The Last Refuge

TWENTY-THREE

‘I’ve got this recipe for battalia pie, and it calls for… hold on a minute while I find the page… sheep’s tongues and shivered palates, two pair of lamb’s stones, twenty to thirty cockscombs, with savory balls and oysters. Lay on butter, it says, and close the pie with a lear. Jesus, where’s Wikipedia when I need it?’

Karen Gibbs, cook

Dressing for the ball would have been exciting in any case, but in anticipation of what might happen if Drew made his promised appearance kept my nerves – and Amy’s – on edge.

I wanted to get a message out to Paul, but leaving it in the bottle was out – Drew would be on the lookout for that – and with preparations for the ball occupying all our time, I had no opportunity (or good excuse!) to sneak out to the Market House.

‘Relax, Hannah,’ Amy said as she handed me my petticoat. ‘Jud’s security people will take care of everything. Nothing bad is going to happen to Paul.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ I said, stepping into the garment and tying it securely around my waist.

‘Of course I’m right. In a few hours you’ll be dancing the night away, your husband on your arm.’

I was still fretting when Melody entered the room, but for the young teen’s benefit, Amy and I pretended everything was normal. Amy helped us both dress and we, in turn, assisted her. After I’d donned my gown and all its associated paraphernalia, only one thing remained – my wig. It had been professionally dressed for the occasion with ribbons and papier-mâché birds. ‘It looks like the birds have nested in my wig,’ I giggled as I settled it on my head, tucked stray strands of my own hair in with my fingers.

‘Cool beans, Mrs Ives. Mine just has flowers,’ Melody complained as she sidled up close to me so we could both share the mirror.

‘As befits a maiden,’ I said, adjusting one of my birds, a canary, that seemed to be perched on one leg. ‘It’s birds in my belfry, at least, and not bats, although my husband might beg to differ.’

The gown that Mrs Hamilton had designed for me, based on a Paris original circa 1773, was exquisite. Made of heavy white brocade, it had an elaborately quilted petticoat and matching slippers, all trimmed with gold ribbon and Swarovski crystals. I looked like a superannuated ice maiden.

Melody wore a coral gown in a similar design. My descent into the spring house to look after Alex had ruined the blue gown I’d planned to loan Amy, so Melody and I were lacing her into my blue ruffled gown instead.

I extracted one of the birds, a robin, from the aviary I carried on my head and stuck it into Amy’s wig, adjusting it so that it seemed to be peeking out of a curl just over her left ear. ‘There, perfect!’ And indeed she was. In that gown, and with that flawless face, Amy would send any colonial swain into a deep swoon.

I hoped Paul was immune.

I dusted a little more powder around my shoulders and puffed some into my cleavage. ‘Done!’

At four o’clock, the appointed hour, Jeffrey rang a bell summoning us to the entrance hall. All day, I’d been hoping for a message from Founding Father, informing me that Drew Cornell had been found. At first I thought the bell might be heralding a courier, but no. It simply announced that our coach was waiting outside the gate. Amy, Michael and French would have to walk the two short blocks to the State House, but Jack Donovan’s socially-prominent family would be transported in style. The other servants – Karen, Dex and Jeffrey – would not be attending the ball at all. Bonfires had been built on the back campus of nearby St John’s College for all the slaves, indentured servants and other ‘lower classes’ where food and an unlimited supply of punch would be provided both before and after a colorful fireworks display.

Our beautiful coach, Jack Donovan informed me as he escorted me down the walk, had been modeled on one Robert Carter had imported from London for Nomini Hall in 1774. On loan from Colonial Williamsburg, the coach had a black roof, while the doors were painted pea green. It rode on four golden wheels, the rear wheels considerably bigger than the front, and was driven by a liveried groom who sat atop the left hand horse, one of a pair of gorgeous grays. Mist filled my eyes, and I had to blink it away. I was walking into an Arthur Rackham illustration.

As I leaned down to gather up my skirts before climbing into the coach, Jack’s eyes drifted to my cleavage.

I was tempted to smack him once upside the head. Shove those eyes back in your head, buster. These boobs, such as they are, are already spoken for, but I gritted my teeth, forced a smile, slipped my gloved hand into his, and stepped up into the coach.

Melody scooted in beside me, bouncing on the leather seat. ‘This is totally awesome!’

‘Awe-some,’ echoed her brother.

