The Sapphire Brooch (The Celtic Brooch Trilogy Book 2) (35 page)

Gordon shook Booth’s hand with star-struck enthusiasm. “I saw several of your performances last year at Ford’s:
Richard III, Romeo and Juliet, The Merchant of Venice.
I believe the Star hailed your engagement as brilliant and lucrative.”

Gordon continued to gush on, further disorienting Charlotte. “You’ve had much success as a tragedian. Your swordplay and bounding leaps are spectacular. When will you return to the stage?”

Booth resembled a preening peacock, with his greatcoat collared in fur and a stick pin thrust in the center of his elaborate cravat. “I have no professional engagements scheduled. I’m more interested in investing in oil lands than acting.”

The actor’s sweet voice grated on her nerves. His risky speculations were the stock jokes of the day. A shiver rolled up the length of her body from her shoes to the top of her head. If she had not been well schooled in social graces from the time she learned to walk and talk, they would have failed her now, and she would have refused to touch the assassin’s hand. Instead, she demurely lifted her fingers to greet him in a performance worthy of the stage he had recently vacated.

“Mr. Booth, what brings you to Jackson Place this evening?” she asked as civilly as possible.

His big, powerful hand contrasted oddly with his fine-drawn features. He was impeccably dressed. Even his hair was perfectly waved, as through he’d used a curling iron. She was not remotely impressed, and, in fact, thought he appeared vain and insufferable. He kissed the back of her fingers, gazing at her from beneath his long lashes. She quickly reclaimed her hand, wishing she could sterilize it. How could Jack bring this monster inside their doors? Inside Braham’s home? Jack had some explaining to do.

“Mr. Booth agreed to sit for an interview,” Jack said. “I’m afraid I’ve used much more of his time than he originally offered.”

Edward handed Booth his hat. “I have a late appointment. Please excuse me.” Booth bowed to Charlotte, then said to Jack, “I look forward to reading the interview.” Booth left the house, his cape flowing behind his long strides.

Charlotte threw a cool, rigid look at her brother.

Jack clapped his hands together, rubbed them vigorously, smiled, and said, “Well, how was the theatre?”

Her performance would have earned an Oscar, and as long as Gordon remained at her side, she would continue to act the epitome of Southern graciousness, elegance, and hospitality. She had temporarily lost her composure at the hotel, but every daughter of the South had an occasional bad moment. The assertive side of her personality, which Gordon had seen earlier, needed to be curbed for only a few minutes more. Clearly, it wasn’t worth the effort to rein in her assertiveness in her own time, but here expectations were different.

Gordon cleared his throat. “The show was entertaining and dinner was exceptional. However, both lost their flavor by the appearance—”

“Braham was at the Willard.” Charlotte cut Gordon off abruptly, cringing as she did so, but it didn’t keep her from continuing. “He came to town for a meeting with Stanton, but he’s leaving now to go back to who-knows-where to do who-knows-what.”

The expression on Jack’s face was indecipherable. “Where’s he been?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Where’s he going?”

“He didn’t say. All he said was he served at the pleasure of the President.”

Another question hovered in the air between Jack and Charlotte. They eyed each other, but left the thought unspoken.

“Was he surprised to see you?” Jack asked.

Charlotte answered in a clear but soft voice belying her true feelings. “He knew we were here.”

Jack snatched his hat and coat from the coat tree. “I’m going over to the Willard.”

Gordon lips twitched in what might have been a faint smile. “Would you care to ride with me?”

She watched the two men leave, hoping Jack didn’t haul off and punch either Gordon or Braham. On second thought, she still believed both men might benefit from having some sense knocked into their rocklike skulls. He had her blessing.

42

Washington City, February, 1865

B
eyond the window
of Charlotte’s bedroom, moonlight painted a glittering trail across snow left over from a late winter storm. The only sounds were crackling fire and the wind groaning outside. The dark, velvety cloak of night would lift in a few hours and a new day would begin. Perhaps the dawn would illuminate solutions to this abominable situation.

She sat curled on the loveseat in front of the fire, massaging her forehead, nauseous with the onslaught of a massive headache. The book on her lap forgotten, she stared blindly into the flames, still shivering—a disastrous date, a confrontation with Braham, an unexpected and unwelcome meeting with Booth. One of the three would have been enough to send her into a tailspin. All three within hours of each other was sufficient excuse to pop open a bottle of valium. She had never taken the stuff, didn’t have any pills with her, but had heard plenty of people rave about its calming effect. If she expected to ever be calm tonight, she’d need another glass of wine, or two.

What had Jack been thinking to invite Booth to Braham’s house? If Braham had come home and found Booth there, one of them would be lying on the floor bleeding out right now.

Shivers rattled her teeth, exacerbating the headache.

The front door opened and closed and voices floated up the stairs. Golden light from the lamp in her room spilled out into the second floor’s wide hall. Jack would, out of habit, stop by to talk before bed. A few minutes later, he sauntered in, carrying two glasses and a bottle of wine.

“Saw your light on when I came in. Thought you’d like a glass of wine after your exciting evening.”

She held up her empty glass, smiling. “Perfect timing. Thank you.”

He refilled her glass and poured some for himself, then squeezed and squirmed until he finally settled into the walnut lady’s chair next to her.

She lifted the glass to smell the bouquet before taking a sip. “Did you find Braham?”

