“Samantha—”

  “She say you don’t exist no more. She tell me to say that. You don’t exist no more. Are you all right, Mr. Fallon? You want some water or something?”

  Michael forced his eyes open, but the pain was still there. He fumbled the small box out of his pocket and tossed it to the slave woman. “Here. Give her that. Tell her it’s from the King of the Fools.”

  He stalked past her as she shrank against the door jamb, out to where a slave walked his horse to cool it. Where now? Hell, maybe. It seemed as good a place as any.

  Elizabeth watched him go from her chamber window. She’d thought he’d have more sensibility than to come to Les Chenes. Papa must have told him she wished not to see or hear from him again. She knew he’d go there as soon as he arrived, and she’d left strict instructions. Ruthlessly she suppressed a glimmer of guilt. Papa deserved the burden for helping Michael go away. And Michael deserved the pain for not being there when she needed him.

  She twisted awkwardly on the windowseat as Samantha came in: Her body was clumsy with child.

  “Well? What did he want? What did he say?”

  “He leave this for you. He say, he say it from the King of the Fools.”

  Elizabeth slowly opened the box. What—? She flinched as the light caught the ring. Oh, damn him!

  “He take it hard, real hard.”

  Samantha stumbled back, gasping, from Elizabeth’s blazing glare. “Are you questioning my actions? Do you dare?”

  “That Mr. Fallon a good man.”

  Elizabeth clutched the ring till it cut the skin. Damn him! Damn Samantha! “You go down to Job right this minute.”

  “Job?” Samantha’s eyes blazed. “He whip the field hands. I a house—”

  “You tell him twenty lashes, hard! You tell him that! I’ll ask to see!”

  The slave woman’s face was stony. “He hangs them up without no clothes. You do that to me?”

  “Go!” Elizabeth shrieked. Her eyes were shut tightly, and all her feeling seemed concentrated on the ring grinding into her palm. “Go!”

  Eyes burning, Samantha left the room. Elizabeth’s tears were beginning to fall. She threw the ring on the floor and stamped on it over and over. Damn him! Damn him! Damn him!

  Christopher paid off the boatmen and scrambled up the side of Hussar. The smell of fresh pitch was heavy on deck. As Michael climbed out of the hold, stripped to the waist and sweaty as any workman, Byrne greeted him cheerfully, though he was shocked to see how gaunt he’d become.

  “Michael, lad. You’re a rich man. You can hire your sweating done.”

  “Hello, Christopher,” Michael answered bleakly.

  Byrne grimaced. This wasn’t going to be easy. “You ought to come down to Dillon’s, man, or the Bacchus. It’s been months you’ve been back, and they all miss you. Everybody asks after you, even—” he’d been going to say, even Fourrier’s brothers. “Gadsden’s asked for you, and Rutledge. Even Laurens.”

  Michael seemed to be listening. Then he spoke. “Would you like this command, Christopher? I need a good captain.” Christopher’s mouth fell open. Michael was picking at a streak of pitch on his arm.

  “Lord, man, six months ago I’d have jumped at it. But I managed to buy a half interest in the Annalee from, from—” Damn, he mustn’t mention the Carver name, either. “Well, I managed to buy a half interest. You can see why I’m wanting to stay.” He laughed suddenly. “In a year or two I’ll be a full owner myself.”

  “Well, I’d hoped, but I wish you luck.” He took a step away, shouting at some workmen. “No, not over there. It goes below.”

  Christopher sighed and decided to change tactics. “Ah, you’re growing fast, lad. Refitting the Hussar, buying the two sloops. That must have been one damn profitable voyage.”

  “Profitable in some ways,” Michael said. “In others not.” Christopher grimaced, cursing his own mouth, and tried to speak, but Michael went on. “The sloops? I’d had some thought of building a house in town. I put the money to better use.”

  Christopher followed him as he picked up his shirt, coat, and hat. “Michael, I’m sorry. You know my brain never knows what my mouth’s going to say.”

  “It’s all right. I can think about it now. Sometimes.” He put on the shirt, tucked in, but open to the waist. “Mr. Corning, I’ll have a boat here now.”