Jack had one foot on the step and was about to launch himself into the coach when he suddenly reversed direction, planting both silver-buckled shoes firmly on the curb. ‘What the hell?’

I stuck my head out the coach window. A rider on horseback was clattering down Prince George Street, heading our way, hell bent for leather. When he reached the coach, the rider pulled his mount up short and leaped from the saddle, leaving the reins to dangle in the dust on the pavement. ‘A message for Mrs Ives,’ he panted.

‘I’ll take that.’ Jack reached into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a coin. ‘Thank you,’ he said, and handed the coin to the breathless messenger who pocketed it, remounted, and rode away at a more leisurely pace.

I climbed over Melody’s voluminous skirts and scrambled out of the coach. ‘May I have it, sir?’

Jack turned the message over in his hand, studying it curiously. ‘It’s from Founding Father,’ he informed me unnecessarily. I could tell that from the distinctive red seal.

I extended my hand, and Jack laid the message on it. Without hesitation, I tore open the seal and read, ‘Drew Cornell taken into custody outside your home. No harm done.’ The note was signed simply, ‘Jud.’

Hand pressed to my chest to calm my racing heart, I took a deep breath.

‘Is everything all right, madam?’ Jack inquired with a look of genuine concern.

I folded the note, tucked it into my pocket and smiled. ‘Everything is fine, Mr Donovan.’ I offered him my hand. ‘Shall we proceed to the ball?’

Back inside the carriage, sitting next to Jack and opposite Melody and Gabe, I relaxed against the cushions as the horses clip-clopped up Prince George Street and turned right on Maryland Avenue, heading straight for the State House. As we approached our destination, I noticed that LynxE had provided coaches for some of the other VIPs, too. One after another, the horses clattered around the circle, drew to a halt at the foot of the State House’s steep stone staircase, and disgorged their opulently attired passengers. Shortly after we alighted, a golden chariot pulled up carrying the superintendant of the Naval Academy. While the uniformed driver controlled the horses, a footman hopped off the rear to assist the Admiral and his wife. An open landau arrived next, then a small, two-seater chaise. It was a regular Who’s Who of eighteenth-century modes of transportation, including guests arriving on horseback and on foot.

‘Did all the carriages come from Colonial Williamsburg?’ I asked Jack as I rested my hand on his forearm and we climbed the staircase that led into the building.

‘So they tell me.’

I’d been to the State House on several occasions, but for my companions, who had come to Annapolis from out of town, it was a revelation. ‘Ooooh,’ said Melody when we stepped into the great hall. Tall columns lined both sides of the shotgun-style hall, and the geometric arrangement of black and white tiles accentuated its length.

‘We’re in the rotunda,’ I told her. ‘Look up.’

Steadying our wigs, we gazed up into the dome, still brightly lit by the sun, where a replica of the flag of the Continental Congress was draped.

‘Madam?’ A liveried slave held his hand out for my cloak. I untied it, and while Jack was lifting it off my shoulders, I moved further into the hall.

The music had already begun, but I couldn’t see the musicians. ‘Harpsichord, violin and flute, I think, don’t you, Jack?’ But he had already taken off with Gabe, joining a group of gentleman standing on the side of the hall near the grand staircase over which hung, I knew, the famous portrait of George Washington resigning his commission as commander-in-chief of the Contenental Army, back when Annapolis had actually been the capitol of the United States of America.

Melody executed a pirouette, taking in the view. She pointed. ‘Oh, look! The musicians are sitting up in the balcony.’ Gliding, as if on wheels, she drifted toward the room immediately on our right where a sumptuous banquet had been prepared.

Formerly the Old Senate Chamber where George Washington had actually resigned that December day in 1783, the room – painted a violent shade of blue – had been undergoing restoration. For the event, construction had been temporarily halted and the room furnished with three long tables, covered with white linen, literally sagging under the weight of an enormous variety of ‘cold collations,’ including oysters on the half shell, sliced meats of every variety, whole fish, pickled eggs, breads, dumplings, cakes and pies, as well as several dozen dishes that I didn’t recognize, at least not from a distance.

Taking pride of place on a raised platform on the other side of the room sat something much more recognizable: a punch bowl, nestled amid a sea of short, squat glasses.

Candelabra stood everywhere: some illuminating the tables; others, tall as coat trees, lined both walls of the hall that would serve as the ballroom for the evening. As we wandered down its length, nodding and smiling at other guests, two slaves appeared with long-necked candle lighters, touching the flame to each of the wicks, even though sunset was well over an hour away.

