Circle of Spies

by Roseanna M. White

  Eighteen

  Slade might be a friend of silence, but he hated little more than the sudden descending of it on a room just because he entered. Well, not the whole room. But the familiar corner of the tavern in Washington went deathly quiet when his colleagues spotted him. And the ever-present knot in his gut twisted.

  The men had been friends not all that long ago. The kind he would give his life for, certain they would do the same for him. Brothers, far more than Ross had ever been. But now they all looked at him with distrust, some with outright hatred. As if they were none too sure it had been his twin who had been buried. As if wondering if the face that had deceived them four months ago were the same one approaching them now.

  None of them had been willing to take his father’s word as to which Osborne son had come away from that dark boardinghouse room the victor. None but Pinkerton himself.

  Slade’s fingers curled into his palm as he wove his way around the last crowded table between him and them. Was there anything left in his life Ross hadn’t tainted, hadn’t ruined?

  Yet part of him knew it was his own fault. He forced his fingers to relax, and then forced his face to follow suit into the peaceful lines his brother could never replicate, hadn’t understood. Had Slade not taken that assignment, hadn’t been the first one to borrow his brother’s name, he wouldn’t be in this mess.

  It hadn’t been his idea. He hadn’t wanted to assume the cover of a soldier in the Confederate army, arriving to take his brother’s place after their father begged Ross out of following through on his commitment. Pinkerton had been the one to ask it. Pinkerton had been the one to claim that he could get invaluable information from behind enemy lines.

  He stopped at the table of stony, silent detectives and nodded at them. It hadn’t been his idea, but he had been so sure it was the right decision. And why? Why had the Lord wanted him there, while his brother ruined his life here? Why had He led him home that day, the day Ross was lying in wait for him? Why, why had He whispered a warning to duck but not stayed his hand when he raised his pistol?

  Why did the whole blasted world have to shatter with that one pull of a trigger?

  Frederick Herschel, once the closest of his friends, leaned back in his chair and glared at him. “What do you want, Osborne?”

  Osborne. He used to call him Slade. Back when he could be sure that’s who he was. He drew in a long breath that brought no ease. “I need to talk to you.”

  The man to his right, Kaplan, pushed away from the table with thunder in his gaze. “You’ve got nothing to say I wanna hear.” He spat on the floor and strode to the bar.

  The others followed him, their movements all slow, deliberate, and menacing. As if they would pull their weapons happily. Herschel was the only one who held his seat, but Slade knew it was no favor. He was flipping a coin through his fingers, the way he did when he was working. Measuring, probing, discovering. Ready to pounce. He used his foot to push out a chair. “This ought to be real entertaining.”

  Slade sank onto the sturdy wood. If any of these men should have known him, recognized him behind the face that Ross shared, it was Herschel. “Hersh…” He met his friend’s gaze but saw nothing. Nothing. He sighed and leaned close. “Pinkerton said he’d tell you about this new job he has me on. Did he?”

  The only indication that Herschel even heard him was the long, lazy blink.

  He’d take that as a yes. Leaning even closer, he pitched his voice low. “I’m in. The groundwork Ross laid—” He hated to even say the name, but what choice did he have? “—did its job like Pinkerton hoped. They’re starting to trust me.”

  A snort escaped Herschel’s lips, puffed out beneath his long mustache.

  It might as well have been a curse. Or a dagger, the way it pierced. Would he ever be able to convince these men he was honest? Or would they think him always just waiting for the right moment to betray them, the way Ross had done?

  The words of the prayer he had read on the train here, the faded brown writing on the yellowed page, whispered through his mind. Let me willingly accept misery, sorrows, temptations, if I can thereby feel sin as the greatest evil, and be delivered from it with gratitude to Thee…

  Slade let the centuries-old thought sink deep and join with the truths his father had taught him all his life. He had been forgiven. He had left the old ways behind. And so what were these pains but a reminder of what he had escaped? Even if his friends never accepted him again, he would know he was living according to the Lord.

