Circle of Spies

by Roseanna M. White

  A frown knit her brow. “I wonder…perhaps there is someone prowling about in their absence. I heard voices outside last night. They sounded as though they were in the alley between your houses.”

  Marietta’s pulse kicked up. “Walker, perhaps? Hez occasionally comes by of an evening.”

  “At one in the morning?” Barbara shook her head, though given their shenanigans with Marietta’s granddad, her dismissal was likely mistaken. “I know their voices. It wasn’t them.”

  “Likely prowlers, as you said, then. I’ll be sure and mention it to Walker.” Prowlers of the Copperhead variety, no doubt. Her eyes focused on the side of her house nearest the Pinkneys’, on the high hedge meant to lend privacy…and perhaps succeeding too well. Was that where the main entrance to the castle was?

  She would have to look, though not with Barbara. Her new friend ought not to be drawn into this mess. Marietta would figure it out herself, or perhaps with Walker’s help. She would check the perimeter of the house. The cellars. Perhaps even search Lucien’s study again for some clue she had missed before.

  It was there, obviously, some entrance other than the tunnel they had found, which had likely been built as a secondary escape route from the main lair. She would find it.

  Slade Osborne might already be initiated, but there was no reason to entrust it all to him, was there?

  Fifteen

  Slade eased the study door shut behind him and exhaled slowly. He had begun to think Hughes would never leave this morning, satchel in hand for his trip and trunk strapped to his carriage roof. But the man had finally gone after one more sober warning to keep an eye on Marietta and Mrs. Hughes.

  As if Slade intended to let a band of marauders gallop through and steal them away.

  Then he had left the detective free to go about his business, praise be to the sovereign and Almighty God. A more perfect answer to prayer he could never have envisioned.

  Later today he had to head to Washington, but for now he was determined to find a few answers. And as he’d already discovered there were none to be found at Hughes’s house, he had sauntered across the street and snuck in.

  The pages that had been in the book of Aquinas were in his inner pocket, as taunting as they were alluring. Marietta’s script matched the slip of paper from the Augustine. But though his pulse had kicked up to near euphoria when he clapped his gaze upon that list of names, he had forced it back to rational.

  For all he knew, she had deliberately miscopied the information. How did she even get it to copy if she’d given him the key? That didn’t make sense, unless she also had the other key, the one Hughes kept on him. Which would mean Hughes had been the one to open the drawer for her and instructed her to feed him false information.

  But that would mean Hughes was on to him. Possibly, but he didn’t think so.

  Which left him with one itchy conundrum when it came to Marietta Arnaud Hughes.

  He turned to survey the now-clean study, sunlight shafting through the open drapes and pouring its precious illumination onto each surface. He headed straight for the drawer, withdrew the key from its place with the folded papers in his pocket, and crouched to open it.

  Making himself comfortable on the floor, he pulled out a handful of leaves from the front of the drawer. And frowned. The list was gone. Hughes could have moved it to another place in the drawer, he supposed, but it was nowhere in this first stack. Or maybe Marietta had taken it.

  No, she wouldn’t be so stupid. Unless she were trying to set him up to be caught…

  Another page caught his eye. One of the ones from the selection she had given him, he was fairly sure. He pulled out his copies and flattened the sheet in question beside the original.

  Identical. Other than the handwriting, exactly identical. Wherever Hughes had put a note in the margin, the same one appeared in the same place in Marietta’s. Each random scratch of ink from a slipping pen, each space, each crowded squeeze of a forgotten word had been duplicated.

  For the life of him, he didn’t know what to make of it. Not of the information itself, which seemed to be the transcription of an encoded telegram, but of the fact that she had made one for him—an accurate one—and slipped it to him.

  His thoughts rampaging like those nonexistent marauders, he returned the drawer to its usual state, relocked it, and set to pacing. He needed to figure out if he could trust her. And with what he could trust her. How much she knew and who in blazes the woman really was, beyond the name all of Maryland knew.

