Freedom's Ring (Sisters of the Revolution Book 3)
Freedom's Ring
DAUGHTERS OF COLUMBIA BOOKS
© 2020 Diana Davis
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
SWEET ROMANCE BY DIANA DAVIS
Historical
Sisters of the Revolution with Audrey Glenn
A Gentleman’s Daughter
A Lady to Lead
Freedom’s Ring
Liberty’s Charge
Integrity’s Choice
Sisters of the Revolution Extra
A Colonial Christmas 99¢ holiday short story collection
Contemporary sweet romance by Diana Davis
Her Reluctant Rock Star
COZY MYSTERIES BY DI DAVIS
Lori’s B&B
1. Inn Over Her Head
2. Inn Trouble
3. Inn Vain
4. Inn Dire Straits
5. Inn Danger
Dusky Cove B&B Cozy Collection (books 2-5)
Ray’s Gifts
6. The Gift of Grift
7. The Gift of Lift
8. The Gift of Rift
9. The Gift of Thrift
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Freedom's Ring
Cover
Front Matter
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
Thank you for reading!
More from Diana Davis & Sisters of the Revolution
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Temperance Hayes edged away from the politicians filling her green-paneled drawing room. For the last five weeks, her father had been among the delegates to the first ever Continental Congress, and for the last five weeks, he’d hosted more than enough dinners and suppers and informal meetings at their home.
Temperance wanted nothing less than to debate the colonies’ political status a moment longer — but she was trying to evade one delegate in particular this afternoon, and this was the one moment of weakness in her strategy. Just next to the path out of the room, Lord David Beaufort bounced his daughter on his knee, chatting with Lady David and Colonel Washington from Virginia. The colonel seemed refined enough, but if the colonies weren’t trying to provoke a civil war, he probably should have left off wearing his military uniform long ago.
She had only to sneak between the marble fireplace and the Beauforts on the pink velvet couch, facing the room. They shouldn’t even notice her behind them. Temperance fixed her gaze on the door to the dining room and tried to set the perfect walking pace, fast enough to get past them quickly and yet not so fast as to draw their attention. Surely she could find her sisters or someone else whom she might beat at checkers or even chess.
“Ah, there you are, Temperance!” Just as she came even with Lord David, Papa’s voice came from behind her.
Her shoulders fell in resignation, but at least it wasn’t Lord or Lady David. “Papa,” she greeted him.
That was enough to catch the attention of the trio. Lord David looked up from where he sat. “How do you do, cousin?”
“In-law,” she added, almost a reflex.
“Apologies.” He seemed to find her correction amusing, judging by the light in his eyes. “Elizabeth, greet your cousin.”
The baby on his knee stared up at her, blue eyes wide. Lord and Lady David both demonstrated to their daughter what to do. Elizabeth simply laughed at them.
“Wherever did she get those blonde curls from?” Temperance mused aloud. Both Beauforts had dark hair, though Lord David wore a fine, gray, powdered wig at the moment.
Lady David took Elizabeth from her husband. “From her father, of course.”
“And who might that be?”
Lady David’s expression remained cool, but Lord David’s smile tightened around the corners. Even Colonel Washington looked away and shifted in his chair.
She’d gone too far, but it was too late to recall the words.
“I’m certain the marchioness could be prevailed upon to send a childhood portrait, if you’re really that curious,” Lord David said. His tone carried the implication that if she were a man, rather than offering to have his mother prove it, he’d be asking for satisfaction.
That would make two of them without satisfaction. Papa urged her forward. “Ah, come along.” His voice, too, held little patience for her anger.
Yes, everyone could be forgiven here except her. She hadn’t killed anyone’s fiancé, but naturally she was the one in the wrong.
“I do still wish to discuss Galloway’s plan,” Lord David called after them, though surely that was aimed at Papa.
Papa ushered her into the dining room, where a few men had gathered around the table. Temperance recognized them: Papa’s clerks. They would offer her little protection from a reprimand.
“You must treat your cousin with civility.” Papa was quiet, but stern.
“I cannot countenance what he did.”
“I meant Cassandra.”
Temperance scowled. Lady David — Cassandra — deserved no better than her villainous husband.
Papa was silent so long that Temperance had to meet his eyes. His normally gentle features seemed to be etched in stone. “It has been eleven months, child.”
She couldn’t help a little gasp. Child? She was twenty-four years old. And Lord David had murdered her fiancé. How was she supposed to pretend none of that had happened, simply because time had passed? How was she the one in error?
