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Chapters (37)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Page
  3. Dedication
  4. One
  5. Two
  6. Three
  7. Four
  8. Five
  9. Six
  10. Seven
  11. Eight
  12. Nine
  13. Ten
  14. Eleven
  15. Twelve
  16. Thirteen
  17. Fourteen
  18. Fifteen
  19. Sixteen
  20. Seventeen
  21. Eighteen
  22. Nineteen
  23. Twenty
  24. Twenty-one
  25. Twenty-two
  26. Twenty-three
  27. Twenty-four
  28. Twenty-five
  29. Twenty-six
  30. Twenty-seven
  31. Twenty-eight
  32. Twenty-nine
  33. Thirty
  34. Thirty-one
  35. Thirty-two
  36. Thirty-three
  37. Thirty-four

Is it someone in the Sons of Liberty? She probed and tested at the thought, as if trying to untangle a necklace without breaking its delicate links. Is that why he bound Rebecca, shut her up in her room? Or did he do that because he wanted her alive, wanted her to return to him . . .

Yet she couldn’t imagine Charles Malvern taking a knife to a girl of twenty. Exposing her affaire with this second Adonis—if indeed such an affaire were not merely Lisette’s rather Gallic interpretation of an innocent admiration—certainly. And possibly Malvern’s vindictiveness would have extended to spying on Rebecca, by which means he’d have learned of the misdeeds of his rival’s flighty bride in the first place. But further than that . . .

Her mind chased itself in a circle, trying to fit what she knew into what she could only surmise.

Richard Pentyre would be hearing the bells, in that handsome house on Prince’s Street. They’d passed it last night, riding back from the ferry, its old walls of timber and stone covered over with handsome brick, its old gabled attics remodeled with a fashionable mansard roof. There’d been a handbill plastered to the door already, demanding that Pentyre report himself to the Liberty Tree and resign his appointment, as the tea consignees in Philadelphia and New York had resigned theirs. None of the Massachusetts consignees had yet done so: Probably, reflected Abigail wryly, their father the Governor wouldn’t let them. If—

“Mama!” Johnny and Nabby flung themselves panting through the back door, red-faced with the cold. “Soldiers are coming!”

Had Abigail been a swearing woman, she would have sworn. She hadn’t yet taken her hands from the washbasin when she heard knocking at the front door, and Pattie’s swift step from the parlor where she’d been cleaning the grate—

Abigail strode into the little hallway in time to see the girl open the door and yes, for that first instant the aperture seemed to be filled with the color of the King’s Men and blood. She was conscious of Nabby and Johnny at her side, half hiding behind her skirts but at the same time determined not to leave her. The thought flashed through her mind, Johnny’s six! He shouldn’t have to be trying to protect his mother from soldiers. In the kitchen, Tommy started to wail in fright, and from the street outside came the unmistakable thunk of a thrown glob of mud and a child chanting, “Lobsterbacks, lobsterbacks . . .”

There’s only two of them . . .

Lieutenant Coldstone stepped forward across the threshold, removed his hat, and bowed. “Mrs. Adams? Please forgive this intrusion. May I beg a few minutes of your time? I’ve come to ask your help.”

Fifteen

Fifteen

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