  He took a moment to swallow down the frustration. “What do I have to do, Hersh? Tell you all about yourself? Spend an hour reminiscing about all our exploits? I can do that. I can—”

  “Don’t waste my time.” The coin flipped again, was caught and clutched. Herschel’s mustache twitched. “Even if you are who you say you are, this is your fault. Slade disappeared without so much as a by your leave, and then that—that usurper came and undid months of our work. Years. We had to reorganize everything. Double our guard on Lincoln. I had to listen to the screeches of Mrs. Lincoln for a week on end, and no apology can undo that.”

  “I know, but…” His watch felt heavy in his pocket. He didn’t need to pull it out to know he hadn’t much time here. Why use it on an apology that wouldn’t be accepted anyway? “We were right. About the plot before the first inauguration—or close, anyway. They were planning to kidnap him, they say, not to kill him.”

  Was that a spark of interest in Herschel’s eyes? He couldn’t be sure. His friend had a poker face as well tuned as Slade’s. But he would press on, assuming it was. “They want to try again, now, before the next inauguration. I’ve told them security will be too tight, but they want me to find a way around it.”

  The muscle in his friend’s jaw pulsed. “And you come here? To me?”

  “Not for what you think.” Though he wasn’t sure exactly what Hersh did think. If he were really here to gain information underhandedly, to betray the cause he had sworn his life to, he wouldn’t have just admitted it, would he?

  The coin flipped again. Herschel looked to be physically biting his tongue, given the mean-looking grimace on his face.

  Its reflection settled in Slade’s chest. God had forgiven, but his friends might never do so, even if he single-handedly brought down the KGC. And then what? Pinkerton would place him someplace else, on some other assignment with new men, men who didn’t know him. But it would never be the same. And that set up an ache not so different from the one that had attacked him each of the two nights he had settled to sleep after that stupid kiss the other day.

  The ache of knowing that something was, and maybe should be, forever out of reach, no matter how much he might want it.

  Resignation edged out the intensity. “They’ll plan to kidnap him another time. After the inauguration. I’ll know the details, and I’ll make sure you do too, so you can strengthen the guard or change what needs changed.” Given the next twitch of Herschel’s mustache, he splayed a hand against the table. “You have to believe me. Like you did that night at the docks.”

  Appealing to the shared memory achieved nothing but the crossing of Herschel’s arms. “Yeah, the other you knew that one too.”

  Blast it to pieces. Ross had never seemed to pay attention to all the stories he had told his parents on that trip home a year ago. But he had been, apparently. He had used them all against him, and now here he was. Brotherless, and friendless to boot. He pushed to his feet. “You ought to know me better than this, Hersh. I don’t care how good an actor my brother was, you ought to know me, now.”

  He pulled out his watch, unfastened it from the fob he had borrowed from his friend more than a year ago. He tossed the silver chain onto the table. “You won’t believe this either, I know. But it’s yours, so take it.”

  Not waiting to see Herschel’s reaction, he pivoted and strode back through the crowded tavern. He’d made it two steps out into the cool Washington evening when a hand on his arm stopped him.


  Herschel’s eyes had changed. The shuttered look was gone, though that just meant the caution shone through. “Ross didn’t have your watch. He said he lost it but didn’t apologize about losing my fob. That’s when I knew something was wrong. That he wasn’t…that you weren’t yourself. I didn’t mention it to him. I assume you never did either.”

  A corner of Slade’s mouth pulled up. “And have my father find out I’d lost the one he gave me?”

  His friend exhaled a long breath and let go Slade’s arm. “What do you need to know?”

  When he got back to Baltimore, back to the safety of his room, he’d fall to his knees and praise the Almighty.

  He pulled Herschel into the nearest alley and shared in a low voice the Knights’ would-be plans for taking Lincoln before the inauguration. They were all vague, at best—possible places where they could grab him.

  To each and every one, Herschel grinned and gave the same reply. “Covered.”

  “Good.” Slade nodded after the last one. “I assumed it would be, but I needed to be able to assure them of it. They’ll be watching, and if I say you will be somewhere you’re not…”

  Herschel nodded and glanced toward the street. “You need them to trust you if you hope to undermine them. But Slade…tread carefully.”

