Circle of Spies (28 page)

The one on the right looked somewhat familiar, but only because he expected to see him here. Peter Jackson, proprietor, he was fairly sure. Standing next to a man far more recognizable, though Devereaux had never met him.

Stonewall Jackson.

Interesting. He looked from one bearded man to the other, noting a resemblance. Interesting indeed.

But far more than who might be a relation to whom was the unexpected information that he was staying in a Confederate home. If he
had needed encouragement to go about his task, this would have provided it.

The soft rustle of heavy fabric from the hall made him turn as Mrs. Jackson swished her way into the room. She came to a halt, a smile frozen upon her face when her gaze landed on him by the fireplace. Glancing from the photograph to him, she cleared her throat. “Would you care for some refreshment, Mr. Hughes?”

He could understand her hesitation to address the photograph. One never could tell, in their part of the country, where a stranger's loyalties might lie. “Thank you, but I need nothing right now.” He motioned toward the picture. “I believe I recognize your husband. Was the esteemed general a relative of his?”

“Cousin.” Her shoulders were square, tense, though her face remained clear of shadows. “Are you of the railroading family of Hugheses, sir?”

Ah, she
had
recognized the name. Good. “I am. Though I fear at this point I am all that is left of us.”

“I am sorry to hear that. I recall your father being a very amiable gentleman, and you and your brother to be…rather lively boys.”

He laughed at that. No doubt she had been none too thrilled to have them tramping through her house covered in the mud they had collected on their adventures. “We were. I hope we didn't cause you too many headaches.”

Her smile made soft lines fan out from her mouth and eyes. “It is always a joy to watch happy families.”

Happy families. Perhaps they had been, then, when all was so much simpler. Before the war forced them to lie to their father. Before disease stole him from them. Before Lucien took all that should have been Devereaux's. “May I ask, is your husband…?” He sent a pointed look to her black dress.

Mrs. Jackson sighed. “It has been only four months, though he has been away since the war began.” She smoothed a hand over the black bombazine of her skirt. “Your family is Unionist, is it not?”

He was accustomed to everyone knowing his assumed position, what with the railroad declaring it for him. He canted his head to one side. “That is our official stance. Though you needn't apologize for Confederate sympathies in my company—with a mother from Louisiana, our house has long been divided.”

Her smile reemerged, this time with a note of amusement. “I was not going to apologize.” The good humor faded. “Though I hate how this war has divided us. So many nights I have spent on my knees, begging the Lord to knit our nation together. Sometimes I cannot fathom how it will ever be so.”

Sometimes
he
wondered how anyone could ever expect it to be. The time for unity had long since passed.

“Aunt Abigail?”

His hostess turned, but Devereaux needed only to lift his gaze to see the young woman standing in the doorway. And Mrs. Jackson's niece caught the eye. She looked decidedly out of place in her simple brown skirt, with the faded backdrop of the inn behind her. With lustrous hair dark as midnight and snapping cobalt eyes, the girl was stunning. And, given the way she shifted her stance upon spotting him, well aware of it.

Devereaux fought back a smile. She could be no more than eighteen or nineteen, and the look in her eye reminded him acutely of Marietta. More specifically, of Marietta when he first met her. Flirtatious and confident, and just reckless enough to spell danger to anyone who didn't know how to handle her.

“There you are, Ruby.” Censure laced Mrs. Jackson's tone, which the girl no doubt heard as clearly as he did.

Ruby produced a sultry smile. “Our guest's room is ready, Aunt.”

The elder woman turned back to him, her smile strained. “Mr. Hughes, allow me to introduce my niece, Miss Ruby Kent. Her brother, Judah, ought to be in momentarily. And you will no doubt see the youngest of them, little Rose, about the house as well.”

Devereaux fixed on a polite smile and nodded at the girl. Well he knew how he must look to her eye—a stranger, obviously well-to-do, from a city just far enough from her rural home to be enticing. Given what was sure to be a shortage of suitable, desirable men for her, he probably looked like a romantic escape in waiting.