  “Michael, listen,” Christopher said intently. “You need something of importance to be doing. Come back with me. Help the cause.”

  “I’ve set the sloops to smuggle tea and rum, Christopher, and that’s as much fighting of the duties as I can do now.”

  “You have! That’s wonderful. Man, you’re already near in with us. Come on.”

  “It’s almost time for harvest. If I’m not there they’ll let the birds eat half the crop. I’m sorry.” He patted Christopher awkwardly on the shoulder. How could he say that he needed the labor and sweat to find forgetfulness? “Mr. Corning! Where the hell’s that boat?”

  A half-dozen house slaves were waiting anxiously at the corner of the house when Justin rode up to Les Chenes. He noted with surprise that his father was on the portico. Jean-Baptiste was a firm believer in letting sons come to him, never the other way round. He tossed the reins to a waiting groom and ran up the steps.

  “What is it?”

  Jean-Baptiste spoke stiffly. “Your wife has come to term before her time. The midwife is with her now.” He frowned. “You should have been here.”

  “I’ve been about my politics, Father. Remember?” He looked down at the waiting faces in the yard, turned up toward Elizabeth’s chamber window. “Can’t we go inside? Unless you want every damn black on the place to know our business.”

  Justin headed directly for the brandy, and poured a glass for himself. He turned away while his father poured his, a grimace twisting his face when he saw the blank space at the end of the line of miniatures. Damn. He’d personally supervised the whipping of every single housemaid, but they’d stubbornly denied any knowledge. He would simply have to have another painted.

  “And what are these politics?” Jean-Baptiste asked abruptly.

  Justin smiled complacently. He’d been expecting this. “The governor’s expected back next month. From the moment His Excellency, Lord Charles Greville Montagu, sets foot in Charlestown, he’ll be as much as one of our party. He’ll be so closely surrounded by our people, whispering in his ear, that Rutledge and Gadsden and the rest will never get close to him.”

  His father grunted. “Excellent, so far as it goes. But what will your men whisper?”

  A long scream drifted down from above, then another. Justin grimaced. Why did women make so much noise in birthing? He wished he were somewhere else, out of earshot.

  “The Regulators,” he said simply.

  “Oh?”

  “Montagu must deal with that backcountry rabble, daring to demand courts in their own lands, taking the law into their hands meanwhile. He must follow the example of Governor Tryon in North Carolina. They must be crushed by force, their leaders hanged. To this end we will see that men are sent among them to foment their grievances, get them to gather, as the North Carolina Regulators did at Alamance, and march on Charlestown. They’ll be destroyed in one afternoon.”

  “Perhaps,” the elder Fourrier said. “But there is much sympathy for them, among men who should know better. Give them their own courts, they say; why make them come all the way to Charlestown for a trial? Bah! They dilute their own power—and ours.” He breathed heavily. “So. You must—”

  A rap, and the door swinging open, brought them up short. The red-faced midwife, her gray hair pulled back under a mob cap, stood in the doorway with a bundle in her arms. “Your child, sir,” she said.

  The Fourriers nearly knocked over their chairs in their hurry. Justin snatched the child from the midwife’s arms, and Jean-Baptiste threw open the blanket. Red and blotchy, the infant kicked at the air and squalled.

  “A son,” Justin breathed.

  “A grandson,” echoed his father.

  “Your lady had a hard time of it,” the midwife said, “but she’s resting easy now.”

  “Um? What?” Justin looked at her blankly, then turned his attention back to the baby. “Oh, yes. He’s healthy enough, it seems. I thought early babies were puny, spindly things.”

  The midwife sucked at her teeth and cast a cynical glance at him. If the quality wanted to play games, she’d play. “Aye, sir, that’s generally the truth. But some men have the power, sir. They’re just so virile the baby develops faster.”

  “I’ve never heard of such,” Justin replied, but she noticed he stood a little straighter. “You’ve done well. There’ll be an extra five pounds for you.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She ducked a curtsey. “Sirs.”

  Neither of them paid her any mind. “Robert Fourrier.” Justin gave it the French pronunciation. “Born September tenth, seventeen seventy-one.”

