Phantoms In Philadelphia (44 page)

Bills, invoices, correspondence;
there had to be twenty letters there. Finally, at the bottom of the
stack, I found one that interested me. It was written in a woman’s
hand; the flourishing script and the slant told me as much. There
was no signature, but there was a list of names—associates in
league with the secret society known only as the Holy
Order.

Folding the letter, I tucked it into the pocket of
my black trousers. There were only two more drawers but as I pulled
them open, the sound of the front door opening halted my hand. When
a man’s voice spoke, coming clear and loud through the wall, my
heart felt like lead in my chest. I knew that voice, but I had been
told that his return was not expected for another three days.

Closing the drawers quietly, I moved away from the
desk to the window, slipping through without a sound.

Crouching low, to avoid being seen through any of
the windows that covered the side of the house, I inched my way
toward the front gate.

Everything that happened only a month ago still
haunted both my waking moments and my dreams like a never ceasing
nightmare. I felt as if I should have known that I was walking into
a trap, but I had not, and now a friend was dead, and my dreams of
a new life were shattered.

Three persons had escorted me to Charleston; Levi,
who was a former Phantom under my leadership, Reverend Gideon Reid,
and Mrs. Beaumont my mother’s housekeeper. My mother had insisted I
bring her housekeeper with me for respectability since I would not
allow my mother to accompany me to Charleston.

When I walked off the
Queen’s Reward
, there was
only one plan in my mind—to find all the information on the Holy
Order that I could and depart the city.

George Crawford, founder of the Phantoms, had sent
me to Charleston to work for his nephew’s team of spies, but when
he told me that Samuel Mason had been tracking the Holy Order for
months, I formed my own plans.

As we set out at the port, Levi and I were supposed
to follow Mrs. Beaumont and Reverend Reid to the church he would be
ministering in for a year, but Levi and I had made good our escape,
directing the coachman to take us to Samuel Mason’s house
instead.

Levi was down the street in our hired carriage
waiting for me. When I approached Samuel’s house, I had to stop and
stare, for it was beautiful. All the houses in this waterside city
were different from those in Philadelphia; colorful and exotic.
Samuel’s was made of grayish white bricks with three stories of
white porches and white columns flanking the front. There was a
black, iron fence running the length of the front of the house with
a black gate. When I looked upon the house, the face belonging to
the master of the house flashed in my mind. Seven months had done
nothing to diminish his image from my thoughts. I would have been
intrigued by both the house and its master, if I did not detest the
man so much.

The gate was ahead of me, but I paused at the edge
of the house, for coming through the gate was a woman, smiling
slightly and idly swinging her gloves from her hand. My breath
stalled in my lead-feeling chest.

All of the pain from the past year slammed through
me accumulating into one delirious conviction. She was responsible
for it all.

She halted when she saw me. Her eyes that were a
mixture of deep blue and purple, widened, and her mouth opened. She
was small in stature and blonde, but I knew that the color of her
hair was a pretense, like every word that ever fell from her lips.
I rose up to my full height of five feet and nine inches, a giant
in a sea of dainty women. Then again, I had fought a giant in the
past, and he and I were nothing alike.

“Raven,” the woman before me hissed recognizing the
mask I wore that had a black leather raven on one side. She turned
and ran.

I pushed off the ground with the balls of my feet,
running hard as I pursued her. After six months of waiting for that
moment, I would not waste it.

She ran across the cobblestone street into a wooded
area of land that stood between the house and the water. She was
fast, but she was also wearing a dress, and the fashionable boots
women wore were ridiculously difficult to run in with their high
heels. I was on her heels, so I leapt forward, knocking her to the
ground from behind.

As a puff of air exploded from her at the force of
landing on the ground, I took advantage of her momentary weakness
by sitting up, rolling her over, and slamming my fist against her
middle. She jerked up, gasping. Throwing my fist forward to hit her
again; she jerked to the side, and my fist hit the ground. Pain
shot up my hand and into my arm. I shook my hand trying to dispel
the pain, and that distraction cost me.

