Mistress Firebrand by Donna Thorland Read Free Book Online Page A

exactly,
are
you doing?” Severin asked.
    “I’ve dispatched a request to the admiral in Boston for funds.”
    That would take a week—
if
the admiral had funds available to release to them. A week before serious repairs could begin, pushing them deeper into December and rough sailing weather, which might mean further delays.
    “We cannot wait a week,” said Severin.
    There were several reasons they could not wait a week that had absolutely nothing to do with keeping Jennifer Leighton out of Burgoyne’s bed. A week was sufficient time for news of his presence to reach the Widow in Boston. She had spared his life in their last encounter, but he knew better than to count on her mercy a second time, because he knew what she looked like now.
    Sentiment, Severin assured himself, played no part in his calculations. It was self-preservation, plain and simple, and had nothing to do with the fate of a pretty actress.
    Hartwell only shrugged. “Conditions do not favor a speedy departure,” he said, as though that explained everything.
    Naval men, in Severin’s experience, blamed a great deal on conditions: on weather and supply and forcesbeyond their control. Whereas, in the army, no one was ever allowed to say,
Sorry we couldn’t have a battle that day because the wind wasn’t right and we were short a cask of salt beef.
    “That won’t answer,” said Severin.
    “Then fix it, Devere. That’s what you
do
, isn’t it?”
    It
was
what he did. Sometimes with ruthless violence. Never before had he questioned the necessity of . . . doing whatever was
necessary
. Now was not the time to start.
    *   *   *
    Jenny had not been able to sleep after her quarrel with Bobby Hallam. She had left the greenroom as soon as she could slip away, hoping her aunt would follow. But Frances Leighton had remained downstairs, in her element: drinking brandy, gambling, and keeping the patrons of the John Street Theater guessing as to who among them would be the one to enjoy her much acclaimed favors. Such speculation kept the boxes full at night, which was why Bobby covered the Divine Fanny’s modest losses at cards—Jenny suspected that her aunt lost exactly what she chose to lose—and let them their rooms above so cheaply. And it was also why he made no mention of Aunt Frances’ bad spells.
    For hours Jenny lay awake in bed tossing and turning. She desperately wanted to talk to Fanny. As the night wore on, the stuffy garret chamber she so loved—that had represented freedom and possibility to her when they’d first arrived in New York—started to feel like a cage.
    So she freed herself the way she had always done at home in New Brunswick: by opening a book. After anhour with
The Adventures of Unca Eliza Winkfield
, she was even less sleepy than before, so she sharpened her pen and opened her desk and resumed work on the new play she was writing. She found a place to insert Severin Devere’s perceptive line about tyrants, which was good, but she discovered that she did not know how to resolve the subplot about the farmer’s daughter, which was frustrating.
    Finally, as dawn approached, and the carters and drovers began to rumble by in the street below, she wrapped herself in her shawl and went downstairs in search of Frances Leighton.
    Fanny had the great drafty second-floor room on the west side of the house with the modern fireplace. This morning her door was closed. Jenny had never known her aunt to entertain gentlemen. In fact, for a woman so famous for her love affairs, she had been remarkably chaste since coming to America. She had taken no lovers that Jenny knew of, and she and her aunt were apart only rarely in New York.
    But Jenny had learned from experience that after a night spent gambling and drinking in the greenroom, Frances Leighton was no good to anyone before noon.
    Jenny decided against going back to her bed and curled up on the daybed in the parlor. She must have dozed, because the next thing she knew she was