He wanted to ask just what she thought he was, but that could wait.
“Ben,” he said firmly. “I have to tell Uncle Hal. But I—I mean, he has to know that Ben’s alive and where—and what—he is. But perhaps he needn’t know that … you knew about it.”
He hadn’t thought for a moment of concealing her knowledge from Uncle Hal until he heard the words coming out of his mouth.
Her face changed like a drop of quicksilver, and she turned round again and stood stiff as a tailor’s dummy. He thought he could see her heart beating, the tight blue bodice quivering ever so slightly across her back.
He realized suddenly that now he was standing there with his hands fisted, and made himself relax. A drop of sweat ran down the back of his neck—there was a fire and the room was warm. The ghost of bay rum lingered among the scents of burning wood and candle wax.
She made a tiny sound, perhaps a muffled sob, and crossed her arms, hugging herself convulsively.
He took a step toward her, uncertain, and stopped. What might Uncle Hal do, if he learned of her duplicity? He supposed that his uncle might be able to take Trevor away from her and send her away …
“They’ll hang him,” she whispered, so softly that for a moment he heard only the anguish in it, and that anguish made him go to her and put his hands on her shoulders. A deep shiver went over her as though she were dissolving inside, and his arms went round her.
“They won’t,” he whispered into her hair, but she shook her head and the shiver didn’t stop.
“Yes, they will. I’ve heard them talk—the officers, the politicals, the—the nitwits at parties—gloating at the th-thought of Washington and his generals hanging on a g-gibbet.” She took a deep, tearing breath. “Like rotten fruit. That’s what they always say—like rotten fruit.”
His stomach tightened and so did his arms.
“So you still love him,” he said quietly, after what seemed a long while.
Her head fitted neatly under his chin, and he could feel the heat of it and smell her hair; she was wearing his father’s Italian cologne. He closed his eyes and took one breath at a time, imagining cedar groves and olive orchards and sun on ancient stone.
And dripping water in a garden and a toad’s gleaming black eyes …
And a moment later, the door opened.
“Oh, William,” Lord John said mildly. “You’re back, then.”
WILLIAM STOOD STILL a moment longer, his arms round Amaranthus. He wasn’t guilty in this—well, not quite—and he declined to act as though he was. He stepped back and gave her arms a comforting squeeze before turning round to face his father.
Lord John was standing there in full day uniform, his hat in one hand. He looked calm and pleasant, but his eyes were clearly drawing conclusions, and probably the wrong ones.
“I found Ben,” William said, and his father’s eyes sharpened at once. “He’s alive, and he’s joined the Americans. Under an assumed name,” he added.
“Thank God for small mercies,” Lord John said, half under his breath, then tossed his hat onto one of the gilt chairs and went to Amaranthus, who was still facing the wall, her head bowed. Her shoulders were shaking.
“You should sit down, my dear.” Lord John took her firmly by one forearm and turned her round. “Go and tell cook we want some tea, please, William—and something to eat. You’ll feel better with something in your stomach,” he told Amaranthus, guiding her toward the settee. She’d gone the color of egg custard and had her lashes lowered—to hide her telltale eyes, William thought cynically. She wasn’t crying; there were no tears on her cheeks. He’d never seen her cry, and wondered briefly if she could.
“Where’s Uncle Hal?” he asked, pausing on the threshold. “Shall I go and fetch him?”
Amaranthus gasped as though he’d punched her in the stomach, and looked up, wide-eyed. His father reacted in much the same way, though in a more stoic and soldierly fashion.
“God,” William said softly. He stood quite still for a moment, thinking, then shook himself back into order.
“He’s on his way to Charles Town,” Lord John said, and blew out a long breath. “Going to have a look at the fortifications. He’ll be back in a week or two.”
William and Lord John exchanged a brief look, glanced together at Amaranthus, then back at each other.
“I—don’t suppose it’s news that will spoil with keeping,” William said awkwardly. “I’ll … just go and tell Cook about the tea.”