The Counterfeit Wife: A Revolutionary War Mystery

By Mally Becker

Philadelphia, June 1780. George Washington's two least likely spies return, masquerading as husband and wife as they search for traitors in Philadelphia.  

 

Months have pass

• Language: English
• Publisher: Level Best Books
• Release date: Sep 20, 2022
• ISBN: 9781685121594

Mally Becker

Mally Becker is the twice Agatha Award nominated author of The Turncoat's Widow and The Counterfeit Wife, books one and two in her Revolutionary War mystery series. She teaches mystery writing at The Writers Circle Workshops, interviews authors for the Historical Novel Society's website, co-hosts Guns, Knives & Lipstick, a crime fiction Podcast, and is a member of Sisters in Crime and the Mystery Writers of America. Mally was an attorney and a volunteer advocate for children in foster care until becoming a full-time writer. She and her husband live in New Jersey, not too far from Morristown where her first book is set. 

Book preview

Prologue

Philadelphia

June 1780

His eyes fluttered shut once, then twice. He shook his head to clear it. He’d find himself waking in the gutter if he didn’t go home now.

He lurched past squat wooden buildings that had never seen better days. How had he come to this in less than a month? But he knew how. A flash of self-loathing gutted him.

The Delaware River lapped against the docks to his left. A cart rumbled past him, the clip-clop of the horse’s hoofs fading as it drew away. Two women argued nearby, their hoods pulled low over their faces despite the warm weather. And behind him, soft, tentative footsteps came close then retreated.

He sang a song to quiet the voices in his head: A hunting we will go; a hunting we will go.

The voices had chased him from the tavern. So real they were, that he’d whirled round, expecting to see—someone. But there was only the embankment behind Water Street looming out of the darkness, the street lamps high above long extinguished. The voices spoke of death.

At the entrance of a nearby alley, shadows shifted. He quickened his pace, though his feet seemed to have lost interest in obeying his commands. What was he thinking raising his voice in song on a street like this? He could get himself killed.

As he passed the shadowy space, he heard a man grunt once, then twice more. A woman with a sharp face stepped out of the darkness, straightening her skirt. She glided by him, assessing and dismissing him in the same glance. His shoulder muscles relaxed. They had no interest in him. A hunting we will go; high ho the derry-o, a hunting we will go.

Near the river, the voices melted away in a single moment. He faltered, his throat closing round his song. The sudden quiet felt ominous.

Good luck doesn’t last, but neither does bad, he mumbled. The man with the ruined hand had told him that. Bad luck don’t last.

He set off again, heading to the stairway that led to Front Street. His gaze caught something metallic flashing in the moonlight on the street. His steps slowed. A pox needle. He hadn’t seen one since his days as a soldier. He shuddered at the sudden memory. There’d been a prick, then a few days of mild illness to prevent much worse.

His focus widened, and he blinked hard, fixing his attention on the dark mound beside the needle.

Not a mound. A man. The drunkard lay face down, his arms set as if he’d tried to lift himself up before blacking out. The man’s shoes were made of fine black leather. He wore a maroon evening jacket. A powdered gray wig and a velvety black pouch had tumbled and come to rest nearby.

Almost losing his balance, he reached down to stroke the black velvet. Soft as a kitten’s fur, it was. It crinkled when he pressed on it. The groggified gentleman was taking a big chance coming here, especially with a bag as fine as that. Helltown was full of lunatics, criminals and worse.

He pressed harder on the velvet until the delicate corner of a paper bill peeked out the top of the cinched bag. Money. The pouch was full of paper money.

The note had a black border. He couldn’t see much more than that in the dark, even with the moonlight. He stuffed the slightly damp note back with shaking fingers, then pressed his thumb and pinky together. They were sticky.

Shifting, he circled, then crouched, for a better look at the drunkard. The man’s cheek lay against the pebblestoned street, and his light hair had come partially loose from the black ribbon that tied it back. A dark round gag filled his mouth. It shone wet in the moonlight.

Fear shimmied up his spine and changed in a moment to fury. He fell, crab walking away before righting himself. His voice shuddered to life in a sound that was part sob and part laughter.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spied the long pox needle again. He scooped it up along with the black velvet pouch.

