Excerpt    

FOR LOVE OR COUNTRY 

by Kerrelyn Sparks 

The setting is Boston, 1769, and Quincy Stanton has agreed to spy on the British army. Since many of the British officers are quartered in the homes of wealthy Loyalists, Quincy must masquerade as a Loyalist, also. And so, the adventure begins...

CHAPTER ONE 

Tuesday, August 29, 1769 

“I say, dear gel, how much do you cost?” 

Virginia’s mouth dropped open. “I--I beg your pardon?” 

The bewigged, bejeweled and bedeviling man who faced her spoke again. “You’re a fetching sight and quite sweet-smelling for wench who has traveled for weeks, imprisoned on this godforsaken ship. I say, what is your price?” 

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. The rolling motion of the ship caught her off guard and she stumbled, widening her stance to keep her balance. This man thought she was for sale? Even though they were on board The North Star, a brigantine newly arrived in Boston harbor with a fresh supply of indentured servants, could he actually confuse her with the poor wretched criminals huddled near the front of the ship? 

Her first reaction of shock was quickly replaced with anger. It swelled in her chest, heated to a quick boil and soared past her ruffled neckline to her face, scorching her cheeks ’til she fully expected steam instead of words to escape her mouth. 

“How...how dare you!” With gloved hands, she twisted the silken cords of her drawstring purse. “Pray, be gone with you, sir.” 
“Ah, a saucy one.” The gentleman plucked a silver snuffbox from his lavender silk coat. He kept his tall frame erect to avoid flipping his wig, which was powdered with a lavender tint to match his coat. “Tsk, tsk, dear gel, such impertinence is sure to lower your price.” 

Virginia’s mouth fell open again. 

Seizing the opportunity, he raised his quizzing glass and examined the conveniently opened orifice. “Hmm, but you do have excellent teeth.” 

“And a sharp tongue to match.” 

His dark eyebrows shot up. “Mon Dieu, a very saucy mouth, indeed.” He smiled, displaying straight white teeth. 

Virginia considered responding with an insulting remark in spite of the man’s perfect smile, but refrained from stooping to his level of ill manners. She stepped back, intending to leave, but hesitated when he spoke again. 

“I do so like your nose. Very becoming and--” He opened his silver box, removed a pinch of snuff with his gloved fingers and sniffed. 

Virginia waited for him to finish the sentence. He was a buffoon, to be sure, but she couldn’t help but wonder--did he actually like her nose? Over the years, she had endured a great deal of teasing because of the way it turned up on the end. 

He snapped his snuffbox shut with a click. “Ah, yes, where was I, becoming and...disdainfully haughty. Yes, that's it.” 

Heat pulsed to her face once more. “I daresay it is not surprising for you to admire something disdainfully haughty, but regardless of your opinion, it is improper for you to address me so rudely. For that matter, it is highly improper for you to speak to me at all, for need I remind you, sir, we have not been introduced.” 

He dropped his snuffbox back into his pocket. “Definitely disdainful. And haughty.” His mouth curled up, revealing two dimples beneath the rouge on his cheeks. 

She glared at the offensive fop. Somehow, she would give him the cut he deserved. 

A short man in brown buckram coat and breeches scurried toward them. “Mr. Stanton! The criminals for sale are over there, sir, near the forecastle. You see the ones in chains?” 

Raising his quizzing glass, the lavender dandy pivoted on his high heels and perused the line of shackled prisoners. He shrugged his silk-clad shoulders and glanced back at Virginia with a look of feigned horror. “Oh dear, what a delightful little faux pas. I suppose you’re not for sale after all?” 

“No, of course not.” 

“I do beg your pardon.” He flipped a lacy, monogrammed handkerchief out of his chest pocket and made a poor attempt to conceal the wide grin on his face. 

A heavy, flowery scent emanated from his handkerchief, nearly bowling her over. He was probably one of those people who never bathed, just poured on more perfume. She covered her mouth with a gloved hand and gently coughed. 

“Well, no harm done.” He waved his handkerchief in the air. “C’est la vie and all that. Would you care for some snuff? ’Tis my own special blend from London, don’t you know. We call it Grey Mouton.” 

