Sadie's Secret: 3 (The Secret Lives of Will Tucker) (15 page)

But any man who knew her as a Pinkerton agent could never find an interest in her as a woman. The two were impossible to mix, and any thoughts to the contrary were a waste of time.

Oh, but they would always have that kiss.

Actually, as she leaned back against the seat and allowed herself to recall, there had been two kisses. Two memorable kisses.

Eleven

J
efferson climbed into the railcar a step ahead of his Pinkerton nursemaid. Though both Agents Callum and Russell claimed their escort was for his safety, Jefferson figured the real reason was to stick close in case John showed up.

It was John they wanted, but Jefferson wanted him more. As much as he wished to exact revenge for losing almost a year of his life, his brother had even more than that to answer for.

“After you, Tucker,” Agent Russell said as he gestured toward their seats.

He obliged, following the conductor until he stopped at a bench near the front. “You in first,” Russell said as he watched Jefferson take the seat by the window before moving beside him on the aisle.

“You realize I was released from prison a free man.”

“And you realize I’m tired of putting Will Tucker back in prison.”

“Point made. However, the William Tucker you’re looking for is not me, nor do I have any idea how to find him.”

All his statement got was an appraising look from the man seated beside him. Jefferson turned his attention to the passengers milling about on the train platform below.

The agent waited until the train lurched forward and left the station before beginning his interrogation. And there was no mistaking Kyle Russell’s pointed questions about home, family, and his early history for polite conversation. Not when the conversation quickly turned to his brother’s penchant for lying.

“He even told my wife he was interrupted on occasion by telephone
calls from London,” Russell said. “Nothing of the sort is possible, and yet he said it with just enough authority that she believed him.”

So that was his issue with John. Somehow his twin had ingratiated himself with the woman to whom Russell was married. The extent of that relationship was likely something best not asked about, and yet Jefferson could not help himself.

“Indeed, my brother has always been persuasive. Our father said he could sell igloos in the Arctic Circle.” He paused to slide a sideways glance at his companion. “Considering his association with your wife, I must ask whether your concern for his case is more than professional.”

Color instantly flamed Russell’s face, and a muscle worked in his jaw. Only an idiot would miss the fact that he was truly angry.

The conductor returned to take their tickets, buying Jefferson a few minutes’ time. He could have apologized. Probably should have. But years of training had taught him that an angry man often spoke closer to the truth than one who was calm enough to hide his intentions.

And so he watched. And he waited.

As soon as the conductor moved on, Russell let out a long breath. Jefferson continued to watch him closely, both with an interest in finding out who he was and in self-defense should he have to deflect any well-deserved punches.

The Pinkerton agent’s fingers curled into fists that ground into his knees. “Because I am seated next to you in the discharge of my duties, I am obliged to ignore the fact you have just made an erroneous assumption about the relationship between my wife and your brother.”

“Is that so?” he asked in the most neutral tone he could manage. Still, he watched those fists and expected he might be greeted with one between the eyes any moment.

“However,” Russell said slowly, “as husband to a woman whose reputation is uncompromised and above reproach, I am currently uncertain as to my ability to carry out my duties as a Pinkerton agent.”

Jefferson quickly amended his statement. “Forgive me,” he said, and meant it. “I can see that I was incorrect in assuming that you held some sort of grudge against John.”

“Is that what you call him? John?” The agent looked away, his hands now crossed over his waist. “No, you were not wrong in making that assumption. My grudge with him goes way back beyond the time when I first met the woman who was to become my wife.”

Again he responded with, “Is that so?”

Russell’s gaze swung abruptly back to Jefferson. “He not only duped my best friend’s wife before Lucas met her, but he was also responsible for the death of Lucas’s sister Mary McMinn.”

“I know.”

The agent’s brows rose. “You do?”

“I’ve read the dossier on him. You forget I wasn’t always considered an accused criminal.” Again he allowed the statement to sink in. “Or rather a wrongly imprisoned man.”

“What else do you know?”

“I know the substance of the testimonies against him as well as all the documentation used to swear out warrants in Mississippi, Louisiana, and Tennessee. I also read the arrest reports for both times he was caught and the list of suspected victims for the times when he was not.”

What Jefferson did not say was that he had committed every page to a memory that never forgot anything he read. Nor did John, for that matter, although he left that tidbit also unsaid.

“Do you dispute any of it?”

Jefferson thought only a moment. “I do not.”

“And the theory that twins are more closely connected than other siblings?”

“That I will dispute.”

“Even as children?”

“I assure you no twins have been born to rival our differences. Our mother likes to say that the only similarity between us is in our appearance.”

“So you were not close?”

“For a time, I suppose we were close enough. But boys become men, and men make choices that…” He shook his head. “Suffice it to say that when I walked into that prison last May, it had been quite some time since I had seen my brother.”

