“What are we to do, Mother?” Jenny paced the parlor. “He was warning me, I’m certain of it.”

“Indeed.” Mother stared into the cold hearth. “We must prepare to return to Boston.” The shutters were still closed against the early August morning, but sunlight slipped through the slats, painting her face with stripes of shadow and light. “I will need to contact Laurence so no further messages are delivered here. Until that is communicated, we must remain.” She looked up. “It would be best if you went ahead of me. I can send Sarie and Isaac with you …”

“No.” Jenny rushed to her, kneeling before her and taking her hands. “I will not leave you.”

Mother brushed back her hair. “It is for the best, darling.”

She shook her head. “No. I will stay with you.”

“You have your father’s courage … and stubbornness.” She kissed her forehead. “Let me prepare a letter for you to take to Laurence.”

Jenny followed her into the office. Mother assembled a sheet of parchment, a quill pen, and an inkbottle. She dipped the quill into the bottle and began to write. Nothing appeared on the paper. She ran her finger along the edge to mark where a new line would begin.

“Mother?” Jenny frowned, puzzled.

“Hush, darling. All is well.” She finished writing, folded the parchment in thirds, and laid it on the desk. Taking out a block of red wax, she heated it, dripped it on the fold, and sealed it with a brass seal embossed with a “B.” She glanced through the window at the street. “This is not an ideal time to be about, but Laurence must make other arrangements as soon as possible. Are you willing to make this trip, Jennifer?”

“Of course.” Picking up the letter, she fought down fear as she smiled at Mother.

Jenny noticed immediately that the large porcelain jar was standing in its place in the window display, so there was no message for her to retrieve. Good. That was one less thing to worry about. Her heartbeat quickened as she entered the shop. The pungent aroma of camphor greeted her as Lucy Carter poured the oil into a small amber bottle.

“Good day, Miss Sutton,” she said, concentrating on her mixture.

“Good day, Mrs. Carter.” Was Lucy the person in charge of placing and removing the porcelain jar? She glanced toward the office. No, Laurence would manage that himself. Though Lucy was very precise as evidenced by the great care with which she measured the tincture.

“Good day, Miss Sutton.” Ephraim Carter stood at the door. He rotated his hat in his hands, his gaze pleading with her.

This was the moment she could reveal his cruelty the night she and Andrew had passed Fraunces Tavern. True, he had stopped and had apologized profusely when her identity was revealed, but what if it had been another woman without such protection? Would he and his group of cronies have attacked her? No, he would never have considered any such action if he hadn’t been emboldened by drink. She hoped he’d learned his lesson. Besides, what purpose would it serve to expose him now?

“Good day, Mr. Carter.” She couldn’t help but give him a warning glare while Lucy was busy with her recipe.

He gave a half-bow, his shoulders relaxing. He bowed again and returned to the back of the shop.

“Is Mr. Montclair in?” Jenny asked.

Lucy glanced at the jar in the window and frowned. “No, he had to meet with Pastor Farr this morning.” She corked the bottle and wiped her hands on her apron. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“No. It is imperative I talk with him immediately.”

Lucy nodded. “You may still find him at St. Paul’s.”

“Thank you,” Jenny called over her shoulder as she left the shop.

As the carriage rumbled through the streets, she fidgeted with the hem of her waistcoat, fighting the dread that rose within her like mist over a morning lake. She and Mother must flee as soon as possible, but not until some accommodation was made for the couriers. Plus, she would need to leave word for Andrew to follow them as soon as he was able.

Why did Montclair have to be away today? She wanted to hand this letter over to him and be finished so she could move Mother to safety. And how would she deliver the message in front of Pastor Farr? Something was amiss.

The lace along the hem of her waistcoat unraveled in her fingers. She stared at it, her trepidation seeping throughout her bones. She wanted to sit beside Mathias and whip the horses into a gallop. Her heart raced with a premonition of death. Andrew’s face came to her mind.

“Oh my God,” she whispered.

Jenny welcomed the dim coolness of the church, shrouded in silence. Pausing in the nave, she allowed her vision to adjust to the shadowy interior. She made her way along the aisle, her footsteps echoing on the smooth flagstones, her body tensed with a disconcerting chill. Up ahead, in a pew halfway to the altar, sat Laurence Montclair, apparently in prayer. She did not want to disturb him, but she fixed her attention on the back of his head until she neared. Then she averted her gaze and walked past him, taking a seat in the front pew.

Though the church was empty, save for Montclair, the hair on the back of her neck pricked with the sense of being observed. Perhaps Montclair had just noticed her and would join her in this pew. She waited for him.

Mother’s warning about not trusting anyone rang in her ears. But surely she could trust him—Mother did. What if someone else lurked in the shadows of the church? What if it wasn’t Montclair she sensed but someone else? A Tory? Or worse, a British soldier? To pass this message to Montclair here might be too risky.

Taking out a prayer book, she tucked the message in the back cover as she bent her head over the text. The words blurred. She could drop the prayer book in the aisle beside him as she departed. He could retrieve it for her and take the letter. Anyone watching would find nothing unusual in the exchange.

The bodice of her dress pulsed with the hammering of her heart. If she was being observed, enough time had passed to signify a heartfelt petition for the repose of Father’s soul. She rose and turned to leave. Unable to stop herself, she looked directly at Montclair. His gaze held hers. No. His gaze was unblinking. He stared above her toward the cross over the altar. He did not glance her way. He did not move. A scarlet ribbon oozed down his white linen shirt from the gash along his throat.