Mistress Firebrand by Thorland Donna

Author:Thorland, Donna [Thorland, Donna]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2015-02-18T08:00:00+00:00

Fourteen

Severin watched Jenny leave the cellar at John Street, taking the scent of oranges with her. Then Hallam shut the door and said, “I would not have her distressed, but I believe we both know what we are about here.”

“It is hardly gentlemanly to beat an unarmed man who is tied to a chair,” said Severin.

“I am a provincial player, Mr. Devere, just like Jenny. If she cannot expect to be treated like a lady by a British major general, then why should I be held to the standards of a gentleman when I entertain one of that man’s officers? Particularly one who thought nothing of pimping her to an untalented hack whose scribbling saw the light of day only because he married the daughter of a lord.”

“I got Jenny off the Boyne unmolested.”

Hallam was no fool. He knew Devere’s hands were unbound. Warily he circled Devere’s chair. “She did not look unmolested when she arrived at John Street.”

“That is Frances Leighton’s fault. She is the one who told the Widow that I was in New York and set Angela Ferrers’ assassins on us.”

“Was it Angela Ferrers who tore off her gown, or was that the assassins?” asked Hallam from somewhere in the darkness behind Devere.

Marvelous. “No. That was me.”

Hallam kicked Devere’s chair over from behind, cracking Severin’s slowly healing ribs once more and knocking the air from his lungs. He coughed, mouth agape and flooded with bile, tried desperately to take in breath.

Severin lay helpless, back and ankles tied to the chair, one arm pinned beneath him and the other useless to fend off the blows, which soon came hard and fast. Hallam kicked him viciously, over and over, until there was no fight left in Devere and the actor could approach without hazard. Then he used his fists.

The black man—Mr. Dearborn—returned a little while later. He collected the broken bits of the shattered chair and they tied Severin again, less expertly than Angela Ferrers had, but it didn’t matter because he did not have the strength to free himself a second time. He lay on the floor with the cold and the damp seeping into his bones, a taste of what lay ahead for him as a prisoner in the mine.

He had no intention of remaining one for long. Guards could be bribed. The seams of his coat were intact. He had enough hard cash to get messages out. He was the acknowledged—however grudgingly—son of an earl and a favorite of Lord Germain, and even if Governor Tryon was in no position to ransom him from New York, General Howe would surely do so from Boston. Severin had surveyed the Rebel lines for him at Cambridge, brought back desperately needed intelligence that no other officer was willing to risk hanging to obtain.

Devere passed several hours in the darkness, curled on his side, shivering, trying to conserve body heat, before the door opened again and Angela Ferrers appeared once more, this time in a gray wool riding habit. She was accompanied by Frances Leighton, who blanched when she saw him.

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