Circle of Spies (5 page)

Any further prayer was cut off by the entrance of the manservant who had driven the carriage, Slade's trunk bowing his back. Though he nearly stepped forward to help, he stopped himself. He even let a second man fuss over wrinkles and cuff links. And then he went down, twenty minutes later, to find his host waiting by the door.

Hughes nodded at his appearance and led him outside, across the street to an edifice even larger than his. “The family home,” the man said, motioning at it. “I was fortunate to find a house so near when I moved back to Baltimore four years ago.”

Had Lucien willed it to the missus despite her giving him no heir, or did Devereaux let her continue living there with his mother out of the goodness of his heart? Or out of
something
, anyway.

A black man in livery opened the door for them before Hughes could even knock. “Evenin', Mr. Dev. Sir. Come right on in outta that cold, now.”

His host made some reply, but Slade couldn't have said what. He'd no sooner taken off his hat and handed it over with his overcoat than he spotted her. First the deep flame of her hair, and then the swish of her pale purple skirt. She came their way from somewhere down the hall, gliding forward with that grace Southern mamas seemed to instill in their daughters from birth.

“Good evening, Dev.” Her voice was what he'd imagined it would be. A warm alto, thick with honey.

He recognized the tug in his gut for what it was. She was beautiful. Too beautiful, the kind that knew well the power it gave her over the male half of the species. And if he read that calm control in her eyes aright, the kind that used it like an overseer would a whip. Still, recognizing it didn't stop the tug from repeating when she turned those pale green eyes his way.

“And this must be Mr. Osborne.” Her smile was all rehearsed charm as she held out a hand, wrist limp. “So good of you to join us.”

He took the hand because propriety said he must and bowed over it, but he stopped shy of pressing his lips to her knuckles. She would call it bad manners—he called it survival instincts. “Good of you to have me.”

Hughes stepped to her side and cupped her elbow. The curl of his fingers looked like a shackle. “Allow me to make proper introductions. This is Slade Osborne of New York, a security agent trained by Allan Pinkerton. I'm considering hiring him, what with all the sabotage to the rails. Mr. Osborne, my sister-in-law, Marietta Arnaud Hughes.”

“Arnaud.” It took him a second, but likely only because of how distracting it was when she arched those fiery brows. “Any relation to Commodore Arnaud of the
USS Marguerite
?”

Her smile went warm. “My father.”

Her father was one of the Union's most vital naval commanders? He didn't dare look at Hughes, but he had to wonder. Did that fact gall him, he with his Confederate sympathies? Or was it, in fact, a mark in her favor?

He supposed he would find out if he did his job well.

Another man may have commented on Commodore Arnaud's legendary bravery. But because she obviously knew the stories better than he, Slade simply nodded again. And, when she motioned to his right, turned.

“Do make yourselves comfortable, gentlemen. I just need to check in with Tandy in the kitchen.”

His gaze snagged on Hughes's, and his host jerked his head toward that room to the right—a library—while he pulled Mrs. Hughes to the left. “You get settled, Osborne. I need a word with our hostess.”

Seeing no reason to argue, Slade strode into the library, taking in the fine furniture with a slow turn and sweeping glance…which made its way back to the hallway just as Hughes pulled the lady close, wrapped his arms around her, and kissed her like there was no tomorrow.

Subtle. With a snort, Slade turned away. About as subtle as Ross's sledgehammer.

Three

H
ow Marietta wished the boning in her corset would allow her spine to sag. She perched upon the edge of the settee and willed the evening to be over. Her head pounded, her neck ached. All she wanted was to shut herself in her room, curl up on her bed, and try to convince the questions to stop whirling. The doubts to stop nagging. Her heart to stop twisting.

It was all too much for one day. Far, far too much. Each new fact hovered before her gaze, images forever scored into her mind. What would it be like to forget? Perhaps if she could get lost in a book…or fall into the oblivion of sleep…

But Dev and Mr. Osborne had come in right behind her after dinner, eliminating all chances of escape. Though rather than sit, Dev just flashed that charming smile. Her stomach knotted, but not quite like it had this morning, before Granddad had dumped the wretched questions upon her. He was wrong. Mistaken. Dev could have no part of any dark secrets.

Yet Thaddeus Lane had never been mistaken about anything so important, not in her recollection. And he never would have come to her about it unless he had been entirely certain.

Which facts, then, to believe?

Dev's eyes looked as soft as ever when he gazed at her. The love and desire still gleamed. Just as Lucien's always had. How could they both pretend to be one sort of man in her company, and then crawl underground like a serpent and plot destruction?

Well. She squared her shoulders and made herself smile. She would discover the truth somehow. And if he had lied to her for four years, then she would return the favor. Convince him she was the same woman she'd always been, even if she hadn't a clue who she might be when she shut her eyes tonight. Was she Dev's love, or a…a Culper?

“I had better go sit with Mother for a while.” Dev smiled at her and then glanced at Mr. Osborne. “I trust you can entertain our guest for a few minutes, darling?”

“Of course.” She kept her smile neutral, though her chest tightened as he left the room. They all knew their guest had witnessed that kiss an hour and a half earlier, but she could hardly pull away and slap Dev the way she had wanted to do. Not when she had welcomed his kiss too often this past year. If Granddad
was
right, she had best obey his insistence that Dev remain oblivious to her knowledge of his loyalties. And if she could prove him wrong, then why take it out on Dev?

Though she had hissed at him about making such a move in plain view of the man across the hall.

Over dinner, she had paid their guest no more attention than she would any other guest. Hadn't looked at him overlong, hadn't let herself wonder.