“Gray sheep?” 

“Why, yes. Sink me! You parlez français? How utterly charming for one of your class.” 

Narrowing her eyes, she considered strangling him with the drawstrings of her purse. 

He removed the silver engraved box from his pocket and flicked it open. “A pinch, in the interest of peace?” His mouth twitched with amusement. 

“No, thank you.” 

He lifted a pinch to his nose and sniffed. “What did I tell you, Johnson?” he asked the short man in brown buckram at his side. “These Colonials are a stubborn lot, far too eager to take offense”--he sneezed delicately into his lacy handkerchief--“and far too unappreciative of the efforts the mother country takes in their behalf.” He slid his closed snuffbox back into his pocket. 

Virginia planted her hands on her hips. “You speak, perhaps, of Britain’s kindness in providing us with a steady stream of slaves?” 

“Slaves?” 

She gestured toward the raised platform of the forecastle where Britain’s latest human offering stood in front, chained at the ankles and waiting to be sold. 

“Oh.” He waved his scented handkerchief in dismissal. “You mean the indentured servants. They’re not slaves, my dear, only criminals paying their dues to society. ’Tis the mother country’s fervent hope they will be reformed by their experience in America.” 

“I see. Perhaps we should send the mother country a boatload of American wolves to see if they can be reformed by their experience in Britain?” 

His chuckle was surprisingly deep. “Touché.” 

The deep timbre of his voice reverberated through her skin, striking a chord that hummed from her chest down to her belly. She caught her breath and looked at him more closely. 

When his eyes met hers, his smile faded away. He held her gaze, frankly studying her. 

The man in brown cleared his throat. 

Virginia blinked and looked away. She breathed deeply to calm her racing heart. Once more, she became aware of the murmur of voices and screech of sea gulls overhead. What had happened? It must be the thrill of putting the man in his place that had affected her. Strange, though, that he had happily acknowledged her small victory. 

Mr. Stanton gave the man in brown a mildly irritated look, then smiled at her once more. “American wolves, you say? Really, my dear, these people’s crimes are too petty to compare them to murderous beasts. Why, Johnson here, was an indentured servant before becoming my secretary, were you not, Johnson?” 

“Aye, Mr. Stanton,” the older man answered. “But I came voluntarily. Not all these people are prisoners. The group to the right doesn’t wear chains. They’re selling themselves out of desperation.” 

“There, you see.” The dandy spread his gloved hands, palms up, in a gesture of conciliation. “No hard feelings. In fact, I quite trust Johnson here with all my affairs in spite of his criminal background. You know the Americans are quite wrong in thinking we British are a cold, callous lot.” 

Virginia gave Mr. Johnson a small, sympathetic smile, letting him know she understood his indenture had not been due to a criminal past. Her own father, faced with starvation and British cruelty, had left his beloved Scottish Highlands as an indentured servant. Her sympathy seemed unnecessary, however, for Mr. Johnson appeared unperturbed by his employer’s rudeness. No doubt the poor man had grown accustomed to it. 

She gave Mr. Stanton her stoniest of looks. “Thank you for enlightening me.” 

“My pleasure, dear gel. Now, I must take my leave.” Without further ado, he ambled toward the group of gaunt, shackled humans, his high-heeled shoes clunking on the ship’s wooden deck and his short secretary tagging along behind. 

Virginia scowled at his back. The British needed to go home and the sooner, the better. 

“I say, old man.” She heard his voice filter back as he addressed his servant. “I do wish the pretty wench was for sale. A bit too saucy, perhaps, but I do so like a challenge. Quel dommage, a real pity, don’t you know.” 

A vision of herself tackling the dandy and stuffing his lavender-tinted wig down his throat brought a smile to her lips. She could do it. Sometimes, she pinned down her brother when he tormented her. Of course, such behavior might be frowned upon in Boston. This was not the hills of North Carolina that the Munro family called home. 

