Circle of Spies (15 page)

Wondering if the Lord would judge her for using her charms in such a way. Jael had acted similarly in Judges to kill the enemy king, Sisera, though. Perhaps not going so far as to snuggle to his side and thereby hold him immobile, but given the variance in their circumstances it surely wasn't so different, was it? Jael had taken in the enemy, had given him milk when he asked for water, had invited him to lie down and rest.

And then she had plunged a tent stake through his head.

A shudder worked through her. She had tried to tell her mother the Bible was too gruesome a book for her to read, but Mama had just sent her one of those looks that had kept three boys in line and tapped another page.

Dev trailed a finger down her arm. “Are you chilled, darling? You have misplaced your wrap again.”

She knew that tone, warm and thick as syrup. Knew that in another moment, he would forget his promise and kiss her until she forgot too. Or if not forgot, at least pushed it aside. She had become skilled at the one over the years, since she could never accomplish the other.

And that, now, would not do.

“I suppose I should find it and bid you good night.” She pulled away, making sure her blink was heavy, tired.

She feared he would refuse to relinquish her, but with distance came reason. He let go with a sigh. “I suppose that is a wise idea.”

“Hmm.” She meandered over to the chair she had occupied before, picked up her shawl, and wrapped it around her. The hallways would be cold. “I'll see you out.”

His arms closed around her from behind, though she hadn't noticed him rise. “Soon enough you won't have to. I am counting the days, my darling.”

Lord, give me strength
. Praying still felt like moving a rusty gate—but one desperately needing to be opened. Heaven help her, but part of her still yearned for the feel of his arms. Her strength was not sufficient. Could not see her through this.

But His was made perfect through her weakness. If only she could remember to cling to that as easily as she recalled the words themselves.

“I am counting them too.” And there were only eighty-two. Eighty-two days until he would at the least announce his intentions, and at the most insist on a small, private ceremony that would bind them together for all time.

When she stepped toward the door, he followed. She glanced at Lucien's study as they passed but saw no evidence of anyone having gone inside. Not that she knew what she expected to see.

Mr. Osborne, however, was as she had come to expect him. Perusing her shelves, though she still could not reconcile the figure he presented with the thought that he was an avid reader. He didn't look the part, didn't act the part. Even while he did it, he looked as though he would as soon toss the tomes into the fire as turn another page.

He had found Stephen's books again. His sermons, his Bible, his beloved novels.

His photograph that fluttered to the floor when Mr. Osborne opened the cover of Kierkegaard's
Frygt og Bæven
.
Fear and Trembling
. Stephen had worked for months trying to get enough of a handle on the Danish to read it.

“Sorry.” Mr. Osborne crouched down to retrieve the photograph, though rather than replace it, he studied it. “Pretty girl. A relation of yours, Marietta?”

She nearly shivered again when he said her name. Somehow it didn't seem to belong on his lips. She moved forward, her hand outstretched. “I didn't realize there was a photograph in there.”

Why could the man not just glance at her, or anything else, casually? It felt as though he were measuring the whole world, that he took note of everything. Every pulse, every shift, every breath.

He held out the thick paper, and she braved a half-second catch of his gaze before dropping hers to the photo.

Dev looked at it over her shoulder. “Isn't that Miss Gregory?”

“Yes.” She nearly ripped the likeness in two. Might have, had she not been so closely watched. Glancing up at the question on Mr. Osborne's face, she said, “Just someone my brother briefly courted.”

Someone
. The one someone, other than Lucien, on whom they had ever disagreed. She had won that battle, had convinced him that Barbara Gregory was after nothing but his name and means.

Though if she had won, why did he have a photograph of a girl too poor to have afforded one on her own?

She was too tired for that question. And really, what did it matter? Stephen was gone.

Handing the paper back to Mr. Osborne, she let her gaze drop to the book. “Do you read Danish, sir?”

“Maybe.”

Her gaze flew to his face, where a grin hid in the corner of his mouth.

He shrugged and closed the cover over the photograph. “Maybe not. Do you?”

“No. But I could if I wanted.” Stupid, stupid thing to say. It may have earned a quick, gruff laugh from Slade Osborne, but that in turn earned her a scowl from Dev.

Marietta backed away and folded her arms over her middle. The Lord's strength was having plenty of opportunity to be perfected in her tonight.

Nine

S
lade needed some favor. Since their evening at the family home on Monday, Hughes had barely spoken to him. The silent treatment from one's enemy. One would think it wouldn't be a bad thing, but three days later…he released a puff of frosty breath and dug his hands into his pockets.

The rail yard yawned quiet around him, black as tar. Vandals had struck the other night, covering the tracks with sand and cutting telegraph wires. Hughes had put up a big fuss about it publicly and had seen to repairs within hours the next day. But his private scowls had been testier than Slade had expected. The rails were targeted often, so what had been different the other night?

Slade hunched against the wind and stared down the track heading to Washington City. Because he was forced to hang around the place anyway, Hughes had put him to work on trying to determine who was responsible. Slade figured neither of them really expected answers, but it was something to do. So he had done it.

Maybe a little better than his “boss” had anticipated.

He'd determined pretty easily what had been different about the particular shipment that had been thrown off schedule because of the vandalism, and the message waiting in the queue at the telegraph
office. And in the determining had realized it was no wonder Hughes had seemed genuinely upset. The telegraph cutting had interrupted a series of messages between John Surratt and John Booth, and it was a safe assumption that the interruption had caused some trouble for the KGC.