She pummeled me in the side.
Groaning against the pains her fists were creating, I grabbed her
right wrist, but she used her left hand to grab my knit cap and
pull my face down toward her. I released her wrist and grabbed her
neck, trying to choke her. I did not want to choke the life from
her, only scare her—repay her for all the trouble she caused me.
When I thought about that, anger boiled my blood, and for a moment,
I did want to kill her.

She shoved her hands beneath the sleeves of my
jacket and dug her nails into my flesh. The pain was like little
knives piercing me. I released her neck with a yelp, pulling my
arms away from her clutches. She started to cough. Drops of blood
were trickling down my arms, sliding onto my gloves. I threw my arm
back to punch her again, but she jerked her head to the right, and
her fist hit my side again, knocking me back. She scrambled up, but
I was quicker.

Grabbing a fistful of her hair, pins went flying as
I pulled her blonde wig from her head. It served her right for not
wearing a hat. Netting was covering her ebony hair. She moved until
a good ten feet were between us. I stood, holding up her wig in a
taunt.

“What do you want, Bess?” she asked, clutching her
stomach.

“The Holy Order,” I replied smoothly, running
strands of her wig between my fingers.

“No,” she said.

So be it! Dropping her wig, ready
to run at her again, she raised her hand, and the late morning
sunshine glinted off a silver blade. I had but
a second to react as her hand came down, sending a dagger
flying at my chest. I leapt to the right, and the blade sailed past
me.

Landing on the hard ground, pain shot through my
ribs. As I blew out a furious puff, everything inside of me went
rigid in a burning desire to cause her as much pain as she had
caused me. I pushed myself to my knees, but she was beside me
before I could get to my feet. She kicked my stomach, and I let out
a shout as I fell back. The witch dropped to her knees on my
stomach; the tip of a sharp blade placed against my temple.

“I do not want to hurt you.” She shrieked as I
pinched her leg. She slapped my cheek, sending pain through my
face; then she pressed her blade against my neck again. “But I will
if you do not leave Charleston.” She kept the blade against my
throat as she rose. I did not move for I knew she would cut my
throat. “Today,” she added before kicking my side, hard. Fiery pain
covered my whole side as I rolled over gasping then coughing.

She started to walk away.

“Guinevere,” I called out, she looked over her
shoulder at me, “I am not leaving.”

“We shall see,” she replied before retrieving her
wig and half running, half limping down the street.

As I rose up, she disappeared around the corner of a
house. Fury was soaring through me as I held my side that felt like
it had some cracked ribs.

The sunlight glinted off the steel
of the dagger she had thrown at me. In her haste to retreat, she
had forgotten it. I stumbled toward it, but could not bend over to
retrieve it, so I lowered to my knees to pick it up. It was nine
inches in length, and seeing the handle caused me to suck a sharp
breath. Engraved in the center of the gold handle was a heart with
the letters
J
and
G
. I
knelt there for several painful heartbeats as my mind shouted what
that stood for. It was for her, after all, that Jack had deserted
me in November. He loved the vixen and would not stop until he
found her.

Though Jack had never told me, I had known he was
betrothed to her. I had overheard their stolen conversation at a
ball when Jack had given her an engagement ring. It was the same
night that she was supposed to murder James Monroe, who was about
to be inaugurated as the President of our country. She had not done
it, switching the poison with a sleeping draught, but the woman had
done many other travesties, which was reason enough why I should
keep her whereabouts a secret. I did not want my brother to do
anything foolish, like marry the witch. Betrayal flashed in my
heart, followed by bitter anger, for I knew he would do that if I
did not stop him.

Gripping the dagger, I pushed myself to my feet,
gritting my teeth against the pain in my side.

“Raven?” said a deep voice from
behind me. My eyes slid closed as unpleasant flutters came alive
inside my stomach. I knew who stood behind me.

