“Nonsense. She’s trying to drive the price up.”

  “No, Miss Elizabeth, it—”

  “Oh, shut up, Samantha,” Elizabeth said wearily. “She tried the same thing last year with, with a friend of mine. My friend went back with a pistol and held it on this Mamma Kamala while her maid beat her with a stick, with a promise of worse if her powders didn’t work. They worked, all right.”

  “Miss Elizabeth!” Samantha’s eyes snapped shut and she shook from head to toe.

  She’d certainly be no help, Elizabeth could see. She’d drop dead if that witch woman looked at her hard. Damn, damn, damn! It wasn’t fair. Why should she be in this condition, with no one to help her? How could she face anyone, ever again? The Pinckney girls would cut her dead on the street. She’d never be allowed in the Manigault house again. And her father. Oh, God, she didn’t even want to think of the horror and disgust on his face when he found out. Damn Michael for bringing this on her, for leaving her like this. It was all his fault.

  She caught sight of herself in the mirror. No, that couldn’t be her, with haggard eyes, mouth trembling on the edge of hysteria. She had to control herself.

  She got up and soaked the cloth, then held it to her face. When she again looked in the mirror it was better. She was calm. She could think coolly. She must.

  Michael was gone less than four weeks. He’d barely be at Lisbon yet. Then there was time there, time to sail to England, time in England. Lord, she didn’t want to think of how many weeks it’d be before he returned. Not weeks. Months. Oh, God! Women went to the altar pregnant, but they were a month or two gone, or at most three. Not bulging as if they were ready to give birth in front of the minister. Not—she shuddered—with a nurse keeping the baby upstairs during the ceremony. No, Michael was gone. She pushed all thoughts of him aside. She had to make new plans.

  “Samantha,” she said abruptly, “does Justin Fourrier still send flowers and invitations to go riding?”

  “Every day since that piece in the Gazette ’bout you and Mr. Fallon. He always leave them with Seth. Don’t never come in no more.”

  Elizabeth hurriedly dug paper, pen, and ink from the escritoire and began to write. “Take this to the Fourrier house. Give it to Mr. Justin Fourrier only. No one else.” She misted the note with her best perfume and handed it to the serving woman. How to deal with Justin Fourrier?

  Michael had a gentleman’s instincts, if not the birth. Justin had the birth, but his instincts were all of a baser sort. There was no time for a slow falling in love, even if it would’ve worked. It had to be something fast, as fast as she could force it. The idea came to her.

  When Samantha returned to say Justin was coming as soon as his carriage was hitched, she was searching through her dresses for just the right one. When Seth tapped at the door she was waiting calmly, a light shawl over her shoulders concealing the missing modesty piece.

  The old butler bowed low. “Miss Elizabeth, Mr. Fourrier says he’s here to take you riding, but your father’s not to home.”

  She swept past as if he wasn’t there, the slave woman behind her. Seth fell in, trying to think of something to say, but nothing came. Elizabeth set her smile for Justin as she turned to the last flight of stairs.

  “Justin, darling. Your invitation came as a godsend. I couldn’t stand another moment indoors. How kind you are. She put up a cool cheek, and after a moment he kissed it. There was a strong odor of brandy about him. So much the better.

  “I was surprised—” he began, but she took his arm, and he found himself escorting her out of the house.

  Samantha was put up by the driver, much to her displeasure. She kept glancing back over her shoulder, her mistress was sitting much too close to the young gentleman. It looked wrong.

  As the carriage moved off Elizabeth let her shawl slip, and he gasped as her breasts were bared almost to the nipples. He knew he’d drunk too much that morning. His father had laid into him about it. But every time he looked down at her, looked down at that pale satin skin, the fumes seemed to whirl even higher in his head.

  “Elizabeth,” he tried again, “about this Fallen—”

  “Oh, I don’t want to talk about him,” she said, and clutched his arm tightly against her breast. “Can we ride up on the Neck? The river’s pretty up there.”

  “The river?” He swallowed and wished she wouldn’t look at him so often. Those eyes—that skin. God, he was burning. He thought of Fallon; his mouth twisted in a sneer.

