Circle of Spies (4 page)

His jaw clenched, he hooked a finger in his waistcoat pocket and stepped away from the stream of pedestrians. His train car was being hitched to horses for the trip through the city to President Street Station, but he wouldn't be joining his fellow passengers.

He spotted a few men who matched Hughes's general description. Mid-thirties, dark hair, blue eyes. But he'd place his bets on the one striding from the building far behind the depot. The man was too far away to see eye color, and a top hat covered his hair, but Slade knew authority.

He leaned against a lamppost, though it was likely to earn him soot marks on his worsted wool suit. Despite the gnawing inside that made him want to hurry, he would wait. Pinkerton had trained him well in how to assume a role, and the biggest trick was never to overplay one's hand.

Even when the role one was assuming was one's own.

Of their own volition, his fingers found the silver chain of his borrowed watch fob. The metal was warm against the bitter air, warm as a long-gone memory. Odd how aware it made him of the price of war, the soul-breaking cost of betrayal. Of how his chance to set it all to rights was ticking away.

What an ugly time they lived in.

He released the fob and folded his arms, expelling a long puff of white breath. The passers-by hurried along, mothers adjusting their children's coats as they stepped out of doors, gentlemen pulling hats down. The man he had been watching drew nearer, near enough to spot Slade in their agreed-upon location. He knew he, too, matched the description Hughes would have been given. A shade taller than average, hair nearly black under his bowler, lean. A description that fit any number of men milling about.

That had fit one too many before.

He waited for the man's gaze to wander his way and then lifted his right hand to rub his forefinger above his lip. Recognition kindled in the other set of eyes, and the answering left hand came up, thumb and forefinger taking hold of his left ear.

Slade pushed away from the lamppost and let his coat fall into place around his knees while the man closed the distance between them, hand extended. He knew the Knights' grip—that he must press his thumb against the knuckle while they shook—but it felt odd.

“Mr. Osborne, I presume. I'm Devereaux Hughes.”

Slade nodded and reclaimed his hand. “Good of you to come meet me, Mr. Hughes.”

“Good of you to travel to Baltimore.” Calculation sharpened the blue of his eyes, though his smile was the epitome of Southern charm. “You spent several years in Washington City before this, correct?”

It took all his willpower not to curl his hand into a fist. Several years nearly undone by the last three months in the field. “That's right.”

Hughes waited, but Slade offered no more. Words, he had learned long ago, could hang one as quickly as a rope. After a moment's pause, the other man smiled and motioned to his right. “Shall we go? I have sent a note to my mother and sister-in-law that we would have a guest for dinner tonight.”

“Certainly.” And that was the part of this business he was not looking forward to—socializing. But at least, with the war having washed all the color out of this gray, drab world, no one would expect him to be jovial.

After giving instruction to a stevedore to take care of his trunk, he followed Hughes toward a waiting carriage. Neither spoke until the door closed upon them, the thunk of the trunk sounded on the roof, and the driver's “Yah!” prompted a lurch into motion.

Then Hughes's eyes went sharp, and he leaned against the cushion. “I admit, Mr. Osborne, that your letter of introduction piqued my curiosity. You say you have not been officially inducted?”

Slade made himself comfortable. “Not in Washington. Too many old friends watching.”

Those sharp eyes sparked. “Indeed. Though I am curious as to why someone so…dedicated, shall we say, to one cause should turn so suddenly to the opposite view.”

A question he had pondered long and hard himself. Only one conclusion presented itself. “I suppose it wasn't so sudden.”

“Hmm.” The man regarded him for a long moment and made no attempt to hide his perusal.

Let him look his fill. Slade knew well what he would see. The picture Ross had crafted for him—hard shell, empty insides. A picture easily donned again when he realized how deep his brother's hatred had run.

At length, Hughes nodded and relaxed. His acceptance couldn't possibly be so easily won, but Slade was happy to forego an interrogation here and now. He'd had enough of those for a while.

The man adjusted his gloves and offered a smile. “I understand you are from New York City. Are you related to the Osbornes of Fifth Avenue?”

He nearly snorted. “My father is a minister in Brooklyn.”

Hughes's eyes dimmed. No doubt if Slade didn't have the information he so wanted, he would have booted him to the cobblestones with
a kick to his poor Yankee posterior. Rich, powerful Northerners were of the utmost interest to the Knights. But common ones?

His host studied the fine wool of Slade's coat. “You seem to have risen above such humble origins.”

How many years had he wasted trying to do just that? Rise above what didn't need leaving? But the Slade Osborne this man needed to know hadn't realized the error of his ways. He kept his face neutral. “I've done well enough.”

Hughes smiled full and bright. “Well, I hope you enjoy your tenure in our city. Have you found lodging yet?”

“I was hoping you could direct me to a boardinghouse.”

Hughes waved that off. “Nonsense. I have rooms aplenty. You are welcome to stay with me.”

Southern hospitality? Slade suspected not. He knew that particular shade of smile, and it was self-serving. This, despite his confidence and charm, was a desperate man. There was no way the captain of the Baltimore castle of the KGC would invite a stranger into his home otherwise.

Slade's blood quickened. Did he want to spend every hour in Hughes's company? No. But then, if he were staying in the man's house, he would be more likely to find time to poke around. He forced a smile. “Thank you.”

“Excellent.” Hughes's fingers tapped on his knee. “There is a meeting tonight. If you are earnest about joining—”

“I am.”

A corner of Hughes's mouth turned up. Something about his expression reminded Slade of his sister's husband. The way he could charm a crowd with a few well-delivered sentences. Make whomever he was speaking to believe they were the only one in the world who mattered.