‘This is like a high school dance, isn’t it?’ Melody observed as I was poking my nose into a room to our left, which had been set up with a half-dozen card tables.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Girls on one side of the room, boys on the other. How lame.’ She rose on tiptoe, waved. ‘Look, there’s Amy!’

I motioned for Amy to join us. I opened my mouth to tell her what I’d learned from Jud about Drew, but just then, the dancing began and the opportunity passed. A dozen couples took to the floor, and to the strains of Bach’s Minuet in G, bowed to the audience and to each other, and began the elegant dance.

The rest of the audience – women on one side and men on the other as Melody had pointed out – simply observed, commenting from time to time on the performance of the dancers as if it were an Olympic event: ‘Ooops, she slipped up there. Should have been a right hand turn,’ or, ‘Who taught him to dance? The football coach?’

As we watched, slaves began making rounds with trays of punch. Amy took a glass when it was offered to her, and I was considering reaching for one, too, when Jack suddenly materialized at my side and snagged one for me as the slave cruised by. He held up a finger to the man – wait! – and snagged a second glass for himself.

‘May I have one, too, Papa?’ Melody asked with a smile to melt the coldest heart.

Jack considered his daughter, no doubt taking in the dress, the wig, the makeup and the undeniable fact that his little girl was nearly a woman, and handed Melody his glass. When the slave came around again, he got another for himself.

We remained on the sidelines, sipping, watching the dancing, and all the time I was thinking, where the hell is Paul? In the meantime, I couldn’t seem to get rid of Jack.

Out on the floor, the dancers took a final bow and drifted off the dance floor, the ladies fanning themselves, the men wiping their brows with lace handkerchiefs, although I couldn’t imagine what had been so strenuous about the leisurely dance they had just performed. Almost immediately, another minuet began and Jack asked me to dance. I couldn’t graciously refuse, so I nodded, took his hand, and let him lead me out onto the floor, smiling at me all the way in a proprietary way that gave me the willies.

We bowed to the audience and to each other, traced a Z-pattern on the floor, touched hands, and circled around as Alex had taught us. Jack’s face was flushed, as usual, his brow beaded with sweat.

Paul! I need you! I longed for my husband to approach, tap Jack on the shoulder and say, ‘Excuse me, may I cut in?’ but that kind of dance etiquette wasn’t invented until the middle of the First World War, so I was out of luck.

At the end of the dance, we bowed to each other and to the audience, then Jack escorted me back to the sidelines where Amy had been watching. ‘Not bad, Jack,’ Amy said, then clapped her hand to her mouth. ‘Sorry, sir.’

‘Whew!’ I said, snapping open my fan and putting it to good use. ‘Who knew a minuet could be so strenuous?’ I didn’t want Jack to think I was ready for another spin around the floor. Fanning furiously, I looked around for the children. ‘Where’s Melody? And Gabe?’

Amy pointed with the tip of her fan. Standing with Melody on the sidelines on the other side of the dance floor was a youth I recognized as one of the homeschoolers that augmented Michael’s classes at Patriot House. Judging from the hot-eyed looks the teens were exchanging, and the redness of the boy’s ears, I thought that Cowboy Tim back in Texas might well be history.

‘What’s that young man’s name?’ I asked her.

‘That’s Jason.’

‘Nice lad.’ Jack drew himself to attention, pointed out one of his cronies from Middleton Tavern and said, ‘Excuse me, Mrs Ives, but I see someone I need to talk to.’

I couldn’t imagine what they had to discuss – it was all make-believe, wasn’t it? – but I was glad to get rid of him for the moment. Besides, in spite of the reassuring message from Jud, I was getting really worried about Paul. Had something gone wrong?

‘Have you seen my husband, Amy?’

‘Hannah, I have never met your husband.’

I felt my face redden. ‘Of course you haven’t. Well, if you see a handsome, elderly-statesman type wandering around looking lost, that’s probably Paul. In the meantime, I’m going to take a look around.’

‘Don’t worry about me, Hannah. Michael and French arrived a few minutes ago. I think they’re exploring the card room, so I’ll catch up with them there.’

