Circle of Spies
Page 14
But then, just like a surge emptying back into the bay, those acidic thoughts were pulled from her heart and replaced with pure fear.
She could not expose Barbara—pure, tenderhearted Barbara—to the Hugheses. They would crush her. They would destroy her. This young woman was not made for that kind of family, the kind that hated where they should have loved. Too much darkness saturated that home. They would…
And the darkness comprehended it not.
Marietta relaxed as she drew in a long breath and remembered all Barbara had already survived. If she could withstand the mean streets of Mobtown with a smile, if she could withstand the loss of Stephen, of their child, then the Hugheses could do nothing to her.
Perhaps they were darkness. But darkness could never overcome light. And a beacon might be exactly what Marietta needed within her home.
Only a beat having passed beneath the rapid wings of thought, Marietta smiled and stepped forward to take Barbara’s other hand. “With me, Barbara, please. We can finally get to know one another.”
Barbara searched her eyes for a long moment, no doubt looking for hidden motives, for some sign that obligation spurred the request. Marietta held her gaze as firmly as her fingers.
Perhaps she still had plenty to hide. But not, for the first time, her heart.
Thirteen
Devereaux spread out the pages on his brother’s desk, side by side until they covered the entire expanse upside down. The muscle in his jaw ticked, he clenched his teeth so tightly.
The telegram weighed heavy in his pocket. Defeat was certain. President Davis had authorized their worst-case-scenario plan.
And Devereaux had been charged with two vital tasks: rallying the men for the second rising sometime in the murky future, and burying a portion of the South’s hope. Gold. Rations. Weapons. Gunpowder. Medical supplies.
First, the physical. He braced himself on the edge of the desk and scowled at the papers. Though the fronts were covered in type, the backs hid the real information: a faint outline on each that would look like nothing but a mistaken mark of a pencil if taken individually. But together, they showed Maryland. The Southern state held by force in the Union, where those loyal to their roots couldn’t breathe a word of it lest they be seized. Maryland, with its thriving city of Baltimore and its western territories still largely wild.
Maryland—his domain. His to use as a hiding place for the stockpiled goods. All these years they had known it was a possibility, and so they had been readying the codes to guide future Knights to the caches. To hide them, he would utilize architecture by engraving symbols into stone and referencing landmarks. Structures unlikely to change in the next few years.
He glanced briefly into the empty space where Pennsylvania, Virginia, Delaware, and the so-dubbed West Virginia lay. If necessary, he could venture into those areas. He might need to do so to plant the symbols. But for the treasure itself…
His eyes fell again on that narrow strip of western Maryland. The mountains would provide the perfect hiding places. There were still enough uncivilized places that they could get in and out without drawing attention, places where only the rails went. Whole valleys still untouched, protected by the natural barriers of the Appalachians.
A better hiding place he could not have designed.
Best of all, he knew the area well. Railroad business took him frequently to Cumberland, a town that had sprung up primarily to accommodate the passage west.
Noise from the hall caught his attention. Jess, if the tone of grumbling could be trusted, and her heavy tread. His gaze went to the clock, now free of dust. Much as he appreciated that Marietta accepted his presence enough to want the space clean for him, he still despised the thought of others, especially the slaves, treading so close to plans so vital. Lucien had trusted them, at least enough to carry the Knights’ secrets on under their noses.
The fool.
Devereaux shuffled his papers together and toed shut the drawer from which they had come. He was not usually away from the rail offices so early in the day, and he had no desire to fend off questions from the stupid, over-inquisitive slave of his mother’s. He crept to the paneling beside the curio cabinet, reached to the hidden latch behind the massive piece of furniture, and pressed. The click signaled the release of the lock, allowing him to open the panel like a door.
An icy draft radiated up the hidden stairwell. He grabbed a lantern from the cabinet, struck a match to light it, and stepped into the cold.
Fifteen steep steps later, golden light touched all corners of a small room. It didn’t hold much at first glance. An old table, a single chair, a few crates. Nothing upon the dirt walls shored up with wooden beams, nothing to attract attention.
Which was the point. If anyone ever stumbled upon this chamber, with any luck they would think it naught but an abandoned cellar connected to the oldest part of the house. Hence why first Lucien and now Devereaux used it to store the most vital and sensitive of the Copperhead documents.
He spread his papers out again on the table and set the lamp near them, pausing afterward to grab the wool coat shoved into one of the boxes. Warm enough then, he fished out a more complete map to put alongside the sketch and turned back to his perusal.
Caves—he needed caves. They were in short supply on the eastern side of the state, but in Allegany and Washington counties it was a different story. Years ago, he and Lucien and Father had explored the areas around which their rails were being run, and they had wandered through the countryside.
More than wandered, a few times. His gaze fell on the detailed map, the mountains between Hagerstown and Cumberland. That was where they had been when he and Lucien had ventured far into a cave and then stumbled across a vast cavern buried deep in the hills. He had been but a boy, no more than ten or eleven, but such a cavern could not be forgotten.
