“That you gave your parents many a headache.”
Remembering all the times they had threatened to cart her off to Connecticut to Grandpapa Alain and Grandmère Adèle, Marietta grinned. “An understatement. And you, Mr. Osborne with a penchant for Methodist sermons? Were you the perfect child?”
He walked over to a chair and eased into it, but the action did nothing to banish the thunderheads in his eyes. “I left the perfection to my brother.”
“Hmm.” Such an easy excuse to make for oneself, that one’s parents already had children who fulfilled all their expectations, so that left one free for…anything. She tilted her head to the side. “Let me guess. You left home too young and proceeded to make a career of carousing, engaging in all that sport we ladies of breeding cannot mention. At which you must have enjoyed enough success to continue for a fair number of years, but eventually you realized it was not as fulfilling as you’d hoped, so you settled—somewhat—to a real career. With Allan Pinkerton, it would seem.”
Had his gaze been a knife, it would have sliced her to ribbons. “Mr. Hughes told you about me?”
She would have snorted had it not been so unseemly. Instead, she turned it into an echo of a laugh. “No. But I know your type.”
A single flame of anger flickered through his glare before he banked it. Ah, her guest did not like to be labeled. Poor thing. Perhaps, then, he should not apply them so freely to her.
The acidic thought ate away at her as she finished that roll, put the bandage back into the basket, and pulled out the next strip.
Her chest went tight and heavy. This was why she had silenced her conscience long ago. It was dashed uncomfortable. And yet the thought of shushing it again made the tightness worse, made panic steal into her lungs and wring the air from them.
Made her acutely aware that if she really were on the tightrope Granddad had said, and if she had only herself to rely on, her wits would not keep her alive. The danger he described was not a backbiting social circle or a catty rival. This was not dangling one suitor before another’s nose.
This was a matter of treason.
She let her eyes fall shut for a moment. Just one. One moment to wonder why, of all her siblings and cousins and aunts and uncles, this task had fallen to her. She was no spy. She was no Culper, whatever a Culper really was. She was no Patriot. A Union sympathizer, yes, but believing in it enough to make it her cause?
She’d never had a cause. Not beyond her own.
Her eyes opened again. Again she saw the agent seated across from her. She nodded toward the book he still clutched against the arm of the chair. “Would you read to me, Mr. Osborne?”
His facial muscles didn’t so much as twitch, but incredulity came off him in waves. “From this?”
Her attempt at a smile felt sorrowful. “My perfect brother was in divinity school before the war. That was his book. So yes, please.”
He opened the cover, probably perusing the table of contents, but then went still before shooting her a probing look. “Which brother?”
He knew she had several, which proved he had done his research. Her throat ached. “The youngest of them, though they are all elder. Stephen.”
The mantel clock ticked. Tocked. Ticked again. “The one who fell at Gettysburg? I remember hearing that Commodore Arnaud lost a son in the battle.”
All she could manage was a nod. In some ways, the older loss was fresher than Lucien’s. Maybe because she had loved Stephen longer. Maybe because he had understood her better.
Mr. Osborne flipped the pages, landing close to where he had been before. “ ‘ “Not as though I had already attained, either were already perfect.” Philippians 3:12.’ ” He paused, cleared his throat. “ ‘There is scarce any expression in Holy Writ which has given more offence than this. The word perfect is what many cannot bear. The very sound of it is an abomination to them. And whosoever preaches perfection (as the phrase is,) that is, asserts that it is attainable in this life, runs great hazard of being accounted by them worse than a heathen man or a publican.’ ”
Funny how it could make her smile. How often had she tossed that word in scorn at Stephen? Resented him for his seeming perfection? Yet he had only to say the first words of this sermon, and the rest would come rushing back.
Her guest kept reading, his voice deeper than Stephen’s had been but using the same intonations. The same reflection. She could almost, almost believe that her brother would have sounded this way had he made it through the war, back to school, and stood someday in a pulpit. She could almost—almost—imagine Mr. Osborne in the same position. Though he would have to put some emotion upon his face to be believed as a clergyman.
