Circle of Spies

by Roseanna M. White

  Elsie hooked a finger in her mouth and smiled around it.

  Walker’s throat felt so dry, he wondered if he’d ever be able to swallow again. “You’ll help?”

  “I already have the book. I only flipped through the first few pages to see how similar it was to my family’s signs, but I’ll get it out. We can…we’ll have to find a time when you and Cora can both join me. It will hardly do any good if you don’t all know it.”

  Somehow he didn’t think Cora would be too fond of that plan. But it was for their girl. She would put her dislike aside for Elsie. “I doubt evenings would work, then. You usually have…company. Maybe afternoons?”

  “Maybe. Probably. I—”

  A throat cleared, cutting her off. They both spun to the door. For a second he was sure it would be Hughes, but the silhouette that stood against the sunshine wasn’t built quite right. He was too rangy, and stood with too much patience. Must be the newcomer.

  Walker didn’t know if that was better or worse.

  Slade let his eyes adjust to the dim light, not sure how to interpret what he knew he’d see. He’d recognized Marietta’s voice. And it wasn’t, he supposed, odd to find her in her own stable. Maybe she liked to ride. Maybe she was making changes to the way things were run. Maybe that was why she was setting up a daily tryst with a servant.

  Maybe.

  But when another blink helped his vision focus, his gut twitched. The man standing in the empty stall had features that bespoke Negro blood. His skin, however, was no darker than Slade’s after a few weeks out of doors in the summer, his eyes a strange blue-gray.

  And the little girl in his arms was as blond as…well, as the elder Mrs. Hughes.

  Some story waited here, he had no doubt. The only question was whether it had any bearing on his business. For now, he saw no reason to pry. Especially since a Negro woman bustled in from the rear door, full of energy and exclamation.

  “Lands, but it’s cold out there today! I—” She halted when she looked up from her shawl, her gaze darting from the lady to him. “Mari.”

  Marietta’s smile looked tight. “Morning, Freeda.”

  The man cleared his throat. “Mama.” When the child in his arms wriggled and clapped, he held her out to the woman.

  She gathered the little one close, smiling. “There’s my precious. Grammy has a treat for you.” When she moved her gaze to Marietta, her expression remained indulgent. “You might want one too. Gingersnaps. Your mama and I just pulled them from the oven. That’s why I’m late.”

  Slade blinked again and let the pieces slide into place. He’d done a bit of asking about the Arnauds, so it only took a moment to place this woman as Freeda Payne, a free black who had been working for Julie Lane Arnaud since…always. As her aging parents still did for Thaddeus Lane. Her father, Henry Payne, was apparently one of the most renowned pilots Baltimore had ever seen.

  Gossip had mentioned that she’d never married despite having a son, but it had failed to inform him that the son in question worked here. He’d be free because she was. This man before him might be an ally-in-waiting. Or he might be something else entirely.

  The mistress of the house chuckled but made no other response about the cookies. She instead turned to Slade. “Did you need assistance, Mr. Osborne?”

  How cool she sounded. All polite inquiry, not so much as a residual gleam of unease in her eyes over being interrupted with her stable hand. Maybe that meant it had been innocent.

  Maybe.

  He pulled out as much of a smile as he figured the situation warranted, which was about half. “I was hoping I might borrow a mount. Hughes said he doesn’t have riding stock, but you do.”

  “Hmm. Walker can help you with that.” She sashayed his way while Freeda bustled toward the opposite door with the girl.

  Slade forced his gaze from his hostess and fastened it on the man, who regarded him as though he were a predator on the prowl. “I would appreciate it.”

  Walker nodded but made no move to fetch a horse. Slade knew when he was being assessed. He held his ground as he held the man’s gaze…at least until Marietta’s skirt swished within a few inches of him. He figured then it was only natural to take her in. Perhaps most men would have moved out of her way, but she could get by. The doors were wide. “You’re looking well this morning, Mrs. Hughes.”