I began my search in the banquet room, selecting a few olives from a bowl on the table, popping them into my mouth, and then wondering what I was going to do with the pits. I began looking around for a receptacle. Sitting in the far corner of the room, almost invisible in the gloom and partially hidden by a curtain, I nearly stumbled over Gabe, head bowed, his knees pulled up to his chest.

‘Gabe! What are you doing hiding over there?’

‘Why can’t I go to the bonfire with Dex?’ he whined. ‘This place is booooring!’

‘As your father probably explained, it’s because you are a young gentleman, and Dex is supposed to be a slave boy. Slave boys didn’t get to come to dances, unless they were working.’

His lower lip quivered, but he held himself together. ‘That totally sucks.’

‘I totally agree with you, Gabriel, but that’s the way it was back then.’

Gabe had something in his hand. As I drew closer, he tucked it behind his back.

‘What do you have there, Gabe?’

His eyes were wide, innocent. ‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing?’

He stared at me in silence.

I held out my hand. ‘Let me see.’

Reluctantly, with exaggerated slowness, Gabe drew out his hand. ‘It’s an iPod Touch,’ he told me. ‘I’m playing Angry Birds.’

An iPod. The little devil. ‘I thought you turned your iPod in?’

‘I did, Mrs Ives, honest. I found this one.’

‘You found it? Where did you find it?’

‘In a china pot in your room. When you were sick? Remember?’

Truthfully, except for extended conversations with long-dead French philosophers, I had very little recollection of what happened during my extended bout with the dreaded H3N2 virus. I held out my hand. ‘Give it to me, please.’

Gabe sucked in his lips, but handed the instrument over. I pushed the button to exit his game and return to the main screen, then turned the phone in his direction. ‘What does this say, Gabriel?’

‘Amy’s iPhone.’

‘Exactly. So it isn’t an iPod Touch, is it?’

‘No, ma’am.’

‘And it isn’t yours.’

A single tear slid down the boy’s cheek. He shook his head.

‘Then, why do you have it?’ I asked, pocketing the phone.

‘I kept it because I wanted to talk to my mom, but when I put her number in, it didn’t work.’ He swiped at his cheek with the back of his hand. ‘She writes me letters, but I really, really miss her.’

‘Oh, Gabe!’ I coaxed the boy to his feet and crushed him against my petticoats. ‘I know how hard it must be for you.’ I tipped his chin so I could look into his eyes. ‘But it wasn’t right to take Amy’s phone.’

He nodded miserably.

After a moment, I tousled his hair, then marched him back into the ballroom. Although it wasn’t the done thing, 1774-wise, I considered turning the boy over to his father for a good tongue-lashing, but fortunately, I spotted several youngsters about Gabe’s age clustered at the fringes of the ballroom, attempting to dance but making it look more like a scuffle. ‘There are some kids your age, now scoot!’ I gave him a whack on the butt to send him on his way.

I rejoined my friends, lined up casually along the wall back where I had left them. I was planning to hand the iPhone back to Amy, but just then, we were joined by Admiral Michael Miller, the Naval Academy superintendent, his ginger hair covered by a powdered wig. Trim, and ramrod straight, Miller wore the uniform of a Continental Admiral of the Revolutionary War which was surprisingly similar to the navy dinner dress uniform of today – white breeches topped by a dark blue dress coat with tails and a double row of brass buttons marching down the front. The heavily-fringed gold epaulets that decorated his shoulders were a thing of the past, however. The admiral’s wife wore a gown of Prussian blue, with tiny yellow bows decorating the sleeves and bodice. Miniature dolphins frolicked through her powdered curls. I had to admire it. ‘Navy colors, I see. Blue and gold. I like it! Especially the dolphins.’ I pointed at my own elaborate coiffure. ‘My theme is birds, as you probably guessed.’

‘Where’s the good professor?’ Admiral Miller wanted to know.

‘He should have been here a half-hour ago,’ I said. ‘Frankly, I’m getting a little worried.’

Mrs Miller touched my arm. ‘I’m sure he’ll turn up,’ she said. ‘They’ve closed downtown streets to vehicles, so traffic has been simply horrendous!’

I didn’t point out to her that we lived just two blocks away, so traffic shouldn’t have been an issue, but it was just like Paul to get tied up somewhere, with a midshipman needing advice, for example. I fingered Jud’s note for reassurance.

