Lucy suddenly realized the man who had been shot was the same Thomas who had saved Branch from being beaten to death when he had turned eighteen. For that fact alone, she would have done anything to assist him.
“How may I help?” Lucy asked, looking from her father to Branch.
“The message needs to get through, Lucy. The two men who were in here earlier are too cocksure of themselves to realize the news so mindlessly spilling from their lips could be used by their enemy,” Branch said as he divested Thomas of his coat and waistcoat.
“The pocket,” Thomas said, reaching to grab the waistcoat from Branch, and sucking in a gasp as a wave of pain hit him.
“Hold still, you dunce! Have you no more sense than a lump of moldy cheese?” Branch asked irritably while gently removing the waistcoat from Thomas’ clasp.
Thomas managed to lift an eyebrow and leaned back. “Don’t get chuffy, old mate. I’ll survive well enough.”
“You better, or I will never forgive you.”
Lucy knew Branch’s surly tone stemmed from his worry over his friend. It wasn’t like him to be short-tempered or curt.
“Give him a cup of the rum,” Ward said, pointing to a cask on a shelf Lucy hadn’t even noticed, and handing her a cup.
Lucy filled the cup, then returned to hold it to Thomas’ lips while Branch removed his blood-soaked shirt. She supposed it wasn’t entirely proper for her to be there, but under the circumstances, she didn’t care.
“The message. Get it across the river before dark,” Thomas said, his words beginning to slur once he had drained the cup of rum.
The three men all looked at Lucy.
Branch shook his head and glared at Ward. “No. Absolutely not. It’s too dangerous.”
“I can take it. Thomas is in no condition, and from the looks of the blood you’re dripping on my floor, neither are you, Branch.” Ward pointed a pair of forceps at him. “Go sit down before you keel over.”
“I’m not going to keel over,” Branch grumbled with a furrowed brow. “I’ll help with Thomas, then you can set your quackery loose on me.”
Ward scowled at him, but shifted the forceps in Lucy’s direction. “Fill that cup again, please, and set it on the table.”
Lucy did as her father asked, realizing her father and Branch were glowering at each other, not because of Branch’s wound, but because they disagreed about who should take the message across the river.
While they stared at each other, she rushed upstairs and filled two cups with cider, carrying them down to her father and Branch.
Branch drained his in one long gulp, while her father took a few sips, then returned to preparing to do surgery on Thomas.
Lucy shifted so she stood directly in front of Branch, unfastened his dark waistcoat, and felt the blood rush from her head at the sight of the blood soaking into his white shirt.
He pushed her hands away before she could lift his shirt to see how badly he was wounded. “I’m only grazed, Luce. Nothing vital was damaged.”
Rather than insist he show her the wound, she nodded and stepped back. “How long have you known?”
“Known? Known what?” Branch asked, appearing entirely confused.
“About Papa being one of us. About this.” She waved a hand around the room.
“Almost as long as I’ve been in Philadelphia. He was sending messages long before you took the notion into your lovely head to do so. Between the two of you, you’ve gathered quite an assortment of significant information about our enemy.” Branch sighed and wiped a hand over his face. “It wasn’t my place to say anything to you, Lucy. No more than it was my place to say anything to your father about your spying.”
Lucy wanted to argue, but couldn’t. Not when Branch was correct. She turned to her father. “How long have you known what I was doing?”
“From the beginning. You are usually so calm and settled when you work in the shop, but the first time you were waiting for a courier to arrive, you acted like a cat caught in a cage with starving wolves. You’ve done well, though, Lucy. I’m proud of you. The snuff box you made was quite clever, but I had need to send a message off in it the day before yesterday. I know for a fact that the locket has not yet been returned. How did you pass Thomas a message?”
“I made a toothpick case,” Lucy said, taking the waistcoat that Branch still held in one hand and digging in the pockets until she found the case. She wiped the drops of blood on the case onto the waistcoat, since it was now nothing more than a rag, then held it out to her father. Her brow furrowed as she thought of what he had just said. “The locket. You’ve seen it?”
Ward nodded as he set tools on a clean rag on the table. “I have. How do you think it keeps returning to your shelf beneath the workbench?”
Everything made much more sense now. “Did you send Theo and me to the farm because those two horrible men have been watching the shop?”
