her hands.
It was not a disguise so much as it was transubstantiation. Sarah was certain that Angela Ferrers knew how to set type as well as she had poured tea in Micah Wild’s parlor; the way that Sarah knew both how to repair a torn sail and stitch an accomplished sampler. Abednego Ward’s daughter moved in two worlds. Angela Ferrers, Sarah suspected, moved in many more.
“Unless you prefer being hanged for sedition to being hanged for piracy, we should speak upstairs,” said the widow.
“Is it wise to operate a press so close to the Town House?” Sarah asked.
“It is not wise to operate a press anywhere, just now,” replied Angela Ferrers. “But the noise is easier to conceal in a busy place than a quiet one.”
Sarah followed her to a private parlor on the second floor. The older woman closed the door, then the shutters. In the resulting gloom she turned to face Sarah and said, “Now, what brings you to see me?”
“Admiral Graves has arrested James Sparhawk.”
Angela Ferrers shrugged. “A rather predictable outcome. You did relieve him of his ship.”
“I am responsible for his predicament, but he is not on trial for the loss of the Wasp.” She related the story of Graves’ appropriation of the gold.
“Where did you hear this?”
“From a credible source,” Sarah hedged.
“You will have to do better than that.”
“From Anthony Trent.”
For the first time in their acquaintance the widow betrayed a flicker of surprise. It humanized her. “How do you know Trent—Lord Polkerris?” she asked.
“We are staying with him, in his house near the Common.”
Angela Ferrers’ manicured brows lifted fractionally. “Does Sparhawk know this?”
“No. I have not seen him since the night he left Salem.”
“If you are determined to rescue Sparhawk, then I suggest you do not tell him of your connection with Polkerris. There is, I suspect, a rivalry there.”
“Over a woman,” Sarah guessed. She had no illusions about either man.
“In a sense, yes. Polkerris,” she said, “is a powerful protector. A better catch than Sparhawk. You would do well to forget all about the young captain, and reel in the fish that you have. Landing him would make you a regular Lady Frankland. She went from a Marblehead tavern girl to baronet’s wife. The leap is no greater from pirate captain’s daughter to baroness.”
“Thank you for the advice,” Sarah said dryly. “But it is my fault that Sparhawk became embroiled in the affair of the gold. And it is my obligation to get him out of it. I need evidence against Admiral Graves, and I believe you can get it for me.”
“I have a talent for obtaining such things,” the widow admitted. “But this time, you will need better coin than sentiment.”
“Information, you once told me, is currency,” said Sarah. “I have found Micah Wild’s missing schooner, the Oliver Cromwell.”
• • •
After spending a month at Castle William, Sparhawk was transferred to the Hephaestion and given to understand that his trial would take place within the week, two at the outside.
He was glad of it. When he had first arrived in Boston, the wild coast of New England had struck him dumb with its fierce beauty. The sight of her trim little schooners plying the choppy waters had stirred him. Like Sarah Ward. Now that she was gone, he could take no pleasure in any of it. He had not slept a night through since DeBerniere’s visit, could not close his eyes without seeing the flames that had consumed the Ward house, and Sarah Ward with it.
Now he wanted only to be done with the admiral’s trumped-up charges, and pursue some measure of justice against a villain as bad as or worse than Micah Wild. He did not think his fellow officers would deal too harshly with him because they might find themselves in the same position if they served any time on the blockade. He would receive a reprimand or be docked some pay, and then he would be returned to service or put on half pay and be free to find the parson who had married his parents. Once he had the man’s sworn testimony, he would apply what interest he had and get himself recalled home to England, where he would place his evidence before the courts.
Aboard Charles Ansbach’s frigate he was treated as a guest, not a prisoner, and allowed the freedom of the wardroom and assigned a cabin suitable for an officer. No doubt some poor lieutenant had been turned out of his quarters, but Sparhawk could not be sorry for it. There was precious little privacy to be had aboard a man-of-war, and he was wise enough to cherish it.