  Jean-Baptiste nodded, smiling. “He will grow to manhood as Fourrier power grows. He will be a power in this province and beyond.”

  “Yes, yes,” Justin said impatiently. “I can’t wait to tell the news. I’ll wager I can still catch most of the meeting. They usually talk endlessly afterwards.”

  His father looked at him in surprise. “You will not go to your wife, congratulate her on giving you a son?”

  Justin looked hesitantly at the stairs, then shook his head. “She probably wants to rest.” A light of triumph appeared in his eyes. “Besides, I have to let them know I have a son.” He dashed out the front door. “Moses! Get my horse, and hurry, damn your soul!”

  Michael raised his glass as the young Fourrier brothers took their seats at his table. They were less flamboyant in their dress since returning to America. One wore plain blue silk, the other green. Still, they shone like peacocks in the dim light of Dillon’s.

  “Gentlemen. Can I be offering you a drink?”

  Louis began. “You’ve been avoiding us.”

  “We’re not to blame for Justin,” Henri said.

  “We never knew till after you did. Stab me if I think it’s fair.”

  “Louis is right. We, well, we admire you, and we want to be your friends. Hell’s bells, you can’t hold Justin against us.”

  Michael smiled in spite of himself. “No, lads, I don’t hold Justin against you. Perish the thought. Why, I hardly hold him against him. Come now, how about that drink?”

  They exchanged glances. “Why not come to our house?” Louis said. “The wine’s better, and we can talk without being overheard.”

  Henri couldn’t wait to ask what was on the mind of everyone in the province. “Do you think the governor will really pardon the Regulators?”

  “Justin’s furious about the talk. He calls them damned Scovilites, and says they should all hang.”

  “Easy, lads, easy.” Michael took a guarded look around. The thin murmur of other conversations drifted through the tobacco smoke. “That’s near as touchy as the tea tax. We’d better go where we can be alone. Not your place, though. I doubt I’d be welcome under a Fourrier roof.”

  “Oh, Papa and Justin are upriver at Les Chenes with Elizabeth and the baby,” Louis said, missing the shadow that passed across Michael’s face. “There’s no one there but Henri and me. Oh, and Brielle, of course. And we’ve some rum.”

  Michael let himself be convinced, and the brothers trooped him out of the tavern and down Broad Street.

  Gabrielle Fourrier was coming down the stairs, wondering if the brown velvet had any more wear in it, when her brothers entered the house, a darkly handsome man between them. They were always bringing someone new home; who was it this time?

  “Michael,” Louis said, “this is our baby sister, Gabrielle. Brielle, this is Michael Fallon.”

  She halted with a gasp, a hand flying to her mouth. “Then you’re—”

  “Oh, Brielle,” Henri cried.

  “The man who was to marry Elizabeth Carver?” Michael finished for her. “I was that man. Your servant, miss.” H saw a slender, brown-haired girl, of medium height, with a tiny waist and large hazel eyes.

  He made a leg to her as her brothers pulled him away, chattering about the governor to distract him. Louis shot her a frown over his shoulder as the three of them disappeared into the study.

  Gabrielle sighed and stamped her foot. Oh, her tongue was always getting her into trouble. It wasn’t as if she wanted to hurt him, but she knew she had. His eyes had gone blank and hard. Men! Instead of washing their hurts clean with tears, they walled them up inside and let them fester. She almost wanted to cry for him. Which was just being silly.

  Still, she’d caused him hurt, and he was a guest. She wouldn’t parcel her hospitality out. It must be the same for all under their roof, no matter what Papa and Justin thought. But what could she do to show him a true welcome? Thoughtful, she climbed slowly back up the stairs.

  The rum was there as advertised, Michael discovered. They sat in front of the fireplace, hot toddies in hand, to proof them against the November chill, Henri said, since October hadn’t been very cool so far, and bandied the new governor’s plans about as if they’d have a say in the making of them. It was a satisfying, if brief, conversation, for all three agreed that the backcountry men deserved their own courts and sheriffs. And they all thought pardons were in order for those who’d acted without the courts.

