Circle of Spies (7 page)

“ ‘Afraid' is hardly the word for it.” But she tugged against his fingers and increased the distance separating them. Had it been rebuke in her eyes, or teasing, he would have pressed closer.

But it was remorse.

He drew in a long breath, mentally cursing himself. If he had pushed her away, had made her retreat…no. She just needed time. He rubbed his thumb over her fingers and let the breath out again. “I promised I wouldn't push you, Mari. And I won't.”

She stopped trying to free her fingers, but the expression on her face was pure exasperation. “A strange thing to say after embracing me for our guest to see not two hours ago.”

He loved to hear her say
our
. How was he not to smile? “That was entirely for your benefit, my dear.”

Her features wore incredulity well, her light-green eyes going calm and her lips just parting. “
My
benefit? How, pray tell?”

He nodded toward the library and its occupant. “Osborne was ogling you on the street. I thought to save you from having to rebuff his advances by making it clear where things stood. Kind of me, wasn't it?”

For a moment, she made no reaction whatsoever. Then the glaciers
thawed in her eyes and a low, soft laugh sounded in her throat, tying him in knots. “Oh, Dev.” She eased close again, going so far as to rest her forehead against his chest. Though he hadn't even the chance to put his arms around her before she retreated once more.

Was it only the shadows cloaking the room that made the circles under her eyes so deep? He cupped her cheek and swept a thumb under the offending bruises. “You look tired.”

“I had a long night.”

“Long, but well spent.” He leaned down, thinking only to press his lips to her forehead, but she jerked away. And might as well have plunged a knife into his gut. “Mari, please. I said I will give you what space you need, but do not retreat entirely. I need you.”

“Do you?” She turned halfway toward the faded rectangle of lamplight.

“Do you doubt it?” He clasped her shoulder and would have pressed his lips to the pulse under her ear on another day. “I would do anything for you.”

“Really.” Her face turned toward him, muted mischief in her smile. “What if I were to ask you to…to run away with me? Leave all this behind and go someplace new. Someplace the war hasn't touched.”

Devereaux chuckled. “If I thought for a moment that would make you happy, then we would be on the first train.”

“Everyone is so sure they know what I want.” Weariness colored the words—strange. Had Lucien made such assumptions? Her parents? Possibly. But none of them knew her as he did. And well he knew that she appreciated the fine things in life.

He gave her delicate shoulders a light squeeze. “Do you know what you need?”

“No.” The word sounded so heavy. So worn.

“Rest.” He let his hands fall away. “You have worn yourself thin caring for Mother. Osborne and I will take our leave so you can retire.”

Were those tears in her eyes? Between her blink and the shadows, he couldn't tell. But given her smile, sincere if not as bright as usual, he decided it must have been a trick of the light.

“A wise idea. I think tomorrow I shall try to catch Daddy before he leaves port. I missed him today.”

To that, he could only hum. Jack Arnaud was likable enough—if
only the man weren't such a Unionist. “All the more reason for us to leave you to your repose.” He took a step toward the door.

“Dev?”

He paused, frowning at the plaintive note in her voice, one he had never heard in it before. One that lit an ember of worry. “Yes?”

Rather than turn into the light, she faced the darkness again. But she took his hand. “Do you love me?”

“Oh, darling.” He lifted her hand, pressed his lips to her knuckles, and held them there a long moment. “You know I do. More than anything. Anything.”

She said no more, merely nodding and turning with him back to the door, keeping her face partially averted.

Feminine insecurities were not her usual trade…but it had been a trying few days. No doubt tomorrow she would be herself again, all fire and laughter.

And in the meantime, he had another fire to tend. One that was no laughing matter at all.

Four

D
arkness pressed on all sides. Slade said nothing, made no move, but the familiar dread settled into his stomach. The one that said this kind of darkness hid monsters. Not the fanged, hairy kind boys created in their stories, but the ones of true terror—men with hidden hatred.

“Halt.” The voice snaked through the black.

Given the feel of cold steel against his face, Slade happily obliged.

“Those who would pass here must face fire and steel.”

His guide shifted beside him, someone Hughes had introduced as Surratt before he disappeared. “We are willing to face both—for liberty,” the man said.

Liberty, was it? Slade made no move.

The blade lifted. “It shall be ours. Pass!”

A gloved hand gripped his and pulled Slade farther and farther until he wondered if they knew his true identity and were going to take him into a dank basement and leave him there to die like a victim of an Edgar Allan Poe story.

A question that only grew stronger when another set of hands collided with his chest. Someone jerked off his coat, and his wrists were wrenched behind him. Cloth, soft but thick, came over his eyes.

Then a rip, and the sudden influx of wintry air against his chest. Slade clenched his jaw against any reaction as they tore his waistcoat and shirt. If this were to be his last moment, then he would face it with dignity.

He was shoved onward.

Doors opened and closed, but he could detect no light, no warmth. Nothing but the icy darkness and the smell of…earth? A basement lair, then. They must be under Mrs. Hughes's house. Knowledge that would do little good if that steel bit him.

His guide halted him. A rap upon wood, and then a returning one from the other side.

“Who comes here?”

The man beside him cleared his throat. “One who is true to our cause.”

“How is he known to be true?”

Under the blindfold, Slade squeezed his eyes shut. How indeed.

“By the recommendation of a tried Knight.”

“He can then be trusted?”

His muscles wanted to tense, wanted to coil. But he held himself perfectly still. No tells.