  Father, I could use Your wisdom here. He passed a hand over his hair. Show me if she is an ally or an enemy. Show me, please, what I am to do, with her and the whole situation.

  He felt a whisper of wind touch his neck, sending a chill down his spine. In part because it felt like an answer, and in part because it was a literal, icy draft. He eased back a step—there. It came from…the wall?

  Interesting. Turning to face a massive curio cabinet, he lifted his hands, feeling for that cold touch of air.

  The break in the paneling wasn’t so much visible as just discernible when he studied it enough. A push against the section in question didn’t budge it, though. So he spent five tedious minutes pressing every section, every nearby decorative piece of molding, before finally reaching behind the cabinet.

  When he heard the click of a lock releasing, a prayer of gratitude swelled through him. Now he could swing the panel open, outward, like a door.

  Pitch-black stairs greeted him, heading down. No cobwebs obscured the passage, so Hughes must use this whatever-it-was fairly regularly.

  A quick search of the study produced a lantern stashed in another cabinet. He lit it, stepped into the passage, and loosed an exasperated breath when he heard the tap of dainty feet in the hall. Headed straight for the study door, from the sounds of it.

  Or perhaps the front door, a definite possibility. As for who it was…it could be Marietta, who wouldn’t be surprised to find him here. But it could as easily be Barbara or Mrs. Hughes. And if the latter found him in her precious son’s study, it would spell trouble. Not worth the risk. He pulled the hidden door shut, leaving only the tiniest of slivers open. He didn’t know how this door worked from the inside and wasn’t about to lock himself in.

  Marietta sashayed into his slit of vision a moment later and sat at the desk. Slade set his lantern silently down on the step behind him and watched.

  For a long moment, she leaned onto the desk, her head in her hand. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted and moving ever so slightly, as if she were praying.

  Was she praying? He hadn’t thought Marietta Hughes, socialite and siren, the type. But as he studied her profile, he didn’t see the woman he’d come to expect. A mask had been peeled off. Absent the flirtation, absent the pleasantries, absent the control, she looked like an entirely different person.

  One just as beautiful as the belle, but younger looking. Almost—he could scarcely think to apply the word to her, but it was the only one that fit—vulnerable.

  She blinked her eyes open, the breath she drew in catching. Moistening her lips, she shook herself and opened the topmost drawer. It had nothing of note inside, but something gave her pause. She reached in and drew out what looked like a photograph.

  Right. A picture of her in a wedding gown. He had glanced at it on his own search last time. She looked at it for a long moment, the press of her lips indicating some emotion he hesitated to label.

  Then her head jerked toward the French doors, and she jumped from her seat, dropping the photo back into the drawer and shutting it before rushing to the panes of glass.

  His straining ears finally heard what she obviously had—a carriage halting outside the house. He watched her shoulders hunch, her frame coil as if ready to run. “Dev,” she muttered, panic making the name a blade. She spun, eyes wide, and took two steps toward the door before apparently hearing what he’d just noticed too—footsteps in the hallway.

  In Slade’s opinion, whoever was outside
the door was a lesser evil than getting caught in this room by Devereaux Hughes, especially since she had every right to be in here in the servants’ eyes.

  That didn’t seem to occur to her. She turned around, obviously looking for a hiding place.

  Blast it. Not sure if he was a complete fool or just struck by an unanticipated bout of heroism, he pushed open the door.

  Marietta jumped and splayed a hand over her heart. And then went from shocked to exasperated when her gaze fell on him. Well, she could lecture him later. They hadn’t the time right now. “Hurry.” He waved her in. If Hughes had forgotten something that sent him to her house, chances were it was in this room.

  She rushed toward him, grabbing her skirts to pull them out of the way. He swung the door shut, wincing at the click, but he would look for the release later. He had apparently been blocking the view of the steep steps behind him, for Marietta didn’t halt quickly enough and tottered on the edge. He slid an arm around her waist to keep her from sending them both tumbling down.

