Circle of Spies

by Roseanna M. White

  “Mari. Are you all right? You look upset.”

  A quick denial was on her tongue, but she swallowed it and stopped in front of the window. The world outside looked so drab and dreary. “I don’t know.”

  Barbara joined her at the window and took her hands. “You’re like ice! Were you outside?”

  “No.” She gripped Barbara’s fingers and closed her eyes, calling up an image of the street with green buds on the trees and flowers blooming. She thought of summer with its waves of humid heat.

  But these past years, it had been only oppression. No picnics in the parks or walks along the harbor, nothing but dread of the next casualty report. Everyone knew someone who had fallen. Sometimes it felt as though there had been no life before the war, that there would be none after it.

  The image of warmth vanished like smoke in the wind. There wouldn’t be much by way of life after this. Not for her. Her association with Lucien and Devereaux Hughes would ostracize her from the society that mattered. And if she were with child, there would be no sanctuary from wagging tongues.

  “Mari?”

  She blinked away the haze and focused on Barbara’s guileless face. “Slade kissed me.”

  Barbara’s brown eyes went wide with…mirth? “Well, now. I suppose that could render any woman dazed.”

  Marietta searched her face for censure but found none. Only that soft amusement. “Shouldn’t you be shocked? We have only known each other a month.”

  With a light laugh, Barbara chafed some warmth into Marietta’s hands. “I had only known Stephen a week when he first kissed me.”

  Her brother? Staunch, staid, upright Stephen—kissing a girl he scarcely knew? “Surely you jest.”

  The dreamy look in Barbara’s eyes proved the truth. “I had never thought to gain the attention of a man like him. Aside from my humble means, I have no great beauty, I know—but our love came so quickly. We both knew by then that God had meant us for each other.”

  At the time Marietta would have scoffed. Now, satisfaction glowed beyond the regret. Perhaps he died too early, but he had lived. “You sell yourself short, Barbara. It is easy to see what Stephen loved, and I am so very glad you found it together. But it is hardly the case here.”

  Barbara’s gaze sharpened. “Did you kiss him back?”

  “Well, I am not made of stone.” Heat crept up her neck.

  Her friend laughed. “Why, then, are you so quick to dismiss all possibility? He is a man with depth of character and conviction; I saw that quickly. And the way he watches you…”

  Marietta knew well enough how he watched her. With as much suspicion as attraction. And knowing her loyalties now wouldn’t change the reality of her bonds to Dev. Slade would destroy him, and he wouldn’t be interested in picking up her pieces when he was through.

  More, she shouldn’t want him to. Her gaze latched on the window-sill. “I think I ought to remain free of romantic attachments.”

  Barbara squeezed her fingers before releasing them. “Because you feel you should, or because you have given up hope of finding real love?”

  “Because I…” The feelings came again, swamping her, twisting her, making her doubt. “Because I cannot be trusted with these decisions. I am too fickle.”

  “Oh, Mari.” Barbara took her arm and led her away from the panes of glass radiating cold, over to the settee by the snapping fire. They both sat. “Perhaps your emotions have been shifting because they hadn’t been aligned with the Lord’s will. Seek Him, and you will be able to trust where He leads you, whether that means remaining alone or loving again.”

  The words sounded so simple, so wise. Yet never in her life had she given her future over to another, even One she knew to be so much bigger than she. But loving again…that implied she ever had, which she was none too sure of. Well no, that was unfair—she had loved Walker, as best as she knew how at the time. But when he hurt her…it had been so much easier to focus on more superficial things with Lucien and Dev. The breathless excitement, the glow of attraction, the sparkle of wealth.

  The pride of knowing she could snag any man she wanted.

  What a fool she was. Perhaps she had snagged them, snagged them both—but now she was caught in her own hooks with little hope of breaking the surface.

  Seventeen

  Devereaux swung down from the rented horse and tied it to the hitching post, his gaze sweeping over the large white house. The wooden sign planted just ahead said Appalachian Inn. Though on the direct road from Hagerstown to Cumberland, the coming of the rails had no doubt hit it hard since there was no stop here, twenty miles outside Cumberland and across the river from the rail line that went through West Virginia.