Meanwhile, the musicians had moved on to a reel. Melody’s friend, Jason, came to fetch her, and when the young couple began dancing, I couldn’t take my eyes off her, and neither could anyone else in the room. ‘Oh, Alex, you taught that girl well,’ I whispered to our dead friend’s spirit. ‘She is truly the belle of the ball.’

Next to me, Amy said, ‘Just listening to that music makes me miss Alex terribly.’

‘We all miss him,’ Michael said.

After a while, I asked, ‘What happened to Alex’s violin?’

‘Jud packed up all his stuff,’ Michael said. ‘Sent it home to Alex’s parents. We’ll miss the funeral service, you know.’ He shook his head. ‘Doesn’t seem right somehow.’

The reel ended, Melody and Jason strolled away to the banquet room. Another reel was announced, and I’d just decided to try and hook up with another glass of punch when a familiar voice said, ‘Madam, may I have this dance?’

I pressed a hand to my chest, light-headed with relief. ‘Sir, I would be delighted.’

I almost didn’t recognize him. I had been expecting the green costume he’d been wearing at our last outing, but Paul wore a cobalt-blue suit and a gold brocade weskit instead. Lace spilled out of the ends of his sleeves and over his collar. His wig was different, too. The silver hair was swept back, high off his forehead. Two enormous curls, the size of orange juice cans, trembled over each ear.

‘I was so worried that something had happened to you!’ I blurted out.

‘Not to worry,’ Paul said smoothly. ‘You got the message from Jud? That Drew Cornell is in custody?’

I fell back against the wall. ‘Yes, thank God! Where did it happen?’

Paul leaned close. ‘Jud’s security people picked him up in Brad Perry’s backyard earlier this afternoon. They’re not sure what his plans were.’

Brad Perry is our next-door neighbor. That was way too close for comfort. ‘What happens now?’

‘He’s being turned over to Navy custody as we speak.’

‘I should tell Amy.’

Paul reached for my hand. ‘That can wait.’ He escorted me onto the dance floor, my legs feeling as limp as cooked spaghetti.

We took our place at the head of the line.

Four steps forward, bow. ‘So, which actor is running around naked tonight?’ I asked in an attempt to lighten the mood. Four steps back.

Four steps forward, join right hands, turn, turn. ‘Sir Peter Teazle. That’s why I was late. I couldn’t find the mid with the key to the costume room.’ Four steps back.

Four steps forward, join both hands, turn, turn. ‘I didn’t really think Cornell would try anything here in a room full of people, anyway.’ Paul sounded confident, but then he didn’t know Drew as well as Amy – and I – did.’ Four steps back.

It was a fragmented conversation, but between the do-see-dos, allemande left and rights, and the promenades, I explained about the note Drew had left in the bottle. ‘I wanted to warn you, call off our plan before somebody got hurt.’

Paul laughed. ‘Why do you think I spent all these years practicing karate?’

‘Karate? Ha! Drew’s a SEAL. He probably knows Krav Maga,’ I said, naming the terrifying, no-holds barred method of self-defense developed by the Israelis.

The music ended, and Paul escorted me back to where Amy was standing alone, looking around nervously. I introduced her to my husband.

Paul took her hand, raised it to his lips and gave it a gallant kiss. ‘Delighted.’ He gave Amy the good news/bad news about Drew, and I watched as the tension gradually drained from her face.

‘What now?’ she asked.

‘It’s time to enjoy the ball, Miss Cornell.’

‘They can’t let Drew get away with murdering Alex, Professor. No matter what the medical examiner says, I know he did it.’

Paul tucked Amy’s hand under his arm, covered it with his own. ‘And there’s something else they’re going to take into consideration, Amy. Drew’s unauthorized action in Swosa may have resulted in the deaths of his ten teammates, plus a well-trained dog named Cody.’

‘A dog, too?’ Amy blinked back tears.

The music had started again. ‘Shall we dance?’ my husband asked his young companion, and before she even answered, he whisked Amy away.

I watched from the sidelines.

For the first reel, Paul flirted, Amy was coy. By the second, Paul held on to Amy’s hand just a second too long; Amy was a coquette. They called a country dance, and by then, Amy was behaving like a card-carrying colonial vamp and I had found a chair, where I seethed quietly. Paul was a damn good actor, but then, he was wearing actor’s clothing.

‘Whew!’ Amy trilled when the music finally ended, loud enough for me – and for everyone within a ten mile radius – to hear. ‘I could certainly use a drink, Professor Ives.’

