From there we made our way to Bellevue Avenue and Mill Street, where dignified clapboard houses faced a grassy, tree-shaded square called Touro Park. At the park’s center, the Old Mill Tower rose up against the evening sky, its unmortared stones forming several arches in a circular design nearly thirty feet in height. Some speculated Vikings had built it hundreds of years before Columbus set sail to this hemisphere; others held it to be nothing more exotic than the remains of a seventeenth-century windmill. For me, that night, the very sight of it made my breath hitch in anticipation.
We kept to the edges of the park and took up position under the shelter of some trees, pressed tight to the trunk of the largest among them. We didn’t have long to wait. Other than the occasional muffled voice from one of the houses behind us, silence reigned in the neighborhood until footsteps alerted us to the arrival of the first of our quarry. Though the darkness as well as a broad-brimmed beaver hat concealed his features, the approaching man revealed himself as one of our target by striding to the tower and passing through the closest of its arches.
Soon carriage wheels echoed off the fronts of the houses directly across the park from us. The hansom cab stopped and a man alighted. Again we could not make out his face clearly, but after a quick look about and a word to the driver, this man, too, made his way inside the tower.
The carriage drove off, and Derrick and I used its rumble to conceal our steps as we moved closer, careful to stay close to trees and hedges and not daring to speak a word. Once again I applauded my choice in wearing my restored gown; being meant for walking, the petticoats were of the softest muslin that remained virtually silent when I moved.
We crept as close as we dared to the tower. Hushed voices drifted from inside.
“Have you lost your wits, summoning me here like this?”
“Me? You’re the one gone daft. I told you the other morning when you intruded upon my breakfast that I didn’t want anything more to do with you. I did what you asked. Now fulfill your side of the bargain and leave me alone.”
The first voice was that of a stranger to me. The second voice—oh, that one I knew well enough. I caught Derrick’s eye and silently moved my lips.
Winty.
A quivering realization went through me. This other man was the reason Winty hadn’t allowed me to search his house for Consuelo the morning I’d visited him. Another visitor had gotten there before me, and Winty hadn’t wanted me to discover him.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” that man said now, his voice deeper, gruffer than Winty’s, suggesting he was older. “What do you want? Make it quick.”
The individual I had already guessed to be Hope Stanford’s husband stepped into view through one of the arches. His rotund figure filled the space, though his head fell far short of the arch’s zenith. With an impatient gesture he swept his beaver hat off his head, revealing a balding pate wreathed by tight, closely cropped curls that shimmered silver in the moonlight.
“What do I want?” It was Winty speaking this time. “You sent for me, remember?”
Pebbles crunched and suddenly both men were framed by the archway. Winty poked a finger at Stanford’s frock coat. “I played your little game, but I swear, Stanford, if you drag me down any further I’ll go to my father. We might not have quite the fortune we once did, but Father’s still got his connections. He’ll see you put out of business—any and all business.”
“You wouldn’t dare besmirch your own name, much less run confessing to your papa. Just think how disappointed he’d be to discover his dear Winthrop putting in with smugglers.”
Derrick and I shot each other another glance.
“Damn you, Stanford. Look, let’s just get this over with before someone spots us together. What do you want? If it’s to help you again, you can forget it.”
“Why do you insist on asking me what I want?” A rustle of paper disturbed the quiet. “You summoned me.” Calvin Stanford thrust a piece of paper toward Winty. Winty stared at it dumbly before reaching inside his coat and pulling out a similar sheaf.
This time Derrick and I exchanged knowing—and yes, amused—looks; we knew good and well where those notes had originated.
“What the . . . ?” Mr. Stanford swiped the paper from Winty’s hand and held it up beside his own. He squinted to make out the words. Then he snapped both pages to his side and began looking about, neck craning as he searched the shadowy park. “Damn it, we’ve been set up.”
Derrick took my hand and together we stepped out from behind the concealing foliage. “Yes, you have.”