  He suspected she’d practiced that smile in the mirror to find the perfect balance of saucy and demure. “Thank you, Mr. Osborne. I put another book beside your chair in the library.” She swept her lashes down and then back up. Artistic flirtation that barely covered challenge. “Surely if you enjoy Wesley, you will equally enjoy Jonathan Edwards.”

  The other half of the smile threatened to stake its claim on his lips. “One of my father’s favorites. Especially ‘Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God.’ Care to recite it for me?”

  “Don’t think I couldn’t.” She swept past him before he could tell whether she smiled as she said it.

  His smirk faded when he faced forward again and slammed into a warning glare from Walker.

  The man strode past Slade and yanked a saddle from its shelf on the wall. “Don’t.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Don’t look at her like that.”

  Interesting. Slade trailed behind him as he fumed down the center aisle. “Like what?”

  “You know very well like what. Like every other man, like the Hughes brothers. You don’t wanna be like them.”

  Slade’s gait hitched but then evened out. “What does it matter to you?”

  Walker slung the saddle over a stall door and shot Slade another glare. “I promised her brother I would look after her. Keep her out of trouble.”

  The snort of cynical laughter escaped before Slade could bottle it. “You haven’t done the best job of that, have you?”

  He regretted the jab when Walker spun on him, not stopping until they were toe to toe. No doubt with his fingers curled into a fist, though Slade wasn’t about to look down to see. He just waited. One tick, two.

  Walker snarled. “You ever try talking sense into a woman like her?”

  “Yep. Never worked.”

  Just like that, amusement took the place of anger, and Walker backed off with a soft laugh. “Then you know. Ain’t no keeping her out of trouble. Best I can do is make sure she survives it.”

  Something about the way he said it indicated he understood the danger that was synonymous with Hughes. And if Walker hated it as much as Slade did, maybe he could be trusted. He cast a glance over his shoulder, sent a prayer winging heavenward. Do I dare, Lord God? And how much?

  Peace filtered in through the crevices of the wall inside him, slow and seeping like a midnight fog. Cooling the embers of frustration. He let it soothe as he drew in a breath. “I’m not like them.”

  Walker opened the stall and rubbed the horse’s nose. “You’re trying not to be, anyway. I can appreciate that. But you wear your past like an ill-fitting coat, mister.”

  He didn’t know whether to be insulted or flattered. “You ever try to change who you are?”

  “Sure did.” Peace rang in the words. And a far sight more of it than Slade could boast.

  “How did you manage it?”

  Walker chuckled and went about saddling the mare. “It helped that my best friend was all but a saint.”

  “Stephen Arnaud?” He seemed to run into the man’s name everywhere he turned.

  “That’s right. You got someone like that?”

  His father’s face filled his vision. So many years he had run from him, from the expectation he thought came with his affection. He hadn’t realized how exactly he fulfilled the story of the prodigal son until he’d woken up in a gutter one morning and realized what he’d become. Until he tossed his old ways aside and came home. Until his father embraced him.

  Until he saw the resentment burning in Ross’s eyes when he did.

  He cleared the memory from his throat. “Yeah. I have someone like that. Just
nowhere nearby.”

  “Hmm.” Walker put the saddle on over the blanket and reached under the horse for the billet strap. “I guess it’s a good thing the Lord ain’t just where that somebody is, then.”

  “Guess so.” What a strange conversation to be having in Marietta Hughes’s stable. With Devereaux Hughes even now inside with his mother, knowing well the KGC castle was all but under his feet. “Guess so.”

  Walker cinched tight the loop. “Do what you gotta do and get outta here. You need help with something, come to me. But keep away from Marietta, and don’t let Devereaux catch you looking at her like she’s a lamb to your wolf.”

  Slade’s every muscle turned to stone. It was one thing to wonder if he could trust, could share a morsel here and there, and quite another to have some random man in his enemy’s stable all but shout that he knew Slade’s business.

  And Marietta Hughes was no lamb.