She would have to get over that idea, and better sooner than later. The last thing he needed was a would-be debutante dogging his heels. “Good to meet you, Miss Kent.”

The light in her gaze didn't so much as dim, and it remained fastened on him as she curtsied. “Likewise, Mr. Hughes. Shall I show our guest to his room, Aunt Abigail?”

Mrs. Jackson pressed a hand to her forehead, lifting away one of her silver curls. “Of course, yes. Mr. Hughes, supper will be at six o'clock. If you need anything beforehand, don't hesitate to ask.”

“Thank you, ma'am. Though I intend to spend much of my time exploring the area, so I hope not to be a bother to you.” Just as he hoped that, given her recollection of him romping through the woods as a boy, she wouldn't think it odd for him to do so now. Plenty of men escaped the city now and then to adventure through the mountains, after all—though no doubt not many these days.

Mrs. Jackson merely said, “Oh, you could not possibly be a bother,” as she shooed her niece out the door.

Devereaux fell in behind the girl, careful to keep his gaze up and raking over the walls so long as he was within sight of the proprietress. Perhaps once he was up the stairs he let his eyes dip to enjoy the exaggerated sway of Ruby's hips, but the stir of desire was more an echo, a strain. A realization that he wanted only Marietta, and he hadn't much longer to wait. Two more months and she would be his. His wife, his to hold every day. No more longing glances, no more sneaking about under cover of mourning.

It was finally his turn to have it all.

They turned at the landing to the second half of the stairs, and Devereaux glanced out the window at the valley beyond. The Potomac slipped along, the hills rose again in West Virginia, and there were the rails, with the puff of a train on its way to Cumberland.

His fingers tightened around the handle of his valise. All his…but the enemy was ready to pounce at one wrong move. He could lose everything. If their plans went awry, if he was caught while undertaking this task, the penalties would be severe. And then where would he be? He could lose the house, his stake in the railroad, and Marietta…?

He clenched his teeth. She was loyal, at least enough to honor her word. Her Yankee-loving father had certainly instilled that in her. Hence why, try as he might to lure her away from Lucien, she had never once crossed any bounds of propriety.

Once she was his wife, she would honor that. Forever, no matter what. If he were arrested, she would wait for him. If his reputation suffered and they had to move to Mother's home in Louisiana, she would go with him.

And so they must wed before he undertook anything too dangerous. Because he would not—
would not—
risk losing her. He must marry her and get her with child quickly to tie her even tighter to him. Perhaps, with a bit of luck, that night a month ago…but she would have said something already, if that were so. Wouldn't she have?

“Will your wife be joining you?” Ruby turned to the right at the top of the stairs, slanting a flirtatious smile at him over her shoulder. Was the girl a mind reader?

Regardless, subtlety apparently failed to interest her. Or perhaps she just hadn't yet learned the full art of her chosen trade. Devereaux let his lips turn up. “I imagine I will bring my intended here sometime after we have wed, yes. But not this trip.”

“Oh, you are engaged?” Rather than looking put off, Ruby's smile went brighter.

“I am.”

“And here we are.” Ruby flounced to a halt just inside the door to a spacious, well-lit room. The flutter of her lashes drew his gaze to her face, and once there, it lingered on her smile. “I'm certain you'll find the room comfortable.”

“It's perfect.” He stepped into the chamber and set his bag down upon a chair. When he looked her way again, he found her twirling a midnight curl around her finger.

“If there's anything else you need, Mr. Hughes, anything at all, please don't hesitate to ask.”

Devereaux hooked a thumb in his pocket and measured her. For the mere fun of it, he eased closer and watched her eyes go sharp. “Oh, I wouldn't hesitate.”

She cleared her throat and slid a step over, to the door. Her smile didn't falter, but the confidence in her gaze certainly did. Just as he thought. She was all flirtation with no actual experience.

