Circle of Spies (11 page)

But tonight he and Hughes would dine in, so he had gone now to visit his mother—and his molly, if that's what the younger Mrs.
Hughes was. Didn't much matter to Slade. Whether accomplice or ignorant of his dealings, she was still Hughes's woman. She still set Slade's nerves to twitching, and she still unsettled him with that feline gaze of hers. He'd been quite happy to stay here this afternoon.

He crept down the hallway as if headed for the library, satisfied no one was nearby. A few days ago he'd seen his host leaving the corner room, locking it behind him, so he assumed that was the one he wanted. A study, he would bet.

It was, of course, still locked. Hence the pick in his pocket. He inserted the tool into the keyhole, his watchful gaze on the hallway and ears on alert. But the only sound he heard was the faint
click
of the tumbler. A moment later he eased open the door, slipped in, and shut it behind him.

Twilight possessed the room. This window overlooked the street at the Hughes family home, which meant he would see when the man was returning, but there was little light left to shine upon the mahogany desk and matching shelves, and he certainly wasn't daft enough to bring in a lamp.

He would just have to be quick, before the last of the day faded away.

Not that he knew what he was looking for. Given their desperation in bringing him into the circle, they likely had no firm plans. But they would try something sometime, as they had before. Surratt and Booth had regaled him the other night with the tale of their first botched attempt to kidnap Lincoln on his way to his inauguration.

Kidnap
. Pinkerton had thought it an assassination plan and had recommended Mr. Lincoln separate from the rest of his group, that he go through Baltimore under cover of darkness and in disguise rather than risk the triumphant arrival he had planned.

And so when the two Johns and their compatriots arrived at President Street Station, waiting for “King Abraham” to debark from the train and board a carriage to take him to the next one at Camden Station, they found only Mrs. Lincoln and her entourage.

Slade had managed to hide his smirk in his coffee, but it had been close. The papers had lambasted Lincoln for his so-called cowardice, apparently convinced there had been no attempt on his life because, well, there had been no attempt on his life.

They didn't seem to realize that was an indicator of a job well done on the part of Slade and his colleagues.

Now to do the same again. Ideally he would find something here to indicate future plans.

The desk seemed the most logical place for anything of interest to reside, so he headed there first. The top was cleared of all but a single sheet of paper with a list of railroad employees. He sat in Hughes's chair and reached for the bottom drawer.

Unlocked—not a good sign. He pulled it open anyway, but a growl formed in his throat. More railroad documents. Employee records, complaints that had been filed, ledgers. “Blast.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face and made himself pause.
God, You sent men into the Promised Land to scout it out, right? And You sent me here. So please, if You could help me find what I need…please.

He rolled the kink out of his shoulders and surveyed the dim room. Where to look next?

Bookshelves lined one wall. Not filled, but enough tomes took up residence that the thought of paging through each and every one made his pulse keep time to the clock. Seeing nothing else in the room of promise, though, he headed for them. His breath whooshed out when three letters on one of the spines caught his eye.
An Authentic Exposition of the KGC.

They had a book. What kind of secret society actually had a book? Slade pulled it out and flipped to the first page. Four years old, and who knew how accurate. It could have been produced by the group to put out misinformation. Still, it was worth looking through.

Movement out the window caught his eye, and he flattened himself against the shelf. Hughes was on the opposite sidewalk, strolling arm-in-arm with his brother's widow as if it were a fine summer's day and not a frosty winter's eve. They paused where the walkway to her door intersected their path, and it seemed from the angle of his body that he would bid her farewell and cross the street.

Blast it to pieces. Even if he hurried, there was no way he could make his room again before Hughes gained the door. He could duck into another room down here, but his host was the type who would notice his lack of shoes and wonder about it. And tearing through the house wouldn't escape the servants' notice.

He had to try something, though. He moved but then froze again when Mrs. Hughes looked past her companion. To his house. At the very window Slade stood beside. Had his movement caught her eye? Was she even now readying to point him out to Hughes? Maybe she assumed it a servant.
Please, Lord. Please
.

Or maybe she hadn't seen him at all, for she smiled up at Hughes and motioned toward her own house as she tugged on his arm.

Slade took a breath, aware only then that he had been holding it. Hughes was walking with her toward her front door.

Thank You, Lord
. He replaced the book—a good thing he hadn't darted out of the room with that still in his hand—and made for the door.

Two minutes later he was back in the relative safety of his own chamber. As close calls went, that hadn't been too bad. There had been no weapons aimed at his head, no enemy a mere hair's breadth away. But it had still been a close call.

And he still didn't like them.

Fool man. Marietta stood at her bedroom window on Saturday morning and watched the carriage roll away from Dev's house with him and Mr. Osborne inside. He wouldn't work long today, but that just meant he would likely spend the afternoon here, and his guest with him.

The guest who would have gotten caught in Dev's study last night if she hadn't urged Dev back into her house.

Why had Mr. Osborne waited to search? He'd surely known Dev wouldn't be long gone.

Though she had her doubts he had found anything there. If Dev were now the captain of the castle under her house, he had only assumed the role after Lucien's death. Which meant that if there were any documentation pertaining to the group, it would have originated with Lucien. Would have been, if anywhere accessible, in his study.

