Jo Goodman (52 page)

"Yes, that's right. She had an injury that had only been partially attended to."

"What sort of injury?"

"A dog bite, I suspect. That's what we gathered from her. I thought it probably happened sometime during her run North."

"The ball of her hand?" asked Graham. He pointed to his own. "Just here?"

Jonna nodded.

"A small girl. Delicate, really. Large eyes. Skin like coffee."

"Well, yes. How did you—" She stopped. "Oh, you remember her from last night. She was one of the servants who stayed with you."

He shook his head. "There was no one here like that. Not that I saw. I remember someone named..."

"Amanda?"

"Yes. Amanda. She's the only one who attended me."

"Then perhaps you slept while Rachael was here. I know she was on duty last evening."

"It doesn't matter," Graham said. "It's not where I know her from. She was among the last group that Decker transported out of Charleston. I never knew her name, but I don't doubt it was Rachael. She escaped a slave ship—
Salamander—
and found her way to Michele Moreau's. She didn't speak English, Jonna, but she could speak. No one understood her tongue, so she was mostly quiet."

"There must be a mistake, then. Rachael understands English well enough. She always has. How much could she have learned if she had only just arrived on these shores? And why wouldn't she talk now? You must admit it makes no sense."

"It makes no sense to
us.
I'm not convinced there's not some sense to it."

"The logic of it fails me. We must be talking about different girls."

"This girl supposedly bit her hand to slide free of her shackles."

"No," Jonna said, shaking her head. "Dr. Hardy was quite clear about it being a dog bite. I think he would know the difference."

"But I don't know that I would have," Graham said. "Or that anyone else would have. What if she communicated one thing to the others who were at Michele's, when something else entirely had happened?"

"To what purpose?"

"To give credence to her tale when she appeared from nowhere. To keep others from questioning her too thoroughly. It's clever when you think about it. She pretends to understand little of the language until all danger has passed, but once she's separated from the others and placed in a station on the Underground, she gradually shakes off her identity as an escapee from a slaver and takes on one that better fits her here in the North. She doesn't speak and people assume that she can't."

"But why?"

"Here's what I know about people who don't talk much," he drawled softly. "They hear everything. And mostly it's because they're paid so little attention."

"What am I not understanding here?" Jonna asked. "Will you please speak plainly?"

Graham ignored her as he started to climb out of bed. Beads of perspiration immediately dotted his upper lip.

Jonna came to her feet and blocked his path. "What do you think you're—"

"Faneuil Hall," he said. "I believe I have a need to see the place again for myself. It's been a few years since I visited." He caught her suspicious glance. "Harvard graduate."

"Oh." Then she realized she had been momentarily set off course. Graham had neatly maneuvered around her. His pained expression notwithstanding, he was moving rather better than she would have expected. "You shouldn't be up at all. Dr. Hardy said bed rest. You'll reopen your wound and bleed to death."

He shrugged. "Where are my clothes?"

"In the laundry, I'm sure. I gave them to Rachael myself."

Graham was not deterred. He went to the armoire and examined the contents. "Something in here will do."

"I fail to see what—" She stopped because it was obvious to her that he would not be swayed. "Then I shall accompany you. Someone will have to be there to catch you when you—" Jonna hurried across the room to support Graham's arm as his knees began to buckle. "There, do you see? You aren't going anywhere." She took the clothes he'd collected from the armoire, dropped them on a chair, and led him back to bed.

Graham swore under his breath as he sat back on the mattress. Later, he thought, when her guard was lowered, he would take his leave. Decker would never forgive him for putting Jonna in danger. "Perhaps you're right," he said softly, turning gingerly on his side. Jonna pulled the covers up to his shoulders. "I've mistaken the matter."

"I'm certain of it," she said. "Rest now. I'll have a word with my housekeeper. She's had my confidence from the beginning, and I trust her opinion. I'm convinced you and I are not speaking of the same girl, but Mrs. Davis may have reason to think otherwise."

Graham closed his eyes.

Jonna waited a few minutes until Graham's even breathing signaled his surrender to sleep. He was in no way fit enough to follow Decker, and she had known the quickest way to defeat him was to insist on accompanying him. He wouldn't tolerate that. Jonna let herself out of the bedchamber quietly, remaining in the hallway a few moments to be certain he didn't stir.

Then she went in search of Mrs. Davis. "Please have the carriage brought around," she said when she found her. "I'm going out for a little while. Oh, and perhaps it would be best if there were frequent checks on Mr. Denison. He's taken it into his head that there's some reason he should follow Captain Thorne."

Mrs. Davis did not attempt to conceal her distress. "Why should he do that? Is there something wrong?"

"Not at all," Jonna said soothingly.

The housekeeper allowed herself to be consoled. "It's no problem," she said. "I'll look after him myself."

"Thank you." Jonna turned away to get her bonnet and pelisse. She stopped when Mrs. Davis called to her. "Yes?" One of the housekeeper's hands was extended. She held something between her fingertips. "What's that?"

"I believe it belongs to the captain," Mrs. Davis said. She dropped it into Jonna's outstretched palm. "Rachael gave it to me. She found it somewhere. The laundry, most likely. I couldn't get the sense of what she was trying to tell me."

"It's Decker's. Odd, he didn't mention that it was missing. I wonder if he knows he doesn't have it." She turned the earring over and ran her finger lightly over the teardrop of pure gold. The delicately engraved ER winked at her. Elizabeth Regina. A queen's gift worth a king's ransom. She was holding history in her hand. Jonna was not particularly superstitious, but she didn't like to think that Decker was without his talisman. "I'll make certain he gets it. Thank you, Mrs. Davis."

Beaming, the housekeeper went to arrange for Jonna's carriage.

