A Widow's Guide to Scandal (The Sons of Neptune Book 1) Page 2

  Tonight, a crowd gathered for the weekly reading of the New-York Gazette. He listened to the latest reports of the Continental Congress debating whether to break from Britain and did his best to scowl in disgust. He chanted a bawdy song under his breath to make it look like he was cursing up a storm. Damn Patriots, and all that.

  The door of the tavern opened. In the reflection off the mirror behind the serving counter, Marcus watched Augie enter. The man’s gaze swept the crowd. Even if he saw Marcus, he’d never acknowledge their connection in a place like this.

  Tonight, powder aged Augie’s tight black curls. Dark lines painted on his mahogany skin created seams and hollows to astonishing effect. He moved stiffly. When he spoke, half his teeth were blacked out.

  Marcus eased off his chair with his pint in hand and walked to the back of the tavern, blending into the dark hallway leading to the kitchen. A tired servant rested against the frame of the backdoor, looking out on the yard, ignoring him. Her tobacco pipe left a pungent cloud in the air. Night had come with little relief from the day’s humidity.

  Marcus lifted the hatch in the floor and descended the plank stairs to a cool cellar. Casks and wooden boxes lined the hall, leaving enough room for one person to pass at a time. A lamp glowed atop stacked casks labeled Madeira. The cooler air stung his nose with hints of burnt sugar, wine-soaked oak, and fish, the latter from the spermaceti lamp.

  Marcus set down his pint and grabbed the lamp, carrying it to the last storage room at the end of the hall. Light radiated and flickered harshly against the damp brick walls. A moment later, Augie’s throaty laugh carried below stairs, soon joined by another. Marcus checked his pocket watch as Augie and Turk entered the room.

  Tall and dark-featured, like a Spanish pirate, Turk never corrected anyone’s assumptions. Tonight, he dressed like a poorly paid secretary in a plain brown suit. His threadbare stockings matched the scuffed shoes as beat as his leather tricorne.

  “This rig-out must be killing you.” Marcus welcomed his friend with a hug and gave him a pounding on the back.

  Turk responded with an affable punch to the gut. “It’s amazing how dressing like this makes one invisible. Who knew?”

  Augie took the lamp from Marcus and fiddled with the knob, making the room brighter. “He’s mad ’cause not one woman took notice when he crossed the room.”

  “Not true at all. You should have seen the sneers when I tripped over these bloody shoes.” He turned out his ankle, showing off the overlong, tattered ribbons. Then he gave Marcus a scornful look. “What did you do? We’re not going to find a bludgeoned soldier out back, are we?”

  Marcus smoothed the buff facings of his borrowed redcoat and puffed out his chest. “Nice, isn’t it? Three men tried to shoot me, and five women spewed insults so rank they made me blush.”

  Augie chuckled. “Ladies do love a man in uniform.”

  Turk took out his own pocket watch. “Are we early?”

  His answer arrived with a quick staccato down the stairs.

  “Boys?” Mouse called as she stepped into the room. Tonight, she dressed like a fishmonger with a stained apron and smelling worse than ten spermaceti lamps. She gave Marcus and Turk a quick once over and rolled her eyes. “Don’t you dare tell me you forgot the key.”

  She might look every inch the grandmother, but Marcus knew she was as cunning and spry as a young fox. She zeroed in on him, throwing a massive wave of guilt his way. He shuddered.

  “I have the key, Mouse. Settle down.” He patted his pocket.

  She braced her hands on his arms and reached to kiss his cheek.

  “You’ll forgive me if I don’t settle. I’m rather angry and feeling a bit impatient.”

  “I am too.” His eyes flicked to the doorway at Yankel’s arrival.

  The older man had to duck to enter. Tonight, his blue linen jacket lacked quality tailoring. He dressed as a tradesman with a loose, sweat-stained kerchief tied at his throat and tucked into a dingy gray waistcoat. A knit cap covered his fading red hair. As the most famous mantua-maker in all of Manhattan, no one would recognize him dressed this way.

  Marcus thrust out his hand, nearly clipping Yankel in the ribs. “Good to see you again.”

