Whispers from the Shadows Read Online Free PDF Page B

been there all along, or was it new? “You know Mr. Lane?”
    â€œIt’s Captain Lane, and I should think so. He is all but a brother to me.” Indeed, his voice rang with warmth.
    Mrs. Wesley emitted a sound of relief. “Oh, praise the Lord, then,that you are the ones to have taken the Scribe .”
    Captain Arnaud loosed a low breath of a laugh. “It would not have mattered, madam, had it been any other American privateer. Thad is equally esteemed by all.”
    How had her father known that? As a sudden stab of pain behind her eyes forced Gwyneth’s head down, her eyes closed. She pressed her fingers to the spot and heard Papa’s voice in her mind. I cannot entrust you to anyone but the Lanes .
    Ben and Winter, not this Thaddeus.
    â€œCome.” The captain’s voice reverberated, distant and muted. “Gather your things and join me on the Demain . I will escort you directly to Baltimore.”
    To Baltimore, not Annapolis. To Thaddeus Lane, not his parents. That wasn’t right, was it?
    A touch upon her arm, so soft she nearly missed it. “His parents have gone to Baltimore too, Miss Fairchild.”
    She jerked back, wondering how he had heard her thoughts…and then realized she must have spoken aloud. Her gaze tangled with Captain Arnaud’s.
    He gave her a small, gentle smile. “Your father obviously knew which name to call upon with the privateer fleet. There is no man more trusted in America than Thad.”
    She didn’t give a fig whom the Americans trusted, but she nodded and followed the captain’s outstretched arm. Because one other truth blazed across her mind.
    Papa trusted Thaddeus Lane. Trusted him with her life, with her well-being. And if Papa trusted him, then so would she.

Four
    S ir Arthur Hart paced the parlor of the elegant home he had visited too many times these past six weeks. This call would yield a different result though, surely. This time the butler had shown him in rather than taking his card. This time Mr. Gates was, from all accounts, at home.
    This time he would make his plea.
    His hands clasped behind his back, he pivoted on his heel and headed across the room once more. He came nose-to-nose with a painting, its gilt frame gleaming, its subject of absolutely no import until he saw the signature in the corner. Gwyneth Fairchild.
    â€œGwyneth.” Her name tasted like honey, yet it did not soothe. Not so long as he knew not where she had gone. Not so long as he feared the worst.
    He shuffled back a step and tilted his head. Her hands had put brush to this canvas, had brought to life this garden scene with the fanciful woman touching a finger to a rose. Her mother, most likely, though he could let himself imagine it Gwyneth herself in the painting.
    His Gwyneth. He had not known she painted, much less with such skill. What else had he not yet discovered? All he knew of her was that she was the most beautiful young woman in England, that she had a sweetness about her far different from most of her friends, that she could make his heart stop with one soft smile.
    He knew he wanted—nay, needed—to know more of her.
    Measured footsteps sounded from the hall, providing Arthur warning enough to face the door, straighten his waistcoat, and school his features. He even managed a tight smile when Mr. Gates stepped into the room.
    â€œSir Arthur, good day.” The few times they had crossed paths, the thing that had struck him the most about Gates was neither the man’s elegant clothing nor stately bearing, but rather that look in his eyes that said he was focused, always, on something beyond a mere social exchange. “I saw that you called several times while I was on the Continent. My apologies for missing you.”
    Arthur nodded. “Had I realized you were on an extended trip, sir, I would not have cluttered your tray with my cards.”
    â€œâ€™Twasn’t cluttered.” He offered a smile as