  He said nothing.

  Walker finished his task and handed him the reins. Met and held his gaze. “Are we clear?”

  Slade took the straps of leather. That made four men now who had warned him away from her. For different reasons, but the same point.

  She was trouble. A smart man would never so much as glance at her out of turn.

  He jerked a nod and led the horse out of her stall. And he wished he were a little smarter than he knew himself to be.

  Eight

  Devereaux read the invitation through twice. Nothing out of the ordinary, a small dinner party among old friends. He knew what he found interesting—that it had been addressed to Mrs. Lucien Hughes and Mr. Devereaux Hughes, together.

  But he wasn’t entirely certain what had garnered Marietta’s attention. He looked up as he handed it back. “Why would you not accept, darling?”

  Marietta stiffened, as she did every time he used an endearment in the presence of anyone but Mother. She darted a glance to the other end of the room, but Osborne still sat with a book of sermons and a scowl, as he had most evenings for the week he had been with them. Why he read the things if they bothered him so, Devereaux couldn’t say.

  “It would be my first social appearance.” She smoothed the pearl gray silk of her evening gown, a movement that was graceful, elegant, and shouted her nerves.

  “And a fine time to ease back into such things. Do you not agree, Mother?”

  His mother had been brought down an hour earlier, and though she had not moved from her chaise, her color was still good. Now she looked up with that sweet-as-molasses smile she always gave Marietta. “The Ellicotts are a fine family. I’m certain whatever invitation you decide to accept as your first appearance will be the perfect choice, Mari dear.”

  More like whichever decision she made, Mother would scoff over it the moment Marietta left the room.

  But if ever she detected her mother-in-law’s insincerity, Marietta hid the realization so well even Devereaux couldn’t find it. She sent a warm, unclouded smile to the chaise. “I would feel better about accepting any invitation if you were well enough to join me, Mother Hughes. I hate the thought of leaving you on your own for a whole evening.”

  “Ah, c’est la vie. You mustn’t put your life on hold for me, dear. I shall be just fine.”

  “You have French roots, do you not, Mrs. Hughes?” This came from the corner, though Osborne didn’t glance up from his page. Nor did he bother to keep his posture upright. He slouched in the chair like a university student amongst his peers—or like the common stock he was.

  Both Mother and Marietta looked at him, both opened their mouths, both paused.

  Now their guest looked up, his eyes keen despite his apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. I meant the elder Mrs. Hughes.”

  “It does get a bit confusing, doesn’t it?” Mother simpered and smoothed down her skirt too, though her gown hung on her after all the weight she had lost in recent months. “Perhaps you ought to call my dear daughter by her given name, like the rest of us, Mr. Osborne.”

  Marietta pressed her lips tight. And because she obviously wanted to withhold her permission, Devereaux could smile and grant it. “You might as well. Though the answer to your question would be the same, whichever of them you asked.”

  “That’s right.” Mother went back to her embroidery. She was working on a Union sash, though he knew it galled her. “My family is from French Louisiana, just outside New Orleans. My brother now owns the plantation on which I was raised. The Fortiers are known far and wide for the best sugar in the South.”

  “And Marietta has French on both sides of her family.” Devereaux took a draw from his cigar and picked up the paper he had yet to read today. “Right, darling?”

  She had a book by her side, though she hadn’t opened the cover. At his prod, she sent him a look that said she was perfectly capable of carrying on a conversation without his guidance. He grinned back.

  Though she refrained from rolling her eyes, he had a feeling it took effort. Effort which she channeled into the smile she sent Mr. Osborne. “That’s right.” She drew the book into her lap. “My father’s father was French aristocracy. He fled to America with his parents in the face of the French Revolution. And my grandmother on my mother’s side is half-French as well, with a similar story. Except that Great-Grandmama Julienne ended up in England with my Great-Grandpapa Isaac.”

  Osborne glanced between the two ladies. “I imagine that shared heritage bound the two of you together.”

