From Chapter 1
Before Constance could take her leave from her brother-in-law Owen, the front door opened again, and her cousin’s husband strode in. “Oh, Constance, how do you do?” David Beaufort greeted her.
“Well, thank you.”
David met Owen at his desk. Constance was about to slip out when she noticed David withdraw a purse from the pocket of his maroon coat embroidered with tiny sprays of flowers. He handed the purse to Owen.
Of course. Asking her own parents for money was hard enough for Constance that she hadn’t thought of asking David and Cassandra. But David was not only the richest man in the colonies, he was also one of the most ardent patriots.
She waited for a pause in Owen and David’s conversation. “How is the Congress, cousin?”
“Let’s not ruin the dinner hour with talk of that, shall we? Were you leaving, Constance? May I escort you home?”
“Yes, please,” she said quickly. She could tell him her true intent once they were underway.
They were scarcely down the block before she laid out her purpose. “David, might I trouble you for a shilling?”
“Of course.” He fished a purse from his pocket — how many did the man have? And both had coordinated with his cream-and-maroon waistcoat? He held out the silver coin. “Here you are. Settling a debt?” he teased.
“Oh, no, I was hoping to buy a copy of Common Sense.”
“Well, then, let’s see that you do!” David took her elbow and steered her directly down High Street to a print shop.
Constance froze before a small brick shop. The sign above the door read The Watchman.
Oh, no, no. Any print shop but this. “Is this the only place it’s available?”
“Only press originally printing it with Paine’s permission,” David muttered.
Of course the best patriotic pamphlet was published by the brightest and most ardent patriot printer in the city.
David opened the door, but a shout drew his attention. “Oh, blast. Afternoon, Hancock,” he called to the man approaching them. He urged Constance inside. “Give me a moment.”
She fought herself every step. How could she object with David standing there holding the door for her? She craned her neck to see Hancock approaching — John Hancock, President of Congress. For reasons she didn’t quite understand, David did not care for the man, but he seemed to be working to hide it now. “Where are you headed for dinner?” David asked, though Hancock was still yet a ways off.
David glanced at her. “Don’t let me keep you.” He practically pushed her past the doorstep.
Perhaps he wouldn’t be here. Still, her stomach rebelled. Was it her imagination, or did she smell smoke?
She didn’t belong here. She had to go. She needed to leave now.
Constance took one step back before the movement and clatter of the shop registered in her mind.
Fischer Marks stood at the press in his leather apron, waistcoat and shirtsleeves, his blond hair in a perfect queue. As handsome as at first. Staring at her.
She froze. Was there any way to avoid the man she’d — nearly — loved?
For the shortest moment, Fischer Marks had absolutely no idea what the right thing was to do in this situation.
The woman one had spent a year trying to put out of one’s mind did not stroll into one’s print shop every day.
The woman who must hate one. No — the woman who must hate him.
“Con — Miss Hayes!” he hastily greeted her. “A moment, please.”
He grabbed his coat from the hook and pulled it on, as if that made any difference now. Still, it was proper. Right.
Constance had barely made it inside the shop, so he rounded the counter to approach her. “Good afternoon,” he greeted her more properly. Did he really sound as eager as he thought he did? He searched her lovely face for any sign of . . . anything.
“Afternoon,” she greeted him. She glanced over her shoulder. John Hancock and David Beaufort, his patrons, stood in the street talking. And then Beaufort let go of the door.
They were alone in the print shop.
Just as they had been that disastrous night. The one that had shown him exactly why he should not have Constance Hayes. He could not.
Fischer took a step back. “How may I help you?”
“I would like a copy of Common Sense, if you please.” Her voice was softer than he remembered, but she didn’t seem outwardly affected, at least as far as he could see.
Why did that make his heart sink?
“I’m sorry, Common Sense?” Fischer couldn’t help but tilt his head. Constance Hayes had never been a patriot to his knowledge.
“Yes, by Thomas Paine? I was told you print it.”
“Yes, yes — of course.” Clearly the pamphlet was the only kind of common sense in stock in his shop today. Fischer retreated behind the counter and produced a copy from the correct pigeonhole. “Here we are, Common Sense. One shilling.” He held out a hand.
She placed the coin on the counter.
“I hope you enjoy it,” Fischer said. Was it obvious he hoped she’d stay?
No, he didn’t hope that. He pined enough for her as it was.
On the other hand, he should always take the opportunity to try to win another to the cause. “‘The cause of America is, in a great measure’—”
“—‘the cause of all mankind,’” Constance finished the line from the pamphlet’s introduction. A small smile suffused her features, and Fischer felt himself returning it.
Was Constance Hayes already a patriot, then?
Did that mean —
No. It meant nothing. Her politics had not been his problem. He was, himself. Too caught up, too swept up, too much. He turned away to toss her coin in the till.
WHO IS JEANNE DARK??
Fischer wants to court the brilliant, mysterious author Jeanne Dark. Will he discover she’s secretly Constance, the woman he spurned but still loves?