A cavern big enough to hold all the gold he had stockpiled. All the gunpowder barrels. Weapons, even cannons. It was big enough to hide anything that would fit through its mouth. And yet no one knew about it—the locals claimed they had no caves.
Pulling out paper and pencil from the box, he sat on the uncomfortable chair and got down to business. First a list of all the items he would be responsible for storing, most of which had not been sent to him yet. But as they arrived he would load them into his private train cars, ready for a trip into the mountains…
First, though, he must take a trip himself, and better sooner than later. A week from now, perhaps, after a few important meetings. A fortnight at the outside.
And while he collected the goods, Booth and Surratt and Osborne and whoever else they brought in could be taking care of the King Abe nonsense. He would do well to separate himself from that, if President Davis expected him to remain in good standing with both North and South to effect the next uprising.
He pulled out his pocket watch. Another hour until those gentlemen were scheduled to join him in the more accessible part of the basement lair. That would give him plenty of time to complete his lists and update the membership based on the latest casualty reports.
A creak from above jarred him half an hour later, and Devereaux straightened on his chair. Perhaps Marietta had returned from wherever she had gone—likely her grandmother’s house, given that it was Tuesday. The thought was incentive enough to put his work and coat away and climb the steep stairs again. If he could steal a few minutes alone with her, perhaps he could charm her into his arms.
Distance didn’t suit him at all. Not when she was forever a few feet away, looking so dashed alluring. The mere sight of her heated his blood. And if he thought of her kisses…
Devereaux replaced the lantern, eased around the desk and to the door that opened into the garden. Warm sunshine touched his face when he stepped outside, a welcome reprieve from the icy cellar. He headed for the carriage house to see if she had returned.
He was nearly to it when movement caught his eyes. A swishing skirt, to be sure, but not the one he wanted.
But the way she halted, her eyes wide with terror. The way she reached behind her…
He too came to a lazy stop a good stone’s throw away and arched his brows.
She swallowed and backed up half a step, her hand still behind her. “You need somethin’, Mr. Dev?”
“Well, now.” For the pure pleasure of watching her quake, he swept his gaze down her. She was breeding again, apparently—and apparently had been for a while, though he hadn’t looked at her long enough to notice. “Kind as it is of you to offer, I prefer my women with a waist.”
The way her face twisted nearly made him laugh. Though his attention was snagged by a little blond head that peeked from behind her skirt. Her brat. Lucien’s, from the looks of her, though his brother had always sworn he needed no concubine after marrying Marietta.
His gaze went back to Cora’s petrified face. “What are you doing out here this time of day? Don’t you have cleaning to do?”
“Yes, sir. I just…Miss Mari said…yes, sir.”
Miss Mari said what? He nearly asked, but what did it matter? “Speaking of Miss Mari—is she back yet?”
“No, sir. Not yet.”
No point in continuing to the carriage house, then. He dismissed the slave with a flick of the wrist and headed instead to the side of the house they so rarely used, especially in the past fifteen months. Much of it was taken up by the ballroom—a chamber that had been draped all this time in the silence of mourning. The rest were guest rooms also not needed recently.
The hedges had been let to grow around this side of the house, which allowed the Knights to slip in as they pleased without being seen. Once in the darkened room locked from the rest of the house, he followed the usual path. Through the concealed door, down the stairs, and along the long tunnel.
No light burned in the meeting room. He must still be a few minutes ahead of the others. No matter. He lit a lamp, laid the fire, and prepared the coffee.
They had plans to make.
“No. That is unacceptable. It must be before the inauguration.”
Slade leaned back against the wall beside the fireplace, his arms folded as he watched Booth pace the room. He knew well his line was a thin one to walk. He had to appear every bit as frustrated as they, encourage them, and yet speak reason. “We can try. But you wanted the truth.”
Surratt tapped his pen against the table, his gaze flickering from the pacing Booth to the brooding Hughes. “Osborne is no doubt right, Booth. It is when they will expect us to move. Lincoln will be too closely guarded.”
“I was the first to insist that Osborne find us a way, but in reality this second inauguration changes nothing.” Hughes pushed himself up and dumped the dregs of his coffee into the fire. “We may simply not be able to act beforehand.”
“Still, we must try. Think of all the soldiers we could get released with him as ransom.”
Slade swallowed. No doubt they were right about that. But they might be surprised by Lincoln himself if they succeeded in capturing him. The president underwent trial each and every day of his life, and he stood tall under it. And not just because of his height.
Their three gazes fell on him, as if awaiting a response. What did they want? His opinion on how many soldiers they could get in exchange for Lincoln? He had no way of knowing, so he had no reason to opine. He unfolded his arms and meandered to a map tacked to the wall. “Escape route?”
“Ah.” Booth leapt to his side, eyes alight. “I have been working on one for months. Assuming we take him in Washington, we will make first for the Mudd plantation twenty-five miles out. Mudd is a doctor, so if we need any medical aid, he will no doubt give it.”
Slade glanced at Hughes and tried to recall if he had seen the name on the list of KGC members. He didn’t think so, but he couldn’t be sure. He needed a copy of that list. “Is he one of us?”