“ ‘Even Christians, therefore, are not so perfect as to be free either from ignorance or erring—’ ”
“Error.” The correction slipped out, as if he were Stephen reciting, as if she had been charged with making sure he got each syllable correct. Fool. When she glanced up from her growing stack of bandages, it was into his frigid stare.
“You have the entire sermon memorized?”
Memorized—laughable. That would imply some effort had been put into the remembrance. Marietta smiled and wound another strip. “Of course not, Mr. Osborne. I just have very good eyesight.”
Devereaux put the spoon down on the tray and reached for the fine linen napkin. When his mother took it from his hand and dabbed at her own lip, he smiled. Still, it felt tight around the edges. “You gave us such a fright last night.”
Lucille Fortier Hughes could look scolding even with the lines in her face telling the tale of illness. “I will recover. I have said from the start I would.”
A sigh worked its way up, but he halted it. There had been a day not so long ago when that word would have been enough. For even the Almighty Himself, it seemed, obeyed the dictates of his mother. But lately? Nothing had gone right. Nothing. All their plans, all their goals, all their careful work…stymied again and again.
He summoned another smile. “Of course you will, and I am glad to see the proof of that.”
Reprimand still gleaming in her eyes, Mother smoothed down the blanket over her lap and then fussed with the lace of her collar. “Mari said you have a guest tonight.”
Surprised she hadn’t asked the moment Devereaux stepped foot in her chamber, he nodded and leaned back against his chair. “Slade Osborne.”
“The Pinkerton agent.” Thought raced through her summer-sky eyes. “What were your impressions? Do you trust him?”
The very question made his blood hum. Did he dare to trust? Did he dare not to? “He is a hard man to read. Very cold, very closed off. Which is what we need, but…” He shrugged. “I will induct him tonight, but he will have to earn full trust.”
“He’d better do so quickly.” Though she obviously tried to keep her features schooled, weakness asserted itself in the lines of sorrow around her mouth and eyes. “From what Mari read to me from the papers…”
“I know.” He took her hand and gently rubbed it. “But we haven’t been defeated yet. That’s what matters. And you well know the Union has an iron grip on the papers. They cannot always report the truth.”
He read the worry in her gaze but felt the determination in the fingers that gripped his. “Well, let us pray this Mr. Osborne can give you the aid you need. And in the meantime, we must tend our own house.” She shot him a stern look. “I trust you noticed that Marietta has entered half mourning.”
At that, Devereaux couldn’t hold back a smile. It felt as though he had waited forever to see her out of black. When she had come down the stairs that morning in lavender, he had thought his heart would stop. And now, just three more months until he could claim her as his own. “Yes, I noticed.”
“Shameful.” Mother tugged her hand free and turned her face toward the window. Darkness had fallen, but she set her gaze upon the glow from the street light. “And so unfair to Lucien.”
Unfair to Lucien? He bit back a retort. His brother had had i
t all. All. The house, the business—and Marietta too. He had lorded it over him in life, but heaven help him if he would grant any rights to his brother’s ghost. “You are the one who encouraged her to transition early, Mother.”
“Because we haven’t the luxury of time.” She snapped it out, snapped her frustrated gaze back to him. “A man should always be mourned properly, but your brother lost his right to that when he left this house to her.”
“Watch your tone.” He stood, his own frustration surging.
She held his gaze with pursed lips. One moment, two, and then she shook her head, sending her blond curls bouncing. “What is it about that girl that so enthralled you both?”
He folded his arms over his chest.
She sniffed. “Well. The important thing is that you marry her as quickly as you can, before she decides to sell or wed another. Though I would like to say again that I am sorry Lucien has forced you to this. You ought to have had the freedom to choose your own wife, one from an upstanding Southern family, rather than being relegated to his widow.”
He saw no need to tell his mother that he would be happy to wed Marietta even if she were the daughter of Lincoln himself. There was no point—she always did exactly what she had now, going from questioning her allure to denying it in virtually the same breath. And then, of course, acting as though Marietta were the daughter of which she had always dreamed when they were in the same room.
