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like Lytton, though the army tended to attract fewer prudes in his day. He regretted teasing the boy, and knew Lytton bore watching. He was chivalrous and prickly and, without some good advice, would most likely end up gutted in some pointless duel.
    But Lytton was for tomorrow and the long road to New York. Tonight Peter Tremayne had other quarry.
    Kate Grey’s mysterious letter, most likely to some unsuitable lover, lay snug in his tunic. The lady herself had retired, and the state of the lock on her door remained an open question. The household was still awake, the maids banking fires and extinguishing lamps. When quiet settled over Grey House, Tremayne would try her door.
    He had considered a more forceful approach. The aunt was careless and left the girl alone with him after dinner once more, but Tremayne didn’t touch her. He was wholly smitten, but still uncertain. If she was worldly, and inclined to arranging such matters for herself, she could leave her chamber unbarred. If she was inexperienced, she had only to throw the bolt.
    He knew she was attracted to him. And the proximity of Grey Farm to Philadelphia was improving his attitude toward winter quarters in the City of Brotherly Love. Even if he was unsuccessful with her tonight, future visits might prove more rewarding. It occurred to him that his mind was turning to seducing a farm girl with pie crumbs in her hair, and he laughed out loud at himself.
    His cousin, Bayard, had mocked him for choosing this duty, for retracing by land the miserable journey they had just undertaken by sea, for being Howe’s errand boy. Carrying Howe’s dispatches to Clinton in New York was hardly glorious soldiering. But it was preferable in Peter Tremayne’s mind to the other less palatable missions he knew Howe had ordered that night. He had no desire to kidnap private citizens, no matter what their politics, and thought that abducting Rebels from their homes smacked of Tudor intrigue. If the parties sent forth from Head of Elk with orders to drive deep into Rebel territory and capture members of Congress were not instructed to throw such men in the Tower, it was only because Philadelphia offered nearer prisons.
    Mrs. Ferrers had served rum in the parlor, an expensive luxury since molasses had stopped reaching the blockaded American harbors. Tremayne sought, and found, a bottle of local whisky in the kitchen and poured himself a glass. He returned briefly to the parlor, where he opened the secretary and helped himself to pen, paper, and wax.
    The rooms were creaky, hot, and old, but the mattresses were fresh and the bed curtains free of dust. Returning to his room, he arranged his kit for the morning, listened with satisfaction to the house retiring for the night, slipped out into the corridor, and closed his door behind him.
    Kate’s room lay at the end of the long hall, past the stairs. The scuffed boards groaned beneath his boots and he wondered to himself if the aunt was deaf or just unusually broad-minded. Another, less charitable thought occurred to him: that there were Tories aplenty who would pimp their wives, daughters, or nieces to British officers in exchange for trading concessions and protection. Howe had been accompanied on the journey from Boston not only by his charming mistress, Mrs. Loring, but by her husband as well, who profited handsomely from the arrangement.
    When the door to his right opened, Tremayne was prepared for a woman’s tirade, but not for drawn steel. Lytton emerged, flourishing his saber, already realizing that it was a poor weapon in the confined space of the hall.
    “Trouble sleeping, Lytton?”
    “You weren’t joking about Miss Grey.”
    Tremayne sighed. This was a lecture best delivered under other circumstances, but here and now would have to do. “Phillip, this is the way men and women arrange things.”
    “She’s only a girl.”
    “She’s older than you are, and quite capable of locking her door. Go back to bed. The whole