  Perhaps that explained its dire need of a new coat of whitewash and neglected look. He had a very different image of it from his first visit here, with Father and Lucien, when he was a lad of eleven.

  Ah, well. Times changed, fortunes rose and fell, and those who did not adapt were trampled.

  A bell jangled when he opened the door, the brisk February wind gusting its way in with him. Devereaux cast his gaze around the entryway as vague recollections stirred. They had passed an entire month here in ’42, but most of his memories were linked to what he had done out of doors. All looked well-enough appointed, though, if worn to comfortable.

  From deeper within the house came a call of, “Just a moment!” and then the soft tread of a female. He prepared a smile and tried to discern if the woman who emerged from the hall was the same Mrs. Jackson he had met before. Hard to say. Twenty-three years earlier, the proprietress had been a new bride. The woman before him now wore the black of mourning, had streaks of silver in her hair, and bore lines on her pleasant face.

  Her smile was tired but welcoming. “Good morning. May I help you, sir?”

  “Certainly. I’m Devereaux Hughes. I’d like to book a room for a few nights. Are you Mrs. Jackson?”

  She headed around a high desk to where a book lay opened upon it. If she recognized his name, she gave no indication. “I am. Have you stayed with us before?”

  “Many years ago when I was a boy. I have fond recollections of exploring the area with my brother. I believe your husband took us fishing one day.” He set his bag down by his feet.

  Her smile turned wistful. “That sounds like Peter. He always took time for the guests.” She trailed a finger with a torn nail down a page in the book. “I will put you in the East Room, shall I? Our best.”

  “Perfect.”

  “I’ll have my niece ready it for you, and my nephew see to your horse. Please make yourself comfortable in the parlor for a few minutes.” She motioned him to the right and then disappeared back the hall once more.

  Devereaux meandered into the parlor, his gaze flitting from faded painting to faded rug to faded sofa. Against such a backdrop, the newish-looking photograph displayed upon the mantel stood out. He moved toward it, frowning at the two men pictured in Confederate uniforms.

  The one on the right looked somewhat familiar, but only because he expected to see him here. Peter Jackson, proprietor, he was fairly sure. Standing next to a man far more recognizable, though Devereaux had never met him.

  Stonewall Jackson.

  Interesting. He looked from one bearded man to the other, noting a resemblance. Interesting indeed.

  But far more than who might be a relation to whom was the unexpected information that he was staying in a Confederate home. If he had needed encouragement to go about his task, this would have provided it.

  The soft rustle of heavy fabric from the hall made him turn as Mrs. Jackson swished her way into the room. She came to a halt, a smile frozen upon her face when her gaze landed on him by the fireplace. Glancing from the photograph to him, she cleared her throat. “Would you care for some refreshment, Mr. Hughes?”

  He could understand her hesitation to address the photograph. One never could tell, in their part of the country, where a stranger’s loyalties might lie. “Thank you, but I need nothing
right now.” He motioned toward the picture. “I believe I recognize your husband. Was the esteemed general a relative of his?”

  “Cousin.” Her shoulders were square, tense, though her face remained clear of shadows. “Are you of the railroading family of Hugheses, sir?”

  Ah, she had recognized the name. Good. “I am. Though I fear at this point I am all that is left of us.”

  “I am sorry to hear that. I recall your father being a very amiable gentleman, and you and your brother to be…rather lively boys.”

  He laughed at that. No doubt she had been none too thrilled to have them tramping through her house covered in the mud they had collected on their adventures. “We were. I hope we didn’t cause you too many headaches.”

  Her smile made soft lines fan out from her mouth and eyes. “It is always a joy to watch happy families.”

  Happy families. Perhaps they had been, then, when all was so much simpler. Before the war forced them to lie to their father. Before disease stole him from them. Before Lucien took all that should have been Devereaux’s. “May I ask, is your husband…?” He sent a pointed look to her black dress.