Hughes shook his head. “He is a slave owner, though, who has been hit hard by the prospect of losing his labor force. Booth feels certain he can be swayed.”
His noncommittal grunt was drowned out by the rattling of a carriage directly over them. Though not so much as a pebble tumbled down, it still made his shoulders tense.
Surratt inclined his head toward Hughes. “It sounds as though the missus is home.”
“Time to adjourn.” Their host went about extinguishing the fire. “Osborne, try to sound out your friends for a weak spot in their protection before the inauguration. But if there simply is none, look for one afterward.”
Booth took his hat from the table and tapped it into place, taking a moment to smooth his pomaded curls around it afterward. “I will keep you updated as to where I am staying. Or you can always reach Surratt at his mother’s boarding house.”
Hughes shooed them toward the exit. “You fellows and those you trust must see to this. I will be out of town on other Confederacy business soon.”
They all fell into a line to leave, Surratt saying something that sounded like agreement but which was interrupted by Booth’s mumble about the imbecility of the Confederacy. Hughes ignored them both and waved them all into the dark stairwell, shutting the door to the meeting room behind him.
No doubt their host was eager to greet his would-be missus.
Slade let the past hour spin through his mind as they took the shadowed journey up the stairs and into the never-used ballroom with its outside entrance. They apparently already had a location in mind for where they would hold Lincoln if they managed to kidnap him, but they hadn’t named it. Just kept referring to it as “the hideout.” Still too soon, he supposed, to have their complete trust.
The men filed into the ballroom one by one. Hughes closed the paneled door behind them and then peeked out the one into the hedge. He waved Booth and Surratt out. No one said a word as they slipped into the evergreen shroud and from there into the open. Booth and Surratt vanished down the alley. A few moments later, Hughes led Slade to the front door.
No one opened it for them, which was no doubt why the man’s face contorted into a hard scowl. He pushed the heavy wood open himself, but then he stopped so abruptly that Slade nearly ran into his back.
No surprise, given the picture within. All of the servants dashed about, Walker and Norris and old Pat carrying trunks, the women bandboxes and wrapped packages. Headed, not for the main stairs, but the ones leading to the side of the house from which Slade and Hughes had just come.
Mrs. Hughes stood at the base of the steps, pale and seeming in shock, while her redheaded minx of a daughter-in-law laughed with a woman Slade had never seen before. Though there was something vaguely familiar about her… He frowned at the frayed black dress the guest wore, the threadbare shawl.
Not Marietta Hughes’s usual company. Which stirred up all sorts of questions.
“Mari?” Hughes moved another step into the chaos, sidestepping a box full of…photographs? When the women looked his way, he went still again, and stiff as ice. Slade slid off to his side and closed the door behind him. Hughes smiled, but it looked about as friendly as a rattlesnake’s tail. “Miss Gregory, isn’t it?”
“It used to be.” Marietta’s grin, if Slade weren’t mistaken, contained a hint of smugness. Which was odd, given her reaction to the photograph he now remembered to be where he’d first seen the woman. “Though for some years now it has apparently been Barbara Arnaud. Gentlemen, allow me to introduce my sister-in-law, Stephen’s widow. Barbara, you no doubt remember Devereaux Hughes, and this is his guest, Slade Osborne.”
“Ma’am.” Slade stepped up when Hughes remained still, took her hand, kissed it. And knew with one glance into Barbara Arnaud’s serene face that he would like this woman. That peace in her eyes called his mother to mind. And it didn’t hurt a
ny that Hughes was obviously less than thrilled with her presence.
“How good to meet you, Mr. Osborne.” Her voice was soft, both in volume and texture. She turned from him to Hughes. “So good to see you again, Mr. Hughes.”
Hughes took her hand, but too slowly. Bowed over it, but didn’t kiss her knuckles.
Slade shot a glance to Marietta, who smirked back at him.
She stepped nearer, and light from the window angled over her. It lit the flame of her hair and set to glowing the pearls around her neck.
Familiar pearls. Three of them on a thin strand of gold. Slade frowned. The very same three pearls he had seen that bizarre night on the wife of the tall old man. He hadn’t had time to slip away and discover who they were. All he had managed to verify was that a ship still bobbed in the harbor with Masquerade painted on her hull.
“From the looks of it,” Hughes said to Mrs. Arnaud, “you will be visiting for a while.”
“Indefinitely.” Marietta looped her arm through her guest’s and pulled her a step away from Hughes. “I’m afraid that since she and Stephen married in secret, she has been living all this time in a part of town of which my brother would disapprove. We are going to remedy that and welcome her to the family properly.”
Though Hughes’s smile stretched, it looked no more welcoming. “How good of you.” His gaze tracked the servants disappearing up the side staircase. “Where have you put her?”
“The suite of rooms on the third floor, above the ballroom. They will be most to her liking and provide her the privacy to which she is accustomed.” Marietta, unlike her suitor, beamed with pleasure at the prospect.
Odd indeed. Slade had seen her flock of friends several times now, and they were all the same. Women of means, of important families. Women who arranged their faces in masks and whose eyes always snapped with calculation. Like Marietta’s so often did.