"Please, Patricia. Leave me alone. See to your husband, or take a carriage into town."
The dismissive tone angered her and Lady Patricia felt the bile rise in her mouth. Still, she fought to control herself, and when she spoke, her voice was nearly as conciliatory as before. "Clayton, you can't go through with this silliness. It is beneath your station."
"On the contrary, my dear. To ignore the insult is beneath my station. It would finish me."
He bent down and picked up his ivory powder horn, refilling his pistol. Nearly half of his shots had failed to find the target. He decided to retie the blue ribbon around his white shirt-sleeve; perhaps it would bring him luck, if not improve his aim.
"Clayton, he is a foolish young man. In England he would be a commoner, if not worse."
"In England, I would be a commoner," he shot back. "You do not understand, Patricia. You do not understand the country or our ways. You have no notion what this war is about."
"And I do not care to." She could not control her anger any longer. "It is ridiculous. Let the colonists set their own taxes and rule themselves. What is the difficulty? The result will be the same. We are bred from the same soil."
"The result will be chaos and poverty. The issue is far beyond taxes. You do not understand the leveling of the mob, my dear. I doubt even your husband does. Nor did young Thomas."
"Don't speak of my son in that tone."
A twinge of regret flushed through him — Bauer had liked the young man a great deal — and he finished loading the pistol in silence.
"Are you going to practice all day?"
His answer was a shot that struck the paper square in the middle. Nodding with approval, Bauer began walking toward it to exult in his success. The high grass before the house flayed back with his boots, barely brushing his soft, smooth breeches. A redcoat sentry was posted a few yards to the north, along the stone wall that marked the former border of the property. The war had allowed Bauer to expand his estate for an extremely advantageous price. "Come and eat something. William is worried sick about you."
"Lord William worries about nothing, not even your honor," said Bauer. He turned toward his sister suddenly. "Tell me, Patricia: did you enjoy that kiss?"
"Don't be ridiculous."
"I know you did. Bacon chooses his agents because they attract women. That is how they gather most of their information, from weak women."
"You think all women are weak."
"Everyone is weak," said Bauer, starting back to his mark. "It is just a question of how they show it."
Chapter Thirty-three
The renegade Eagans had spent much of the time since his arrival in New York being abused by the British establishment.
Not only was he denied prompt payment for his prisoner, but the lieutenant on Bacon's staff assigned to debrief him treated him with undisguised contempt. The man, Bacon's only officer left in the city, steadfastly refused to grant Egans his bounty or even his rightful pay until the entire business was complete. Given the lieutenant's intricate style of questioning, that might not happen for several weeks.
Egans was a stoic, and could weather many difficult trials without complaint, but he had a hard time stomaching insults. Nor did he feel it the best use of his time to be kept hanging around the city answering questions about how many horses were sheltered in obscure stables north of the chain at Peekskill.
When, at the end of his third interview the lieutenant still declined to approve the reward, Egans stormed from his office and headed straight to the jail where he had deposited his prisoner. If he could not have his money from the British, he decided, he would have it from the Dutchman, whose broad hints had included the possibility of a ransom.
Arid after that, some piece of satisfaction might be retrieved from killing him.
"Your prisoner escaped yesterday," sneered the clerk who met him at the desk. "Along with a group of other rebels. Undoubtedly he was the ringleader. Perhaps we shall hang you for bringing him."
Egans instinctively reached for his pistol. As quickly as lightning flashes between clouds, three grenadiers grabbed him and flung him to the ground. His struggle ended when a muzzle appeared an inch from his nose.
"Do not harm him," said the clerk. "As pleasant as it would be, there are too many forms to fill out."
Egans was grudgingly allowed to his feet.
"Return with the fat Dutchman or your master, General Bacon, will have a full report. In triplicate."
The renegade was too smart to say that he considered no one his master. He met the British clerk's stare blankly, holding his eyes in a defiant gaze. Neither man blinked.
"Do you want the whole man or just his scalp?" asked Egans finally.
"His scalp will do nicely. The rest of him takes up too much room."
Van Clynne hurried past the British huts at Delancy's without stopping, despite a growing desire for something to quench his thirst. There was, at best, only a token force left guarding the small wood cabins built against the gentle hills and on the flats, but having just escaped British hospitality the Dutchman's mouth would have to be literally on fire before he would condescend to dally with any more redcoats or their German brethren. The colonel's horse proved a decent beast, not partial to either side, and van Clynne soon found the farm near Harlem where the Pinkertons had retreated to.
This was a Dutch family hard on its luck, or so van Clynne theorized, for otherwise he could not supply a reason for their staying in the occupied city. The tailor's example notwithstanding, by van Clynne's lights every Dutchman hated the British. If the truth be told, his estimation of Dutch patriotism was somewhat off the mark, but his assessment of the Pinkerton's financial status was correct. The family's attitude toward the British had hardened considerably since their daughter's interlude with Howe, though having voiced pro-English sentiments in the past they could not now risk the reception they might find further north.
They still had their pride, however, as the family patriarch made clear after ushering his old friend van Clynne inside.
"Imagine, hinting that we might be bought off by supplying some small infantry unit with grain," complained Veder Pinkerton. "Grain!"
"Truly an insult," agreed van Clynne. This was the typical British blunder: the Pinkertons had been corn dealers for three generations at least, and they considered anything that did not grow on ears as belonging to an inferior class. "I wonder if I might talk to Melanie."
"What do you want to talk to her about?"
"Oh — just idle chatter."
Veder looked at him suspiciously. "You want to talk about Howe?"
"Of course not," said van Clynne. "Naturally not."
"I will kill anyone who mentions his name to her. I can tell that her heart is still turned in his direction, despite all our arguments."
"A dastardly villain," said the Dutchman, who despite the warning was not about to retreat. "I think that when a man is at a certain age," he suggested quietly after a temporary pause, "there are certain contingencies in life one should prepare for."
Veder jolted upright in his chair. In the arcane etiquette of Dutch matrimonials, the squire's sentence amounted to a formal declaration of intent to informally decide on provisionally electing to eventually commence courtship — the all-important first step toward wedded bliss.
Whatever his faults, Claus van Clynne was not a man without means, and if his crusade to have his property returned were ever fruitful, he would easily rate among the richest men in the state. True, Veder realized, his clothes had long since gone out of fashion, and he had come to the house with a hat at least one size too large, but eccentricity can be overlooked in a rich son-in-law.