  Mrs. Jackson sighed. “It has been only four months, though he has been away since the war began.” She smoothed a hand over the black bombazine of her skirt. “Your family is Unionist, is it not?”

  He was accustomed to everyone knowing his assumed position, what with the railroad declaring it for him. He canted his head to one side. “That is our official stance. Though you needn’t apologize for Confederate sympathies in my company—with a mother from Louisiana, our house has long been divided.”

  Her smile reemerged, this time with a note of amusement. “I was not going to apologize.” The good humor faded. “Though I hate how this war has divided us. So many nights I have spent on my knees, begging the Lord to knit our nation together. Sometimes I cannot fathom how it will ever be so.”

  Sometimes he wondered how anyone could ever expect it to be. The time for unity had long since passed.

  “Aunt Abigail?”

  His hostess turned, but Devereaux needed only to lift his gaze to see the young woman standing in the doorway. And Mrs. Jackson’s niece caught the eye. She looked decidedly out of place in her simple brown skirt, with the faded backdrop of the inn behind her. With lustrous hair dark as midnight and snapping cobalt eyes, the girl was stunning. And, given the way she shifted her stance upon spotting him, well aware of it.

  Devereaux fought back a smile. She could be no more than eighteen or nineteen, and the look in her eye reminded him acutely of Marietta. More specifically, of Marietta when he first met her. Flirtatious and confident, and just reckless enough to spell danger to anyone who didn’t know how to handle her.

  “There you are, Ruby.” Censure laced Mrs. Jackson’s tone, which the girl no doubt heard as clearly as he did.

  Ruby produced a sultry smile. “Our guest’s room is ready, Aunt.”

  The elder woman turned back to him, her smile strained. “Mr. Hughes, allow me to introduce my niece, Miss Ruby Kent. Her brother, Judah, ought to be in momentarily. And you will no doubt see the youngest of them, little Rose, about the house as well.”

  Devereaux fixed on a polite smile and nodded at the girl. Well he knew how he must look to her eye—a stranger, obviously well-to-do, from a city just far enough from her rural home to be enticing. Given what was sure to be a shortage of suitable, desirable men for her, he probably looked like a romantic escape in waiting.

  She would have to get over that idea, and better sooner than later. The last thing he needed was a would-be debutante dogging his heels. “Good to meet you, Miss Kent.”

  The light in her gaze didn’t so much as dim, and it remained fastened on him as she curtsied. “Likewise, Mr. Hughes. Shall I show our guest to his room, Aunt Abigail?”

  Mrs. Jackson pressed a hand to her forehead, lifting away one of her silver curls. “Of course, yes. Mr. Hughes, supper will be at six o’clock. If you need anything beforehand, don’t hesitate to ask.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. Though I intend to spend much of my time exploring the area, so I hope not to be a bother to you.” Just as he hoped that, given her recollection of him romping through the woods as a boy, she wouldn’t think it odd for him to do so now. Plenty of men escaped the city now and then to adventure through the mountains, after all—though no doubt not many these days.

  Mrs. Jackson merely said, “Oh, you could not possibly be a bother,” as she shooed her niece out the door.

  Devereaux fell in behind the girl, careful to keep his gaze up and raking over the walls so long as he was within sight of the proprietress. Perhaps once he was up the stairs he let his eyes dip to enjoy the exaggerated sway of Ruby’s hips, but the stir of desire was more an echo, a strain. A realization that he wanted only Marietta, and he hadn’t much longer to wait. Two more months and she would be his. His wife, his to hold every day. No more longing glances, no more sneaking about under cover of mourning.

  It was finally his turn to have it all.

  They turned at the landing to the second half of the stairs, and Devereaux glanced out the window at the valley beyond. The Potomac slipped along, the hills rose again in West Virginia, and there were the rails, with the puff of a train on its way to Cumberland.

  His fingers tightened around the handle of his valise. All his…but the enemy was ready to pounce at one wrong move. He could lose everything. If their plans went awry, if he was caught while undertaking this task, the penalties would be severe. And then where would he be? He could lose the house, his stake in the railroad, and Marietta…?