  The close call was surely what made his heart pound in his ears. Surely.

  A second later, the unmistakable sound of the French doors opening sifted through the panel. His gaze entwined with hers. The pale green of her eyes looked nearly golden in the lantern light that seeped past her voluminous skirts. For once, they held no calculation, no tease, no intrigue. Only fright.

  Her hands had landed on his arms, fingers clinging. No doubt to keep her balance on the narrow top step. Slade had little choice but to hold her close, given the tight space of the stairwell. He could only hope the Lord wouldn’t blame him for enjoying it.

  From the study there came a mutter too low to be intelligible and the sound of a drawer. Slade closed his eyes and prayed with every ounce of his heart and soul that the man would need nothing from down these steps. That he would have no reason to investigate the hidden door.

  For an interminable, full minute he heard nothing but his own thudding pulse and Marietta’s near-silent breath. The cold pushing up the passage set her to shivering. Not daring to move or rustle enough to take off his greatcoat to share, Slade wrapped his arms and coat around her as best he could without making a noise.

  For a moment she remained still, held herself away. Then a crash sounded from the other side. Her shivering quickened, and she nestled into him, going so far as to bury her face in his lapels.

  Bad, bad idea. He should have let her flee. Then the scent of lilacs wouldn’t be tormenting him, and he wouldn’t be infinitely aware of the feel of her back under his hands.

  From the exterior, a satisfied, “Ah!” And then, half a minute later, the rattle of the French door as it slammed shut.

  Marietta’s head came up, her lips parted. Slade shook his head and withdrew one arm from around her so he could touch a warning finger to her lips. “Not yet,” he murmured, more air than words. He had long ago learned that in situations like these, patience afforded one much forgiveness.

  He had apparently not learned, however, the dangers of touching a woman’s petal-soft lips. It certainly didn’t help that she looked up at him with an intoxicating mix of trust and question, amusement and relief. No woman had any business being quite so alluring. It ought to be illegal.

  And he ought to pull away.

  He got so far as moving his finger, but then his rebellious thumb took its place, brushing over her bottom lip as it had absolutely no right to do. And then his jealous mouth demanded its turn, and with only a few inches of space to cover, his mind hadn’t the time to halt it. Before he could even call himself a fool, his lips were on hers.

  He expected her to push away, slap him into next week, shove him down the stairs, or at the very least blister his ears with her opinion on his forwardness. When she rather held still, he figured he might as well enjoy the single moment. Make it memorable. Push his luck.

  What was life without a little risk, anyway? He settled his raised hand against her neck and tilted her head back, used the one still around her waist to press her closer. That put him all in, so from there it was either win, fold, or bust.

  Her call, and he had no idea what move she would make, not until her fingers knotted in his waistcoat, her lips moved under his, and she lifted up on her toes to meet him.

  A gamble that paid off. Not knowing when or if he’d ever have her in his arms again, he kissed her like there was no tomorrow, until he forgot what in the world he was even doing in this place. Kissed her until his senses swam and he had to shift to compensate.

  His foot slipped off the edge of the narrow slab of wood, and it was her turn to catch him. She did so with a laugh, pushing him into the wall at his back to steady them. And with laughter still dancing in her eyes, she didn’t seem too resentful. “That was a bad idea.”

  Trying to move or kissing her? A grin won half of his mouth. Either way. “I know.” He glanced down the stairs and then inclined his head. “Curious?”

  She glanced toward the door and then crouched down to pick up the lantern, holding it out to him as she straightened. “Lead the way.”

  The temperature dropped with each step, making him look back at Marietta, two steps above him. She hadn’t even a shawl over her gray dress, which surely offered little by way of protection. As soon as he reached the small chamber at the bottom, he set the light upon the rough old table and shrugged out of his greatcoat. “Here.”

  Marietta paused at the base of the stairs, four steps away. “You needn’t make any sacrifices for me, Mr. Osborne.”