Ansbach’s surgeon, a weathered but genteel Scott, examined Sparhawk’s wrist and pronounced it healed, though he warned him that it might be weak and stiff for the first few days after the splint was off.
Time passed pleasantly aboard the frigate. Sparhawk had served with Ansbach in the Med and found him to be a capable fighting officer. He needn’t have been. As Princess Caroline’s royal by-blow, he might have risen on interest alone. Instead, he had carved out a reputation for himself as a fine sailor with a talent for gunnery. He had another sort of reputation as well, but it was the kind best politely ignored because of his exalted connections.
He invited Sparhawk to dine most nights, sometimes on his own, and other times in company with the ship’s officers. He did not probe the subject of Sparhawk’s melancholy, and for that James was grateful.
Initially, Sparhawk had been surprised to find Ansbach in Boston Harbor at all. “I heard you refused to serve in America,” James said over the port the first night they dined alone.
Ansbach inclined his burnished head. He had the leonine mane of an Alexander, chestnut brown sun- shot with gold, and fine, classical features. “My uncle is sadly deluded about the situation in America. I refused to bolster his fantasies. The problem is not confined to Boston, and bottling up the harbor will not solve it.”
His uncle was the king. And such, after three months’ blockade duty and several weeks’ imprisonment, was James’ assessment as well. “But you came anyway,” he observed.
“Just so,” Ansbach replied. “I came anyway, because my uncle has lost faith in Admiral Graves and the First Lord of the Admiralty will not remove him. I am here to report on the admiral. Of course, Graves knows this, and so the only seaworthy frigate in his squadron”—he gestured at the graceful contours of his cabin—“is anchored off Castle William playing the role of prison hulk.”
“It is an extraordinarily comfortable prison,” said Sparhawk. “I thank you for it. I only wish I were better company.”
“From what I have observed,” replied Ansbach, “half the officers on the blockade have been court-martialed at one time or another. When they are not running aground on the blasted shoals of this miserable excuse for a harbor, they are running afoul of the locals, who beg for our protection in one breath and then complain of our presence in the next. I ask only that when it is my turn to play prisoner, you return the favor.”
He would not be able to return the favor quite so lavishly. Sparhawk had made himself comfortably well off in the navy—capturing smugglers brought prize money, convoy duty the gifts of grateful merchants; transporting currency paid captains a generous percentage—but Ansbach was rich. He kept a fine table, and like many wealthy officers, he bought his own powder for gunnery practice to augment the Admiralty’s stingy provision. Drilling the gun crews provided Sparhawk with a welcome daily distraction. In the afternoon the tea agent and the customs inspector had themselves rowed out from the castle to join him in the wardroom for cards.
The customs inspector, Sparhawk had long since discovered, cheated, but they played ombre for small stakes and the company prevented James from brooding, so he ignored this lapse in judgment.
The door opened and Ansbach’s servant, Hobbs, put his head in. “Begging your pardon, gentlemen, but there is a lady to call on Captain Sparhawk.”
The tea agent smirked. “Old One-Foot-in-the-Graves’ would-be widow, I’ll wager.”
James did not find the gibe amusing. He regretted his affair with Graves’ wife more than ever. He had no doubt it had played into the admiral’s malice toward him. But Sparhawk, at least, had been discreet. That the tea agent knew of it indicated that she had not. “I am not receiving ladies.”
Hobbs hesitated. “It is not that lady, sir.”
Now the customs inspector, who had frowned at the tea agent’s remark, turned toward the door with obvious interest. An admiral’s wife was dangerous game, but opportunities for amorous sport were limited at the castle, and less politically risky ladies were always of interest.
“Then what lady is it?” Sparhawk asked. General Gage’s American wife might just plausibly visit him, but he was not altogether certain it would be safe to receive her. She was playing a deep game, with her Rebel doctor friend.
“Lady was more in the way of a courtesy, sir. Or what I might call a euphemism. I think she’s a trollop. But a fine, expensive one.”