And the dandy might prove difficult to knock down. Watching him from the back, she realized how large he was. She grimaced at the lavender bows on his high-heeled pumps. Why would a man that tall want to wear heels? 

Another pair of lavender bows served as garters, tied over the tabs of his silk knee breeches. His silken hose were too sheer to hide padding, so those calves were truly that muscular. How odd. 

He didn’t mince his steps like one would expect from a fopdoodle, but covered the deck with long, powerful strides, the walk of a man confident in his strength and masculinity. 

She found herself examining every inch of him, calculating the amount of hard muscle hidden under the silken exterior. What color was his hair beneath the tinted wig? Probably black, like his eyebrows. His eyes had gleamed like polished pewter, pale against his tanned face.

Her breath caught in her throat. A tanned face? A fop would not spend the necessary hours toiling in the sun that resulted in a bronzed complexion. 

This Mr. Stanton was a puzzle. 

(Some time later...) 

Leaning back in the seat of the closed carriage, Quincy Stanton yanked the lavender-tinted wig off his head. “The damn thing itches.” He scratched his head and eyed the wig beside him. “Can wigs have lice?” 

“I believe so,” Mr. Johnson answered. 

Quin switched his glare to the man seated across from him in the carriage. “Does anything ever disturb you?” 

“Yes. Injustice.” 

“I see. Well, did you get the information you needed?” 

Johnson patted his chest, indicating that the report from his London operative was in his coat. Someone on board The North Star had secretly passed it to him. 

Quin waited, but the man said nothing. “Will you tell me what is happening?” 

“Only what is strictly necessary for you to accomplish your mission.” 

Stretching his legs in front of him, Quin scowled at the high-heeled shoes that cramped his feet. “Do you think I cannot be trusted?” 

“You could be captured, Stanton. ’Tis only a precaution. You did an excellent job covering for me just then. No one ever notices me when you’re around.” 

“Well, who would have known I could act like such an ass? I suppose it runs in my family.” Quin scratched his head again. “Damn, I was so rude to that young lady.” 

“You liked her.” 

It was not a question. Quin looked into the shrewd eyes of Mr. Johnson and didn’t bother to deny it. When he had agreed to work for Johnson a month earlier, he had been surprised at the man’s insight. Johnson saw right through everyone, staring at them calmly ’til they confessed the truth. No wonder the man was Boston’s master of spies. 

“It matters little what I think of her. She will hope never to see me again.” Quin recalled the contour of her face slanted up to him, brave and indignant. She had made a clever opponent for verbal fencing, retaliating with witty ripostes. When he angered her, the smooth skin of her cheeks blushed pink. Her eyes were green, not brightly colored, but a luminous, pale green like the sun shining through a green glass bottle. There were times he had seen the sea look like that, when the sunlight would catch it just so. It was like looking into the eyes of a mermaid. 

“I could find out who she is,” Johnson offered quietly. 

Startled from his reverie, Quin shook his head. “No need. Her father would never let me near her. Did you see the way he looked at me when I was buying the boy’s papers? He thinks I was shopping for a catamite.” 

“Why did you buy the boy?” 

“Josiah claims to be the best pickpocket in all of London.” 

“Hardly the best, if he was caught.” 

“He wasn’t, but he claims the second-best pickpocket planned to turn him in out of envy. His mother brought him here, hoping to save him from prison, but her death has condemned him to fourteen years of labor.” Quin hoped Josiah was still seated next to the coachman and had not tried to escape. 

“And what if he steals from you?” 

“I don’t expect him to retire completely. He’ll be my personal servant, assisting me at my social engagements. And while I am busy playing this damn role, he will busy himself, locating documents and so forth. Servants can go about unnoticed, and a child, even more so.” 

“Not a bad plan. You’ve been very helpful, though I wish you wouldn’t tell people I was a criminal.” 

Quin grinned, wondering if he would, at last, shake this man’s cool demeanor. “’Tis my revenge for allowing you to ruin my life.” 

Johnson nodded. “I thought it might be that. But your life is hardly ruined.” 

