“In the past, I’m sure they did. Given Mrs. Malvern’s current circumstances, I can hardly imagine any woman with whom my wife was associated, who would acknowledge the connection.”

The revival of the implication that Rebecca had deserted Charles Malvern out of a craving for low company brought a flush of anger to Abigail’s face, and though she lowered her head in submissive assent, she took a good deal of pleasure in saying meekly, “Of course, sir. And would you know what to make of the story that I have heard, that you were seen in Hull Street, at half past eleven on the Wednesday night, on foot and walking toward the waterfront?”

Pentyre couldn’t stop himself. He threw a fast glance over his shoulder, to see if Coldstone had heard.

If he but blench . . .

“That is a lie,” he said—not loudly enough for the words to carry to the Lieutenant.

“Is it?” said Abigail in a normal tone. “I understood that—”

“I am a man with many enemies, Madame, and as such I cannot hope to keep track of the calumnies that may be circulated about me by the disgruntled. Fortunately, it is well attested—by the sons of Governor Hutchinson—that I was at cards with them, in their father’s mansion on Marlborough Street, quite at the other end of the town.” As he spoke his eyes shifted, and for a moment, behind the wary anger in them, she thought she saw fear.

Why fear?

“I’m sorry that I could not be of more assistance.” He was on his feet. At the other side of the office, looking the tiniest bit surprised, Coldstone rose from his chair.

Hamlet, or Viola, or the wily Odysseus, would have had precisely the right question to call the merchant back, to pique his vanity or his curiosity or his fear of what she might know and thus elicit further revelations . . .

And all she, Abigail Adams, could do was incline her head, and say, “I thank you for your trouble, sir—and for the information you have given me.”

Would a murderer have turned back, asked in not-quite-concealed concern, And what information was that, pray, my dear Mrs. Adams?

Richard Pentyre got out of the room as promptly as he was able—she had the impression he only barely kept himself from backing from her presence.

“Please wait here, Mrs. Adams.” Coldstone favored her with a slight bow, and followed him out.

Abigail folded her hands, her heart beating hard. She had touched him on the raw, beyond a doubt; frightened him. It crossed her mind to wonder what he was going to say to Coldstone, who might very well have seen or heard something. Or would it suffice merely to play his trump card: I am the Governor’s friend. The law does not apply to me.