  Slade. Peace swept through him, despite the warning. “I’ll be in touch when they have a plan in place.”

  “Yeah.” His friend straightened, his expression not relaxing any. “I’d better get back in there and assure the others I was just giving you the what-for.”

  And down his spirits spiraled again. Maybe he should resign himself to being always a pariah with this group of brothers. Maybe he just wasn’t meant to have any brothers. “Tell them you punched me in the nose. That’ll make them feel better.”

  At least Herschel laughed. That was something. Enough to spur him on to his next meeting, strange as it felt to head to the National Hotel, where he had made arrangements to change into evening dress in Booth’s room. Not that he would have imposed upon Booth, but the man had offered when he had heard Slade was coming in to the city to go to the theater, and it had seemed wise to accept.

  Though he still wished he could have found a way out of the theater invitation itself. Maybe had it been Marietta issuing, he could have—largely because she wouldn’t have invited him at all. They had avoided each other neatly the past forty-eight hours. But Barbara Arnaud had cornered him, and she’d had help in the towering form of Thaddeus Lane. Why he insisted Slade join his family for a play, he couldn’t say.

  But here he was, knocking on Booth’s door en route to Ford’s Theater, pretty sure he would look exactly how he felt in formal attire—like a pretender. The only time he had ever bothered with finery in the past was when he was fresh from a win at cards and needing to impress his way into a higher-stake game. That didn’t exactly make him a gentleman worthy of passing his evening with some of Baltimore’s finest. Not unless they had hired him as protection.

  The door swung open, and a smiling John Booth stood in the entrance. “There you are. Cutting it close, don’t you think? Hurry. I brushed your coat for you, but only because I was afraid you would mention you knew me and I didn’t want to be embarrassed by you.”

  Slade breathed a laugh and stepped into the nicely appointed hotel room. He knew Booth called no one place home, but he must be doing pretty well to afford to stay here regularly. “Thoughtful of you.”

  Booth ushered him in and shut the door, motioning to the chair onto which he’d laid out Slade’s tail coat, the matching trousers, and a waistcoat he had never seen before. “There is ‘no beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity,’ as the Bard said.”

  “Shakespeare?” He measured the waistcoat with pursed lips. His father had never insisted he read Shakespeare as much as the theologians.

  “Richard III. My favorite role. Is there a problem, Osborne?”

  He glanced at his host and motioned toward the waistcoat. “That’s not mine.”

  “Well, of course not. Yours was for day, not evening. You can return it to me when next we meet. I won’t miss it.” Booth shot a pointed look to the clock set upon a shelf. “You intend to make the start of the show, do you not? Wait much longer, and you’ll be barred until intermission.”

  Why argue? He scooped up the clothes and stepped behind the screen. After discarding his everyday clothes he said, “I was visiting with that friend I told you about, the one still a member of Lincoln’s security team.”

  All went silent in the room. Then Booth let out a quick breath. “And? Did you find anything? Can we take him before the inauguration?”

  Evening suit on, Slade slid his arms through the velvet filigree waistcoat and winced. “No. They have already anticipated every option. There won’t be any weaknesses, not that day.”

  The sigh that sounded forth bore an acute resemblance to one of Chicago’s gusts of wind. “It was too much to hope, I suppose. You were subtle? He suspected nothing?”

  Slade reached for the detestable bow tie. “Does Shakespeare have some quote about giving a fellow a morsel of credit now and then?”

  Booth laughed. “No doubt he does. I apologize, Osborne. I am merely frustrated by all the failures. I see you have gaiters, at least. Have you appropriate gloves?”

  Gaiters? It took him a moment to realize he had moved back to talk of clothes and meant the shoes that had been in his closet along with the tail coat and top hat. As for gloves? “Ah…”

  “No matter. I just purchased a new pair of maroon doeskin ones. You can borrow my old gold pair.”

  Was the man always so generous? He finished with the tie, shrugged into the coat, and stepped from behind the screen.