Paul bowed in my direction – the showoff – and escorted Amy into the banquet room.

Meanwhile, another dance had begun. Michael took pity on me – he must have thought Paul had lost his mind, but was kind enough not to say so – and I danced with the superintendant, too.

After a time, Paul rejoined me, minus Amy.

‘What was that all about?’ I snapped.

Paul leaned close. ‘Are you acting,’ he whispered, ‘or are you really pissed off at me?’

I didn’t answer that. ‘Where’s Amy?’

‘In the ladies’ room.’

‘Oh.’ After a moment of silence I said, ‘The superintendant saw you acting like an asshole, you know.’

Paul snorted softly. ‘I’ll explain it all to him later.’

‘Better you than me.’

‘I thought Amy needed cheering up, Hannah. You’d need cheering up, too, if you’d just learned that I’d been arrested.’

‘I simply don’t get where Drew is coming from,’ I said. ‘I know he was determined not to leave without Amy, but it would have been a whole lot safer waiting for her while windsurfing off some beach in Buenos Aires, instead of stirring up trouble here. Look where it got him.’

‘Methinks madam could use a drink. Punch?’

‘Yes, please.’ I felt my makeup crackle, so I suspected I was frowning. But I could use a drink. By that time the ballroom was hot, filled to capacity with merry-makers. The great doors on both ends of the long hall stood open, but there was too little breeze passing through them to even begin to cool the room.

In the banquet room, a group of gentlemen, a little worse for wear due to the bottomless characteristic of the punch bowl, could be heard toasting everyone in Christendom in voices loud enough to be picked up by a passing space shuttle. To the king, long may he reign. To the queen. To Barack Obama. To his wife, Michelle. To wives in general, and to girlfriends, past, present and future. To absent friends.

Even the card games were getting rowdy, and I suspected that whist had taken a second seat to poker, although I didn’t know what the players would be using for chips.

Somewhere someone began singing, ‘Whiskey in the Jar,’ only to be drowned out by someone else belting out ‘Yankee Doodle’ in a drunken baritone.

I was certain that the following day, the Capital would report that a good time was had by all.

A jig was called, and somebody said, ‘May I?’

The guy was in his mid-thirties, I guessed. Solid, tan, fit. He wore the red and white uniform of a Maryland militiaman. I couldn’t tell the color of his hair because it was tucked under a fashionable wig.

‘Have we met?’ I asked, as I offered him my hand.

My partner smiled enigmatically, his green eyes twinkling in the candlelight as he led me out of the banquet room and onto the dance floor.

The jig began. Using a kind of two-step, we jigged around each other for a bit, until another dancer cut in. I jigged with the newcomer for a while, fearing that the old guy – a long-time senator from the Eastern Shore – might drop dead of a heart attack, until I had the opportunity to jig away and cut in on someone else. Eventually my younger partner found me again. ‘I’m Hannah,’ I said, my voice bobbly. ‘What’s yours?’

‘Ed,’ he said.

‘Hello, Ed.’ Dancers jigged all around us, whooping and laughing. I was beginning to relax, getting swept up in their merriment, too. Perspiration sheened the faces of every gentleman on the dance floor, ran in rivulets between my breasts, but I didn’t care.

At one point I pivoted and noticed Paul watching me, holding two glasses of punch, one in each hand and looking worried. I waved at my husband, grinned, and jigged madly on. What’s good for the goose, et cetera, et cetera.

All of a sudden, Ed laughed, grabbed both my hands, and jigged me, bobbing and weaving, through a clot of dancers, toward the enormous bronze doors that led from the twentieth-century annex to the porch on the Lawyer’s Mall side of the building. Party-going couples relaxed on benches in the alcoves on either side of the doors, so my partner steered me out onto the porch. ‘It’s hot, Hannah. Let’s get some fresh air.’

I reclaimed my hands and fell back against one of the six massive columns that supported the roof of the porch. ‘Whew!’ I flipped open my fan. ‘What a workout!’

Ed took a step, closing the distance between us. I held out my fan to signal keep-away, but he kept advancing.

Using one arm, he hooked me around the waist and pulled me close. His lips were warm and moist against my ear. ‘Let’s make Paul jealous, shall we?’

I recognized his voice then. Cold. Bitter. Pitiless.

My heart flopped, flopped again. Drew. ‘I heard that you’d been detained. How did you get away?’