“Such is our belief.”

“Should he fail and betray us, he will learn the penalty soon enough. Advance.”

The door creaked on its hinges, a sound eerie enough to fit into this untold story of Poe. A few steps, and the blade touched him again, bringing him to a quick stop.

“Those who would pass here must face both fire and steel.” A new voice, and he sensed movement from beyond its owner.

“Are you willing to do so?” Hughes now, his voice pitched low.

Slade's shoulders bunched—a normal reaction, surely. For this must be their usual induction into the circle, and this his last chance to change his mind. If only he had such a luxury. If only his brother hadn't forced him here, with this one chance to make right all the wrongs committed in his name.

“I am willing.”
Father God, help me.

“Advance.”

The blade retreated again, the hands pushed him forward, and
Hughes ordered him to kneel. His knees met the icy earth. His right hand was loosed, lifted, and settled on the pages of an open book.

His fingers flexed. Thin paper, smooth and even. A Bible? Despite the freezing air that made his muscles quake, he felt a warmth within. Even here, He was there.

“You must remember every word you have uttered and will yet utter here tonight. And you must forever bar your lips against repeating them to any but a fellow Knight. If you betray us, the penalty is—”

“Death!” It came as a chant from all directions, resonant as a thundering cannon. “Death! Death! Death!”

“You will disclose no names, or you will taste—”

“Death!”

“You will always aid a brother Knight, even unto—”

“Death!”

“You will abide by all orders, carry out all objects, bear witness, and even swear falsely in order to save a brother's life or liberty.”

Slade forced a swallow.
A brother's life or liberty
. Admirable…if only those bonds meant anything. If only he had a brother, a true one, left in this life.

“The business of this new body will be preeminent before all. Before religion. Before political feeling. Before familial duty. It must be first and foremost in everything, at daylight or midnight, at home or abroad, before the law of the land or the affection of wife, mother, or child. It must be all and everything.”

All and everything—he had One of those already.

“Are you willing to abide by this obligation?”

He had nothing left to lose. “I am.”

“Brother Knights! Recall to the mind of him who now kneels here the penalty of betrayal, either by sign, word, or deed!”

Countless blades sang from their sheathes and clanged one to another. Countless voices murmured, groaned, or whispered, “Death! Death!
Death
!”

Chilling as the pronouncement was, worse was the silence that followed. It seemed Slade could hear his own pulse in his ears, his blood rushing to the point where the blade still rested, threatening.

“Death.” Hughes's voice rang in a final blow. “Show him all.”

The blindfold was removed, and Slade blinked against the sudden
light. Lanterns were placed at intervals along the wood planked walls. They shone on a dozen swords—all of them pointed directly at his chest, a breath away from touching. His gaze followed the blades up to the men holding them, dressed in chain mail and armor, feather-crested helmets obscuring their faces.

A glance to his side proved that the book on which he had sworn was indeed the Bible. Comforting, and yet the irony of it pierced where the swords stopped short. How could these men put their hand upon the Good Book and swear to uphold their brotherhood above its statutes?

“Rise.”

He rose, once the swords all returned to their sheaths, and accepted the shirt someone handed him, and then his frock coat. His gaze fixed upon the central Knight as he lifted his visor.

Hughes. He nodded and made a motion to the men who had led Slade in.

Surratt stepped forward and indicated a door to the left. “Through here for the meeting. It'll start as soon as the officers take off their armor.”

Slade finished buttoning the shirt. Hopefully they hadn't ruined his waistcoat—Ross had only commissioned him that one for evening wear. The warmth of the frock coat was as welcome as sunshine. He followed Surratt through the door and then into a chamber with dozens of men jammed within and papers tacked to the walls. A defaced poster of Lincoln drew his eye.

“Here.” Surratt held out a mug.

He had no idea what was in it, but it steamed, so he took it. “Thanks.” He sipped—coffee—and noted the men milling about.

That dread in his stomach churned. Too many were familiar. Cabinet members. Congressmen. Judges. Actors and editors and…

“Osborne, isn't it?” Surratt drank from his own mug, his gaze darting about the room before landing on Slade again. “We were all surprised to hear Hughes was bringing someone in. He hasn't nominated anyone since the start of the war. Something about too much rabble who are not dedicated to the Cause.”

Slade merely took another drink.

Surratt—a shrewd-looking fellow, with a beard only upon his chin
that gave him a rather pointed face—shifted from one foot to the other. “He must know you very well.”

Another man sidled toward them with a grin. He looked familiar…an actor, wasn't he? Name started with a B. Or was it a P?

“Ah, Booth.” Surratt greeted him with a smile just warm enough to speak of friendship and just small enough to speak of one too familiar to need formality. “Come to meet our newest brother?”

Booth, right. John something-or-another Booth. He held out a hand, spurring Slade to switch his mug to his left hand and hold out his right.

The actor pumped it. “Is it true? You were a member of Pinkerton's security for King Abraham?”

Surratt froze with his mug halfway to his lips.

Slade reclaimed his fingers. They wouldn't say such things if they actually knew the man. If they saw his daily struggles, the way he sorrowed at the divide in the nation he loved.

But they saw only their own side. A side he must convince them was now his. “I was.”

“Then you know his routine. You know the weak spots in his security. You know—”

“I know what they were three months ago, before I left.” Slade took another drink and another glance around the room. According to the information Pinkerton had put together, most of the men were already suspected Southern sympathizers. But a few had fooled them.