The Sapphire Brooch (The Celtic Brooch Trilogy Book 2) (33 page)

Charlotte leaned over to Gordon. “What’s happening?”

He turned in his seat, craning his neck to see over the crowd behind him. “A special guest is about to enter, but I don’t know from where.”

The orchestra played the distinctive four ruffles and flourishes of
Hail to the Chief
.

“Lincoln’s coming,” she said to Gordon.

Heart pounding, she could scarcely contain herself as she watched the entrance to the Presidential box with shivers of excitement. She dug into her drawstring-beaded handbag for her camera, and then stopped herself. This wasn’t the twenty-first century, where every moment must be captured on someone’s cell phone, sent to Twitter or Instagram, and then out into the world.

Lincoln, followed by General Grant, entered the Presidential box.

She came to her feet, joining the audience in a rousing standing ovation. In her lifetime she had met the Carters, Bushes, Clintons, Obamas, and Lincoln. Now, the sight of him in the Presidential box, where in two months he’d be murdered saddened her. How could she live with herself if she did nothing, and allowed Booth to succeed with his diabolical plan? Wouldn’t she be as guilty as the conspirators if she didn’t try to prevent the assassination?

“You’re shaking. Are you ill?” Gordon asked, with noticeable irritation.

She gave him a tight smile. “No.” But she was ill. She was sick at heart.

Was Braham’s plan to stop the assassination the best course? Would the country ultimately be better off if Lincoln survived? How could she do nothing and allow such a noble man to die long before his time? She studied the shadowy hollows and deep lines etched in angles across his cheekbones—so care-worn and weary. The job and the constant demands on his time were literally killing him.

He waved to the audience and Grant nodded. Then Lincoln took his seat in a comfortable parlor rocker and turned toward the stage. His hearty laugh could be heard throughout the performance. When the curtain fell, she didn’t remember much of the play, but the President’s laughter would echo in her heart for the rest of her life.

Following the performance, Gordon begged off a dinner invitation with fellow officers and spouses also in attendance. As they left the theatre, Charlotte said, “I would have enjoyed dinner with your colleagues.”

“I’m not in the mood to share you with anyone tonight.”

“Jack invited us to join him.”

“I’m not sharing you with your brother, either. We’ll dine alone.”

Any other night, his possessiveness would have irritated her, and she might have insisted on going home, but tonight she couldn’t see beyond her worry over Braham’s plans. So she said nothing. She merely lifted one shoulder in a half shrug of acknowledgement and climbed into the carriage.

He grimaced when he climbed in, and she realized part of his problem was he was in more pain than usual. Maybe he would want an early evening, too. The rest of the night didn’t bode well for either of them.

38

Washington City—February, 1865

C
harlotte and Gordon
were seated in a quiet, candlelit corner of the Willard dining room drinking champagne. The bubbly settled the tension between them, and it seemed to calm Gordon, too. Although there was still a noticeable tremor in his hand as he fiddled with the plain stem of his glass.

“You’re in pain, aren’t you?” she said. “We don’t need to stay for dinner.”

He gave her a warning eye. “My back is
not
the issue. There’s a delicate matter I wish to discuss.” His voice was sharp with agitation. He stopped fiddling with the stem and held up his hand to quiet her. “I saw the list of sick and wounded brought into the city today. I know the K Street Barracks Post Hospital received a fair number. The work is taking its toll on you. You’re always late for engagements, and when you are present, you’re distracted. I want you to quit working immediately.”

She stared in open-mouth shock, temporarily unable to speak.

“Hear me out, please.”

He took a sip of champagne, and so did she, but it did nothing to lessen her outrage. She inhaled through her nose, exhaled through her mouth. If she wasn’t so conscious of needing to protect her hands, she would have reached out and slapped him silly.

“The war won’t last much longer.” His eyes were fixed on hers, but the only spark of life was a small glint which then disappeared into darkness under the low light of a gas lamp overhead. He continued, “When it ends, I’m going back to Ohio to take over the family store.”

Her vision narrowed, as if she had entered a long, winding tunnel with only a small beam of fading light.

“I should discuss this proposal with your brother first, but he told me the day I met you he didn’t make decisions for you. In light of that, I’m broaching this subject with you instead.”

“Gordon—”

“Please, let me finish.”

Their eyes locked and held. Her foot shook. If the conversation went in the direction she suspected, then a disaster was looming.

“We’ve only known each other for a few weeks, but we’ve grown compatible, nonetheless. You are as knowledgeable about poetry as you are about the army and politics. You have practicable opinions on every conceivable topic. You’re well-read, and you have a unique sense of humor I find refreshing…most of the time.” He placed his hand on top of hers. “I’m a man of means and can provide a comfortable lifestyle. I hope you will consider—”

Braham’s doppelganger appeared in Charlotte’s periphery. She did an instant double take. After tossing down a whiskey, the man opened a cigar case, extracted a black cigar, and held it to his nose for a moment. A match flared, then he leaned against the bar, one foot hiked on the lower rail of a stool, smoking.

Gordon looked to see what had caught her attention. “What the hell is he doing here? I heard the President sent him out on assignment.”

She snatched away her hand, damp from his sweaty palm. “You heard what?” Ripples of shock pulsed through her. She put her fingers flat on the table and pushed her chair away.

Gordon grabbed the back of her chair, holding it in place. “
Sit
. You’re not going anywhere.”