An impertinent grin livened his face. “I found him. He was working his way through a bottle of whiskey. You must have done a number on him.”

She snorted and rolled her eyes “Who, me? I hardly said anything. He was as shut down as a condemned building waiting for the wrecking ball.”

“Yeah, but I think he was the wrecking ball searching for a condemned building to plow into. He definitely wanted to pick a fight, but I wasn’t about to give him an excuse.”

“I begged him not to do anything based on what he learned in the twenty-first century, and he told me to go home.”

“He didn’t like seeing you with Gordon.”

She jerked back with a start, the book in her lap landing on to the floor with a hollow thud. “Did he say so?”

“More or less.”

She leaned over, grabbed the wine bottle off the floor, and read the label. “This is good.” She took another sip. “Now don’t be so cryptic. If he said something, tell me.”

“He asked how you met Gordon, how often you spend time with him, and if he had seen you in scrubs with your hair down.”

“Where does he come up with these things?” She pulled her feet up under her hip and snuggled once again into the sofa’s soft, plushy cushion.

“Conversation with him tonight was like patting a porcupine,” Jack said.

“Why was he so testy? Did he know Booth was in town?

“Nah. His mood was directly related to you, and I enjoyed his suffering. Payback for lying to me.” Jack gave her an unrepentant grin. “I made it worse by talking about how beautiful you looked tonight.”

“Must be a guy thing.”

“Right, like girls don’t do it, too.”

“Girls might play games, but they don’t bring the enemy into the house.” Her voice was hemmed with jagged edges of fear and fury. “What were you
thinking
when you invited Booth here? He’s dangerous, and associating with him could be deadly.”

A worry crease appeared over Jack’s nose. He propped one booted foot on his opposite knee and picked at the threads of his wool sock, thinking. Finally, he broke his silence. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have brought him to Jackson Place. But I wanted to tape the conversation, and the noise at the National Hotel made it impossible to get a good recording.”

“What’d he talk about… other than his gorgeous and talented self?”

Jack dropped his foot to the floor and leaned forward, holding his glass with both hands. “He asked what I thought of Lincoln. I said I admired him. He wondered how a good Southern gentleman could support a despot. I told him the focus of the interview was his career as a thespian, not his politics. He switched tactics and talked about the theatre and oil and land investments.”

“Did you mention your meeting with Booth to Braham?”

Jack shook his head. “Braham’s not an assassin. He might threaten, but he’s got too strong a moral code. I predict when the date gets closer, he’ll make comments to Lincoln about additional security, and on the fourteenth, he’ll try to keep the President from going to the theatre.”

“Since we don’t know where he is,” she said, “we can’t keep him from interfering. He was in town tonight to meet with Lincoln and Stanton. He could slip back into the city at any time and we wouldn’t know.”

“He ducked out on me tonight. He left to use the necessary room, and when he didn’t come back, I went looking for him, but by then it was too late. He was gone. Which won’t happen a second time.” Jack sat back in the chair, stretched out his legs, and gave her his endearing raised-eyebrow look. “Now, I want to hear what happened with Gordon.”

She looked down at her fingers, fussing with a hangnail.

After an awkward silence, Jack said, “You done stalling? Fess up. What happened?”

“I hate it when you’re right. You had Gordon pegged. He was about to propose when Braham showed up. Boy, did that piss him off.”

“Gordon told me I had done you a disservice by allowing you far too much freedom.”

“What did you say?”

“I told him the same thing I told him the day we met in December. You make your own decisions.”

She couldn’t help smiling with relief. “I don’t want to see him again. Not after the way he acted tonight. He might not even come back.”

“Oh, he will.”

“What makes you so sure?”

A dimple identical to the one she saw in the mirror every day appeared in Jack’s right cheek. “Gordon sees it as a competition now, and doesn’t intend to lose to Braham.”

“Men.
I don’t intend to be a pawn in a chess game, and I certainly have no intention of being any Neanderthal’s prize.”

43

Washington City, February, 1865

A
knock on
Charlotte’s bedroom door startled her awake. Her eyes popped open to see Braham standing in the doorway. “You left the door ajar. It’s allowed all the heat to escape the room. And you look uncomfortable on the loveseat. Why don’t you sleep in your bed?”

She yawned, shivering. “Jack stopped by to talk. I must have dozed off after he left.” Although smoldering ash of a dying fire scented the air, he was right, there was no heat coming from the red, yellow, and orange embers. “I’m surprised you’re here. I didn’t expect to see you again.”

“And I thought you’d be gone, too.” His voice was low and husky.

“I don’t make it a habit of disappearing into the night like some people I know.”

He leaned back against the doorframe, wearing only a pair of trousers with suspenders dangling down his legs. Damp hair reaching his shoulders dribbled glistening drops of water onto his bare chest. The whiskers she’d seen earlier had given way to a smooth-shaven, expressionless face, but she sensed the roiling going on inside of him. He closed the door and sidled over to the fireplace where he added wood and poked the dying embers, coaxing it to reluctant life. He then turned to face her, the furrows in his forehead deepening.

“I had to leave Jack at the hotel tonight. I didn’t want him to follow me.”

She reached for a shawl tossed over the back of the loveseat and draped the warm velvet around her shoulders, snugging the ends close to her body. “Am I going to read about Booth’s murder in the morning paper?”