Minutes later, having assured himself that the man was dead, he dropped one of the two items to the ground again. The other, he kept.

Chapter One

Philadelphia

One week earlier

Heat rose from Rebecca Parcell’s chest, climbed her neck, and stamped a flush on her cheeks. She knew what would happen next. It was time for the toasts.

Steady now, Daniel Alloway whispered. They stood alone in a corner of the crowded ballroom. His good hand brushed hers for reassurance. His other hand hung at his side, deadened by the injury he’d incurred escaping from a British prison ship a year ago.

Becca scanned the room to assure herself that no one watched them. Even his light touch was frowned upon by polite society, but it brought her warmth and comfort.

Their host rapped an ornate silver fork against his crystal goblet again and waited for the magpie chatter of gossip to quiet. He stood by the large fireplace, his feet planted wide as if he were standing on the deck of one of his ships. Mr. Thaddeus Barnes was the wealthiest merchant in Philadelphia, which meant, she knew, that he was one of the richest men in all of North America.

Becca had rarely seen luxury like this, not even last winter in New York City. The ceiling dripped curved garlands of flowers sculpted of plaster. Blue and white vases from China rested on the carved marble mantel. Cherry wood tables hailed from France, and the glass chandelier from Venice.

I’d be much more comfortable with a bow in my hand, Becca murmured. Or a knife. A knife would do.

You’d rather hunt in Morristown than here? Daniel smiled, his green eyes filled with amusement. The gaunt, haunted look he wore when she met him last winter was gone. But his features still seemed to be carved from stone, all hard angles and shadows. Except when he smiled at her like this.

Despite being tall, Becca had to tilt her chin up to see eye-to-eye with Daniel. Hunting here will do. she said, sounding more prim than she intended, and Daniel laughed. Even this type of hunting.

They were in Philadelphia, searching for the counterfeiters flooding the colony with fake money. They were the obvious, though unconventional, pair for the job, General Washington had said when he assigned them. Daniel because he was a former printer with the skills to evaluate ink and paper and Becca for her talent with numbers, accounts, and codes, which had already served the general well.

The clink-clink of metal on glass rang through the air again, and Mr. Barnes’s guests finally quieted. A toast, he called, beginning the first of the three he would raise to Becca and Daniel. It was the same at each of the parties held in their honor these past few weeks. Always three. Becca dreaded the third. To independence.

Becca lifted her goblet and sipped to a chorus of huzzahs. One, she counted to herself, because counting was soothing but not soothing enough for what was to come.

When the cheers faded, Mr. Barnes raised his glass again. The wine-filled cup glimmered red beneath the crystal candelabras. To General Washington.

Huzzah! The ballroom cheered again. Two, Becca counted.

She should be grateful to Mr. Barnes, not gritting her teeth over his toasts. He had opened his home to them at the Washingtons’s request, and he was introducing them to the finest families in Philadelphia, who were happy to welcome two friends of General and Lady Washington.

At least that much was true. Since last February, she and Daniel had become regular visitors to the Washingtons’ residence in Morristown after uncovering a plot that threatened the new nation.

Another round of cheers. Some guests made the mistake of lowering their glasses.

And… Mr. Barnes crowed.

A man with ginger-colored hair lounging by the doorway sighed loudly, catching her eye.

Becca couldn’t have agreed more.

The stranger gave her a slow, lazy smile. His expression was almost intimate, as if he were trying to draw her in. She turned away quickly.

Finally… Mr. Barnes added.

Becca took a deep breath, inhaling the warm scent of beeswax candles.

…let us wish the newlyweds a joyous and productive marriage. Mr. Barnes, a long-time widower, winked at Daniel. May your hearts ever be at each other’s service.

The cream of Philadelphia society turned in unison to Becca and Daniel.

She dropped her gaze to avoid the stares.

A delicate flower, you are, Daniel whispered without moving his lips.

She banged his ribs with her elbow and heard a satisfying oomph.

Anyone watching her redden and look away at the mention of their marriage might indeed take it that she was a shy, delicate flower. This was false.

She was not shy.

She was not delicate.

And, more to the point, she and Daniel were not married.