Had it only been eleven months since she’d opened the governor’s ball with his son Winthrop, mere hours before he died? The world had indeed turned upside down. Now she was dragged out of the reception and humiliated, and Lord David was serving as a colonial delegate alongside her father.
“This is a reception for the delegates,” Papa finished. “You are welcome to leave if you can’t be civil. We have enough bickering as it is,” he muttered, already striding away.
Certainly, she’d be the one banished from his presence. Her father had never shown her an ounce of consideration from the time he’d leapt to accept Lord David’s defense to this moment.
“Is Patience here?” one of the clerks called. Temperance scowled at him, too. Why were they forever asking after her sister? Did they not already discuss the law and cast sheep’s-eyes at her enough?
One man de
tached himself from the group — Owen Randolph, Papa’s apprentice. Temperance’s heart softened a little. Here was the one person who’d shown her any kindness, even for a moment, in her difficulty with Lord David. She held out her hand. “How do you do, Owen?”
She curtsied as he bowed over her fingers. “Good afternoon?”
That brought back memories. Ever since they were children, he’d always seemed to end every other sentence as a question.
She might still be able to accomplish her objective. “Any chance you might be willing to play checkers?”
The corner of his mouth lifted, even the shadow of his smile charming. “I think not. I’ve lost far too much to you as it is.” Owen cleared his throat and turned to peer through the doorway to the drawing room. “Not enjoying your father’s reception?”
“Some of the company is rather . . . coarse.”
He glanced back at her, one eyebrow perched at a skeptical angle. The next room literally held the finest minds in British America, and she’d just insulted them.
“Lord David?” Owen guessed. “Your cousin? In-law?”
He remembered? “Yes.”
Owen still seemed rather uncertain. “Family feuds must be difficult to endure.”
“He should be in jail.” He should have been hanged, but Temperance tried to hold her tongue at least a little.
“Have you not heard, then?”
She abruptly turned toward Owen. “What?”
“Your father didn’t tell you?” Owen searched the drawing room again, as if for her father.
She hardly wanted to wait to hear whatever this was from Papa. “You had better.”
He shifted his weight. “Your cousin — in-law —”
Temperance resisted the urge to take him by the shoulders and shake the words loose. “What about him?”
“Your father got the magistrate to agree to expunge the records.”
She rolled the words over in her mind, trying to make sense of them. She was a lawyer’s daughter, for heaven’s sake. She ought to know what “expunge” meant.
She didn’t. At least they were old enough friends that Owen could never judge her. “What does that mean?”
“It will be like it never happened. No legal record of Lord David ever having been involved.”
Temperance’s hands flew to her mouth of their own accord, and she took two steps back from the drawing room door. Could her father care so little for her feelings? For a human life, the man she’d loved?
“Temperance?” Owen followed her, taking her arm as if to steady her.
She didn’t realize how much she needed that, and she found herself leaning on him. “When?”
“I’m not entirely certain. Possibly before the Congress began; his mornings have been so taken up with the convention.”
Of course he hadn’t told her.
“Are you well?” Owen asked.
Temperance managed to shake her head. He helped her to the nearest chair.
This couldn’t be happening. Was she the only person on earth who remembered Winthrop had lived? Or simply the only person who cared?
“May I get you something to drink?” Owen offered. “Or eat?”
“Drink,” she murmured. Hopefully a cup of her parents’ fruit punch would revive her.
“Wait here.”
She could hardly be expected to do otherwise, no matter how much Papa’s clerks sat there gawking at and whispering about her.
Could she let this happen to Winthrop’s memory?
Was there anything she could do to stop it?
Owen Randolph made his way through the delegates. Few had brought their wives, and a quick scan of the room showed that only David Beaufort — Lord David? — had brought a child. But, then, it seemed nobility were frequently granted exceptions to rules.
Owen spotted the punchbowl and threaded between two parties. He hoped to avoid any of the delegates, though he really only knew Josiah Hayes and Lord David well enough to speak with them, so sidestepping conversation shouldn’t have been difficult.
He’d just picked up the ladle when a hand clapped on his shoulder. Owen turned to find Lord David and his daughter waiting behind him. “Randolph,” he greeted. “How do you do?”
“Afternoon,” Owen allowed.
The baby burbled and waved at him. Owen couldn’t resist. “And to you, too, Miss Beaufort.”
She giggled in delight and blew through her lips, spraying him with spittle.
“Sorry,” Lord David said, truly chagrined. “Here.” He offered a fine white handkerchief.
The man would use a lace-edged, monogrammed handkerchief for his daughter’s spittle? Owen accepted and swiped it across his face quickly, hoping he hadn’t dirtied it too much. Lord David didn’t seem to notice, tucking the handkerchief away again.
