Congress has not the principles of your late good mother. Godspeed you to Philadelphia, Miss Grey.” He passed Howe’s plans to his secretary. “Copy these and add them to the packet for Congress. It would be a great favor to me if you carried the papers yourself.”
“Of course, General,” said Hamilton.
She was going. It took a moment to sink in. She would not sleep in her own bed tonight, might not return home for several weeks. She remembered her father’s letter, safe now in her pocket. “Will you take this, too, Mr. Hamilton? It’s from my father, to Congress.”
“Of course.” Washington’s secretary favored her with a courtly bow and an appraising look. He must think her an unlikely spy, Kate realized.
She drew the letter from her pocket. Dawn light was filtering into the room, and though the paper looked right, the seal was wrong. It was not her father’s signet.
She took the letter to the window and broke the seal.
Washington addressed Mrs. Ferrers. “Madame, is there anything you require for your journey?”
“Fresh horses would speed us on our way.”
Kate unfolded the single sheet of paper in the envelope. The couplet was Latin, clever and lewd. She laughed out loud at the effrontery of it.
It was signed simply, Tremayne .
Four
The Germantown Road, October 8, 1777
Another man would have gone home. Another man, disgraced, demoted, stripped of command and given the choice to rebuild his career from the ground up or retire quietly into private life, would have chosen retirement.
Viscount Sancreed escaped court-martial in New York with his life, but he lost his command and his standing. Caught in a judicial limbo, Peter Tremayne lingered in the city, writing letters of apology to General Howe for losing the man’s dispatches, and requests for aid to friends and superiors, in particular Bayard Caide. Caide was one of Howe’s favorites, part of the select company who danced, diced, and drank with the general well into the night.
In the end it was Caide who secured his return, intervening with Howe and arranging for Tremayne to become an officer on the general’s staff. Tremayne’s official duties would consist of discouraging looting in occupied Philadelphia. He had lost his troop, but a staff office was better than languishing in New York.
It was also better than the long trip home to England, which would be full of self-recrimination. He had weighed carefully the alternatives, and it was the prospect of that journey, the long weeks in his cabin, meals in the company of naval officers, noses a-twitch with the scent of scandal, that convinced him to remain and redeem himself if he could.
All this he had considered in New York. Now, six weeks later, in the saddle beside Bayard Caide, patrolling the farms north of Philadelphia, he was beginning to regret his choice. Tremayne had arrived to take up his staff post only last night, and Bay had instantly swept him out for this foraging party in the morning.
Bay, his kinsman, whom he had grown up alongside in Somerset, had been a wild youth. As teens and fellow cavalry officers they had gambled, drunk, and whored their way through London until the army sent Bay to India and Peter to Ireland.
India had done nothing to curb Bay’s wildness. He returned from ten years’ service under hotter suns with new vices and a high-handed arrogance, tolerated because the Subcontinent had forged him into an officer of extraordinary skill and charisma. Bay insulted his fellow officers, seduced their wives, beat his servants, and was throughout it all utterly and devastatingly charming. His peers envied him. His men loved him, albeit with an affection tempered by fear.
They reined up outside a pretty clapboard farmhouse surrounded by rolling fields of winter wheat and barley. A faint aroma of malt indicated a brewery somewhere on the premises.
“Dyson, find the beer, and some wagons to carry it.” Bayard Caide’s voice was controlled arrogance,
“Of course, General,” said Hamilton.
She was going. It took a moment to sink in. She would not sleep in her own bed tonight, might not return home for several weeks. She remembered her father’s letter, safe now in her pocket. “Will you take this, too, Mr. Hamilton? It’s from my father, to Congress.”
“Of course.” Washington’s secretary favored her with a courtly bow and an appraising look. He must think her an unlikely spy, Kate realized.
She drew the letter from her pocket. Dawn light was filtering into the room, and though the paper looked right, the seal was wrong. It was not her father’s signet.
She took the letter to the window and broke the seal.
Washington addressed Mrs. Ferrers. “Madame, is there anything you require for your journey?”
“Fresh horses would speed us on our way.”
Kate unfolded the single sheet of paper in the envelope. The couplet was Latin, clever and lewd. She laughed out loud at the effrontery of it.
It was signed simply, Tremayne .
Four
The Germantown Road, October 8, 1777
Another man would have gone home. Another man, disgraced, demoted, stripped of command and given the choice to rebuild his career from the ground up or retire quietly into private life, would have chosen retirement.
Viscount Sancreed escaped court-martial in New York with his life, but he lost his command and his standing. Caught in a judicial limbo, Peter Tremayne lingered in the city, writing letters of apology to General Howe for losing the man’s dispatches, and requests for aid to friends and superiors, in particular Bayard Caide. Caide was one of Howe’s favorites, part of the select company who danced, diced, and drank with the general well into the night.
In the end it was Caide who secured his return, intervening with Howe and arranging for Tremayne to become an officer on the general’s staff. Tremayne’s official duties would consist of discouraging looting in occupied Philadelphia. He had lost his troop, but a staff office was better than languishing in New York.
It was also better than the long trip home to England, which would be full of self-recrimination. He had weighed carefully the alternatives, and it was the prospect of that journey, the long weeks in his cabin, meals in the company of naval officers, noses a-twitch with the scent of scandal, that convinced him to remain and redeem himself if he could.
All this he had considered in New York. Now, six weeks later, in the saddle beside Bayard Caide, patrolling the farms north of Philadelphia, he was beginning to regret his choice. Tremayne had arrived to take up his staff post only last night, and Bay had instantly swept him out for this foraging party in the morning.
Bay, his kinsman, whom he had grown up alongside in Somerset, had been a wild youth. As teens and fellow cavalry officers they had gambled, drunk, and whored their way through London until the army sent Bay to India and Peter to Ireland.
India had done nothing to curb Bay’s wildness. He returned from ten years’ service under hotter suns with new vices and a high-handed arrogance, tolerated because the Subcontinent had forged him into an officer of extraordinary skill and charisma. Bay insulted his fellow officers, seduced their wives, beat his servants, and was throughout it all utterly and devastatingly charming. His peers envied him. His men loved him, albeit with an affection tempered by fear.
They reined up outside a pretty clapboard farmhouse surrounded by rolling fields of winter wheat and barley. A faint aroma of malt indicated a brewery somewhere on the premises.
“Dyson, find the beer, and some wagons to carry it.” Bayard Caide’s voice was controlled arrogance,
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