  It echoed in his ears. He hoped the lantern’s flicker and shadows hid the embarrassment coloring his face. His enthusiasm would be his undoing.

  Yankel shook his hand and wrapped his other hand over both of theirs, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Next time, under better circumstances.”

  Marcus nodded, not risking another word, appreciating the kindness in Yankel’s humor when he owed the world nothing. Asher was lucky to have such a father. Though, living up to Yankel’s example had to be daunting.

  Turk introduced himself to the couple, keeping his nonsense to himself like a grown man.

  Augie closed the door. Though they had permission from the tavern owner to borrow this space, they didn’t want to risk anyone eavesdropping.

  Yankel reached into his waistcoat and took out a folded sheet of paper. “This is the last one to arrive.”

  It was a charcoal drawing of a young boy with large eyes and faded brows, a small slope of a nose, and pouty lips. For weeks, Asher hung around the wharf under the guise of an artist practicing his craft. He’d pay street urchins to sit for drawings, then pay them a little more to have the drawings delivered to his father’s shop. At night, Yankel met with other leaders of the Sons of Liberty to share Asher’s findings rendered deceptively in the backgrounds.

  Each of Asher’s drawings provided information regarding the comings and goings in New York Harbor. When the Continental Congress called to “secure” those loyal to the King, Lord Tryon, royal governor of New York, exiled himself to his ship, the Duchess of Gordon, to avoid being secured in a prison.

  Augie hovered behind Marcus’s shoulder. “What do you suppose the cat means?”

  “Obviously, his nemesis,” Marcus quipped. Asher’s disdain for cats was as legendary as the affection every cat wished to grant him.

  “You mean Caldwell,” Turk said.

  For a brief moment, Hetty Betty’s smile entered Marcus’s thoughts. Different Caldwell. Her husband was dead. The Caldwell Turk meant was a pompous arse and a favorite of Lord Tryon’s since the French and Indian War. Colonel Joseph Caldwell wanted to destroy the Sons of Liberty on his quest to be the next military commander, should General Howe, Commander-in-Chief of the British forces, step down as expected. Whether he knew of Asher’s connection to the Sons didn’t matter. They arrested him as a spy.

  Mouse pointed to the inaccurate skyline. “And the four spires?”

  “Those must be the British ships in the harbor. The Margate, the Duchess of Gordon, the Remus, and the largest one is a man-of-war, the Asia,” Turk said. Turk was a sea captain and knew every ship of importance.

  Yankel tapped his finger against the drawing. “Asher is on the Margate.”

  Mouse reached for his arm, bringing the map closer as if doing so would reveal the exact location of their son.

  “I can tell you, every man jack at the harbor is in it for money, not loyalty,” Turk said. “You want an audience with Tryon, the harbormaster becomes deaf with coins clinking in his purse.”

  “How hard can this be?” Anger rose in Mouse’s voice. “We can afford it.”

  Turk turned his hands palms up and gave a humorless shrug. “We don’t need to see Tryon. He might not know what’s happening aboard the Margate unless Caldwell informs him. And with Caldwell’s blind quest for power, he won’t reveal his cards unless he knows he has a full house or a well-planned bluff.”

  “Then why are you wasting my time with the harbormaster?” Mouse snapped, turning to her husband for reassurance.

  Yankel folded up the drawing and put it back in his pocket. “Because if it’s ea
sy to meet with a man like Tryon, breaching the Margate won’t be so hard.”

  Marcus envied the older man’s confidence. There was too much that could go wrong tonight. But instead of pointing this out, Marcus took the skeleton key from his pocket and emulated Yankel’s calm.

  “I’ll escort you to the Margate. One-Hand An forged our papers. You sell oysters, and Caldwell happens to have oysters delivered somewhat regularly to his ship. We’ll get you on, create a distraction, open Ash’s cell, and then we leave.”

  Mouse’s mouth pressed into a hard, forbidding line. “We don’t have any oysters.”

  Turk chuckled, making heads swivel in his direction. “Sure we do. Our borrowed skiff came with them.”