Mr. Barnes nodded to a double-chinned musician in the corner dressed in maroon breeches and a matching silk coat. At the signal, he tucked his violin into his neck, lifted a bow, and attacked his instrument. Two men laughed at something a third said. A few women formed a group and chatted, and the high-ceilinged room filled again with noise.

Barnes knew the reason they were in Philadelphia. General Washington had trusted him with that information. But their host believed that Becca and Daniel were wed. This way, Mr. Barnes could rightfully claim to be as outraged as everyone else if their deceit came to light.

Memory pulled Becca back to a dinner with the Washingtons in Morristown. Perhaps this is unwise. The general voiced a rare doubt after they agreed to come to Philadelphia. You are unmarried and unchaperoned. It is scandalous. Society will close ranks against you. You’ll learn nothing.

Lady Washington had taken a small sip of sherry. Her blue eyes lit with humor. Then they must appear to be married while maintaining all the proprieties.

The general made a choking sound that Becca and Daniel decided later was laughter. And so they’d agreed to play the part of a newly married couple, with Daniel looking for a new business opportunity in Philadelphia. It was a brazen plan but might just succeed.

Becca startled. The ginger-haired gentleman suddenly stood before her.

He extended a silk-clad leg and bowed, then rose, displaying the same secret smile that made her uncomfortable minutes ago. His nose was straight, his eyelashes pale against close-set blue eyes. Perhaps his chin was a bit heavy, his mouth a bit small. His features were not memorable, but something about him commanded attention.

It wasn’t just his shock of red hair combed back neatly and tied low along the back of his neck, nor the well-made clothes of ivory silk and gold embroidery. Everyone in the room bore similar signs of wealth. It was the confidence with which he moved, the sense that his regard flattered anyone upon whom it was bestowed.

You’ve kept her from me, Alloway. I thought I knew all the beautiful women in Philadelphia. His eyes locked on Becca’s.

She stiffened. It took discipline not to raise her hand and double check that the lace covering the top of her breasts was in place. He made her feel naked.

Daniel stiffened, too. Mrs. Alloway, may I introduce Mr. Edmund Taylor, another merchant here in Philadelphia.

Taylor’s light eyebrows shot up in mock distress. "Just another merchant? One of the most successful in the colonies, despite the war." His gaze dropped to Daniel’s injured hand.

And is your wife here, too? Daniel bit down on the words, your wife.

Irritation crossed Taylor’s face so quickly Becca thought she imagined it. My dear, he called loudly.

A woman standing near the fireplace tensed, then moved toward them with the elegance of a swan. Her hair was honey blond, her skin unblemished, and her eyes a liquid blue. She stopped before them, wearing a tentative smile.

I’m honored to present my wife, Charlotte Taylor. He completed the introductions.

It is a pleasure. I hope you enjoy our city. Her voice was breathy and slow. There was a stillness about her, as if she had her own secrets to guard.

I am enjoying it. From downstairs, Becca heard the butler’s placating voice, then a woman’s shrill, demanding response.

Moments later, Mr. Barnes’s butler, Eli, slipped into the room.

Heads turned to the butler with a mixture of curiosity and mild surprise.

He whispered to Mr. Barnes, who nodded.

Then Eli strode toward them. He cupped his hand over his mouth and leaned toward Mr. Taylor.

Begging your pardon, sir. There’s a woman at the front door. She says she’s yours, and that she must see you now.

Becca couldn’t help but overhear. She says she’s yours. The woman at the door must be enslaved. Neither her dead husband nor father had owned slaves. But even she knew that enslaved people did not enter by the front door.

Color leeched from Taylor’s face.

I will see her. Mrs. Taylor swept from the room without waiting for her husband’s response.

How do you find Philadelphia, Mrs. Alloway? Your husband says that this is your first visit, another guest, who had turned to them at the servant’s approach, asked to mask the embarrassment of the moment.

When Becca didn’t answer, Daniel elbowed her gently. "Yes, Mrs. Alloway. How do you find Philadelphia?"

She really must do a better job responding to her married name. People have been kind here. I hardly expected it.

Mr. Barnes joined them, interrupting, How goes your business, Taylor?

We don’t want to bore the ladies. Taylor glanced at Becca.

