CHAPTER 1
AUTUMN 1747, CAMBERLEY MANOR, SUTTON COLDFIELD, ENGLAND
“Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot that it do singe yourself.”
— WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, HENRY VIII
Agunshot pierced the air. Phoebe Dunbar, code nameHawk, snapped the gossip column shut. Had General Bolingbroke fired the shot? She turned towards the glass doors of the hothouse, where she’d been taking her teatime break. Her view was obstructed by the sharp morning sun glinting off a plethora of greenery and vivid hothouse blooms. Her nostrils flared in anticipation of what she’d come here to do—find dirty secrets.
Phoebe pushed up from her seat, squared her shoulders and exited the hothouse. She turned left, in the direction of the gunshot, ignoring Camberley Manor on her right. She’d told her employer, Lady Bolingbroke, she would take her teatime break in the hothouse, but no one would think it unusual if she took a stroll outside instead.
She took the path towards the tiny swan pond. The slate pebbles were rough under the soles of her delicate leather halfboots. Phoebe slowed her pace when discernable voices grazed her ears from across the water’s surface. She dipped behind a yellow rhododendron almost as tall as she was.
Always hide in plain sight,Falcon had said. Falcon was Phoebe’s spymaster and she’d ended the dictate with,because they’ll never suspect you.
Phoebe’s adrenalin surged as her employer’s husband spoke.
“And why would a Scotsman have interest in outfitting the British Army with muskets? Doesn’t your ilk have great dislike for the English?” asked Sir Henry, baronet and army general of the redcoats. His voice dripping with cynicism.
“Profit bows to no nation, Sir Henry,” came a deep, cultured voice.
The hint of a Scottish brogue sent a fierce shock of homesickness straight to Phoebe’s stomach.
The general gave a low chuckle. “Touché.”
Phoebe leaned out from behind the bush and peeked, wanting to identify the Scot.
At present she had a view of his statuesque back. His thick hair, black as sin, was tied in a neat queue with a black bow.
The general’s typical hard smile turned appreciative as he took the musket from his steward, who’d primed it. Bolingbroke then eyed the Scot. “For what length of time will you be stationed in Burntwood?”
Bolingbroke wasn’t a tall man, but during the few occasions Phoebe had conversed with him, he’d held his head high and managed to look down at her. His beady eyes had a way of chilling the blood, even in a banal conversation. Upon meeting him, she’d decided the moniker ofHangmanwas well suited.
“For the foreseeable future. With the camp followers including wives and children of the men, as well as cooks, nurses and sutlery services, it’s quite domestic,” the Scot said.
“If your camp followers are lightskirts, as we had when I was stationed in Scotland years ago, they also make the nights go by quicker.” She could hear the lascivious sneer in the general’s voice.
The Scot shifted his stance as if uncomfortable with the comment. His broad-shouldered power stance and uniform were most certainly cavalry. The sheathed rapier hanging off the sword belt on his left hip seemed an integral part of the man himself.
The general aimed and fired at the target, a circular piece of wood about fifty yards away, already bearing a hole from the previous shot. The loud bang resonated in the air echoing through the distant forest. A flock of tiny gray birds dashed into the air from a nearby tree.
“Excellent shot, Sir Henry,” the Scot said.
Phoebe ducked back into her hiding space. She twisted the folded copy of theDaily Courantin her hands. The gossip column’s ink blackened her palms. News of the Crown’s latest Jacobite hangings for high treason wasn’t forgotten. Her mission: to report weapons technology, and tactical information advantageous in the event of a Jacobite resurgence, while exposing and thwarting corruption in the British Army. But if she were caught spying on General Bolingbroke, she would end up the same, with a rough noose around her tender neck, snapping it in two.
Just then Phoebe saw the slow approach of the kindly old footman Ludlow from the Manor. He was taking the same footpath she’d come by a few minutes ago. She adopted what she hoped was an innocent posture, of one simply perusing the gardens.
But through her peripheral vision she took in the Scotsman’s uniform. Dark colored breeches hugged athletic thighs and lean calves, which were clad in tall cavalry boots. He wore a strikinggray surtout coat with gilded facings on the cuffs and coat tails used by the Royal Scots Greys, 2nd Dragoons’ Cavalry.
The Scot turned around and she caught sight of his face for the first time. Phoebe gasped in shocked surprise and nearly dropped the gossip column.
Slade MacLean still caused her heart to lurch, to squeeze and twist in her chest. To make want and regret bump each other in her belly. To make her wish she’d been more outspoken and confident as a child. To make her sorry she wasn’t as pretty as a dead woman. It had been years, but the subject of her childhood anguish and desires still brought heat to her cheeks.
Phoebe took in Slade’s features. The first time she’d met him, his gorgeous dark good looks had made her gawk, for he was perfect, like those tall strong beautiful knights she’d dreamt about as a nine-year-old girl. He’d done the same thing to her little heart a sinful scoop of syllabub or a decadent dollop of plum pudding did. Made it forget to beat.
Her brother Egan had brought him home and introduced him to their family. She had believed in knights then; she had believed in the innate goodness of others when he’d saved her life. But then, seven years ago, she’d outgrown such silly childhood notions as her world had spun out of control and ceased to make sense on the moors.
A loud shot rang out, pushing her recollections aside. The shot was followed by a muffled thump and a weak cry. Phoebe’s gaze darted across the pond. The steward held the musket, which was still being primed. But why was there smoke at the tip of his barrel?