  The ladies were quick to agree, but Devereaux narrowed his eyes. Osborne obviously knew their loyalties were different, but something about the slant of his brows made Devereaux think he suspected more of Mother’s sentiments than he should have.

  A detective ought to have keen powers of observation, he supposed. But still. He had no business using them to find the cracks in the foundation of the Hughes house.

  Perhaps Mother felt it too. She shifted, refreshed her smile, and directed it to Marietta. “Entertain us, Mari. Recite something.” To Osborne she added, “Our Mari has an amazing ability to recall the written word.”

  “Does she?” Osborne sat up a bit straighter. “Fascinating. Do you take requests, Mrs.—I mean, Marietta?”

  Devereaux shifted. He didn’t much like hearing her name trip off his tongue after all, though it was a little late to rescind the invitation.

  Running the tip of her finger along the edge of her book, she smiled. “That is one way to play the game, Mr. Osborne. But it is more fun if you recite a snippet of something, and I try to finish it and give you the reference.”

  Always entertaining, assuming she was in company that enjoyed the same things she did. Though boredom snuck in fast if a bunch of pretentious gentlemen were present who insisted on tossing out Greek or Latin references, or the religious texts she so despised. The moment they ventured into those, she would demure and claim ignorance.

  “All right.” Osborne sat straighter still, his nearly black eyes going narrow in thought. He glanced to Devereaux. “Why don’t you start us off, Hughes, while I think?”

  “Very well.” He thought for a moment as he took another puff of his cigar. “Ah. ‘There were a king with a large jaw and a queen with a plain face, on the throne of England.’ ”

  How he loved the way the smile curled just the corners of her mouth. Every time he saw it, he wanted to kiss those corners until the smile bloomed full. “Really, Dev, that is hardly even sporting. You might as well have begun with ‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.’ The next line is ‘There were a king with a large jaw and a queen with a fair face, on the throne of France,’ and the book is A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. Mother Hughes, do show your son how to make this game challenging.”

  Mother laughed, though no doubt later she would huff about Marietta’s audacity in insulting him before a guest. “All right. Hmm. Oh. ‘There was no possibility of taking a walk that day.’ ”

  Marietta made a show of considering, though she wouldn’t have had to. Mother only ever quote
d from three different books, and even Devereaux knew which one that line opened. She had used it in this game half a dozen times before.

  She tapped her chin and tilted her head. “I do believe…no…is it—oh! Of course, your favorite, Mother Hughes. Jane Eyre. ‘We had been wandering, indeed, in the leafless shrubbery an hour in the morning.’ ”

  Mother clapped. “Your turn, Mr. Osborne.”

  Osborne snapped his book shut. “ ‘But then, though we all hope to go to heaven when we die, yet, if we may judge by people’s lives, and our Lord says, “that by their fruits we may know them…’ ” ”

  Marietta didn’t so much as blink. “ ‘I am afraid it will be found, that thousands, and ten thousands, who hope to go to this blessed place after death, are not now in the way to it while they live.’ Whitfield, ‘Marks of a True Conversion.’ ”

  Devereaux ground out his cigar in the bronze ashtray beside him.

  Osborne lifted a brow. “ ‘Down she came and found a boat/Beneath a willow left afloat—’ ”

  “ ‘And round about the prow she wrote/The Lady of Shalott.’ Which is your answer, sir. Tennyson.”

  Devereaux frowned. Marietta didn’t like poetry.

  Their guest leaned forward, challenge making his eyes hard as onyx. “ ‘The analytical power should not be confounded with ample ingenuity…’ ”

  “ ‘…for while the analyst is necessarily ingenious, the ingenious man is often remarkably incapable of analysis.’ ” She lifted her chin and stared Osborne down. “Edgar Allan Poe. ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue.’ ”

  Enough. Devereaux laughed and clapped along with his mother, ready to end whatever that had been. “When have you read Poe, darling? I cannot imagine it would suit your sensibilities.”