Circle of Spies (2 page)

Spies are about everywhere.

T
HE
P
RIVATE
J
OURNAL AND
D
IARY OF
J
OHN
H. S
URRATT
, C
ONSPIRATOR

MARYLAND RAIL LINES, 1865

GENEALOGY OF THE CULPER RING SERIES

One

Baltimore, Maryland

January 16, 1865

M
arietta Hughes was the worst widow in the history of mourning. She smoothed a hand down the lavender fabric of her dress and felt the twist in her stomach that shouldn't have been so long absent. The punch to her heart that hadn't made itself known since the first month after Lucien died.

Squeezing her eyes closed, her fingers found the smooth mahogany of the grand staircase railing. Mother Hughes, still weak, her voice feathery, had looked so hopeful when she'd asked Marietta to don the muted colors of half mourning. How could she have refused her? True, it had only been a year and three months since Lucien's death. She had only been three months in second mourning—black relieved only by a white collar—rather than six. But there were so many others with fresh losses to grieve. Her widow's black had made a mockery of them.

Her widow's black had made a mockery of her.

She descended a few steps, but her eyes burned. Her husband was no doubt in heaven begging the Almighty to send a divine bolt to strike her. And not because of the color of her dress.

“I'm sorry, Lucien.” The words came out a breath, but still they
seemed to taunt her. She should have said those words long before he fell prey to the violent streets of Baltimore. Said them for every thought gone astray, for every too-long look, for every wish she never should have made.

A low whistle made her jump and brought her gaze to her front door, to Lucien's brother. And her stomach twisted again at the object of those stray thoughts. The apple to her Eve.

Upon the wicked he shall rain snares, fire and brimstone, and an horrible tempest: this shall be the portion of their cup
.

Marietta's feet pulled her down the stairs, toward where Devereaux Hughes stood with one hand upon the latch. His gaze swept over her, making her cheeks flush even as those words from the Holy Book pounded.

Wicked. Wicked. Wicked.

Sometimes she wished she had never read the Scriptures, so that they couldn't haunt her.

Sometimes she wished she could be, as her parents had advised time and again,
good
.

She swallowed back the regret and guilt—a skill she had mastered nearly six years earlier—and smiled. “Heading home, Dev?”

He leaned into the door, folding his arms so that the fabric of his well-tailored greatcoat strained against his muscles. Glory, but he was a fine-looking man with that charming smirk of his. “I have missed seeing you in color, Mari. Black never suited you.”

A fact that shouldn't have bothered her as it did. How vain was she, that she had dwelt on such a truth this past year instead of on the loss that necessitated it?

She smoothed out the wrinkle her fingers had made in the skirt and gave in to the tug that always pulled her closer to Dev, close enough for him to slide an arm around her waist. Given the quiet morning halls, the servants all tending to breakfast or Mother Hughes, she made no objection. Though her heart thudded its accusation.

Wicked.

Her throat tightened. She had never betrayed her husband, not in deed. And who would hold her thoughts against her? Other, of course, than God. And Lucien. She forced a swallow. “Your mother asked me
to move into half mourning. I was so glad to see her up and able to speak this morning that I hadn't the heart to argue.”

Dev's jaw ticked. “I just saw her. She looks better, but if the doctor is not as hopeful as I expect when he stops in later—”

“I know.” Her gaze landed on his cravat. “Dev…”

“Ah, how well I know that look.” He bent his head, and when his lips touched her neck, her eyes slid shut. “Hope and regret mixed into perfect beauty. Do you recall when I first saw that expression upon your lovely face?”

As if she could ever forget. “The nineteenth of December, eighteen sixty.”

His chuckle sent a pulse of shivers down her spine. “How quick you are with the date.”

And usually she would have forced a hesitation. But she needn't with that particular recollection. “It was the day before my wedding.”

“The day I met my brother's bride.” His chuckle went bitter. “Had I obeyed my father and returned to Baltimore a year earlier, it would have been I you met at that ball. I who would have claimed you. I who—”

“Don't.” She pulled away, though his arms granted her only another inch of space. She'd had similar thoughts—much to her shame. “Please, Dev.”

Too late. His eyes, blue as July's sky, had already blended in her mind with Lucien's deep green. The parade through her memory had already begun. Each time she had let her thoughts go where they ought not. When she had held Dev's gaze a second too long. Had smiled too warmly.

She was despicable.

“I love you.” Vulnerability sparked in his eyes, but his arms were still like iron around her waist. “I have loved you since I first set eyes on you.”

The sob came out of nowhere, erupting in a gasp. She covered her mouth, squeezed shut her eyes, and jerked away. Dizziness washed over her when she tried to breathe. Cora had laced her corset too tight when she retied it—that was why the air wouldn't come. Her corset. Just her corset.