  Elizabeth ignored the sneer, as she ignored the continued worried glances from Samantha, but she noticed the way his gaze strayed to her bosom. She smiled to herself. Good. She kept up an inconsequential chatter about nothing in particular and waited to reach the real battle ground.

  The carriage rolled rapidly northward. A few drab men labored at something around the Quaker Meeting House on King Street, and a ragged urchin or two ran playing in the street, but they were all who were to be seen. The sun in a clear, cloudless sky gave little warmth, and those who didn’t have to venture out stayed in. Nothing impeded their way up the peninsula and out of the city gates, past the remnants of the old tabby-work wall.

  Out of sight of the city on the Neck Road, Elizabeth suddenly asked Justin to stop the carriage, and pointed off toward a low, shrub-covered hill. “Look. There are wildflowers up there. And I’ll wager the view of the river is beautiful.”

  Justin breathed heavily. His every effort to talk of anything but the damned flowers and the damned birds and the damned sky had been cut off short, or worse, ignored. “The carriage won’t go up there,” he explained with the last of his patience.

  “We could walk,” she laughed, and noted with pleasure the way his jaw tightened. Excellent. He had to be angry, almost angry enough to kill. Without warning she slipped out of the carriage and danced off toward the hill.

  “Elizabeth! Elizabeth, come back here—Damn it all to hell!” He leaped to the ground, freezing Samantha, who’d been on the point of following her mistress. The driver rolled his eyes once, then kept them straight ahead. “You two stay there,” Justin snarled. “Don’t want to have to round up everybody.” He stalked after Elizabeth.

  She was on the far side of the hill, out of view of the carriage. “Look, Justin. I’ve never seen those blue ones before.”

  He grabbed her by the arms and began shaking her before he knew what he was doing. “What do you mean with all this? Betrothed to Fallon, riding with me, all these damned flowers. What do you mean?”

  She managed to jerk free, and began to straighten her hair unconcernedly. “You’re very domineering, Justin. One would almost think you were my husband.”

  He clenched his fists to keep from grabbing her again. “I want answers, Elizabeth. Why did you become engaged to that upstart Fallon?”

  Elizabeth paused, as if for thought, then spoke coolly.

  “Michael Fallon is the sort of man to sweep a woman off her feet, Justin. Gallant. Dashing. Impetuous. But he’s gone now, and the longer he’s gone the more I remember he’s just an Irish serving man, for all his plantation.” She gave a delicate shudder. He moved toward her, but she froze him with an upraised hand. “You?” she mocked. “Oh, no, Justin. You’re all right for a carriage ride, but you’re hardly a dashing, impetuous lover. Where Fallon doesn’t have enough breeding, I’m afraid you have too much.” And she laughed like chimes ringing.

  Justin could feel the blood pounding in his head. Not dashing, like Fallon? Not impetuous, like Fallon? His face grew redder and redder, a vein throbbing visibly in his temple. Damn Fallon. He lunged forward and grabbed her.

  She could barely bite back a scream. There was no reason at all behind his glittering eyes. He bore her to the ground, knocking the breath out of her as he fell on top. His hands were everywhere, turning her like a doll, pushing her skirts up, tearing at her clothes, at his. When he thrust into her she had to choke back another scream. Oh, God, it’d never hurt like that with Michael. Never. He pounded at her, bludgeoning her, grunting, across the ground, his red, sweating face staring down at her unseeing. She tried to grab at the ground, at bushes, at anything. Her hands caught air. God, help her. She was being split in two.

  Suddenly he arched up from her, face straining, groaning, and she realized he was putting his seed in her. Triumph flared in her because the other was there first. He rolled off of her and muttered, “Damn Fallon.” He panted and heaved like a spent horse.

  She tried to shut the pain out of her mind, and almost succeeded. She needed to think of what was important. There. A first twinge of doubt on his face. He was beginning to realize what he’d done. It was all working out quite well. If not his gentleman’s upbringing, then his fear of disaster would force a marriage proposal. No, it would not be too bad being Mrs. Justin Fourrier. That brutality of his. With proper schooling that might become something very, very interesting.