  Chapter 3

  Turtle Bay, New York

  The next day, Marcus drove his cart to Henrietta’s house on Maple Street. A row of boxwoods lined the path leading to her door, and an herb garden springing to life grew to the right of the house. Bees buzzed over silvery leaves and compact purple flowers. Sweet mint scented the air.

  Divided into two distinct sections, as if designed by an indecisive architect, a steep mansard roof claimed half the chimney on the left and a proper gambrel on the right, above the main door. Covered in a sheen of green moss, its line of shingles drooped under the weight of endurance.

  Marcus’s shoulders drooped too. He was sore, but a promise was a promise. Last night’s adventure hadn’t ended well. It hadn’t started well either, for that matter. The skiff, loaded with sacks of oysters, waited for them in the reeds with its hull chopped. A gray knit cap hung from the halyard with the word LIBERTY sewn across it. Because the skiff looked like it was meant to smuggle provisions to British crews, they were thwarted by their own. However, if they had gone wide among the Sons of Liberty, they’d have to spring brothers and friends from every prison. There simply wasn’t the time or manpower.

  Marcus yawned and shook his head.

  The front door opened, and Henrietta, in a green silk dress, stood in the uneven frame. He’d fix that too. Christ, she was prettier than he’d remembered, even from the other day. Today, her curls hung looser from the confines of a white lace cap, hinting at their unraveling, though that probably wasn’t her intent.

  As recognition softened her posture, her dark-brown eyes steadily invited him in.

  A flash of desire crossed his mind in the space of seconds. His fingers stroking the naked rise of her hip, his teeth biting the luscious, pale flesh of her thigh. Her mouth forming inarticulate sounds of desire. In this fantasy, because that was all it ever could be, she knew him intimately, every fiber of him, and still desired him.

  A smile parted her full lips and lit her up from the inside. “Very prompt.”

  He blinked away the last threads of illusion and offered her an amiable smile.

  At the back of the cart, Marcus grabbed a wooden toolbox. “Mrs. Caldwell, I don’t make promises I don’t intend to keep.” He met her at the door.

  Henrietta’s brows knit together, forming twin vertical lines. “Won’t you need to tether your donkey?”

  “Slow Dick? He won’t go anywhere. What do you want me to fix first?” Marcus pushed past her, bumping her shoulder. Slight like a bird’s wing, it made him want to shelter her, protect her from all the bigger things out there—like himself—who might do her harm.

  Mired in his thoughts, he hadn’t noticed the crowd in the parlor as he marched through.

  “Ohhh, he can fix my roof.” A cackle rose from an older woman, and Marcus stopped in his tracks. The woman who spoke wore her stays strung too tight. Her bosom heaved against the straining cords. A flush mottled her skin, and she kept her fan waving steadily back and forth, doing little to stir the air.

  A low, female voice answered, “Honey, your roof is sagging so much it’s become the floor.”

  In an instant, awareness stiffened his spine and burned the shells of his ears. Mouse? What was she doing here? How could she possibly know Henrietta? Was he supposed to pretend he didn’t know her? They’d spent all of last night breaking a hundred different laws to free her son, and now here she was sipping tea with the matrons of society. Good Christ, he hoped she kept her evening activities to herself.

  Marcus offered a courtly bow, allowing himself time to figure out how to proceed. “Ladies, I’m afraid I haven’t the time to fix everyone’s roof.” Giving them a cheeky grin, Mouse in particular—she apparently had more energy than he did—he spied Henrietta trying to blend into the wall. He gave her a wink.

  He and Augie rarely made house calls anymore. The shop did well, and the schedule better suited them. And women were impossible, regardless of age.

  Henrietta forced a smile on her face. “Mr. Hardwicke, please meet Mrs. Mizrahi, Friend Sarah, Mrs. Moskowitz, Mrs. Medina, and Mrs. Gittel.”

  Did she think he caught all that? He nodded as if he had. Two of the women were Henrietta’s age, one of whom looked about to birth a fully grown horse. The other three, including Mouse, could have been their mothers.

  Mouse—Mrs. Moskowitz—raised a skeptical brow. “We’re glad you don’t look like a murderer. Henrietta told us about you.”

  He had to wonder what Henrietta said.

