Chapter 10
The streets of Washington were quietly tense. A few people went about their business, their gazes wary. Callie saw a peddler, a free black named Harry, driving from house to house in his pony cart filled with fresh produce. She’d often bought fruit and vegetables from him. The sight was comforting. Washington might be an occupied city, but life was going on.
Better to wander about the city than to think how close she was to Richard’s very masculine body. Waking up in the same bed with him this morning had been deeply unnerving because part of her found it very natural. Desire had never been part of her life, but apparently it had been lying dormant and was now beginning to stir. The timing was not good.
They turned a corner and saw a large number of British troops marching toward the burned-out President’s House. Nearby was a large brick building that had been untouched. Callie said, “It looks like they’re heading toward that building, which has the headquarters of the State, War, and Navy Departments.”
“Judging by the men carrying powder and rockets, those departments are going to get the same treatment as other government buildings,” Richard said grimly. “Perhaps another route would be wise.”
Before Callie could reply, a man galloped from an alley shouting insults at the British in a wild one-man attack. He raised a pistol and shot—and was immediately brought down by a barrage of return fire. As the rider fell bleeding, Richard turned Samson and spurred the horse into a canter. “Definitely another route! You know this city. Give me directions.”
“Go to the end of this block and turn left.” She swallowed hard, shaken by the swift, unexpected violence. “Why would a man do such a suicidal thing?”
“At a guess, he hates the British and got drunk enough to behave stupidly,” Richard said tersely. “With the results you see.”
He was probably right, but she was reminded how deadly an occupying army could be. A few minutes later they came on another group of soldiers smashing up a business while a fire burned behind the building. “That’s Admiral Cockburn supervising,” Richard said. “Do you know what the business is?”
“A newspaper, the National Intelligencer. The editor has been writing inflammatory articles about the British in general and Cockburn in particular,” Callie said. “It looks like the admiral is taking a personal revenge. Turn right at this corner.”
Richard silently obeyed. By keeping to smaller streets with no government buildings, they avoided any more ugly conflicts.
They were nearing the edge of the city when a patrol of British soldiers led by an officer on horseback emerged from a cross street and came straight for Callie and Richard. The officer barked, “Halt!”
“Should we try to outrun them?” she asked in a voice that surprised her with its calmness.
“If we did, they might think we have reason to run and shoot us down. Better to bluster it out. We are English, after all. Not their enemy.”
“Speak for yourself,” she said flatly. “I live and work here. I could be considered treasonous.”
“Urchins are beneath the notice of British officers,” Richard assured her before pulling Samson to a stop and waiting for the officer to intercept them.
“Who are you and what is your business?” the lieutenant asked in a menacing tone. Callie surreptitiously laid her left hand on the butt of her pistol, but she didn’t draw it out.
“My name is Lord George Audley and I’m busy about the king’s affairs,” Richard replied with an aristocratic accent sharp enough to cut glass.
“So you’re a lord,” the lieutenant sneered. “And I’m bloody Bonaparte! You sound English, all right, but I’m betting you’re a treasonous Yankee.”
“A bet you’ll lose,” Richard said in full lordly mode. “Shall I show you my letters of introduction?”
“You can, but that doesn’t mean I’ll believe them.”
Richard reached inside his coat and produced an oilskin pouch, opening it with great deliberation. “This should do.” He handed over a folded piece of paper. “Be careful with it.”
The officer opened the letter and scanned the brief lines, then gasped. “Lord Liverpool? The prime minister?”
“Yes. Would you prefer a letter from Lord Castlereagh? As foreign secretary, he might be appropriate under these conditions.” Richard smiled with knife-edged arrogance. “Or if you hold on a moment, I believe I have a letter from the Duke of Wellington, who is most relevant of all.”
Suppressing his rage, the lieutenant handed back the letter from Lord Liverpool. “What are you doing in a conquered enemy capital?”
Richard folded the letter, tucked it in the oilskin pouch, and returned it to his inside pocket. “That, Lieutenant, is none of your damned business. Now let us pass!”
The officer gestured to his men and an aisle opened up through the middle of the patrol. Callie’s skin crawled as they rode through the group of scowling soldiers. One exclaimed, “That’s a bloody woman riding behind him!”
“You brought your own whore?” the lieutenant snarled.
Richard whipped around and said with lethal intensity, “The lady is my wife. Last night a group of British soldiers attacked Lady George and I barely rescued her in time. Since our troops cannot be trusted to behave properly, do you blame her for going in disguise for her own safety? Now, let us pass or there will be blood!”
The lieutenant paled. “Get yourself gone and stay away from British patrols!”
“Believe me, I intend to.” Richard turned again and they continued through the patrol and down the street. Callie’s back itched as they rode away from the soldiers. She murmured, “What are the chances that one of those soldiers will fire?”
“Slim, but not impossible,” was Richard’s honest reply.
“I was afraid of that,” she said grimly. “That horrid lieutenant looked ready to do murder just because he could.”
