Read Online The Turncoat by Donna Thorland - Free Book Online Page B

lined Main Street were shot to pieces. Blood spatters stained the remnants of the whitewashed fences and window shutters, and yards were littered with blood-caked doors, called into service as makeshift operating tables after the carnage, and abandoned, indelible with gore, in the aftermath.
    “No. You’re for a game of cards with Black Billy. He wants to see you.”
    Tremayne dreaded meeting Howe. “Liar. He didn’t answer any of my letters. He’s only put me on his staff to keep you happy.”
    “Not so. He has a job for you.”
    “Mucking out his stable, most likely.”
    Caide laughed. “Whatever task he appoints you, you’ll do it and like it, or you’ll never see a command again.”
    Whatever penance Howe had in mind was likely to be far nastier than cleaning stables. The worst part was that Caide was right. Tremayne would never see command again in this theater if he failed to please Howe.
    Which was why he found himself, boots polished, braid glimmering, hair tied neatly at the back of his neck, at the doors of the elegant little manse Howe had appropriated for himself. Light blazed from every bullet-riddled window, and the thick, waxy smell of expensive candles and pricier scent met him in a wave of heat at the door.
    Bayard Caide was in his element here among the crowded tables of cardplayers, the impromptu boxing matches, the dicing, and, in the shadowy corners, the illicit couplings with Philadelphia’s Tory daughters.
    Or wives, in the case of General Howe. Tremayne found him holding court at a table littered with punch glasses, broken pipes, and discarded dice. Mrs. Loring, his mistress, resplendent in teal silk, sat beside him, her husband nowhere in evidence.
    “The prodigal returns, Major Tremayne.” Howe rose from the table to clap Tremayne heartily on the back. “You’ll have to be on your guard here. Philadelphia has no shortage of beautiful American women.” A young girl at Howe’s table, too young, probably, to be out with this company, blushed prettily. “And I’m certain at least half of them are spies.” He turned to his mistress. “Viscount Sancreed here was beguiled by the Merry Widow.”
    Mrs. Loring pursed her lips in distaste. “Really, Major. I would have thought that woman was growing too long in the tooth to beguile any man.”
    “The Merry Widow?” Tremayne inquired politely, feeling for the letter in his breast pocket, folded beside the ribbon.
    Howe smiled sourly. “Your mystery lady, Major, is a notorious agent. The French used to pay her to stir up trouble in Ireland. I believe she was calling herself Ferrers when you met her.”
    Tremayne had heard all of this before in New York, and wished desperately to change the subject, but Mrs. Loring was enjoying herself. “Hessians, of course, prefer their women coarse.”
    “Yes,” he confirmed. “Mrs. Ferrers is how she styled herself. A Quaker lady.” During his court-martial, he had omitted entirely the presence of a young woman in the house, and had never once uttered the name Kate Grey. The letter in his breast pocket revealed her to be a Rebel. She was a traitor, and a spy, and she had destroyed his career. And against all reason, he still wanted her.
    “Come now, Peter,” the general said, and led him out of the room and into a spacious parlor where the carpets were rolled back and a boxing match was taking place. “I have a job for you.”
    The combatants fought barefoot, their breeches rolled up, shirts discarded. Whatever business Howe wished to transact was clearly secondary to laying his bet. “Three crowns on André,” he said, placing his wager and nodding at the swarthy black-haired man, whose footwork was better than his punches. He was fighting a larger, slower man, but they were well matched. André was faster, more agile, but the bigger man was more powerful.
    “What sort of job, sir?” Tremayne asked, attempting to recapture Howe’s attention.
    “Two jobs, in fact.”
    The bigger man landed