  He clenched his teeth. She was loyal, at least enough to honor her word. Her Yankee-loving father had certainly instilled that in her. Hence why, try as he might to lure her away from Lucien, she had never once crossed any bounds of propriety.

  Once she was his wife, she would honor that. Forever, no matter what. If he were arrested, she would wait for him. If his reputation suffered and they had to move to Mother’s home in Louisiana, she would go with him.

  And so they must wed before he undertook anything too dangerous. Because he would not—would not—risk losing her. He must marry her and get her with child quickly to tie her even tighter to him. Perhaps, with a bit of luck, that night a month ago…but she would have said something already, if that were so. Wouldn’t she have?

  “Will your wife be joining you?” Ruby turned to the right at the top of the stairs, slanting a flirtatious smile at him over her shoulder. Was the girl a mind reader?

  Regardless, subtlety apparently failed to interest her. Or perhaps she just hadn’t yet learned the full art of her chosen trade. Devereaux let his lips turn up. “I imagine I will bring my intended here sometime after we have wed, yes. But not this trip.”

  “Oh, you are engaged?” Rather than looking put off, Ruby’s smile went brighter.

  “I am.”

  “And here we are.” Ruby flounced to a halt just inside the door to a spacious, well-lit room. The flutter of her lashes drew his gaze to her face, and once there, it lingered on her smile. “I’m certain you’ll find the room comfortable.”

  “It’s perfect.” He stepped into the chamber and set his bag down upon a chair. When he looked her way again, he found her twirling a midnight curl around her finger.

  “If there’s anything else you need, Mr. Hughes, anything at all, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

  Devereaux hooked a thumb in his pocket and measured her. For the mere fun of it, he eased closer and watched her eyes go sharp. “Oh, I wouldn’t hesitate.”

  She cleared her throat and slid a step over, to the door. Her smile didn’t falter, but the confidence in her gaze certainly did. Just as he thought. She was all flirtation with no actual experience.

  Ah, well. He didn’t need to dally with some pretty bumpkin when he would have Marietta so soon.

  Footsteps thundered up the stairs, and Ruby seized the excuse to turn around. “Judah?”

 
The boy who darted down the hall looked the part of her brother, to be sure. The same black hair, the same blue eyes, the same well-crafted face. He was probably thirteen or fourteen, and he offered Devereaux an open, bright smile. “I fed your horse, sir, and gave her a quick once-over. Looks like her back right shoe is coming loose. You want me to walk her down to the smithy?”

  The blacksmith was a man he needed to meet anyway. That particular skill could come in handy when it came time to set out the clues for the Knights. He grinned at the boy and tossed him a coin. “If you could just show me the way, I’ll walk her myself.”

  Judah caught the coin with sparkling eyes. “Yes, sir, Mr. Hughes, sir. Whenever you’re ready.”

  “I’m ready now.” Focusing then upon the retreating back of the boy, Devereaux strode past the girl and down the stairs.

  Within ten minutes, he and the talkative Judah, who kept up a steady monologue on all the neighbors Devereaux had no interest in knowing, arrived at the smithy with his rented mount.

  Steel rang on steel somewhere within, and the heat of the forge warmed him the moment he stepped inside. Judah didn’t wait to be noticed. He called out, “Mr. Mason!”

  The ringing ceased, but the man who emerged from the depths of the building looked none too happy at the interruption. At least until he spotted Devereaux beside his neighbor. Then he managed a nod. “Morning.”

  Judah grinned. “Morning, Mr. Mason. This is our guest, Mr. Hughes. His horse is gonna need a reshoeing.”

  Mason let out a puff of air through his lips, all pretense of welcome gone. “It’s going to be a while. Been backed up something terrible since that blasted Negro took off on me.”

  “I’m in no great hurry for the horse.” Though that tingle at the base of his neck was interesting. Devereaux waited for the man to look his way again, and then he lifted a hand, rubbing a finger over the top of his lip.

  The smithy’s eyes snapped. He cleared his throat and gave the answering tug on his ear.

  A brother Knight. Finally. Finally things were going right.