A Night to Surrender (Spindle Cove #1)(32)

“Phineas Philip Bright.”

Colin dutifully inscribed the names. “Date of birth?”

“Eighth of August,” Finn said, looking to his brother. “Seventeen ninety-ei—”

“Seven,” Rufus finished. “We’re over fifteen.”

Bram interrupted, fixing the boys with a stern look. “Are you certain?”

“Yes, my lord.” Finn stood tall and slapped a hand over his heart. “I’m over fifteen. May the devil take me if I’m telling you false, Lord Rycliff.”

Bram sighed to himself. No doubt they’d stuffed scraps of papers with the number fifteen in their shoes. Oldest trick in the shiftless army recruiter’s sack. With that scrap of paper beneath their heels, the lads could say with all honesty that they were “over” fifteen.

Susanna was right, the boys were obviously lying. And they were boys yet, not men. He regarded their matching, fresh-scrubbed faces that wouldn’t know a razor’s scrape for years. But if their birthdays truly were in August, that put their actual fifteenth birthday only a few months away. He surveyed the queue of men behind the twins, performing a quick mental tally. They numbered just under twenty, all in all. Not good. To form a company that would appear remotely impressive in formation, he needed twenty-four.

“Well?” Colin asked, looking up at Bram.

“You heard the lads. They’re over fifteen.”

The boys grinned as they completed the questions for Colin and proceeded to Thorne’s table for measuring and firearms. Bram didn’t even feel a twinge of guilt about putting muskets in the boys’ hands. If they didn’t already know how to handle a weapon and shoot, it was high time they learned.

One by one, the men worked through the line, giving Colin their names, ages, and other vital information before proceeding to Thorne to be measured for coats and issued firearms. As the morning progressed, Bram’s knee began to ache. Then it started to throb. Before long, the damned joint was screaming with pain—so loud, he was surprised no one else could hear.

When Colin finished with the next recruit, Bram nudged his cousin aside. “You’re too slow. Go help Thorne.”

Lowering himself onto Colin’s vacant campstool, Bram winced. He performed a surreptitious flex of his leg beneath the table, trying to ease the pain and focus on the enrollment list before him. He took his time dipping the quill.

“Now, then. Name?”

“Finch.”

Ten

Bram froze, quill poised above the paper, praying his ears deceived him.

“That’s F-I-N-C-H,” she spelled helpfully. “Finch. Like the bird.”

He looked up. “Susanna, what the devil are you doing?”

“I don’t know who Susanna is. But I, Stuart James Finch, am volunteering for your militia.”

Gone was that frothy, leaf-green muslin frock he’d admired in church. In its place she’d donned a pair of nankeen breeches that fit her surprisingly well, a crisp linen shirt cuffed at the wrists, and a cobalt-blue topcoat that oddly enough did lovely things for her eyes.

And gloves, of course. Men’s gloves. Heaven forbid Miss Finch appear in public without her gloves.

She went on, “My birth date is the fifth of November, 1788. And that’s the God’s honest truth, my lord.”

Her hair was bound in a tight queue, and she was dressed in man’s clothing, but there was absolutely nothing that wasn’t feminine about her. Her voice, her bearing . . . God, even her scent. She couldn’t fool a blind man.

Of course, she didn’t mean to fool Bram. The interfering minx simply wanted to make a point. And she intended to make that point in front of scores of people. The entire village crowded around them, men and women alike, eager to see how this scene would unfold. They all wondered, who would emerge the victor?

He would. If he let her get the better of him today, he would never have the men’s respect. What’s more, he wouldn’t deserve it.

“Write my name,” she urged.

“You know I won’t. Only men are eligible to serve.”

“Well, I’m a man,” she said.

He blinked at her.

“What?” Her voice dripped with mock innocence. “You took Rufus and Finn at their word. Why can’t you take me at mine?”

He lowered his voice and leaned forward over the table. “Because in this case, I have firsthand knowledge that contradicts your word. Would you like me to tell all these people precisely how I know you’re a woman?”

“Be my guest,” she whispered through a tight smile. “If you’d rather be planning a wedding than a militia.” She cast a glance to either side. “In a village this small, filled this chockablock with ladies, an announcement like that is sure to incite matrimonial panic.”

They stared one another down for a long moment.

“If you accept Finn and Rufus,” she said, “you have to accept me.”

“Very well,” he said, dipping the quill again. He would see just how far she was prepared to take this. “Stuart James Finch, born November fifth, 1788.” He turned the paper and shoved it toward her. “Sign here.”

She took the pen in her gloved hand and made a flowery signature, complete with flourish.

“Next,” he said, rising from the table and gesturing toward Thorne, “we’ll need to measure you for a uniform.”