“Yet you were there to pay him a visit.”

“At my mother’s request.” He would stop with that.

“When do you expect to see your brother again?”

“I assure you it will go better for me if I do not see him alone. And I would certainly tell you where he is right now if I had any idea myself.”

“You don’t expect he’ll be waiting for you in Mobile?”

“I expect that you will have an agent there watching my grandparents’ home with instructions to prevent any such visit.” He met the agent’s gaze. “And do not misunderstand me when I tell you I welcome that interruption. You have my word as a fellow law investigator and a gentleman that I will not stand between you and the return of my brother to his rightful place behind bars.”

Russell once again studied him, likely looking for the same signs Jefferson would have watched for had their roles been reversed. Then he let out a long breath. “I believe you, Tucker. Much as I don’t want to, I do.”

“Thank you,” was the best he could think of to say before returning his attention to the scenery passing by outside.

“Tell me about your work at Scotland Yard.”

Jefferson swiveled to put his back to the window. Finally, a topic safe to discuss.

“When last I spoke to my superior officer, I was employed as a detective.” He shrugged. “Until I can return to London or receive a letter answering that question, I am not sure as to my status.”

Of greater concern was whether he was employed at all, although the correspondence seemed to indicate a position would be held for him. How long that spot would remain open was a matter he had been putting to prayer well before he read the seven-month-old dispatch this morning.

The statement seemed to placate Russell, for they passed the remainder of the trip in polite but firm silence. Their truce lasted until Jefferson arrived on the steps of his grandfather’s home on Springhill Avenue.

“Nice pile of rocks,” Russell said as he admired the white-columned city home the judge built for his wife and children.

“My grandmother was pleased with it,” Jefferson said as he pushed open the front door before the uniformed butler could manage it. “Grandfather much preferred the cotton plantation in Lowndes County to this place, but Grandmother Tucker needed a place to enjoy the social season.”

Stepping into the wide hallway, time tumbled backward until Jefferson
recalled the thrill of hiding in the nooks and crannies of the grand home awaiting John or one of the local boys to come find him. An adventure, it was, those pilgrimages his father made to call on his relatives and show off his growing sons.

“Welcome back, Mr. Tucker,” the butler said as he took Jefferson’s hat and coat. “You were not expected this week, so I fear dinner will be somewhat delayed.”

“Yes, of course,” Jefferson said as he nodded toward the stairs. “Is my grandmother no longer in residence, then?”

“She is indeed, sir. Not much for leaving her chambers for fear the Yankees might return, but for nearly ninety, she’s still going strong. Just as she has since your last visit.”

Nearly ninety. Was that possible?

“Take a look at this, Tucker.”

Jefferson jerked his attention back toward the open front door, where he’d forgotten all about the Pinkerton agent’s presence. He found his shadow going through the stack of mail that had been languishing on the sideboard.

“You there,” the agent said to the retreating butler. “Has Mr. Tucker been staying here?”

The older gentleman’s expression showed confusion. “Yes, sir, for several months now, although you might ask him yourself as he’s standing right there.”

Jefferson realized the butler thought he was John at just about the same moment the agent did. And then Russell held out an envelope.

“It appears you’ve missed the Knights of Revelry event. Back on the seventh of April it was. Eight o’clock at the Princess Theater. A pity.”

Again he turned his focus on the butler as he set the letters back down on the silver platter meant to hold them. “Is there a reason the mail has not been opened since the beginning of the month?”

“Go ahead and tell him,” Jefferson offered, willing to play at being John one more time if it helped the agent in his quest to find the runaway Tucker.

“All right, Mr. Tucker, but it does seem odd that I’m to answer and not you.”

Jefferson forced a grin. “My friend here is something of an odd fellow, so let’s just humor him, shall we?”

A glance at Russell told him the agent had not taken offense. Rather, he appeared to find the ruse somewhat amusing.

“We don’t answer mail, nor do we talk about whether the gentleman of the house is at home or away. That’s the rule Mr. Tucker told us, isn’t it, sir?”

“That was the rule,” he amended. “I think we can now go back to the way things were before that rule, don’t you suppose?”

“Whatever you say, sir,” the butler said, as if used to the foibles of the wealthy. “If there’s nothing else, I will see if the kitchen can scrape together a cold supper.”

“Actually, why don’t you send someone down to Klosky’s Delmonico on Common Street for oysters. It is still there, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

Jefferson glanced over at his guest. “Unless you don’t like oysters, Mr. Russell?”

“Why don’t you call me Kyle? And the way I look at it, if a man hails from this part of the country—I am from New Orleans, just so you know—and doesn’t like oysters, then he hasn’t had them prepared correctly.”