  “Mrs. M!” The woman clasped her swollen belly to protect her unborn filly from Mouse. As she should. This woman kept all of her hair covered with a purple kerchief, matching the shadows beneath her eyes. Likely not sleeping well, being as large as she was.

  A Quaker in sullen gray turned her attention to him. “Friend, has thou read The Story of Juliana Harley?” Her face was as pale as the unadorned sleeves poking out of her plain dress.

  Marcus shook his head, too overwhelmed to respond. Individually, these women wouldn’t scare him. Together, they were a bit much.

  “It’s an e-pis-to-lary.” She sounded out the word slowly, as if hearing each syllable would help him understand. It didn’t.

  “Thank you.” Marcus needed the grounded weight of a hammer in his hand, the tang of metal nails tucked between his lips, and the rise of the roof under his feet. This was dizzying.

  “This is my reading club,” Henrietta said. As she came closer, he caught the herby, clean scent of lavender from her garden on her, and spotted a bouquet on the table.

  “You don’t meet at a coffeehouse?”

  “We’re too loud,” shouted the woman, fanning herself to little effect.

  “And we can serve our own food. Are you hungry? A big man like you must be. Henrietta, see to his needs, ah?” This last woman, with olive skin and shiny black hair pinned in a bun at the nape of her neck, spoke with a trace of a Spanish accent.

  Trying to salvage the situation, Marcus flagged Henrietta with an abrupt tilt of his head and said loud enough for anyone listening, “Would I be less of a distraction starting on your doorframe, or should I go straight to the roof?”

  Thankfully, she followed him to the kitchen.

  “The roof.” Sunrise pink colored her cheeks.

  Marcus tilted back his head. Above them, pots and herbs hung from the rafters. Beyond, daylight shot through the slopes of the roof. He whistled his astonishment.

  They stood facing each other, failing to find words. Thick awareness grew between them. Marcus’s hands ached to do something.

  He set his toolbox on the table and opened it. The top tray held turn screws and awls, a folding knife he kept meaning to sharpen, and stubby lengths of pencils. He lifted the tray and dug out her fan. She had left it behind in his courtyard. Wiping it against his pant leg to remove the dust, he said, “You went to all that trouble to find it, just to turn around and lose it.”

  Her brow crinkled. “So I did.” Reaching for the fan, their fingers brushed. A wildfire spread through him, having nothing to do with the banked coals in the hearth or the heat of the day and everything
to do with the woman standing before him. The past wasn’t as neatly tucked away as he’d thought.

  Henrietta drew back, erasing all expression from her face. At least she didn’t swat him with her fan this time. “I have literature to discuss, Mr. Hardwicke.”

  “You won’t know I’m here.” He watched her leave through the hallway before planning his work.

  ~ ~ ~

  Henrietta took a moment to calm her nerves. The tips of her fingers still thrilled from his touch. This was a mistake. She might do or say the wrong thing, giving him the wrong idea, though her friends were doing that for her. When she was fifteen and ignorant to the ways of men, she’d made a muddle of things. Oh, but life had since educated her.

  “Henrietta,” sang Mrs. Gittel. “Are you coming back?”

  Henrietta marched herself to the parlor, ready to beg them not to tease her.

  The hammering began. Mrs. Gittel’s brows rose. “Oy. Listen to that rhythm.”

  The ladies giggled. They were an odd bunch, but they were her friends. Even Friend Sarah laughed, though hers were silent compared to their guffaws.

  Mrs. Mizrahi arched her brow as the apples of her cheeks pinkened. “He’s something.”

  Each pounding of the hammer above thudded through Henrietta’s chest. “He’s an old friend.”

  “He didn’t look at you like you were an old friend,” she countered. “He didn’t slap you on the back or rub a knuckle over your head like my brothers do.”

  “Darling,” said Mrs. Moskowitz. “If you were a beigel, he’d eat you up.”

  Henrietta shook her head. “No, you have it all wrong. He’s a rogue. If he looked at me like he forgot to eat, it’s because he forgot to eat. Nobody looks at me like that. He certainly didn’t like me like that then, there’s no reason to think anything different now.”