Please, don’t stop on my account. I comprehend so little, but hearing you speak of business never bores me. Becca would have fluttered her eyelashes if she were the sort of woman who could manage it without appearing to have caught a speck of dirt in her eye.

She pasted a pleasant far-away expression on her face. Men spoke of business and politics as if she couldn’t understand a word, as if she didn’t listen and pass anything of interest back to General Washington. She took a small sip of the straw-colored dry sherry.

Are you paying your investors in silver or paper these days? Barnes asked.

Becca admired his playacting. Daniel and their host had rehearsed their lines. They asked the same questions at each party.

Taylor glared. Sterling, of course. What are you accusing me of?

Becca slowly lowered her glass. Taylor was the first to interpret the query as an accusation. An accusation of what? Having less silver than a man of his stature should? Or of passing along fake dollar notes?

Barnes nodded to Taylor. No offense intended. I started seeing badly printed dollar notes again this spring. Merely asking whether you’re being cautious about paper dollars these days, given the situation.

Taylor nodded curtly.

By now, five men had formed a tight ring as if warming themselves round a campfire. Becca stood just outside their circle.

Another of the merchants stepped up. I thought I was the only one who noticed the forgeries.

Daniel feigned surprise. Has that been a problem here?

The British—damn them. They’re printing false money and spreading it as fast as they can, one of the men said.

There are worse problems, surely, Daniel said.

Ah, a young man who believes war is only about battles, another guest drawled with false pity.

The others chuckled.

If not winning battles, then what? Daniel smiled, but the skin around his eyes tightened. He’s offended by the condescending tone, Becca thought.

The counterfeits will set this country ablaze. Barnes sputtered. There have been food riots already. The poor are starving, and they can’t afford bread. How soon until people seek another king, another tyrant who swears that only he can save them?

When no one can tell whether money is real, the price of bread goes up, and everyone—everyone—turns against the government, another man added. He looked to the group for support.

Becca studied them, shaken. She had thought of this trip as a lark, a way to spend more time with Daniel while unraveling a simple puzzle for General Washington.

Daniel bowed to Mr. Barnes. It does sound terrible. My apologies. He turned to Taylor. And what do you think of all this, sir?

Taylor shrugged. Mr. Barnes is right. The economy is undone. I’d look to the traitors’ wives first. I wouldn’t put counterfeiting past them.

Who are the traitors’ wives? Becca asked, catching Taylor’s attempt at redirection.

The men turned to her in surprise.

Oh bullocks. Traitors? I don’t see any traitors at this party. Mr. Barnes wouldn’t allow it. There. That sounded more like the simple, oblivious young woman they expected her to be.

Taylor and the others chuckled indulgently. Nothing for you to worry about, Mrs. Alloway. Our apologies.

Do you know something specifically about these women, or are you trading in rumors? Daniel’s voice was soft, but the challenge was clear. Neither he nor Becca cared for baseless rumors, not after gossip had almost ruined her life last winter.

My husband’s passions sometimes lead him astray. Charlotte Taylor had returned. There are times that he causes harm when it is least intended.

The husband and wife stared at each other from across the small circle of guests. He looked away first.

Chapter Two

Your handwriting is much improved. Daniel’s back rested against the rough bark of an oak tree in the far corner of Mr. Barnes’s garden. He inhaled sharply as Becca’s index finger trailed the shape of an ‘R’ onto the bare skin below the hollow of his neck.

Clusters of star-shaped flowers glowed white beneath the light of a quarter moon. An owl hooted in the distance. Daniel and Becca had slipped into the garden after the last dinner guest left.

Do you think I require more practice? Her dark blue eyes stared up solemnly into his. A strand of her black hair had come loose and grazed the side of her neck.

Perhaps a bit more practice, he teased.

Several weeks ago, he had drawn the shape of an ‘A’ on her palm, using one style of lettering and then another to illustrate the craft of typesetting. He had been a printer once, but that was before his stay on the Jersey, the notorious prison ship moored in New York Harbor.

Becca had taken to drawing letters with her index finger on his arm, then expanded her practice to his chest and his neck, as if he were a slate created for her education. It began as a jest and had become a sweet torture.

He had been fighting his attraction to Becca ever since General Washington paired them together last winter. He reminded himself of all the reasons not to reach for her.