He jerked me closer. ‘Rent-a-cops. Don’t make me laugh.’

He jerked me again.

‘Drew, don’t.’ If it hadn’t been for my corset, I think he might have broken my back.

Where the hell was Paul? He’d seen me dancing with Drew, he had to have noticed when Drew dragged me outside. Or had Paul been too distracted, making goo-goo eyes at Amy?

‘It’s over, Drew. The Navy knows that you’re alive,’ I hissed.

His forehead was pressed against mine. He shook his head, slowly, dangerously. ‘Who told them that? You? Or the imbeciles that tried to arrest me outside your house?’

‘They know you murdered Alex Mueller.’

His laugh exploded in my ear. ‘That prick.’

As long as I could keep him talking, I figured I was safe. ‘It was a mistake to come here, Drew. You’ve already been spotted. Why don’t you leave now, before my husband notices I’ve vanished and comes looking for me.’

‘I don’t think so,’ he said, his voice glacial.

The hand that wasn’t pressing into the small of my back slid over my breast and up my throat, stroking gently at first, like a lover. ‘Oh, Hannah.’ His fingers closed around my neck, began to squeeze. ‘I could snap your neck right now, you know. You wouldn’t feel a thing.’ His lips touched mine, lightly, then he breathed against my cheek. ‘I should have done it that night in Amy’s room. Saved myself a lot of trouble.’

Paul, dammit, where was Paul? I tried to scream, but the pressure of Drew’s hand was cutting off my air supply.

‘Alex was trouble,’ Drew muttered. ‘And look what happened to him.’

Suddenly, a costumed couple burst through the door and erupted onto the porch, laughing drunkenly, stumbling over one another in their efforts to reach fresh air. Drew mashed his lips down against mine, hard, so hard that my teeth bit into my lower lip.

‘Ooops! Excuse us!’ the girl giggled.

‘Mmmmf,’ I tried, but Drew pressed all the harder. He’d dropped his hand, though, so at least I could breathe. I sucked a grateful breath through my nose.

Drew had no weapon, except his hands, but they were deadly. I had no weapon, except my fan. I considered jamming it into his eye.

‘Lovebirds,’ the young man drawled. ‘Sweet.’

‘C’mon. Kiss me, honey,’ she said, clawing at her partner’s cravat.

Desperately, I tried to signal one of them with my eyes, but it was too dark for them to see the desperation written in them.

Drew’s weight shifted, and something knocked against my hip. Amy’s iPhone was still in my pocket. I moaned, fell limp, dead weight in his arms. My head lolled, and I felt my wig begin to slip, tilting, sliding, until it dropped off my head, hitting the floor with a quiet floof.

Drew started, giving me the time I needed to reach into my pocket, wrap my fingers around the phone. I pulled it out and jammed it as hard as I could, narrow edge first, into his throat.

He gasped, tried to draw air, but only succeeded in producing an odd squeaking sound. He crumpled at my feet.

I didn’t wait to see what damage I had caused. I lifted my petticoats and ran, scrambling down the long flight of stairs that led to the street, hoping to be well away before Drew had time to recover and take off after me.

‘We got him!’ A woman’s voice.

I paused, my heart pounding so hard I thought it would leap right out of my chest. Who was that?

‘We have him, Mrs Ives,’ she yelled again. ‘You’re safe now.’

The next thing I knew, Paul was running toward me, stumbling down the steps, crossing the street, folding me into his arms.

‘How…?’ I began.

He held me at arm’s length, looked me up and down as if checking for damage. ‘I’m sorry, Hannah. We saw Cornell drag you out…’ He paused. ‘They told me they’d handle it.’

‘They? Who is they?’

‘I told you I’d bring back-up. Even though Jud’s men got hold of Drew, until we knew for sure he was in Navy custody, I thought it better to be safe than sorry. Come with me. I’d like you to meet them.’

On wobbly legs, supported by Paul, I made it to the top of the long staircase. The first thing I saw was the drunken couple looking remarkably sober. He had a cell phone pressed to his ear and a taser in his other hand. She had a gun. Sitting at their feet, propped up against the wall with his hands behind him, was Drew Cornell. His wig, like mine, had disappeared in the fray and the pale hair underneath was dirty and matted. His head was bowed, so I couldn’t see his eyes.

‘Agent Loftiss, Agent Waldholm, this is my wife.’

I simply stared, too stunned to speak.