  Booth surveyed him, making a show of it worthy of his beloved stage. At length, he smiled. “I suppose you can admit to knowing me. So long as you hurry. I can’t claim an acquaintance with anyone who arrives late to the theater.”

  Slade reached for the shoes. “I’m hurrying.”

  “All the same, I had better show you the quickest route. I need to pick up my mail anyway.”

  When he straightened from putting on the shoes, he found Booth standing with Slade’s greatcoat and top hat and gloves, his own accessories already on. Slade knew his suspicion must be obvious as he took them. “What is it with you, Booth?”

  The man chuckled and opened the door. “You need to ask? You are accompanying Marietta Hughes to the theater, with Devereaux clueless in the mountains. This may be one of your last living acts. You ought to look the part.”

  “Of all the…” He stomped his way into the hall as he put on the coat. “I am not accompanying her. I am merely in a party that includes her. And Hughes himself charged me with keeping an eye on her, so—”

  Booth’s laughter cut him off. “The gentleman doth protest too much, methinks.” He gave Slade a friendly elbow and hurried down the stairs. “Make the most of it, I say, because you will pay for it regardless.”

  They emerged onto the street. The air had cooled more during his brief stint inside, reminding Slade that February still had some teeth left. “It’s only a play. With, from the sounds of it, her entire family.”

  “It is only what you make it,” Booth said with a smirk in his tone. “If I were you, I would see that it was worth the punishment Hughes is sure to dole out. Enjoy the flirtation she’s so good at. Maybe steal a kiss when you see her home. For that matter, steal an extra one for me.”

  His throat went dry at the mere suggestion. “I would rather live.”

  Booth laughed again. “Might be a fair trade.”

  Slade didn’t mean to scowl. He just couldn’t stop himself. “Aren’t you engaged?”

  “Hush, man. That is not yet known. And my lady is unsurpassed, to be sure. But Marietta Hughes…” He made an appreciative noise.

  Was that what Slade had sounded like to Hughes’s ears that first day in the carriage? It was a wonder the man hadn’t socked him. “She’s his.” A fact o
f which he had reminded himself approximately two thousand times in the last two days—every time his lips wanted to remember the feel of hers. No, he wouldn’t be stealing any more kisses, tonight or ever.

  Booth loosed an overdramatic harrumph. “Have it your way, though I still say you ought to live a little before he calls you out. Not that I will say anything to him, mind you. In my opinion, it’s high time someone pulled one over on him, but all of Washington will see you, so he will hear.”

  Slade shoved his hands into his pockets. Yet another bad idea, this. “He won’t call me out.” He hoped. “And least not until after this business is concluded.”

  “Hmm. Maybe. At any rate, you ought to enjoy the play tonight. Laura Keene plays the dowager to perfection…”

  All too soon they arrived at Ford’s Theater, and Booth left him to go in the front entrance while he took himself around the back to collect his mail. Slade stood on the walk outside for a long minute, watching the well-dressed couples sweep through the doors before him. Women in expensive gowns, men in extravagant coats and hats, more than one gold watch glinting in the lamplight.

  All this, while not so far away men were freezing in the trenches.

  He nearly turned on his heel and left. But before he could move, familiar laughter tickled his ears, and his head swiveled to his right. There, coming en masse down the street, was his party. Both the elder Lanes, Marietta’s mother, Marietta herself laughing with Barbara Arnaud, and two couples besides that he didn’t recognize.

  No, wait, he knew one of the men—the third man he had caught at the rail yard that night with Lane and Walker.

  Before he could even think to evade them, Lane raised an enthusiastic hand in greeting. “Oz, hallo! What perfect timing.”

  Yeah. Perfect. He mustered the biggest smile he could, not that that was saying much, and tried not to look too closely at the redhead ensconced between her mother and Barbara. “Good evening, Mr. Lane.”

  “Indeed it is.” Lane led the way into the theater, his good humor not faltering. “Have you met Mari’s brothers yet? Ize is the elder, Hez the taller—Isaac and Hezekiah, that is.”