Seven months ago, Samuel Mason and I had ‘met’ under
mysterious circumstances when his uncle George Crawford had been
captured by a corrupt secret society and I had broken into George’s
house, searching for clues as to his whereabouts. It was while I
was there that I was set upon by a masked man. He attacked me, and
when he had me restrained, he kissed me. That we were on his
uncle’s bed, and I was dressed as a man only added mortification to
the memory. I would have been able to forget all about it if it had
not been for the letter. Later that night after I returned home
from a party, it was to find my pistol that he had stolen from me
and a mocking, detestable, atrocious insult of a letter. Since I
had been masked as well and dressed as a man, I had thought that he
did not know me, for I had never met him. Then came the letter and
the realization that he knew that not only was I Raven, leader of
the Phantoms in Philadelphia, but that I was also Bess Martin,
heiress and debutante.

I had hoped that I could break into his house, find
whatever information he had on the Holy Order, and escape the city
without ever having to see his lying, deceitful, rag-mannered,
annoyingly handsome face again. On the ship to Charleston, I had
thought too many times about that interlude and his perfect
kiss.

Knowing I could not run if I tried; I slowly opened
my eyes and turned. The cavity around my heart that had felt
nothing but a dull ache for the past month, filled with an alarming
amount of warmth. My mouth dipped open slightly as my gaze took in
all of him. I was gawking, but truly it was not fair.

The man was not only handsome as I
remembered. He was an
intensely, poetically
soul-burning Adonis. His honey brown hair was pushed back with
perfect wavy curls falling to his nape. His gray eyes traveled the
length of me while his lips curled up in the way I remembered all
too clearly.

“Just so.” He murmured the word, but I knew he was
mocking me, for he had said that after he had kissed me.

My breath hitched as he advanced toward me, stopping
much closer to me than was proper. He held out his large, strong
hand. “Miss Martin, I presume.”

My mouth snapped closed as my common sense flooded
back like a wave striking a ship. With seven months of
mortification backing the action, my hand flew up and struck his
cheek hard enough to make his ears ring.

Thank you, God, for granting the desires of my
heart.

Much thanks to Mary and Karen for all of your
encouragement and help on this story.

To the Agents of Prayer, Agents Star, Harmony,
Astute, Honor, and Foresight for all of love and covering over the
last four years. Thank you for taking this journey with me.

To Elizabeth and Amanda, thank you both for being
awesome and helping to inspire my main character. She would not be
who she is without the two of you.

To Boss, Doc, and Spy for being the reasons that I
write. You are my greatest achievements.

To my parents for always being so supportive. Thank
you for choosing me.

To Jen, Kristen, Marsha, Amy, Patti, Ruth, MeriBeth,
Kristi, Sherry, Dorie, Cathi, Valerie, Tricia, Tracie, and Ashley
for sticking with me and cheering me on over the years that it has
taken me to get here. All of you ladies are beautiful inside and
out.

To John, you are the best part of my heart. Thank
you for reminding me that Vantanas never give up, and always keep
moving forward. In one way or another, your epicness will inspire
generations to come.

To every person who takes the time to read my
stories, thank you for going adventuring with me.

Though this is a work of fiction, some pieces of the
story are true. 1816 was known by many names; the year without a
summer; Eighteen hundred and froze to death; the summer that never
was to name a few. The unusual and disastrous weather was linked to
a succession of major volcanic eruptions. The 1815 eruption of
Mount Tambora claimed to be the largest known eruption in 1300
years. The weather was affected in every part of the world. In
North America there was a consistent dry fog that would not
disperse. Ice was indeed seen as thick as a windowpane. Many crops
were destroyed and the price of many foods rose considerably. For
ex. the price of oats rose from .12 a bushel in 1815 to .92 in
1816. Snow fell in June in both New York and Maine, and
temperatures could go from normal to near freezing within hours. An
interesting story about the year was that in 1815 when the editor
of the Farmer’s Almanac was sick in bed one of his printers or copy
boys decided to play a prank, and changed the almanac for July 13th
of 1816 to say that it would snow. The editor discovered the trick
and had almost all copies destroyed and ordered a new publishing
run. Some of the original copies apparently got out, and the editor
took a lot of grief about it. But when snow and cold did occur
throughout the summer, including July 13th, the editor tried to
take credit for the error, claiming that he knew it would happen
all along.