Not her conscience. Heaven knew that voice had been muted
most of her life, drowned out by the steady march of meaningless facts through her memory.

“Darling.” His fingers closed around her shoulders, so warm against the January chill. “Why does that make you cry? You have known so long how I felt.”

Too long. She had known and had held it to her heart, a secret blacker than the gown she had just ordered Cora to pack away. “Tell me I made him happy. Tell me he never knew.”

“Mari.” He turned her to face him again and tipped her chin up with a gentle touch. What was it about that narrow nose, that tapered chin, those two slashes of dark brows, that made her melt? He thumbed away a tear. “I have pushed you from mourning too fast. Yet I feel as though I have waited forever to claim you.”

Her gaze dropped, all the way to the yards of lavender fabric that declared her ready to ease back into society. Why did the declaration make her want to run and hide, when these fifteen months she had struggled so against the confines of black? “I should have better mourned him.”

She should have better loved him.

Dev's hand rested on her cheek. “Finish your mourning and take what distance you need, darling. When these final three months are finished, you will be mine.”

She didn't know whether to tip her mouth up to invite a forbidden kiss or to pull away. Whether to breathe in his bergamot scent with a smile or let a storm of tears overtake her.

A loud rap on the door saved her the decision and made them both jump. Pulling all those frustrating emotions back in, she waved away the servant who appeared from the kitchen corridor and opened the door herself.

Her smile went from halfhearted to full bloom when she craned her neck up, and up still more to take in her dawn visitor. “Granddad. What are you doing here so early?”

“Your father just made port, and I went to tell him about Fort Fisher's fall yesterday—”

“Fort Fisher? In North Carolina?” Hope surged up, though Marietta settled a hand on her chest to contain it. It would be a mighty blow to the Confederacy, but that did not mean the war was over.

“Hadn't you heard? Then I'm glad I thought to pay a call on my favorite girl while I was out.” Thaddeus Lane grinned, tapped a finger to her nose as he had since she was a tot, and strode inside. A blast of icy air came with him, against which she shut the door. When she turned again, his smile had faded to a glower aimed at Dev.

“Mr. Hughes. What are you doing here so early?”

Dev was never one to be flustered, though his smile looked strained. “Mother took a bad turn last night. We feared the worst. She pulled through, praise the Lord, but I couldn't leave until I was sure of it.”

Both men sent her a glance. Dev's, full of shared worry and relief and that black secret. Granddad Thad's, full of censure. Marietta opened the door again. One of them at a time was plenty. “Shall I see you at dinner, Dev?”

“Dismissed.” He chuckled but obeyed the dictate and made for escape. “You shall. And do send a note to tell me what the doctor says, even if it is good news.”

“I will.” Her lips pulled of their own will into a soft smile for him. Though after she shut the door, all softness evaporated under the scathing regard drilling into her back. She turned around and looked at her grandfather with arched brows. “Must you treat him that way?”

Granddad's scowl only deepened. “I am your grandfather, young lady. I will treat a man any way I please when I find him in your home at seven in the morning. Now get your cape. You are taking a walk with me.”

“I am not. It is freezing out there.” But even as she said the words, she reached for the heavy woolen cape on the rack. Granddad never issued orders. Not unless it was of the most vital importance. “You cannot condemn a man for being concerned for his mother.”

“If he were so concerned, he would move her into
his
house.”

Marietta fastened the toggle and wrenched open the door again. “Must we have this conversation for the ninety-second time?”

“Ninety-two, is it?” Amusement crept its way into his voice. “Is that an approximation or an exact count?”

She glared at him over her shoulder.

He pulled the door shut, and for a long moment held her gaze with glinting amber eyes. “How is it you can know the exact number of times I have said a certain thing, yet cannot see the wisdom in
obeying? Go home to your parents, Mari. Or take the money your husband left you and set up house somewhere else. Go to Alain in Connecticut—”

“No. This is
my
house, my home.”

He had to have known she would say it, just as she had the other ninety-one times. So why did he look so sorrowful as he offered her his elbow?

She tucked her hand into the crook with an exhalation blustery enough to rival the wind off the Chesapeake. “I am a woman of three and twenty. I am perfectly capable of maintaining my own living, and Mother Hughes needs me.”

He sighed, led her down the walk for a few steps, and then turned toward the drive.

Marietta dug in her heels. “You said a walk, Granddad. Why would we need to go to the carriage house?”

“We are walking
to
the carriage house. We need to talk, and that is the safest place.”

No, no it wasn't. The carriage house was anything but safe. “We can just keep going down the street—”

“Marietta.
Come
.”

Her throat went dry. He hadn't used her full name in so long…and that spark in his eyes was like a fuse. “What is it? Is something wrong? Grandmama? Mama, Daddy?”