“Show her in,” said the tea agent.
Hobbs looked to Sparhawk. He did not take orders from landsmen.
“Tell the lady,” Sparhawk said, “that I have been losing to a certain gentleman”—he nodded at the customs inspector—“and as he is now in funds, he may be inclined to engage her if she will wait outside until we have finished our game.”
Hobbs remained half inside the door, and now he abandoned discretion in favor of directness. “I would not have let her aboard, sir, but she said she knew you. That you had sent for her and would pay the boatman. A very dubious-looking character, if you don’t mind my saying. He’s still waiting. I did question the lady, sir, and she described you to a tee.”
The customs inspector laughed. A clever trollop, at least. No doubt she had gotten his description from the landlady at the Three Cranes. Vexed but at last interested, Sparhawk threw down his cards.
“Show her in, then.” It was either a joke played by some fellow officer, or a ploy by an enterprising harlot. He would soon see.
Ansbach’s man disappeared. The game continued another hand. The customs inspector slipped a card up his sleeve, the door opened, and a breeze blew in, carrying with it the scent of ambergris and neroli. An expensive lady indeed. Nothing had stirred his carnal appetite since he had learned about the death of Sarah Ward, but this woman’s perfume was calculated to arouse hunger.
Sparhawk’s back was to the door, but he resisted the urge to turn and look. The tea agent, however, had an excellent view of their visitor. “Don’t be shy, sweetheart,” he coaxed.
Out of the corner of his eye Sparhawk saw the woman stiffen. Finally he turned to look at her. She was wearing a short red cape of watered silk with a wide, pleated hood that shadowed her face but fell open to reveal a tantalizing expanse of full breasts thrust high by expertly molded stays. Her gown was cream chintz trellised with roses and trimmed with box-cut ruching, hitched into a high polonaise that barely covered her calf. The entire effect was reminiscent of a sugared confection with a cherry on top.
She looked, in a word, delicious.
“Come here and show us your face,” crooned the customs inspector, in a tone Sparhawk had never heard him use with his wife. The man patted his lap. The girl hung back. The customs agent leaned across the small room and reached for her.
The Hephaestion rolled with the onslaught of the evening tide. The woman stepped neatly around the table and out of range. It was a difficult maneuver in a tiny, crowded room on a pitching deck—executed with arresting balletic grace.
For an instant, Sparhawk’s heart stopped. The gown might belong to any woman with money and a certain taste. The scent was expensive but hardly rare. The finely turned ankles would not be uncommon out in the country. The dramatic curves beneath the cape could belong to a countess or a courtesan.
But he had met only one woman who could move like that on a swaying ship.
The moment stretched. His mind, out of habit, denied the evidence of his eyes. For so many years he had held out hope that he would see his mother again, had fought a war within himself to deny fantasy and accept reality. A war that had been won before he ever saw his mother’s grave. The impossibility of it had come to him in, of all places, Drury Lane. McKenzie had taken him to the theater to celebrate his promotion to the rank of lieutenant. The play, Steele’s Conscious Lovers, had been amusing enough, if mawkishly sentimental, until the climactic scene when the heroine was reunited with her long-lost parent.
The falseness of it had struck him to the core. He’d vomited in the street afterward, sickened by his own weakness and gullibility. McKenzie had put it down to drink, but it was the spectacle of his most fervent desire turned into popular entertainment that had soured his stomach and made him see the truth: his mother was dead.
Not once since learning of Sarah Ward’s death had he allowed himself to imagine her alive, to imagine such a moment as this.
He put down his cards. “I am afraid I must ask you to leave,” he said.
“If you don’t want her,” the customs inspector said, “I’ll take her.”
“I do not think your wife would appreciate such a guest,” Sparhawk said. “My apologies, but the game is over.”
The merchants looked at each other, muttered something wry about sailors, time, and tide, and got out.
And Sparhawk was alone with Sarah Ward.