* * *

Decker's soft groan was muffled as he opened his eyes. There was nothing to see. The space he was in was dark and cramped. He was lying on his side, his knees drawn closely to his chest. His ankles and wrists were bound. There was a handkerchief stuffed in his mouth, and another length of material ran around his head, securing it. He tested his range of movement. Without freeing himself, the most he was capable of was a slight roll to the front or back. Neither was a particularly satisfying position.

He'd known it could come to this, but he'd thought that knowing gave him enough of an advantage. Behind the gag, Decker's smile was wry. Well, it wasn't the first mistake he'd ever made. What he had to do was make certain it wasn't the last.

He tested his leeway with movement again, this time head to toe. By inching along, first in one direction, then in the other, he was able to determine that he hadn't much in the way of room to maneuver. It was not a pine box that held him, but it might as well have been. The trunk that his unconscious body had been shoved into was surely intended as a substitute coffin.

He wondered that he hadn't been killed. Perhaps he was valuable as a hostage now and was meant to be served up as a corpse at some later time. That line of thinking deserved some consideration, but not just now.

Decker's deft fingers began to twist in the ropes that held him. He had deliberately chosen not to carry a pistol. He didn't entirely regret his decision. The pistol might have prevented him from ending up in this trunk, but if it had failed, it certainly wouldn't have helped him out of it. What Decker carried in his boot was better. A scrimshaw knife was the sort of tool a man wanted in a tight place.

* * *

"Did she say where she was going?" Graham demanded. Mrs. Davis's chin came up. "You're supposed to be resting, Mr. Denison. Mrs. Thorne was specific about that."

"I'm sure she was. She doesn't want me in her way any more than I want her in mine." Graham was wearing clothes that belonged to Decker. The fit was better than what he could find in the late John Remington's armoire. "Did she say where—"

"Only out. It's not my place to question her. And it's not yours either."

"It is when she's walking into a viper's nest." Some of the starch went out of the housekeeper's spine. "What?"

He ignored her as he buttoned his charcoal gray jacket. "Are there any pistols to be had, Mrs. Davis?"

"Certainly not. Mr. Remington didn't hold with—"

"Can you at least direct me to Mr. Sheridan's home from here?"

"But Mrs. Thorne said—"

"The directions," he snapped. "I can find Faneuil Hall myself, but I doubt that's where this will end."

Mrs. Davis's fingers curled spasmodically at her sides. "Very well," she said, heaving a short sigh. "I have no liking for vipers' nests."

"Neither do I, Mrs. Davis." Graham smiled thinly. "Neither do I."

She gave him the directions and the easiest route to the harbor as well. "I could send someone for a hack for you. Jonna's already taken the carriage."

"No, just a mount." Graham didn't know how well he could ride, but walking any great distance was out of the question. "Will you see to that?"

"Of course." She bowed her head slightly. "This way."

* * *

Decker found the going slow. The bonds were tight and poor circulation eventually made his fingers clumsy. He ached to stretch out, but there was nowhere to go. He wondered how Rachael had fared. Was she trapped in a separate trunk or had Sheridan simply killed her and left her behind? She'd been halfway dead when Decker had come upon her.

As Decker suspected there had been no meeting at Faneuil Hall that morning. Nor was any scheduled for later in the day. It had simply been a convenient ruse to take Rachael from Jonna's home. The why of it still eluded Decker. He had his suspicions that Grant Sheridan was somehow behind the betrayals all along the Underground Railroad and that Rachael was one of his informants, but until he was able to get out of the trunk, suspicions were all he had.

After leaving Faneuil Hall, Decker had gone to the harbor. When he couldn't find Grant there, he went to his home. He was shown to the drawing room and expected to wait there until his presence could be announced. That was not Decker's way. Soon after the butler left Decker began his own exploration. He came upon Rachael in one of the bedrooms. She was lying on the marble apron of the fireplace, moaning softly. There was swelling around one of her eyes, and purplish bruises darkened her cheek and jaw. Her lower lip was split, and a trickle of blood was beginning to dry under her nose.

Sheridan was not in the room. Decker made sure of that before he knelt beside the injured girl. It was only after he held Rachael in his arms that anger made him lose his edge. He gave the young woman full marks for trying to warn him, but he had only seen fear in her eyes. He hadn't understood that her fear had been for him.

The blow to his head had knocked him out immediately. One moment he had been staring at Rachael's battered face, holding her fragile frame in his arms, and the next he had seen nothing but a blaze of white light. Sheridan's strike was enough to blind him with the hot, soaring flare of a thousand imaginary stars.

He had known nothing then. He didn't remember being bound and packed and moved, yet all those things had happened. Decker had realized shortly upon waking that he was no longer in Sheridan's home. He was familiar enough with the rise and fall of the sea to know he was aboard a ship now. Whatever vessel it was, she had not left the harbor.

Decker heard voices occasionally but none that he recognized. He wondered if Sheridan was somewhere around, perhaps even sitting on top of the trunk. With a single blow, Sheridan had removed a rival and captured Falconer. What was less clear to Decker was whether Sheridan knew the extent of his success.

He continued to twist his wrists in the ropes, considering what truths Grant had forced from Rachael with blows of his fists.

* * *

Graham took hope from the carriage he saw standing in front of Sheridan's home. He dismounted, secured the mare, and then spoke to the carriage's driver. "Are you with Mrs. Thorne?"

"That's right."

"She's inside?"

The man nodded. He pointed to Graham's mount. "That's one of her mares. You must be the fellow that showed up last night." He tipped his hat and scratched his head, clearly bewildered. "Thought you were injured. Gut wound, they said."

"Flesh wound," Graham said. "They were wrong."

The driver grinned. "Apparently so." His eyes drifted up the walk. "Here comes Mrs. Thorne now."