  She turned to him and fell sobbing on his chest. “I’m ruined! Justin, you’ve ruined me!” Tears flooded his waistcoat.

  What in God’s name had he done? He patted her head with one hand and tried awkwardly to rearrange his clothes with the other. She saw from the corner of her eye and shuddered with distaste. He took it for more reaction to the rape. Damn. Rape. And this a girl of breeding, too. Not like catching some farmgirl alone in the bushes. Well, his father had said to get the girl pregnant. Maybe he had. And he’d shown her impetuous. Hah!

  He turned her face up. “I will, of course, marry you immediately.”

  “You will?” she sniffled, and carefully hid her triumph.

  “Certainly. You are aware that I’ve always had great fondness, even love, for you. From that—”

  His speech was made almost terrifying by the place and by his flat delivery. But when he helped her to her feet she smiled at him and matter-of-factly set to straightening her clothes.

  Justin’s self-satisfied expression faded when he saw the condition of her dress. “Listen, my dear. I think we’d better say you had a fall. To account for—” He finished with a gesture.

  “Whatever you say, Justin,” she murmured with a secret smile.

  Justin took her arm and led her back to the carriage. He could barely keep the conquering smirk from his face. Wouldn’t it be sport when Fallon returned. He’d certainly clipped his comb this time.

  The Hussar sailed into the Mar da Palha, the great inland bay that served Lisbon, in early March. A speedy passage had been ruined by more than three weeks of near calm, where offal thrown over the side in the morning was not out of sight at nightfall. Still, there was hope for a good market. March was not too late.

  Before the ship was well into the mouth of the Tagus a small boat appeared off the bow, pitching up and down, its occupants clinging hard. One risked letting go to cup his hands to his mouth.

  Captain Barker motioned the first mate, the man with the best Portuguese, to the rail. He finally straightened with a nod. “Says if we got rice he’ll give half a moidore the quintal, here and now.”

  “Good price,” Barker said, and snapped his mouth shut as though he’d said too much.

  Michael shook his head slowly. It was a good price, just about what he’d hoped to sell for. But—“Why did he row out here to offer it?”

  “These buyers race each other, Mr. Fallon,” the mate said. “Why, half a dozen will likely be on board before the anchor’s touched bottom.”

  Michael waved the boat away. “We”ll wait till quayside. If they offer as much out here, it won’t be less there.”

  The bay was packed with ships, and there was activity around almost every one. No sooner was the Hussar seen than a dozen boats broke for her, some from the shore, a few from other ships. They raced like many-legged insects over the foul-smelling, sewage-laden water, with much shouting and shaking of fists between them. But the first boat slid alongside far ahead of the others.

  A swarthy little man whose clothes seemed cut too fine for him climbed over the rail and made a leg to the quarterdeck. “Your pardon,” he said with an indeterminate accent, “this is an American ship, or an English ship?”

  “There’s no difference,” the captain bristled.

  “An American ship,” Michael stepped in quickly, “from South Carolina. We have eight hundred tierces of rice on board. If you’d care to step below, we can talk over a glass of wine.”

  The little man waved his hands back and forth vigorously. “No, no. You misapprehend. I have no interest in rice. I may wish to ship a packet with you. Do you go to England from here?”

  The other boats began arriving in knots, the buyers coming close to blows as they scrambled aboard. “Captain Barker, will you and Mr. Henning make those buyers comfortable? But don’t agree to anything till I’m there. Now, if you’ll come below we’ll talk about your packet, Mr.—”

  “Your pardon again. I am only a messenger. If you go next to England, I will take you to my master.”

  Michael frowned. It was a lot of to-do over what this man called a packet. Still, it might not be a bad idea to let the buyers stew a while. “Captain Barker, I’ll be going ashore for a time. Remember, no agreements till I get back.”

  Barker nodded briefly while he and the mate tried to keep the shouting, gesticulating buyers apart. Better him than me, Michael thought as he climbed down to the little man’s boat.