One finger caressed the skin at the base of his neck. A line, then a circle back. She drew a P. P for pride, he thought. His pride. Becca would return to her farm in Morristown when they were done here. He was a former printer with one maimed hand and no prospects beyond their work for General Washington. He would make a poor farmhand, and he wouldn’t live by the sweat of her brow as she worked without him. He had that much pride left. He would move on.

She swirled an L onto his collarbone next, pushing aside the edge of his linen shirt. He inhaled her scent, a touch of lavender, a hint of larkspur, and something bracing that was Becca. His hand circled her waist. He struggled for control.

L for love. After his wife Amelia and their infant son Silas died so soon after childbirth, he fled to America, lost in a fog of grief. And Becca’s husband, dead a year now, had betrayed her in every way a man could. He wasn’t looking for love, not from Becca, not from anyone. Love brought only pain.

She lifted her face, and he pulled away, ending tonight’s dance of touch and tease.

You’ll be the death of me. Daniel’s breath hitched as if he’d run a race.

Each night, he imagined stepping through the door that separated their bedrooms. The arrangement was common for married couples and proper for those who were unmarried, so long as the door remained closed.

She sighed. "I wonder what upset Mr. Taylor and his wife. I wonder who upset them."

Daniel was offended and not by the Taylors. It would take him hours to stop thinking of her. It is deucedly unfair how quickly your thoughts move to business.

Not easy at all. She lifted his right hand to her lips and kissed the angry scar that crossed the moonscape of his palm.

His hand couldn’t feel the heat of her touch, but his heart did. No one else touched that hand, not since the accident.

Escaping from the prison ship, he’d punched and kicked his way to the surface. Flailing in the muddy water off the Brooklyn shore, he’d ripped his hand on the sharp rough edge of the prison ship’s iron anchor chain.

What did you think of Mr. Taylor? Becca asked.

He took her arm, thankful to step away from his thoughts. They circled the garden, and Daniel considered Becca’s question. I told several of the guests that I was thinking of taking all the money I had and putting it into one of Mr. Taylor’s ships. Not that Daniel had any money. I was warned off.

Really? Warnings? I’m surprised anyone in this circle would be so direct.

Direct, they are not. Daniel smiled in the dark. One of them complimented me on trying to learn as much as I could about a man’s business before investing.

You consider that a warning? Becca hmphed.

"As if he screamed ‘fire.’ When I mentioned Taylor’s name, he angled his shoulder away as if he were being attacked. He tried hard not to grimace."

Becca nodded. Mr. Barnes doesn’t trust him either. He pursed his lips each time Mr. Taylor spoke.

I shall make it a point to look into Mr. Taylor’s business, but not tomorrow, Daniel said.

What are your plans for tomorrow?

Mr. Barnes and I will meet his friends at the City Tavern.

Well, la, sir. You have come up in the world. Becca dipped a mock curtsy.

He grinned. City Tavern was a popular meeting place for politicians and merchants. We’ll see what friends I make. And you?

While you spend your day with men of wealth, I will be chatting with their wives. I’ve been invited to a meeting of the Ladies Association of Philadelphia.

A sewing circle?

Good heavens, no.

He couldn’t imagine Becca sitting with needle, thread, and linen in hand.

They are going door-to-door to raise money for the Continental Army. Becca paused near a terracotta garden ornament, a sculpted image of Mr. Barnes’s first ship. She turned to Daniel, lines forming on her wide forehead. Are we done here? Is it that simple? Is Mr. Taylor the traitor we’re looking for?

I hope not. Daniel placed his good hand on top of hers. I’m not ready to lose my new wife.

Chapter Three

The sun lit the plush sitting room as the Ladies Association of Philadelphia held its morning meeting. The members, Becca thought, resembled summer flowers in their brightly-colored taffetas, silk ruffles, and lace.

She rolled the delicate quill pen between her thumb and index finger, trying to appear preoccupied by the jumble of accounts on her lap while attending to every word the wealthiest women in Philadelphia said.

They had taken her in as one of their own. Offering to help the Ladies Association straighten out its accounts was the least she could do. And what better way to see who had made donations so large that they deserved further inquiry.

Whose husband had finally, unexpectedly paid off