“Was your daughter chosen as a delegate?” Owen couldn’t help asking.
His daughter’s chubby fingers inched toward his wig. Without looking, Lord David expertly caught her hands. “If you know a good nursemaid, let me know. We’ve been through three this year.”
Owen promised he would. If one of his little sisters was up to the task, surely she would leap at the work.
Unless she would be working for a murderer. Owen studied the nobleman before him a moment. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure precisely what Lord David’s connection to the aristocracy was. He could only be a few years older than Owen himself, with what seemed like a happy young family. Owen mostly knew him as the upstairs tenant above his employer’s law office, and as a neighbor, he’d been quite amicable.
But Temperance was adamant the man was a villain. He’d known Temperance too long to discount her word so easily, even if the man in front of him was using that fine handkerchief to wipe his daughter’s drool from her chin.
Lord David’s wife Cassandra relieved him of his daughter, and he switched to wiping her spit from the gold Greek key trim on his red velvet coat. “So, Randolph,” Lord David began. “What do you think of all this?”
Owen scanned the room. “The reception?”
“The Congress.”
He held out an open hand. Parliament closing the port of Boston and revoking the Massachusetts charter had set a very bad precedent. “I’m no fan of the Intolerable Acts.”
“But?”
Had his reluctance been that obvious? “We don’t live in Boston.”
That captured Lord David’s attention. “Ah, so their injustice is not our problem?”
“I don’t quite see how it is. We managed to civilly turn away our tea.”
Lord David looked thoughtful, but Owen had no doubt he’d been through all this in the Congress. “Personally,” the nobleman said, “I worry that what happens in Boston today could happen in Philadelphia tomorrow.”
“Only if we provoke the ministry.”
“Who provoked whom?”
Owen ceded the point. He didn’t mean to win a legal suit against the gentle businessman; he meant to bring a lady some punch. Furthermore, he had no intention of debating the last ten years’ grievances now.
Lord David seemed to sense his hesitation. “It’s all right, Randolph. You’re certainly not the only one who feels that way.” He cast a pointed glance at a few Pennsylvania delegates whom Owen recognized from the newspaper.
“I take it you’re against reconciliation?” Owen asked.
“I’ve seen no evidence we’ll be able to be reconciled unless it’s on our knees.”
Whatever sort of nobility Lord David was, he certainly wasn’t overly loyal to the Crown. “I hope you’re wrong.”
“Wouldn’t that be nice?”
A man nearby cleared his throat, and Owen looked at him. He eyed the ladle Owen had forgotten he was holding. “Sorry,” he said, releasing it, although he hadn’t filled Temperance’s cup. “I’m sure that’s what you came here for as well, Lord David.”
“No, no.” He frowned at the punchbo
wl as if the silver tureen had done something to offend him. “Just to speak with you.”
“Oh.” Owen hadn’t expected a single person here to care enough to solicit the opinion of a lowly apprentice lawyer, even if he was apprenticed to the renowned Josiah Hayes. “Thank you.”
“Not at all. I do wonder, though, if you might be interested in joining me for a meeting at City Tavern next week.”
Owen hedged a moment. There was little doubt where Lord David’s politics lay, and Owen’s own political leaning was mostly of the don’t-make-trouble variety. “Oh, thank you, but probably not.”
“Ah.” Lord David seemed utterly unruffled at the refusal, though Owen had a hard time imagining he was often on the receiving end of those. “Then I shall see you at the office some time.”
“No doubt.” Owen reclaimed the ladle and finally filled the cup for Temperance. Some rescue he’d managed. She was surely either improved or insensible by now. He weaved his way through the men milling about the drawing room and returned to Temperance in the elegant, cream-colored dining room.
In the same chair, Temperance sat with her gaze trained straight ahead, but when he reached her, relief registered right away. She accepted the cup and took a sip. “This is very sweet.”
She didn’t like the punch? “Shall I fetch you something else?”
“No, no — I mean the gesture.”
“Oh.” That was a compliment, wasn’t it? Was he supposed to thank her?
Five minutes in Temperance’s presence and he was a stammering stable boy again. She’d always had this effect on him, and time hadn’t lessened it in the least.
If anything, it had made him acutely aware of the distance between them, between his frayed brown homespun and her printed cotton gown, between his run-down, rented rooms, shared with his mother and sisters, and the fine mansion they stood in now.
He had absolutely no business still fancying a woman who could barely admit his acquaintance, but his heart had never heeded his scolding. Three years as her father’s law apprentice had done nothing to assuage that fancy, either.