  As the logs crackled in the fire, and the talk ranged widely, Michael discovered that the younger Fourriers had indeed spent time with their John Locke and David Hume. They introduced Michael to the ideas of Adam Smith, and made him see why the Americas were potentially more wealthy than England ever could be.

  Louis and Henri weren’t deep thinkers, but they were facile, and they accepted others’ ideas as quickly as any in Gadsden’s cabal. It was evident that Oxford had failed to cement their feelings as Englishmen.

  “Well, we just aren’t,” Henri said, “and there’s no use getting bluedeviled over it.”

  “And there’s not an Englishman will pass the chance to let you know you’re not,” Louis added. “Why, most of them have more contempt for us than for a damned Spaniard. At least the Spaniard’s got his own country. All we are is beastly damned colonials.”

  “Maybe we should have our own country,” Henri said. Louis sipped his drink.

  Michael looked at them and shook his head. “And just who’ve you been talking to to get an idea like that?”

  “Just Mr. Gadsden,” Henri answered.

  His brother sighed. “I think you’ve drunk too much.”

  “But it’s only Michael.”

  Louis cast a long-suffering look to heaven, but Michael only laughed. “It’s all right. I’m maybe not a Gadsden man, but then maybe I’m not so far off. But think you on this. The hard part of getting your own country is, you must bleed for it.” He looked at the bottom of his glass and set it down with a sigh. “And I must be going.”

  He took a deep breath on the steps. It was warm for an autumn afternoon. Perhaps the walk back to his rooms over Dillon’s would do him good.

  “Mr. Fallon, may I speak with you?” Gabrielle waited in the carriage path, clutching a book in front of her, until he joined her, a puzzled look on his face. “Some of my friends and I meet every week in a reading circle. Generally, we take turns reading aloud, but sometimes a gentleman will read to us. Would you please be one of them?”

  He couldn’t help frowning. Lord, but women were a deceitful lot. What did this one really want? “Why?” he asked sharply. “You’ve never seen me before today.”

  Her eyes went wide, and a blush mounted to her cheek. He’d been hurt. That was the reason for his rudeness. It didn’t release her from her obligation. “You’re a friend of my brothers, Mr. Fallon. And you’re known as a gentleman of the best sort, no matter what Justin says.” Another blush suffused her face, made worse by her anger at herself. “Oh, drat my tongue. Mr. Fallon, you’ve been shamefully treated by this house. Please let me make amends. Please?”

  Her flaming cheeks and pleading eyes made him instantly contrite. She was a child. “It would pleasure me to read for your circle. But do you realize you’ve no idea how I read? For all you know every word must be dragged out bodily.”

  “Oh, I can’t believe that.” She smiled. Suddenly she remembered the book she carried, Gulliver’s Travels. It had been the last book read by the circle, and seeing it had given her the idea. She thrust it into Michael’s hands. “Here, Mr. Fallon. You will read to me, and I will see how well you do it. Come, now. You can’t refuse. After all, it was you who raised the doubt.”

  He had to smile. “Very well, Miss Gabrielle. If you insist.”

  “Oh, I do.” She lead the way back to the garden, and sat on a stone bench beneath an old oak. “And please sound out all the parts, gruff voices for the villains and the like.”

  She seemed to find more ways to make him smile. He sat down and opened the book.

  “‘Gulliver’s Travels,’” he began, “‘by Jonathan Swift. Part One, A Voyage to Lilliput. Chapter One—’”

  She smiled, less interested in a story she’d heard a dozen times before than in the effect she’d achieved. He’d smiled, and the smile had almost reached his eyes. And he did read with expression, in a fine, deep voice. The circle would surely be delighted. In any case, it seemed she’d made up for her blunder.

  When Michael finally closed the book on Gulliver’s offer to go to war for the Emperor of Lilliput, Gabrielle realized to her surprise that she’d enjoyed herself. “Mr. Fallon, your voice is splendid. I promise the circle will take little of your time, and we do serve refreshments. Though not spiritous, I’m afraid.”

  “How could I refuse,” Michael laughed, “even without spirits?”

  On impulse, as she reached for the book, he swept his leg and kissed her hand. He laughed away her blushes and tucked the book into her hands. “Until your friends need reading to.”