  Stubborn woman. “I still have my frock coat. Take it. It can’t be more than forty-five degrees down here.”

  Still she hesitated, folding her arms around her middle.

  Slade sighed, and his gaze caught on a mound of wool in the corner. The way it sat on top of a pile of crates, folded neatly, made him think Hughes kept it here specifically for when he came down. He motioned to it. “What about that one, then?”

  Marietta strode to the corner, picked up the coat, and then tossed it back down with stony anger on her face. “I would rather freeze.”

  “Out of fashion?”

  “His.”

  His. Whether she meant Lucien or Devereaux he didn’t know, and it didn’t much matter. Heaving another sigh, he moved up behind her, dropped his coat over her shoulders, and held it there. “If I let you freeze, my mother will somehow know and box my ears.”

  The breath she released sounded amused. She slid her arms through the sleeves. “To appease your mother, then.” She turned, quickly enough that he hadn’t time to back up to allow the proper distance between them. Which he should do now…but didn’t. Her smile small, she gazed first into his left eye and then his right. “I imagine you have questions.”

  “A few.” Dozen.

  She spread her arms, which she no doubt meant to illustrate something, but which only served to demonstrate how big his coat was on her. “I daresay we shall never find more privacy than this. Ask—though I cannot guarantee I have answers.”

  Oh, she had some, if she chose to part with them. He turned to examine the room and allow his senses a respite from her. “What do you know about me?”

  “A logical place to start.” He heard her skirts rustle, though he didn’t turn to see what she was doing. “Let’s see. You are one of Pinkterton’s detectives. Ostensibly here to join the KGC, but given the many times I have caught you digging into things you ought not, it’s a safe assumption that you are rather trying to infiltrate them.”

  She stepped into his line of vision. He didn’t turn away. “Is it?”

  The look she sent him was the very one his mother used when making it clear she wasn’t fooled by whatever story he came up with to try to wriggle his way out of trouble. “What I can’t figure is why Dev is so willing to believe you. What is it you have, Mr. Osborne, that he needs?”

  So she knew about the Knights, she had deduced his purpose…he saw no point in hiding what was fairly common knowledge anyway. “I was one of Lincoln’
s guards until a few months ago.”

  She tilted her head, sending a single flame of a curl to rest on the shoulder of his jacket. A wonder it didn’t burn it. “Why were you reassigned?”

  Why indeed. He swallowed and moved back to the crates, the only thing of interest in the room. “Pinkerton had something else for me to do.”

  “But you told Dev it was because…what? Your loyalties had shifted?” She appeared at his side, reaching into the topmost crate even as he did. “And he believed you?”

  He let her pick up the first stack, watched her flip through it methodically, page after page. Yet she never paused to read a single line. “To his view, I was just coming to my senses.”

  Her snort of derision did nothing to slow her hands. Slade reached out and stilled her with fingers on her wrist. “I need to know whose side you’re on.”

  Marietta went stiff. Every muscle froze, the one in her jaw tight to show the clenching of her teeth. Then she drew in a slow breath, relaxed, and met his gaze. “Yours.”

  His fingers slipped away from her wrist. The one word shouldn’t have struck him like it did.

  He cleared his throat and picked up the pile she had already flipped through. “Aren’t you going to read these?”

  “I will later.”

  She intended to come back down here, alone? His stomach went tight. If Hughes caught her, even her considerable charms would have little effect if he saw her as a threat to his carefully laid plans.

  He very nearly touched her hand again but held himself in check. “Please be careful, Marietta. Better still, leave this to me. I can’t have you getting hurt.”

  “It’s a little late for that.” She flipped through a few more pages and then paused, frowning. “He has been shifting things around. This is the list of names. Updated, by the looks of it.”

  He took the page from her, though his gaze moved to the newspaper folded behind it. “Casualty reports.” Though he scanned the list, the crossed-out names meant nothing to him. No one he had met, no one they had talked about. Nothing nearly as interesting as the cool detachment on her face. “How long have you known? About their part in this.”