Rather than argue, he leaned down to press a kiss to her forehead. Her skin still felt papery and thin. “Rest, Mother. You have a long road of recovery ahead of you.”
She waved that away, but weariness lined her face.
He was glad to see mere weariness. This time yesterday, she had been thrashing about with a scorching fever, her breathing shallow and sparse. And yes, he had feared. Feared that before the night was over, the Hugheses would suffer yet another loss.
But the fever had broken, and now look at her. She was nearly herself again. He sent her a smile. “I had better get back to my guest. If you need anything—”
“I will ring for Jess. You’ve enough to worry with tonight.” She produced a smile for him and picked up the Godey’s Lady’s Book from her bedside table.
It was several months out of date, but Mother hadn’t felt up to even flipping through a magazine in too long. “All right. Enjoy your evening, and I shall see you tomorrow.” He slipped into the hall and closed his eyes, taking a moment to switch tracks. He put aside thoughts of his mother and focused on the meeting ahead.
If all went according to plan, it could be an important one. Several Knights had arrived back in Baltimore over the past few days from Washington and points north. Devereaux hoped they came with some helpful observations that would lead to a new plan. So many, too many plans had been foiled over the years. But enough smaller ones had been a success that all the Union knew who they were. They knew to fear the KGC.
From the direction of the stairs came an echo of laughter. Marietta’s, which drew his feet her way. His blood warmed, but not entirely pleasantly. He had left her alone with Osborne—a necessity, but still. What could the newcomer, whose bad attitude rolled off him in waves, possibly have said to make her laugh?
Another trickle of it made its way to his ears when he reached the staircase, and this time it relaxed him. Sterling but empty—her society laugh. Good. Marietta had an inability to be in male company and restrain herself from flirting, but he took no issue with it so long as it remained distant.
He kept his tread quiet as he descended, careful to keep out of sight of the library door. It was Marietta’s favorite room, though he was not sure why, as he scarcely ever saw her with a book in her hands. More often she would be sitting in her chair with her eyes closed if she weren’t busying her hands with mending or bandages.
He stopped and leaned against the wall where he had a view of her, but where Osborne remained out of sight. She was as he had expected, in her favorite seat with a basket of cloth strips beside her, her scarlet hair hanging in perfect curls over her shoulders, and her flawless face still lit with a mask of a smile. A breath hummed out as his gaze lingered on the figure finally back on display and not hidden beneath yards of black crepe.
How clearly he remembered the first time he saw her, across the crowded ballroom in this very house, the day before she and Lucien wed. He had come back from New York City that morning and had rolled his eyes as his younger brother went on ad nauseum about the beauty of his bride. When he had come down to the dinner party, he hadn’t realized that the woman who caught his gaze so quickly was the same one Lucien had claimed.
It had been too late, then, to change anything. All he could do was maneuver her away from the crowds for a few minutes, under the guise of brotherly interest. Small consolation as it had been, she had felt as quick a connection as he had. He had seen it in her eyes and had known, all these years, that her heart was his more than Lucien’s.
And now, finally, she was too.
Perhaps she sensed his gaze. She glanced up and looked out the door. Grinning, Devereaux crooked a finger.
Her hesitation lasted only a moment, no doubt that perfect hostess breeding rearing up and telling her she oughtn’t to leave a guest alone. But then she set down her roll of bandage and rose. “Will you excuse me a moment, Mr. Osborne?”
His pulse speeding, Devereaux straightened as she exited the library, her skirts swaying. He backed into the parlor. The only light was the soft golden glow from the lamp in the hallway, touching but a few feet of the Turkish rug. He paused on its edge, hand extended.
Her fingers fit in his like the pieces of a puzzle, and he used them to pull her near. She came to an abrupt halt with a foot still between them, her eyes flinty.
A grin teased the corners of his mouth. “Are you that afraid of my kissing you again?”
“ ‘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.” H
er 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.
Circle of Spies Page 4