  The oarsmen were a dark-eyed, sullen lot, but they put their backs into it, and the boat fairly flew back to shore. The swarthy man kept silent all the way to the stone steps leading down from the quay, and then he leaped ashore and said, “Follow me, please.” Michael had to hurry to keep up.

  The way they took was alley and bypath, with stone and stuccoed buildings crowding in on every side, often even overhanging the street till only a narrow strip of sky showed. Archways crossed the alleys at irregular intervals, and in spite of the laughing people Michael thought it had the feel of a prison.

  The little man ducked through a doorway, and Michael followed, down a long, narrow hall, up a flight of stairs and down another hall. Suddenly they were in a space that was no part of an alley dwelling. The great floor was polished tile, and the sconces held candles that burned with the pure light of spermaceti. Portraits dotted here and there showed men and women in court dress of years past.

  “Where in hell is this?” Michael asked.

  “The embassy of His Most Christian Majesty,” the swarthy man said, and hurried on.

  The French embassy! He’d take a glass of wine, maybe, and get the hell out of there. Without any packets that’d likely be getting him arrested as a spy.

  The little man ushered him into a palatial room with a high, vaulted ceiling and bowed himself out. At first he thought he was alone. Two tall windows cast their light so that anyone behind the desk would be cloaked in shadow, anyone before it half blinded. Something moved in that shadow, and a man slender as a rapier moved into the light. “I am Charles Marie Giscard d’Empernay.” He touched his lips lightly with a lace handkerchief. “Might I have the honor of your name?”

  “I am Michael Shane Fallon,” he said with matching dignity.

  “Ah, most excellent. I told Belette to bring me an American ship captain, and he brings an Irishman as well. Most excellent.”

  It was trouble, all right. If he smashed one of those windows, how far would the drop be to the ground? “I’m the owner, not the captain. To what do I owe this honor, Monsieur d’Empernay?”

  “I have the position most humble. A secretary, no more.” He caught Michael’s sardonic glance around the room and smiled. “Come, sir. Will you have a glass of Malmsey with me? A taste I acquired while serving in your England.”

  “As your man was so careful to discover, I’m not English. I’m an American.” He took the proffered glass and raised it. “Your health, sir.”

  “Um? Yes, and yours. American. Of course. A slip of the tongue,” he said blandly. “Interesting people, you Americans. Two come to mind: Samuel Adams and Christopher Gadsden. Do you by any chance know of them?”

  Michael felt a sudden chill. “I’ve met Mr. Gadsden,” he said carefully. “We’re both from Charlestown.”

  “Tell me, what do you think of their treasons?”

  “Not treasons. They may demand too much at times, but they’re loyal men. They commit no treasons. Nor do I.”

  D’Empernay looked amused. “Of course not. I would never suggest that you would.” He seemed to make a decision. “What I do wish is for you to take this to England.” He took a foot-square bundle of heavily tarred sailcloth from his desk and held it out. “I will pay you one hundred pounds sterling.”

  Damn. “Just to be carrying a packet to England?”

  “It is to a countryman of yours,” d’Empernay went on. He considered Michael. “His name is Franklin. Dr. Benjamin Franklin.”

  Franklin? Benjamin Franklin had risen since being the deputy postmaster for the colonies. Inventor and publisher, founder of the American Philosophical Society and of the College and Academy of Philadelphia, he’d been honored by every university and society in Europe, including the Royal Society, itself. Men were already calling him the greatest man of the age. By God, what was he doing mixed up with the French?

  D’Empernay sensed his hesitation. “I assure you, Mr. Fallon, you will commit no treason by the carrying of this packet. It contains only information that Dr. Franklin has requested, no more. This I will swear to you by whatever you wish. The Bible, my mother’s grave, my honor. It is as I say.”

  Would Franklin be enmeshed in spying? He’d spoken often against the tyranny of Parliament and for American rights, but this? With the French? It couldn’t be. “I’ll take it,” he said.

  All the way back to the Hussar he had the feeling of being followed, watched. It wasn’t true, he knew. Still, the feeling persisted. It was that packet. Normally he’d have taken the opportunity to see a little of the town. Now he couldn’t wait to bury the packet in the bottom of his sea chest.