“But—” Germain had his mother’s sense of Scottish stubbornness, and Fergus suppressed a smile at seeing his small blond brows draw down in Marsali’s exact expression.
“He will be looking either for your grand-père or for his compatriots,” Fergus pointed out. “Either will take care of him, and in neither case would our presence be useful to him. And your mother will assassinate both of us if we don’t return to Philadelphia within the week.”
He also didn’t mention that the thought of Marsali and the other children alone in the printshop caused him a great uneasiness. The exodus of the British army and a horde of Loyalists hadn’t rendered Philadelphia safe, by any means. There were a good many looters and lawless men who had moved in to pick over the leavings of those who had fled—and there were plenty still left with Loyalist sympathies who didn’t admit them openly but might easily act upon them under cover of darkness.
“Come,” he said more gently, and took Germain by the hand. “We’ll need to find some food to eat along the way.”
JOHN GREY MADE his way through the wood, stumbling now and then by reason of having only one working eye; the ground wasn’t always where he thought it was.
Once away from the campsite, he made no effort to keep out of sight; Claire had packed his eye with cotton lint and wrapped his head in a most professional manner with a gauze bandage to keep the lint in place. It would protect the bad eye while allowing air to dry the skin around it, she said. He supposed it was working—his eyelids weren’t as raw and sore as they had been, only rather sticky—but at the moment was only grateful that he looked like a wounded man who’d been left behind by the rushing American army. No one would stop or question him.
Well, no one save his erstwhile comrades of the 16th Pennsylvania, should he have the misfortune to encounter them. God only knew what they’d thought when he surrendered to Jamie. He felt badly about them—they’d been very kind to him and must feel their kindness betrayed by the revelation of his identity, but there hadn’t been much bloody choice about it.
There wasn’t much choice about this, either.
“They mean to take your son.” It was probably the one thing Percy could have said that would have made him attend.
“They who?” he’d said sharply, sitting up. “Take him where? And what for?”
“The Americans. As to what for—you and your brother.” Percy had looked him over, shaking his head. “Do you have the slightest notion of your value, John?”
“Value to whom?” He’d stood up then, swaying perilously, and Percy had grabbed his hand to steady him. The touch was warm and firm and startlingly familiar. He withdrew his hand.
“I’m told I have considerable value as a scapegoat, should the Americans decide to hang me.” Where was that bloody note from Hal . . . who had it now? Watson Smith? General Wayne?
“Well, that won’t do at all, will it?” Percy appeared undisturbed at thought of Grey’s imminent demise. “Don’t worry. I’ll have a word.”
“With whom?” he asked, curious.
“General La Fayette,” Percy said, adding with a slight bow, “to whom I have the honor of being an adviser.”
“Thank you,” Grey said dryly. “I am not concerned with the possibility of being hanged—at least not right this minute—but I want to know what the devil you mean about my son, William.”
“This would be much easier over a bottle of port,” Percy said, with a sigh, “but time doesn’t permit, alas. Sit down, at least. You look as though you’re going to fall on your face.”
Grey sat, with as much dignity as he could muster, and glared up at Percy.
“To put it as simply as possible—and it’s not simple, I assure you—there is a British officer named Richardson—”
“I know him,” Grey interrupted. “He—”
“I know you do. Be quiet.” Percy flapped a hand at him. “He’s an American spy.”
“He—what?” For an instant, he thought he might really fall on his face, despite the fact of sitting down, and grasped the cot’s frame with both hands to prevent this. “He told me that he proposed to arrest Mrs. Fraser for distributing seditious materials. That was what caused me to marry her. I—”
“You?” Percy goggled at him. “You married?”
“Certainly,” Grey said crossly. “So did you, or so you told me. Go on about bloody Richardson. How long has he been spying for the Americans?”
Percy snorted but obliged.
“I don’t know. I became aware of him in the spring of last year, but he may well have been at it before that. Active fellow, I’ll give him that. And not content with merely gathering information and passing it on, either. He’s what one might call a provocateur.”
“He’s not the only one who’s provoking,” Grey muttered, resisting the urge to rub his bad eye. “What’s he got to do with William?” He was beginning to have an unpleasant feeling in his abdomen. He had given William permission to undertake small intelligence-gathering missions for Captain Richardson, who—
“Put as bluntly as possible, he’s tried more than once to lure your son into a position where he might appear to have sympathies with the Rebels. I gather that last year he sent him into the Great Dismal in Virginia, with the intention that he should be captured by a nest of Rebels who have a bastion there—presumably they would let it be known that he had deserted and joined their forces, while actually holding him prisoner.”