Circle of Spies (38 page)

His blood pounded faster, and he took her hand, weaving their fingers together. “Where were you? Near the hospital?”

Her eyelids fluttered down. “I…couldn't stay. A doctor drove me home, but I got out a street over.”

“Of all the stupid…what doctor? He ought to be shot for leaving you like that.”

That at least brought her gaze up and lit a spark in it, however weak. “It is not his fault.”

“You're right. It's the fault of the scoundrel who dared to assault you.
Where is he? Did your grandfather detain him?” A long shot, he knew, no matter how spry the old man claimed to be.

Marietta shrank into the curved back of her seat, a strange flicker in her eyes. She pulled her fingers free of his and reached for the cup of tea steaming on the end table. “He got away.”

“No matter.” He patted her knee. “You can describe him, and we'll have an artist do a sketch. This man will not go unpunished.” And when he got his hands on him, they would see how he liked having a knife pulled on him.

Her teacup shook as she sipped and then lowered it back to the table. “He had my face pressed to the wall. Perhaps to keep me from getting a good look at him.”

Devereaux rocked back on his heels. “He no doubt got a good look at you, though, and I imagine your grandfather shouted your name. He could figure out easily enough who you are and where you live, and could very well mean to collect later what he failed to take then.”

The green of her eyes snapped with fear. “Surely not.”

One never could tell with those base-born, desperate men. “I'll not risk it. We must find him and see he meets justice.” The eternal kind, from which he would never awaken. Devereaux lifted her fingers and pressed his lips to them. “I love you too much to lose you.”

Maybe, finally she would speak the words he'd wanted for years to hear—but no. She glanced past him and pressed her lips together.

He looked over his shoulder and rose to his feet. Osborne stood in his usual motionless stance just inside the doorway, still as a statue. No, a guard dog. His eyes were, as always, wary and on alert.

Devereaux adjusted his coat, the thrum of his pulse resonating. “I will speak with your grandfather, get his description of the man, and talk with the police. Osborne?”

The detective straightened.

“Forget the rails, forget any other business. Your job now is to protect Mari. Do you understand? Until this scoundrel is found, you're not to let her out of your sight.”

Marietta pushed to her feet, swayed. “Dev, this is ridiculous. I am not—”

“I didn't ask your opinion, Marietta.” He glanced at his mother,
fussing over sandwiches and cakes, and then back to Osborne. “Are we understood?”

Though Osborne's black gaze darted briefly to Marietta, Devereaux read no hesitation in it. Calculation, perhaps, but that was to be expected. He gave one curt nod.

Good enough. With one last kiss upon Marietta's knuckles, he strode for the door, his aim the cellar and the knife stored there.

He had a thief to hunt down.

Twenty-Four

S
lade slid further into the room, out of the way of Hughes. Mrs. Hughes murmured something about returning directly and rushed after her son, but Slade paid no attention to the swish of her skirts as she passed. He kept his gaze on Marietta.

The trauma of the day cloaked her, sloping her shoulders, darkening her eyes. He caught her gaze, held it, and waited. The thoughts swirled over her countenance, coming to a rest not on fear or exhaustion, but on regret. She twisted a handkerchief around her fingers and sighed. “I'm sorry, Slade. You don't have to guard me. He's overreacting. But you can use the time to do whatever you must.”

He took a few steps until he stood right in front of her. Close enough to see the
S.O.
on the handkerchief in her hands. Close enough to see the angry red of the scrapes on her cheek. Close enough to see all that churned through her thoughts. “You knew him.”

He expected her to look away, perhaps to narrow her eyes in denial. Instead, a spark of amusement flashed in them, and a fraction of a sad smile touched her lips. “Must you be so good at your job, Detective?”

His smile was no bigger, but not so sorrowful. “Why are you protecting him?”

Her breath easing out, she sank onto her seat again. Slade crouched
down to avoid towering over her. Her gaze went contemplative. “He did work here some years ago—painting. He had eight children and a sickly wife, and now he is missing a foot. I can only imagine the hardships his family faces.”

Two months ago he wouldn't have believed her capable of being so moved by compassion. But then, he had read her wrong in a lot of ways. He settled his hand on top of hers, joined over his handkerchief. “You can't excuse what he did to you.”

“Desperation will drive people to lengths they never expected.” She looked down and swallowed. “I asked Cora and Walker to put together some necessities and food. I added a bit of cash to see them through.”

She intended to feed the family of the man who had attacked her? No, he never would have expected that, even now. Slade pushed to his feet. Moving to the other side of the
S
-shaped sofa, he sat, leaning back so he could still see her face. “I'll go with Walker when he takes it.” Heaven knew the man probably lived in a lousy part of town, one Walker oughtn't to have to venture into alone.

Besides. He'd like to see the man's face when they handed him a gift from his victim. Judge for himself if Marietta was making a wise move or inviting extortion.

Her eyes went wide. “You don't have to do that.”

“I want to.”

“And you don't have to guard me.”

“I want to.”

She stared at him, her feline eyes still wide and suspiciously damp. Her “Why?” came out as no more than a wisp.

The wisp echoed through him far longer than it should have.

He pulled in a breath and savored it for a moment. Then let himself reach out and brush away the scarlet curl touching her cheek. “Because you matter.”

The sentiment ought not to take her by surprise. Her family would move heaven and earth for her. Hughes would kill for her. Yet disbelief glimmered in her eyes. “Why?”