‘NCIS,’ Agent Loftiss explained. She extended her hand. ‘Sorry we waited so long to jump in. We were jigging, too, but lost you for a moment when some rowdy kids blocked our path.’

Thank God for whomever invented tasers and the Naval Criminal Investigative Service. ‘Glad you made it before he broke my neck. I was scared shitless, if you want to know the truth.’

Agent Waldholm turned back to his prisoner. ‘Up!’ He hoisted Drew to his feet. I could see that Drew’s hands were bound behind his back with flex-cuffs.

Drew glared at me then, face rigid, jaw set, shooting shrapnel out of his eyes. ‘I want to see my wife.’

‘Later,’ Agent Waldholm barked, propelling Drew ahead of him, down the stairs. I noticed that his hand never strayed far from the automatic weapon strapped to his belt, still partially hidden under his colonial costume.

Loftiss tucked her weapon into her stomacher, adjusted her hoop, hoisted her skirts and headed down the stairs after her partner, but paused to speak to Paul. ‘Thanks for your help, Ives.’

‘I think it’s Hannah you need to thank,’ my husband said. ‘And Drew’s wife, too, of course. Amy Cornell gave up a cool half-million dollars to turn this sonofabitch in.’

‘We need more like her, Ives.’

I gave Loftiss a big thumbs up. ‘Bravo Zulu, Agent Loftiss.’

‘All in a day’s work, Mrs Ives.’

When Loftiss had gone, I tugged on Paul’s arm. ‘Where is Amy?’

‘Last time I saw her, she was inside, dancing with Mayor Cohen. I think he’s smitten.’ He stooped, scooped up my wig and helped me settle it back on my head, squinting at it critically, making adjustments. One of the birds had fallen off in the scuffle. He picked it up, too, took careful aim, and jabbed it back into the mound of cotton candy I was wearing on my head.

‘Should we tell her…?’ My voice trailed off. ‘Of course we should,’ I said, answering my own question. ‘From now on, she won’t have to keep looking over her shoulder.’

After the coolness of the evening, the heat in the ballroom hit me like a wall. ‘Let’s find Amy, then get out of here,’ I said.

‘What about Founding Father?’

‘Screw Founding Father,’ I said.

The ladies lounge had a sofa. I took Amy there, told her what happened, and sat with her while she took it all in.

‘I should be bawling,’ she told me, ‘but I ran out of tears for Drew a long time ago.’

‘Do you want to go home?’

She stared blindly at the wall. ‘Home? Where’s home?’

‘I meant Patriot House, Amy,’ I said gently.

‘No, I don’t think I want to do that. Not right now.’

I swiveled in my seat, laid a hand on her knee. ‘You know what I’d really like to do, Amy?’

She shook her head.

‘I’d like to go to a bonfire. Would you like to come, too?’

Her face brightened, then, just as suddenly, fell. ‘What about the children?’

‘Melody can take care of herself.’ I leaned closer. ‘She’s got Jason to keep her company. They’re joined at the hip. Tell you what, let’s find Gabe, collect Paul and our wraps, and blow this pop stand.’

St John’s College had been founded in 1696 on four acres of land. Over the years, the campus had expanded to thirty-two acres, sprawled along the banks of Weems Creek in the heart of Annapolis’s historic district.

We strolled leisurely down St John’s Street, past the back of the college library, past the state-owned parking garage, heading toward the creek. Several hundred people had gathered along its banks, all dressed in colonial garb. It must have been the price of admission. Somewhere, pork was being barbequed, the aroma permeated the air. A large barrel, or hogshead, was the central attraction. ‘What’s in that?’ Gabe wanted to know as we passed by.

‘It’s punch,’ Amy explained. ‘For grown-ups.’

By some miracle, we found Karen and Dex. Karen had spread a quilt out on the lawn, and graciously invited us to share it.

Just as we got settled down, a series of explosions lit up the sky. ‘Ooooh,’ breathed the crowd. Showers of red and white, fountains of blue, green and yellow, cascaded over our heads. Hot sparks, caught up by the wind, spiraled up, up, and up, then nose-dived, sizzling out harmlessly on the water.

‘And the rocket’s red glare, the bombs bursting in air,’ Paul sang in his gravely baritone.

In the light of a Roman candle, I reached for his hand. ‘That’s “War of 1812,” darling.’

‘Whatever,’ my husband said, squeezing my fingers.