“You’ve been lying to me. I’ve been asking you for two months—” She flashed her fingers in front of his face. “—if you knew Braham’s whereabouts, and not once, not twice, but dozens of times, you’ve said
no
. Now you tell me you’ve known all along Lincoln sent him out on a mission.”

Anger flashed up like heat rising from a boiling pot. She glanced over at the bar, and her eyes locked and held with Braham’s. He saluted her with the two fingers gripping his cigar. Then, he turned, opened a door behind him, and quit the room. She peeled Gordon’s hand off her chair.

“Now he’s gone. I’ve got to go find him before he leaves again. Let go of my chair.”

Gordon glanced over his shoulder. “If he went through that door, he’s in the billiard room, and women aren’t allowed in there.”

In the brief time she’d been in the nineteenth century, when faced with blatant sexual discrimination she had remained calm, which had surprised her and given Jack a good laugh. But this time, cultural practices were putting a trivial and unnecessary obstacle in her path. She didn’t intend to stand idly by and accept the dogma. She slipped out the other side of her chair and stood.

“Watch me.”

“
Sit down,”
Gordon growled between clenched teeth, clasping her wrist with a yank, “before you cause a scene.” His dark eyes narrowed and the vein at his right temple pulsed. “There are actions you can take in your own home you’re not permitted to take in public. One of those is entering the billiard room.”

Blood pounded in her ears. “If I can’t go in there, would you please go ask him to come out? I’d like to speak with him.”

Gordon shoved his fingers through his hair, leaving uneven ridges. “He’ll be at the townhouse later. You can talk to him then.”

“You don’t know that.” She set her feet squarely. “I have been waiting months to talk to him. If you don’t go in there right now, I will, and rules be damned.” Gordon made an exasperated noise deep in his throat, but it was his scorching glare which fueled her determination.

“I didn’t know this side of you existed, but I shouldn’t be surprised. Your father and brother have coddled you and allowed you to have your way. Your husband will correct this behavior with a lash, if necessary. Now
sit
down.” His voice was as inflexible as a stone.

A lump of fear hardened in her chest, so she sat. She’d had professors in classroom situations and doctors in the hospital use a similar condescending tone with her, but no one had ever threatened her. Forget slapping him. Breaking a chair over his head would be far more satisfying.

Gordon got to his feet and threw his napkin on his chair. “I’ll be
back
.” The sharp-edged emphasis he placed on the word
back
was as relentlessly pointed as the final gesture of a conductor’s baton.

Silently, she seethed, refusing to let her composure completely crumble.

39

Washington City, February, 1865

B
raham had gone
to the dining room at the Willard intending to have a decent meal. His stomach rumbled for expertly prepared food rather than something shot, skinned, and burned over an open campfire. He ordered a whiskey at the bar and drank the amber liquor in one long burning swallow.

“Keep ’em coming,” he told the barkeep.

Damn Stanton. Braham had wanted to strangle the Secretary of War. Still did. He squeezed his fingers around the refilled whiskey glass, but it wasn’t Stanton’s imaginary neck in his stranglehold. It was Charlotte Mallory’s. What was she doing in Washington? Yes, he had imagined her coming after him, even made plans for the eventuality, but he hadn’t really believed she’d have the fortitude to make another trip to the past. Obviously, he was wrong.

If Braham hadn’t been sitting at the large walnut table in Lincoln’s office when the Secretary of War asked him to explain his relationship to Charlotte Mallory, his legs would have given out and he’d have hit the floor. Shocked? Hell, yes, he’d been shocked. His nemesis, Gordon Henly, had told the secretary Braham’s cousin was in town searching for him. Braham had been forced to lie to Stanton and Lincoln. Did a damn good job of it, too. The lie had rolled off his tongue slicker than water off an oilskin duster.

“She’s the daughter of the doctor who saved my life,” he had told Lincoln and Stanton. And then, in answer to Stanton’s question about why she was in Washington, he had said smoothly and wishfully, “She fell in love with me.”

He squeezed harder on the glass—a substitute for
her
. His thumb glided up and down the soft, white skin of her long, elegant neck. He gulped the rest of his drink and slammed the crystal on the bar for a refill, not hard enough to break it, but hard enough to crack it.

The barkeep’s brows furrowed, disapprovingly. “You cracked the glass.”

Braham impaled him with a ferocious glare. “Add it to my bill.”

He would crack a dozen glasses if it would ease the pain gnawing at his gut. The pain was not from the old gunshot wound, but from missed opportunity. He gave a derisive chuckle. Missed opportunity? Is that what he was going to call it? He had walked away from the only woman who had ever challenged his mind while she also stimulated his senses. His insatiable lust for her had given him a perpetual cockstand no other woman would ever satisfy. Stanton had asked if Braham loved her, and another lie had rolled easily off his tongue. No.

Did he want to see her? Yes. Would he see her? He shook his head, glaring at his fingers, now turning white from his grip on the tumbler. Again he shook his head. If he did, he might as well put a pair of ominous scissors in Delilah’s hands.

He pried his fingers from the glass and reached for the cigar case in his pocket. He extracted one and gently pinched the cigar between thumb and index finger, working the entire length inch by inch, searching for hard or soft spots. Satisfied there would be no draw problems, he passed the cigar beneath his nose, taking in the sweet aroma. The full-bodied cigar and the libations were diversions. The smoky cloud masked the feelings of his heart.