“Don't.” He draped his arm over the curved back between them and found her hands. Took one, lifted it, and held it to his lips. He could handle most things he came across in this life. He could face the gray that had taken over the world. But it shouldn't steal her vibrancy.
She'd still been bright after death and loss, after learning the truth of the Hugheses. This couldn't break her—not a simple mugging, so despicably common in Baltimore. He wouldn't let it. “Don't question that.”

She blinked and presented him with her profile. Her fingers slipped from his and tangled again with the square of cotton. “Would you read to me, Slade?”

Another breath filled his lungs and eased back out. “Sure.” Given that no book rested nearby to indicate she'd been reading it, he reached into his pocket for the prayer book.

He opened to the ribbon that marked where he'd left off that morning. “ ‘Eternal Father, it is amazing love, that Thou hast sent Thy Son to suffer in my stead, that Thou hast added the Spirit to teach, comfort, guide, that Thou hast allowed the ministry of angels to wall me round…' ”

The words of the prayer twined through him, shoring up the places inside that always threatened to topple. The writer obviously knew God with intimacy…yet just as obviously felt like a miserable, hateful worm. Deserving of rejection, but so very aware of the ever-forgiving love of the Father. Slade prayed Marietta would feel the same assurance. That though she was as sinful and proud and unworthy as the rest of humanity, she was also as loved.

By the end of the page, Mrs. Hughes had come back into the room and settled into a chair. Slade glanced her way once or twice. Looking, he admitted, for the lie in her countenance. It had always been there before, no matter how sweet or caring her words to her daughter-in-law.

Not so today. Today, the pain she'd voiced to her son on the stairs seemed genuine and consuming. Today she seemed finally to look on Marietta as a daughter instead of an interloper. What a shame it had taken violence to achieve that. And what a shame it came so late, when their world was about to crumble.

Maybe that was part of God's plan too. His way of knitting them together when they were sure to need the support soon.

A thought that shouldn't pierce so deep, that Slade would only get to be the destroyer here, not the comforter.

He had turned the page twice more when he felt the weight of Marietta's head on his shoulder and became aware of the deep, even
cadence of her breathing. Because he had to fight the urge to press his lips to the top of her head, he looked again to Mrs. Hughes, sure she wouldn't approve of the posture. With his luck, she would even guess at his restrained intent.

Her frown shone soft, concerned. “The poor dear. It must have frightened her so, to find herself in the same position that proved to be Lucien's last.”

Slade nodded, because it surely had. But his mind went back to the stairs again, when Hughes had heard the words from his mother.
Just like Lucien
. Something had flickered across his face, something of a different shade than fear.

Slade's chest went tight as his gaze tracked back to the red curls spilling over his shoulder. He knew exactly what Hughes had been feeling—a soul-wrenching rejection of the thought of losing her. The same had rendered Slade immobile at the foot of the steps throughout the Hugheses' conversation, too distressed to move. First at the scare, then at the wonder of feeling it so acutely.

Hughes wouldn't wonder at it. No more than he would linger to give comfort when he could instead rush out to find vengeance.

His loss.

“Thank you for agreeing to protect her, Mr. Osborne.” Mrs. Hughes brushed a flaxen lock away from her face. “I don't know what we would do if we lost her. Devereaux loves her so.”

Did she have any idea how much? Did she know her eldest—and now only—son had killed for her? That he had loved her long before he should have?

Slade forced what he could manage of a smile and told himself not to judge. Was he, after all, any better? He had known very well she and Hughes had an understanding when he came on the scene, but it hadn't stopped him from feeling that intrigue. From kissing her once and wanting to more.

But he never would have touched her had she been married. He was still none too sure Hughes could claim the same…though now the uncertainty clawed. Now he didn't
want
to believe that Marietta would engage in something so base as an affair with one brother while married to the other.

Commotion downstairs made him shift, which in turn made
Marietta's breath catch and her head lift again. He didn't know whether to focus on the plethora of voices drawing nearer or the pained, muted whimper that slipped from the woman beside him.

The woman won out. He turned to see her better as she lifted a hand to touch her cheek, her eyes clouded.

If it weren't for the audience and the couch's curved back between them, he would have wrapped his arms around her. Probably a good thing circumstances didn't permit that. “Are you all right?”

A veil came down over the pain in her eyes, and a smile appeared on her lips. The same imitation of one he'd seen from her when he first arrived, which he now knew was but a dim reflection. “A minor irritation, nothing more.”

Mrs. Hughes leapt up to fuss again, fluttering her hands uselessly about Marietta's face. “The bruising is beginning to show, and it will take weeks to fade. I'm afraid you shall have to postpone your plans to attend a ball with Devereaux, dear. And your new gown just arrived! Such a shame.”

“Yes. A shame.” She darted a glance at Slade, so quick he would have missed it had he not been watching her steadily.

Steadily enough to know there was no regret within her over that.

Well, he wouldn't torture himself by sticking around to be interrogated by the brothers whose voices he now recognized on the stairs. He sent Marietta a small grin as he stood and moved to the edge of the room. With any luck, the Arnauds wouldn't even notice him.

Mrs. Arnaud led the way into the room, a surge of blue satin aimed straight for her daughter. Slade caught the concern on her face, one echoed stormily upon her sons'.

They wouldn't be going anywhere for a while. He edged out the door before either Hezekiah or Isaac could spot him, pivoting into the hall—and nearly smacking into the lanky figure of Thaddeus Lane.

The old man greeted him with a smile and jerked his head toward the stairs. He followed him down, along the hall, and all the way to the side door. Only when they were out in the halfhearted March sunshine did Slade speak. “Did Hughes find you?”

“Briefly.” Lane made a face and directed his stride toward the carriage house. “I gave him just enough information to keep him busy. Is Mari still determined to protect the man?”