And the next shipment supposed to head out at first light on the rails had been Union rations gone rancid. Thanks to the holdup, someone had come along to inspect it again and had noticed.

At a faint scuffling sound, Slade slid in behind a stack of crates. The perpetrators had no doubt been overeager Southern sympathizers who didn't realize they were interfering with Hughes's plan. In which case, Slade had no problem whatsoever finding their names and hauling them before his host. It would earn him some respect from the man who seemed to like him less and less, and it wouldn't hurt his own cause any.

They hadn't struck again in the last few nights, whoever they were, but another of Hughes's disguised shipments was going out tomorrow, so this was a good night to play the shadow. If they didn't come, he could claim to have scared them off. If they did, he would catch them in the act.

The scuffling grew louder, though still faint by normal standards.

Slade's spine coiled and his muscles bunched. His fingers tightened around the pistol at his hip.

Three men slunk into view, barely discernible in the unrelenting black of night. The one in the lead had to be every bit as tall as Lincoln, if not a fraction taller. The other two were of more average builds, but something about the middle one caught his eye. Something familiar. Something…

He muttered a curse and stepped out, drawing his gun from his holster, though he kept it pointed at the ground. As much favor as this particular capture would win him, he couldn't do it. Not when it would mean losing a potential ally. “Walker Payne, you mind telling me what you're doing slinking around here in the dead of night?”

The trio came to an abrupt halt, silence echoing for long seconds as Walker no doubt tried to place him. At length, the man hissed out a breath. “Osborne? What are you doing here?”

“My job, as far as Hughes is concerned. Was it you the other night?”

The clouds meandered away from in front of the moon, and its silver light angled down across their faces. He was surprised to see that the tall man was old enough to be his grandfather, and the other one obviously a relative. Their faces were all but identical, though the younger man couldn't be more than thirty. Son? Grandson?

Walker shifted. “You really want to stop us?”

Slade gripped his pistol tighter, just to give himself something to hold to while he considered.

The tall old man stepped forward, his hands out in a placating gesture. “Easy now, Mr. Osborne. We don't intend to get in your way, and we would appreciate it if you would stay out of ours.”

Ours?
Who were they? Did Pinkerton have more detectives in Baltimore he hadn't mentioned?

No. His boss would have told him if he were sending him under the very nose of another detective, but something in his gut told him he had to trust a little here. He slid his pistol into its holster. “Educate me. And if it isn't too much to ask, don't do whatever it was you were going to. If I can claim to have scared off the vandals, it'll go far with Hughes.”

The trio exchanged a glance, the tall one nodding to his whatever-he-was. “Fall back to B. Go on, Hez.”

Hez. Why did that sound familiar? He tried to place the name, but it wasn't anyone he had met before. And even as he considered it, Hez melted into the night, not making so much as a sound on the gravel in the lot.

The old man turned next to Walker. “Go home to Cora, son.”

Walker stared up at his companion. “Come again?”

“Go on. I've been wanting to talk to Mr. Osborne anyway.”

Slade shifted his weight to his other foot, still on alert but more curious than wary. Walker met his gaze and held it for a second. And managed, in that brief span, to pack a wallop of warning. Then he turned and followed after the mysterious Hez.

“Consider the vagrants scared off.” Amusement laced the old man's tone, though Slade felt miles away from laughing. “How about a cup of coffee, Mr. Osborne? Do you drink coffee?”

Coffee. Coffee at midnight with an old man he'd caught sneaking onto railroad property, who didn't show so much as a whisper of unease. “Yeah. Mr…?”

“ ‘Mister' will do just fine.” The gent's grin both put him at ease and made him twitchy. “At least until you figure it out for yourself. Come along. I imagine my wife is still up.”

Maybe he had fallen asleep when he sat down on his bed two hours ago. Maybe this was all some bizarre dream. Saying nothing, he followed
Mister
to the street. A block down, the man climbed into a carriage and indicated he should join him inside.

Slade hesitated only a moment. In for a penny… He settled onto one side while his companion made himself comfortable across from him and tapped the roof. Though Slade hadn't noted the driver, one must have been waiting. The carriage rolled forward.

Clouds covered the moon again, and the drawn curtains kept out any lamplight they may have passed, but he still noted a few things. Like the quality of the upholstery under him, the thick padding upon the bench. The scent of flowers that indicated a lady usually rode within.

“So. How have you found Baltimore thus far, Mr. Osborne?”

Slade folded his arms across his chest. “Dirty, mean, and divided.”

The old man sighed. “Sad but true. It was different in my day.”

“When was that?”

A laugh rumbled in the darkness. “Many years ago. You should have seen her during the last war. Everyone came together to save her from the British. It was an inspiration to behold.”

The last war…in 1812? Slade pinched the bridge of his nose. Surely a dream. “What do you know about me?”

“Enough. Enough to trust you to do your job. Enough to know you're smart enough to accept help when it's offered. You can trust Walker. He's a good boy.”

“And who is he to
you
?” As if he would answer.

No, the low chuckle was more what he expected. “Do your research, Detective. You will figure that out soon enough.”

He would love to figure it out
now
and was hoping for a clue when the carriage rocked to a halt a few minutes later. But the neighborhood he stepped out into looked like many another in the intermittent moonlight. He didn't catch a glimpse of a street name or house number.

The old man led him from the carriage house to the back door. A light burned in a window, and when they stepped into the dark kitchen, that was the direction they headed.