“You think not? Boston is my home, and now, all my former friends and acquaintances think I’m the biggest jackass ever to come to town.” They thought he was betraying them and the Colonial cause. She thought he was a foppish, arrogant numbskull. Her father thought he was a pederast. And if they knew the truth, that he was a bastard, it would be even worse. He could just imagine her adorable little nose turned up in disgust. 

Quin sighed and rested his head against the seat as he rocked with the motion of the carriage weaving through the congested streets. The sea breeze had loosened her dark auburn hair from its bun, allowing a few stray curls to drift along the nape of her graceful neck. She had the perfect hair color for a mermaid. 

“If you can take your mind off that young lady for a moment, I need to explain a few things.” 

Quin straightened with an annoyed glare at his director. “How do you do it? Do you have a pact with the devil?” 

Johnson shrugged, neither insulted nor surprised. “We have made a few adjustments to your carriage. If you’ll sit beside me for a moment, I will demonstrate.” 

Quin moved to the front seat of the coach and watched as Johnson lifted the cushioned lid of the backseat. 

“As you can see, there’s a hidden compartment underneath,” Johnson explained. “’Tis stocked with three muskets, a powder horn, a sack of musket balls, and a few knives.” He removed a walking stick and small cloth bag, then dropped the seat back into place. “This is a new snuffbox for you, designed by Revere.” He opened the cloth bag and handed a round silver object to Quin. 

“I already have a snuffbox.” 

“Not like this. Open it.” 

Quin clicked it open. “’Tis rather large, don’t you think?” 

“Notice how the top lid has a mirror inside. While you pretend to take snuff, you can watch whatever happens behind you. And this--" Johnson grasped the snuffbox and demonstrated a small switch that made part of the box slide out from a hinge. “This is a magnifying glass with a special edging of phosphorescence that will make it glow in the dark. This way, you can examine papers in a darkened room without having to light a candle which could obviously alert someone of your presence.” He slid the round glass back into place, and it deftly disappeared into the design of the box. 

Quin practiced operating the switch that popped out the magnifying glass. “This is very clever. Thank you.” 

“Now, take a look at this walking stick. A simple twist of the silver knob and voilà.” A razor-sharp knife sprang out of the tip, transforming the ebony stick into a bayonet. 

Quin cocked a brow. “Tory pigs on a skewer. My favorite dish.” 

Johnson gave him a bland look. “You forget, Stanton. As far as most of Boston is concerned, you are a Tory. You may need this stick to protect yourself from some overzealous patriots." 

“You have a point, no pun intended.” Quin frowned, recalling an incident when a group of patriots had tarred and feathered a Tory merchant for refusing to sign the nonimportation pact. He twisted the silver knob, and the knife receded into the walking stick. 

Johnson continued, “We’re also experimenting with small explosives that can be thrown after they’re lit, but we’re experiencing a delay in their manufacture. The man who was working on them blew his hand off.” 

With a gulp, Quin sneaked a sidelong glance at his employer. “How inconsiderate of him.” 

“Yes. Now, let’s move to the backseat while I demonstrate this latest addition.” 

Quin grabbed his wig from the backseat and tossed it onto the front one. Once they were seated, Johnson reached up to pull on a looped silken cord hanging from the ceiling. 

Immediately, a trapdoor over the front seat swooshed open. A heavy iron bar fell out and slammed onto the cushions and the wig with a muffled thud and a puff of lavender flour. 

Quin winced. “Ouch. That would really hurt.” 

Johnson nodded. “Aye, guaranteed to knock a fellow traveler unconscious. Just in case you find yourself in poor company. Now, help me put it back. ’Tis rather heavy.” 

Quin pressed on the trapdoor ’til he heard a distinct click. He eased back, wary of being caught underneath in case the heavy rod decided to drop unexpectedly. He lifted his flattened wig. “Perhaps it killed the lice.” 

“There’s one more item in the experimental stage. A submersible vessel, operated by one man. I believe you are just the man to help us with it.” 

“Why? Did the others lose their hands?” 

Johnson sighed. “Pray, don’t be ridiculous, Stanton. There is no danger to your hands, only a slight chance of drowning. You do swim well, don’t you?”