Slap a woman till she saw stars and convince her it was her fault.

“I appreciate your eagerness. But let me make something clear.” Without so much as a shift in his countenance, Hughes's welcome throbbed with threat. “I will induct no more rabble interested only in the allure of a secret society. The time for society has ended. And when—if—I swear you in, it will be with the understanding that we both mean each and every word of the oath.”

For a moment, Slade held his gaze. No urge to flinch, no second-guessing. How could he, at this point? He had already lost everything but his life, and that phrase his father had taught him echoed constantly these days.

To live is Christ, and to die is gain.

Not that he was ready to give himself to eternity quite yet. “I would love to reassure you, Hughes, but given that I don't know what the oath is…”

Amusement joined hands with the threat. “Let's just say you'll be swearing to act solely in the interest of the order—or to never act again.”

Death
. The word crept its way into the carriage, despite the half smile and vague words. Slade had known when he signed on for this mission that the stakes could be no higher. Maybe it was the former gambler in him that had made him exchange that silent, irrevocable nod with Pinkerton. To be willing to risk it all for a chance to bring down the beast.

Or maybe it was because that gambler was gone. He had changed. And now he saw the world needed changing too.

Into the face of that silent echo, he pursed his lips and nodded. Sure, if this man knew the truth about him, he would draw that pistol from under his fashionable coat in a heartbeat. Nothing new. Slade had spent the last three months surrounded by thousands of men who would have done the same.

“The war has taken its toll.” Hughes trained his gaze out the window, so Slade followed suit. Weary buildings, brick covered in soot and wood desperate for whitewashing. “Crime abounds, so step carefully and be ready at all times to defend yourself. My neighborhood is one of the safest, but even so…”

“Mobtown. I know.” Baltimore's reputation for murder and assault put even New York City to shame. “Ever think of leaving?”

“I did a decade ago. I should not have. When I returned, my brother had been handed everything.” He looked to Slade again. No reminiscence clouded his eyes, no regret. Just that same cold charm. “Have you any brothers, Mr. Osborne?”

And his father had said his hours at the poker table would avail nothing but trouble. If only he knew how schooling his features could
now save his life. He kept watching the muted cityscape roll by. “I had one.”

A pause. Hughes cleared his throat. “The war?”

“The war.” Indirectly.

“I'm sorry. Losing a brother is never easy. Mine fell to muggers some fifteen months ago.”

Slade already knew that, and a sketch of information about the Hughes family besides. But because he wouldn't have, had Pinkerton not provided him with a file, he looked back at his host as if surprised. Made sure his eyes softened, as if it created some kind of bond. As if his own loss weren't so much fresher. And so much crueler. “My condolences.”

“Thank you.”

Silence held for a minute, and then Hughes turned to the latest news from the front. Slade seldom added a word. It was enough to grow accustomed to the cadence of the man's voice. To learn the way his eyes shifted. To note each street they passed.

At last they turned into Monument Square, without question one of the wealthiest sectors of the city. Here the effects of the war were less obvious. The grounds looked tended. A black woman—slave or employed?—pushed a pram down the walk. A gaggle of ladies sashayed along as if they hadn't a care in the world.

Scarlet curls peeking from one of the bonnets caught his gaze, and the face they framed held him captive. An appreciative noise slipped out. He may have reformed his ways, but a man still had to give credit to the Lord's craftsmanship.

Hughes chuckled. “I see you have spotted our neighbors. Though several of those ladies are married, so do be careful who earns those hums of approval, Osborne.”

She was middling in height. Her fashionable coat probably provided little warmth, but neither did it hide her figure. And an admirable figure it was. “The redhead?” Not that he could afford divided attention, but a man had to know these things.

He felt Hughes stiffen before he glanced over and saw his smile freeze. Ice snapped in his eyes. “My brother's widow. She is still in mourning, you understand.”

“Ah.” Yes, he understood. He understood she was wearing lavender,
though she ought to be still in second mourning. He understood the possessive gleam in Devereaux Hughes's eyes.

He understood his one little sound of admiration had just labeled him as someone to be watched. Blast it to pieces. His mother had been right. Nothing good ever came of letting one's eyes wander.

Glancing out the window again, he chose another young lady at random. “What about the blonde there?”

Perhaps Hughes relaxed a degree. Or perhaps it was wishful thinking. “Miss Lynn. She had a sweetheart at the start of the war, but…”

“Miss Lynn.” He put a grin in his voice as he tested the name.

Mrs. Hughes glanced their way as they rumbled past and smiled. No innocent greeting of her brother-in-law, that smile. No, there was something far more in her cat-green eyes. Something that contained both recognition and question. Both passion and…anger?

Dangerous woman.

The carriage turned into a drive, and Slade's host barely waited for the door to open before jumping down. “Come. I'll show you to a room. We have half an hour before we must repair across the street. My mother is a stickler for promptness, even though she has been bound to her rooms this past month.” His face finally softened, a light in his smile.

Slade slid on the old, carefree grin he hadn't worn in so long. “Mine is the same way.”

But when he stood in the silence of a guest bedroom a few minutes later, he didn't rush for the basin of water. He didn't loosen the cravat he wanted to take off altogether or poke around the room's elegant appointments. He strode to the window and leaned against the frame. He closed his eyes and, for the first time since he boarded the train in Washington earlier, dared to draw in a long breath. To be the man he was rather than the man he had once been.

Father God
. Another deep breath, to clear his mind and cleanse his heart.
Father God, here I am. Where You sent me. Keep my heart focused on You.