There were noises outside the tavern—well, there had been all the time, but they were the inchoate noises of men being herded, orders, trampling, protests. Now the sounds took on a more organized character, and he recognized the noises of departure. A raised voice of authority, dismissing troops? Men moving away in a body, but not soldiers; nothing orderly about the shuffling and muttering he heard beneath the nearer sound of Denys’s discussion with Major What-not. No telling what was happening—but it didn’t sound at all like an official hanging. He’d attended one such function three years before, when an American captain named Hale had been executed as a … spy. He hadn’t eaten any breakfast, and tasted bile as the word dropped like cold lead into his stomach.
Thank you, Denys Randall … he thought, and swallowed. He’d once thought of Denys as a friend, and while he’d been disabused of that notion three years ago by Denys’s abrupt disappearance from Quebec, leaving William snowbound and without purpose, he hadn’t quite thought the man would use him openly as a tool. But a tool for what purpose?
Denys seemed to have won his point. The major turned and gave William a narrow-eyed, assessing look then shook his head, turned, and left, followed by his reluctantly obedient lieutenant.
Denys stood quite still, listening to their footsteps recede down the stairs. Then he took a deep, visible breath, straightened his coat, and came and sat down opposite William.
“Isn’t this a tavern?” William said before Denys could speak.
“It is.” One dark brow went up.
“Then get me something to drink before you start telling me what the devil you just did to me.”
THE BEER WAS good, and William felt a qualm on behalf of Geoffrey Gardener, but there was nothing he could do for the man. He drank thirstily, ignoring the sting of alcohol on his split lip, and began to feel a little more settled in himself. Denys had been applying himself to his own beer with an equal intensity, and for the first time William had enough attention to spare to notice the deep coating of dust that streaked Denys’s wide cuffs, and the grubbiness of his linen. He’d been riding for days. It occurred to him to wonder whether perhaps Denys’s opportune appearance hadn’t been entirely an accident. But if not—why? And how?
Denys drained his mug and set it down, eyes closed and mouth half open with momentary content. Then he sighed, sat up straight, opened his eyes, and shook himself into order.
“Ezekiel Richardson,” he said. “When did you last see him?”
That wasn’t what he’d been expecting. William wiped his mouth gingerly on his sleeve and lifted one brow and his empty mug at the waiting barmaid, who took both mugs and disappeared down the stairs.
“To speak to?” he said. “A week or two before Monmouth … maybe a year ago. I wouldn’t talk to him, though. Why?” Mention of Richardson annoyed him. The man had—according to Denys, he reminded himself—deliberately sent him into the Great Dismal Swamp with an eye to having him abducted or killed by rebels in Dismal Town. He’d nearly died in the swamp, and mention of the man made him more than edgy.
“He’s turned his coat,” Denys said bluntly. “I suspected him of being an American agent for some time, but it wasn’t until he sent you into the swamp that I began to feel sure of it. But I had no proof, and it’s a dangerous business to accuse an officer of spying without it.”
“And now you have proof?”
Denys gave him a sharp look.
“He’s left the army—without the nicety of resigning, I might add—and showed up in Savannah in the winter, claiming to be a Continental army major. I think that might be considered sufficient proof?”
“If it is, then what? Is there anything to eat in this place? I hadn’t any breakfast.” Denys looked closely at him but then rose to his feet without comment and went downstairs, presumably in search of food. William was in fact very light-headed but wanted also a few moments to come to terms with this revelation.
His father knew Richardson slightly—that was how William had first come to take on small intelligencing missions for him. Uncle Hal had—like most soldiers—thought intelligencing not a suitable activity for a gentleman, but Papa hadn’t shown any reservations about it. It was also Papa who’d introduced him to Denys Randall, who’d been calling himself Randall-Isaacs at the time. He’d spent some months with Randall-Isaacs in Quebec, poking about to little apparent end, before Denys had abruptly gone off on some undisclosed mission, leaving William with an Indian guide. Denys was most certainly … For the first time, the absolute conviction that Denys was a spy, and the notion that Papa himself might have been one, floated into his head. By reflex, he thumped the heel of his hand against his temple in an effort to dislodge the idea, but it wouldn’t go.
Savannah. In the winter. The British army had taken the city in late December. He’d been there himself soon after, and had good cause to remember it. His throat thickened. Jane.
Voices below, and Denys’s footsteps coming back up. William touched his nose; it was tender and felt about twice its normal size, but it had quit bleeding. Denys came in, smiling in reassurance.
“Food is on the way! And more beer—unless you need something stronger?” He peered closely at William, made a decision, and turned on his heel. “I’ll get some brandy.”
“That can wait. What—if anything—has Ezekiel Richardson got to do with my father?” William demanded abruptly.
That froze Denys, but only momentarily. He moved to the table and sat down slowly, his eyes fixed on William with a distinct look of calculation. Calculations. William could actually see thoughts flitting through the man’s mind—he just couldn’t tell what any of them were.
Denys took a deep breath and placed both hands on the table, palms down as though bracing himself.
“What makes you think that he has anything to do with Lord John?”
“He—Lord John, I mean—knows the fellow; Richardson approached him with the notion that I should … keep an eye out for interesting bits of information.”
“I see,” Denys said, very dryly. “Well, if they were friends, I should say that such a relationship no longer exists between them. Richardson was heard to utter certain threats regarding your father, though he has apparently not chosen to act on them. Yet,” he added delicately.
“What sort of threats?” A spurt of angry alarm had shot up William’s spine at this, and blood surged painfully into his battered face.
“I’m sure they are unfounded,” Denys began.
William half-rose to his feet. “Bloody tell me, or I’ll pull your fucking nose off.” He reached out, swollen knuckles poised to do just that, and Denys shoved his bench back with a screech and stood up, fast.
“I’ll make allowances for your condition, Ellesmere,” he said, giving William a firm look of the sort people tried on a dog that threatened to bite. “But—”
William made a noise low in his throat.
Denys took an involuntary step back. “All right!” he snapped. “Richardson threatened to make it known that Lord John is a sodomite.”
William blinked, frozen for a moment. The word didn’t even make sense immediately.