“Mistress Droux.” A small fire burned on the hearth and warmed the big room, but the neatly stacked dishes, the absence of pans or cooking smells, told her that Charles Malvern held to the Puritan way beneath his own roof. The fire—and the kettle bubbling softly over it—were concessions to Tamar’s more fashionable cravings for tea and comforts: Abigail noticed Scipio had provided tea for the maidservant as well. “Did Miss Connelley tell you anything of what I wish to ask you about?”

“No, Madame.” At Abigail’s gestured invitation, she seated herself on the other side of the table. “Nor would I believe that Irish cocotte if she told me the sun rose in the East. But Scipio tells me you are a friend of the woman in whose house Mrs. Pentyre met her death, the woman who has now disappeared: fled, he says, and perhaps in fear for her life. And since this imbecile from the office of the Provost Marshal seems to think of nothing but that there is a political conspiracy to murder both M’sieu and Madame over this question of tea—”

Abigail said, “What?” and the woman raised her dark, straight brows.

“The imbecile,” she explained. “With the pale face and the little nose like a girl’s.” Her own was a noble organ; had her uneasy shock at this confirmation of Coldstone’s inquiries been less, Abigail would have smiled at the description of her adversary’s dainty features. “He asked, did anyone follow Madame, did anyone hide themselves about the stables while Gerald was taking out the chaise for her, did she receive letters threatening her life from such a one, or such a one—”

“Which such-ones?” asked Abigail. “Do you recall any names?”

The maidservant considered the matter, with aloof dis passion that seemed to be native to her. It was difficult to tell whether her dark bombazine dress was intended to constitute mourning for her mistress; Abigail was inclined to think not. “Son of Liberty,” Lisette said at length, pronouncing the words with care. “That was one. Mohawk was another he asked after; and Adam. And Novanglus—that is Latin for . . .”

“New Englander,” Abigail finished softly. “Yes, I know.” Adam. Or Adams? A mistake would be easy. Mohawk, Son of Liberty, and Novanglus were all names under which John had written pamphlets and articles for the Gazette and the Spy.

“It is politics.” Lisette shrugged. “It is nothing. One does not do murder over politics. You must take tea, Madame, or coffee if you will—”