Now, though, with Dev gone, she turned her gaze his way and watched him. He still stood, looking perfectly at ease and showing no inclination to sit. Which suited him, somehow. He wasn't all that tall—at least three inches shorter than both of the Hughes brothers—but his limbs seemed to have a fluidity to them, like a wild animal perfectly content to stand and watch…until it pounced.

A panther, maybe. Or a wolf, rangy and alone. One with eyes so deep a brown they were nearly black, much like his hair. He wore a goatee, neatly trimmed, and a fine suit of clothes in charcoal. The look in his eyes said he thought he understood everything perfectly.

Unlikely.

He motioned toward the bookshelves lining the westward wall. “May I?”

“Certainly.” She toyed with one of the curls Cora had arranged over her shoulder as he slid toward the books. “I confess you didn't strike me as the studious type, Mr. Osborne.”

“Guess it depends on with whom I'm being compared.” He turned to peruse the shelves.

An odd man to send to infiltrate the KGC. One who harbored a secret that could get him killed, yet whose cover was, in fact, that he was one of Pinkerton's agents. Foolish or brilliant. She would reserve judgment as to which.

He pulled a book from the shelf and paged through it. Rather than replace it again, he stood there and read.

Marietta frowned. “Well, I am surprised. Sermons?”

He turned toward her, the book still in his hand and a question lining his forehead. “My father is a minister. And you must have fine eyesight to have seen the title from there.”

“Must I?” A smile bade for leave to touch her lips, and she allowed it. She couldn't make out so much as a word of the title, but he had pulled down the twelfth book, the one with the blue spine. The sermons of John Wesley.

He ran a finger down the edge of the book, more thoughtfully than he would from simple reminiscence—more like a man who valued the words inside. Then he snapped it shut and lifted his chin. Studied her.

A wolf, without doubt.

“I was sorry to hear about your husband.” Yet no apology softened the gaze that dropped from her face to the lavender silk. “Though I know my condolences are belated. How long has it been?”

Four hundred fifty-eight days and—she glanced at the mantel clock—twenty-two hours and sixteen minutes.

But that was surely not the answer he was looking for. No, he sought no answer at all. No question burned in his gaze. But censure gleamed where it ought to have been. She let the hair wind around her finger. None of her friends at the Ladies' Aid meeting had been anything but supportive—to her face, anyway. But this stranger would stand in her house and judge her? She pulled the curl tight before dropping her hand and letting it bounce free. He couldn't know how fully she deserved the condemnation.

Still, she kept her smile in place. “Not long enough to be out of
second mourning. Mother Hughes requested the change, though, and her health has been so fragile. If something so simple can help buoy her, who am I to refuse?”

Perfectly honest, yet he studied her as if trying to unravel truth from lie. “Kind of you. To care so for her when most would leave her to her other son.”

Marietta reached for the basket of bandages waiting to be rolled. Something useful ought to come of this conversation. “I could hardly ask her to leave the only home she has known since her marriage.”

“Of course not,” he said. Yet when she glanced up, his eyes said
that
was the answer he had sought.

She found the end of one strip and began to roll. Why had he wanted to know who in the family owned the house? It could be of no…

She granted herself only a moment's pause as the realization struck. The castle. It was on her land. Lucien's father had willed it to him, and he had willed it to her. If she sold the house…if she chose to marry someone other than Dev…

The ache expanded until it took over her heart too. Yet another question to pile on the day.

For now, she fastened on her most charming smile. It might be a bit rusty after these months at home in mourning, but it would suffice to parry Mr. Osborne's unfelt compliment about caring for her mother-in-law. “Well, sir, I am only striving for Christian perfection.”

She was guessing, of course, as to which sermon he had landed on when he flipped the book open. But if his father had educated him in Wesley's works, then he would be familiar with it.

He glanced down at the tome and then looked at her again, those wolf eyes smirking. “Now I am the one surprised. You have read Wesley?”

Had his shock not been well deserved, it might have offended her. As it was, she chuckled. “My parents hoped to fill my mind with all things high and good.”

Amusement twitched his lips. “Did it work?”

She straightened the length of cloth before winding it more and then sent him a laughing gaze. “What do you think?”

“That you gave your parents many a headache.”

Remembering all the times they had threatened to cart her off to
Connecticut to Grandpapa Alain and Grandmère Adèle, Marietta grinned. “An understatement. And you, Mr. Osborne with a penchant for Methodist sermons? Were you the perfect child?”

He walked over to a chair and eased into it, but the action did nothing to banish the thunderheads in his eyes. “I left the perfection to my brother.”

“Hmm.” Such an easy excuse to make for oneself, that one's parents already had children who fulfilled all their expectations, so that left one free for…anything. She tilted her head to the side. “Let me guess. You left home too young and proceeded to make a career of carousing, engaging in all that sport we ladies of breeding cannot mention. At which you must have enjoyed enough success to continue for a fair number of years, but eventually you realized it was not as fulfilling as you'd hoped, so you settled—somewhat—to a real career. With Allan Pinkerton, it would seem.”

Had his gaze been a knife, it would have sliced her to ribbons. “Mr. Hughes told you about me?”

She would have snorted had it not been so unseemly. Instead, she turned it into an echo of a laugh. “No. But I know your type.”

A single flame of anger flickered through his glare before he banked it. Ah, her guest did not like to be labeled. Poor thing. Perhaps, then, he should not apply them so freely to her.

The acidic thought ate away at her as she finished that roll, put the bandage back into the basket, and pulled out the next strip.

Her chest went tight and heavy. This was why she had silenced her conscience long ago. It was dashed uncomfortable. And yet the thought of shushing it again made the tightness worse, made panic steal into her lungs and wring the air from them.