Her fingers slid down the edge of the velvet drape. She hadn't even
ventured into that room since the funeral. It still shouted
Lucien
in its every appointment, and she hadn't wanted the reminder of him while his brother secretly courted her. The household accounts were already in her small desk, and she had asked Norris, the aging butler, to fetch the bank ledgers for her. She knew there had been business records there too, which were obviously Dev's domain now.

But he hadn't moved them, at least not many of them. She had offered to have it all crated up and sent across the street, but he had just taken her hand and said he would rather have the excuse to visit.

No doubt he wanted to keep his roots firmly planted within these walls that meant so much to him.

If those were still here, though, what else was?

She turned when the door opened and Cora slipped in. Perfect. She would dress and do a little investigating of her own.

“Morning, Miss Mari.” Cora eased the door shut behind her and headed toward the boudoir, though she paused beside the bed.

Marietta frowned. The woman had been moving slower of late. Not just from her changing shape, but in a way that bespoke distress. “Are you well?”

Cora's startled gaze flew her way and then darted back to where it had been—the Bible on her bedside table. “I'm fine, ma'am. You want the lavender or the gray this morning?”

“Gray.” And was it that unthinkable that she would have a Bible out? Granted, it had been on her shelf all these years. But she had still read it regularly, more or less. The pages had merely been in her mind rather than before her physical eyes.

She sighed and sank down onto the edge of her feather-filled mattress. Perhaps it
was
unthinkable. Which spoke to her need for it. Hence why she had fetched it last night. She had wanted the feel of leather. The weight of pages.

She had wanted it to be real. Not just memory. Not just words.

“Here we are.” Cora reemerged, her arms full of fabric. As she set the layers on the floor—hoop, petticoat, bum roll, more petticoats, and finally the dress itself—Marietta shrugged out of her dressing gown and positioned her corset over her chemise, hooking it up the front.

The laces remained well tied, so she slipped the corset cover overtop and turned back to Cora.

The woman still knelt on the floor straightening petticoats. Her hair hung in perfect midnight spirals, her complexion smooth and even. She was a pretty girl. A fact Marietta had noted upon joining the family, yes, but had then pushed from her mind. She hadn't wanted to consider that her husband owned a beautiful young slave girl. The worry had been somewhat put to rest when Walker strode back into her world and married Cora within a fortnight, the first baby following directly.

Were they happy, her childhood friend and this woman who now straightened and rubbed a hand at the small of her back? She had never paused to wonder. Certainly never asked.

Her heart tightened within her chest. Who in the world had she become these last few years, that she never looked past her own nose?

Cora emptied her countenance of the pain pinching it and held out a hand. Marietta put hers into it and stepped over her skirts into the center of the hoop. “Is your back paining you, Cora? My sister-in-law complained of terrible back pain when she was expecting.”

Cora withdrew her fingers so fast, Marietta wobbled. “Nothin' to worry about, ma'am. Just a twinge is all.”

Twinge? Images flashed through her mind's eye. “You are always hobbling by nightfall. Would it help to stretch out midday? Laura said it eased her discomfort.”

Cora moved behind her and pulled up the mass of skirts, tying the hoop tight around her waist. “Can't, ma'am. You's shorthanded, and there be cleanin' to do.”

“Your health is more important than the furniture getting dusted every day.” The words felt right on her lips, in her heart. And yet foreign. Which made her stomach churn.

The first, thin petticoat fell into place, and Cora went to work positioning the bum roll. “Miss Lucy's mighty particular, ma'am.”

“I can handle Mother Hughes. Consider this an order, Cora. I want you to rest after your midday meal for an hour.”

The only indication the girl heard her was a momentary pause. Then she fastened the heavier petticoats over the roll.

Marietta pressed a hand to her fluttering middle before slipping her arms through her sleeves. Why was it so unsettling to be having an actual conversation with her servant? As a child, those who worked
for them had been family. Walker and her brothers had been inseparable, their mothers best friends.

Yet she didn't even know if Cora loved Walker. Hadn't seen their daughter since she was a babe. They kept her in the carriage house all the time, a place Marietta had always avoided. “How is…” the name sprang to mind, yet had she ever even said it? “Elsie?”

The tug upon her waist felt angry. “Good.” She might as well have screamed,
Why are you asking?

Marietta squeezed her eyes shut. “Have you and Walker made any decisions about what you will do after the amendment passes? I know your mother will stay, but…”

But she couldn't, suddenly, imagine Cora remaining here. Not now that she enumerated the many times resentment had sparked in her eyes.

“Don't know. But don't you worry, I'm sure you'll find other black folks to clean your house and muck out your stalls if we leave.”

She deserved that. Still, it stung. “Well. If you need references, do let me know.” Paltry, but she could hardly undo four years of ignoring the girl in one conversation.

Her bodice felt smooth against her chest, telling her the last of the buttons had been fastened. Cora stepped away. “I'll go tell Tandy to ready your breakfast.”

“Not yet. I need to do some sorting first. I shall be in Lucien's study if anyone needs me.”