In an impeccable aristocratic accent, Richard said, “May all his rabbits die and he can’t sell the hutches.”
After a moment of shock, Callie burst into tension-relieving laughter. “I haven’t heard anyone say that since I left Lancashire!”
Richard chuckled. “One reason I like ‘the lower orders’ is because they often have such wonderful turns of phrase.”
“I miss the directness of northern England.”
“Cooler there, too. The rain this morning did nothing to ease the temperature.” He ran a finger around the edge of his cravat to loosen it a little. “I’ll be glad to get back to the Zephyr so I can take this blasted coat and cravat off.”
“They must be very uncomfortable,” she said sympathetically. “But looking and talking like a lord does help when dealing with the British soldiers. It wouldn’t work as well with Americans.”
“I’ve noticed,” he said, his accent moderating to one that would suit an educated man on either side of the Atlantic.
“Americans are odd,” she mused. “They both despise and are fascinated by the British nobility. Since I had no desire to be noticed, I never mentioned that my father was a lord.”
“Or that you were married to one,” he said teasingly. “You handled our reunion scene very well. Most touching.”
“The playacting we did as children came in handy then. But usually I prefer a combination of honesty and saying as little about myself as possible.”
“Truth has the advantage of being easier to remember than multiple lies.” He guided Samson to one side of the road as a British military wagon rattled by with several soldiers inside. They gave Richard curious glances but no more.
He continued, “We didn’t finish our name discussion. I noticed Mrs. Turner called you Catherine, which is common enough not to draw attention.”
“I asked my husband to call me Callista, not Catherine, so I was Miss Callista in Jamaica. What name do you generally use? Or have you had dozens over the years?”
“Not dozens,” he protested. After a moment of thought, he said, “Well, maybe two dozen, but I’ve only created false identities when it was useful. Mostly I’ve gone by Gordon. As you say, it has a harder, tougher sound than George or Richard, and Augustus was never in the running. Gordon can be either a first or last name, so it’s nicely ambiguous.”
“Like you.”
“I like being ambiguous. It’s safer that way.”
She could understand that need for safety. After all, she’d created a new identity for herself when she moved to the United States. “With all your traveling and shifting identities, is there any place you call home?”
She was surprised when he said, “After returning to England, I bought a house in a pleasant London neighborhood, not far from Mayfair but less grand. I found that I liked having a place to call home.” After Samson had taken another dozen steps, he added, “I was surprised to find that I look forward to returning when I’ve been away.”
Given all the challenges he’d survived after being transported to New South Wales, she liked hearing that he had matured to the point where he craved a real home. Everyone needed a home. She felt a deep pang for the house she had loved and where she had known happiness, but ultimately, it was just a house. The people who made it a home were waiting for her in Baltimore.
An ear-numbing explosion shattered the air. Placid Samson was so startled that he shied and jerked sideways. Callie instinctively grabbed Richard’s waist for balance and for a moment they were in danger of being thrown.
“Hold on!” After several nerve-racking moments, Richard brought the horse under control again. He patted the sleek neck soothingly. “Samson doesn’t like sudden loud noises.”
“Neither do I!” Nerves jangling, Callie released her grip on his waist. “Do you have any idea what that might be?”
“An explosion that large is likely an American powder magazine, and it could have been set by either side to keep it from the hands of the enemy. I hope no one was nearby when it exploded.” Richard set Samson into a fast walk. “I’ll be glad to get out of Washington. Too many unpredictable things are happening.”
Callie agreed wholeheartedly. Her tension eased when they left the city and headed east along a pleasantly rural road through heavy woodland. The tall trees kept the road cooler than the city, though the air was still heavy and ominously still. “How long a ride is it to our destination?”
“About two hours to Tucker Hall if nothing delays us. The ship should be waiting in Tucker Creek near the plantation.”
She eyed the dark clouds roiling on the horizon. “There’s a storm coming. I hope we reach our destination before it hits.”
“Another storm?” He glanced up and saw the gathering clouds. “What a jolly place your Maryland is!”
“Afternoon thunderstorms are common here in high summer, but they’re usually limited in scope. It can be pouring rain on one side of Washington and dry on the other. With luck, this storm might miss us.” She studied the breadth of the dark, roiling clouds. “But I’m not optimistic.”
Richard set Samson to a faster pace. “Neither am I. Though rain only makes us wet, which is mild compared to being threatened by armed soldiers.”
“Rain would feel pleasantly cool about now,” she said. “But summer storms can be fierce in this part of the world.”
Swift flickers of lightning were visible in the approaching clouds, which suggested the storm would be a bad one. She wished they could take cover in a building, but the road was isolated and buildings were few and far between.
The sky darkened so much that Richard slowed Samson down so he could watch the footing on the rutted road. A breeze began to stir the heavy air. Gradually it strengthened to wind, and then to near-gale strength. Small branches and dead leaves from the previous autumn whirled through the air, occasionally hitting with stinging force. Fat, heavy raindrops began to fall.
At first there was just a spattering. Then trees began crashing in the woods and all hell broke loose.