Ah, well. He didn't need to dally with some pretty bumpkin when he would have Marietta so soon.

Footsteps thundered up the stairs, and Ruby seized the excuse to turn around. “Judah?”

The boy who darted down the hall looked the part of her brother, to be sure. The same black hair, the same blue eyes, the same well-crafted face. He was probably thirteen or fourteen, and he offered Devereaux
an open, bright smile. “I fed your horse, sir, and gave her a quick once-over. Looks like her back right shoe is coming loose. You want me to walk her down to the smithy?”

The blacksmith was a man he needed to meet anyway. That particular skill could come in handy when it came time to set out the clues for the Knights. He grinned at the boy and tossed him a coin. “If you could just show me the way, I'll walk her myself.”

Judah caught the coin with sparkling eyes. “Yes, sir, Mr. Hughes, sir. Whenever you're ready.”

“I'm ready now.” Focusing then upon the retreating back of the boy, Devereaux strode past the girl and down the stairs.

Within ten minutes, he and the talkative Judah, who kept up a steady monologue on all the neighbors Devereaux had no interest in knowing, arrived at the smithy with his rented mount.

Steel rang on steel somewhere within, and the heat of the forge warmed him the moment he stepped inside. Judah didn't wait to be noticed. He called out, “Mr. Mason!”

The ringing ceased, but the man who emerged from the depths of the building looked none too happy at the interruption. At least until he spotted Devereaux beside his neighbor. Then he managed a nod. “Morning.”

Judah grinned. “Morning, Mr. Mason. This is our guest, Mr. Hughes. His horse is gonna need a reshoeing.”

Mason let out a puff of air through his lips, all pretense of welcome gone. “It's going to be a while. Been backed up something terrible since that blasted Negro took off on me.”

“I'm in no great hurry for the horse.” Though that tingle at the base of his neck was interesting. Devereaux waited for the man to look his way again, and then he lifted a hand, rubbing a finger over the top of his lip.

The smithy's eyes snapped. He cleared his throat and gave the answering tug on his ear.

A brother Knight. Finally.
Finally
things were going right.

Eighteen

S
lade might be a friend of silence, but he hated little more than the sudden descending of it on a room just because he entered. Well, not the whole room. But the familiar corner of the tavern in Washington went deathly quiet when his colleagues spotted him. And the ever-present knot in his gut twisted.

The men had been friends not all that long ago. The kind he would give his life for, certain they would do the same for him. Brothers, far more than Ross had ever been. But now they all looked at him with distrust, some with outright hatred. As if they were none too sure it had been his twin who had been buried. As if wondering if the face that had deceived them four months ago were the same one approaching them now.

None of them had been willing to take his father's word as to which Osborne son had come away from that dark boardinghouse room the victor. None but Pinkerton himself.

Slade's fingers curled into his palm as he wove his way around the last crowded table between him and them. Was there anything left in his life Ross hadn't tainted, hadn't ruined?

Yet part of him knew it was his own fault. He forced his fingers to relax, and then forced his face to follow suit into the peaceful lines his
brother could never replicate, hadn't understood. Had Slade not taken that assignment, hadn't been the first one to borrow his brother's name, he wouldn't be in this mess.

It hadn't been his idea. He hadn't
wanted
to assume the cover of a soldier in the Confederate army, arriving to take his brother's place after their father begged Ross out of following through on his commitment. Pinkerton had been the one to ask it. Pinkerton had been the one to claim that he could get invaluable information from behind enemy lines.

He stopped at the table of stony, silent detectives and nodded at them. It hadn't been his idea, but he had been so sure it was the right decision. And why? Why had the Lord wanted him there, while his brother ruined his life here? Why had He led him home that day, the day Ross was lying in wait for him? Why, why had He whispered a warning to duck but not stayed his hand when he raised his pistol?