Circle of Spies

by Roseanna M. White

  She was here. She had not made a fuss, had not cried “Murder!” and brought the police down upon him, but only because she took his threats seriously. She did not want to be at his side.

  His veins sizzled with that certainty.

  “I will never forgive you,” his mother burst out. “I have had Jess since we were girls. She has served me faithfully and loyally all these years, and you shoot her as if she is nothing more than a lame dog?”

  “Would you rather I had shot you for insisting on bringing her?” At her wide-mouthed gasp, he rolled his eyes. Were it not for the women, he would slip out again, over the connector, and into the first of the freight cars. “It is your own fault for disobeying. I will get you another maid, so do stop pouting like a child.”

  “You cannot just replace a lifelong servant, Devereaux.”

  He tapped his pen against the page, his gaze on Marietta again. He would get a rise out of her one way or another. “I suggest you make better use of your time than fuming at me, Mother. Perhaps you and Mari should plan the wedding. It will have to be small, of course, but you have always liked the house in Cumberland. I imagine you can make it lovely.”

  Marietta blinked, shifted, and turned on him eyes so cold his blood had to boil to compensate. “You can force me before a minister with a gun to my head,” she said, her voice even and passionless, “but you will have to convince him I am mute. I will not say vows to you.”

  He felt every thud of his heart, every scorching pulse through his body. It resonated, echoed, overcame. “Have it your way, Mari. If you will not be my wife, you can be my mistress. But one way or another, you will be mine.”

  She sat straighter and fisted her hands. “How can you be such a fool, Devereaux? Do you really think you will get your way through violence and threat? You can ravage me and abuse me, you can take whatever you will from this body, but I will never be yours.”

  He leapt to his feet, fire slicking through him far faster than the train through the countryside. “You will be mine,” he said, voice icy and dead in contrast to the raging life within, “or you will be nothing.”

  Marietta rose too. So small across from him, but her spine stayed straight as the rails, her every curve perfection, the snapping in her eyes at least alive again, as he most loved seeing them. How could she deny what they had both known for years? She was meant to be his. Created solely to please him. No words could change that she belonged to him, nothing she could do would erase the brand he had put upon her.

  “Then kill me.” Her voice, low and sultry, seethed fury.

  The coursing fire exploded. He grabbed the table and sent it flying toward the opposite wall. “By thunder, Marietta, don’t think I won’t! I killed my brother for you. I won’t hesitate to kill again if you are idiot enough to rebel when you should rightfully be mine!”

  The dual gasps, his mother’s piercing keen, pushed him forward. He was upon Marietta in two steps, grasping her shoulders and pulling her flush against him.

  Now her eyes weren’t so cold. Now she couldn’t doubt of what he was capable. Better the horror on her face than the ice. “You did what?”

  “It’s your own fault. Had you simply consented to an affair—but you refused me, every time you refused me, saying you could be with no one but your husband.” The fire shook him, shook her by extension. “What else was I to do? Wait for him to grow old and die, to claim you only when you were too faded to be of use to me? I have waited years, years for you!”

  She tried to break free, the idiot woman. As if she could ever escape the power of their love, as if denying it would change how it had consumed them both. “Get off me.” Her voice shook with the same resonance, proving, even in her anger, that they were built for one another. “Get away from me! How could you? How could you kill your own brother?”

  She pushed at his chest, shoved at his arms. Made him smile. That was the Mari he loved, full of passion and vim. “It was the simplest thing in the world, darling. Lure him away, lie in wait, plunge the knife into his stomach, and watch him die. I should have done it sooner. Then you would already be my wife.”

  She managed to pull one of her arms free. Her eyes narrowed to yellow-green slits, she bared her teeth and pulled the arm back.

  His smile faded when her fist slammed into his nose.

  He was going to kill her. Marietta saw it flash in his eyes when she struck him. She saw the gleam of murder, pulsing moments before, snap from recollection to promise. And still she couldn’t regret embracing the whisper of those long-ago lessons from Isaac.

  He had killed him. He had been the one to stab Lucien in that dark alleyway, not some random thief. The knowledge made every muscle quiver and contract.

  One of Dev’s hands still gripped her upper arm with enough force to bruise her; with the other he dabbed at his nose, cursing when he saw the blood upon it. Fingers digging in still more, he jerked her forward, toward the back end of the car.

  Mother Hughes’s cry went from animal whimper to sobbing, but he didn’t so much as glance at her.

  “How could you do this, Dev?” She tried to plant her feet, but he was so much stronger. Every time she dug in, he simply jerked her onward. “You destroyed your family. You have undone us all. He loved you, he—”

  “He was a braggart and a tyrant, always flaunting his advantages.” With one vicious yank, he opened the rear door.

  Her stomach flew to her throat at the ground whizzing by outside. Would he toss her over? The ground was still all but flat around them; the fall might not kill her. But a river snaked just ahead. Would he wait until they were on the bridge?

  She knew how to swim, but she would first have to escape her heavy clothing, and that might be impossible.

  Despite her challenge to him a few minutes earlier, she had no desire to die. When he tried to pull her out the door, she braced her feet and free hand on the posts. “Let me go, you monster!”

  Another nasty curse tripped off his tongue. He took a step onto the rickety, rocking metal grate between the two cars and slid open the door on the second one. Then, as if all her resistance were no more effective than a kitten’s, he picked her up and tossed her into the dark tomb of the freight car.

  She landed hard on her hip, her ribs striking a crate that robbed her of breath.

  Dev filled the whole opening, a black silhouette. “Maybe a few hours in here will calm you.”

  “Calm me?” Wincing at the strain against what would surely be another set of bruises, she pushed back to her feet. “You killed my husband, and you expect a few hours in the dark will calm me?”

  She flew his way, screaming when the door slammed shut before she could reach him. Unable to pound at him, she pounded at the door instead, tears mixing with the rage. “He was your brother! He loved you!”

  Pain sent her to her knees. Not from the bruises, but from within. She might not have been the one to wield the dagger, but she had encouraged Dev, had made it so clear that the only thing between them was Lucien. Her hand had not held the knife, but his blood still stained her. “Oh God, forgive me.”

  “Don’t you dare take the blame for anything he did.”

  The unexpectedness of the voice made her jump, but its blessed familiarity brought her back to her feet. Her gaze probed the unrelieved darkness. “Slade?”

  She heard the sound of a quiet snap, saw the small whoosh of a match igniting, and then a golden glow illuminated the contours of his face, the neatly trimmed goatee, the black eyes she so loved. She had to climb over crates and boxes, but she reached him just after he touched the flame to the wick of a lamp. His arms closed around her as hers did him.

  And with that security, the storm within broke loose, and she clung to him to remain upright. “He killed him, Slade. He killed Lucien. It was Dev, not a mugger. Dev stabbed him, and he said it was for me—to be with me.” A shudder came over her, so strong she gasped with it. “It is my fault. If I hadn’t flirted with him, hadn’t thought such wicked things�
�”

  “Shh.” He held her close and stroked a hand down her back. “It wasn’t your doing, Yetta. Perhaps you did wrong, perhaps the Lord would have judged you for those thoughts had you not asked forgiveness of them, but Dev’s actions are his own. Not yours.”

  She buried her face in his chest and wished she could let the tears rage, that they could wash it all away. But they couldn’t. “I thought I loved him. To my shame, when Lucien still lived. I grieved for him, but not enough. Because of Dev. And now to realize…how could I have been so foolish?”

  “You didn’t know.”

  “I should have. I should have realized the kind of man he is. He plotted his own brother’s murder.”

  She felt him shift and then saw the way the lantern light flickered through his eyes. The pain and guilt in them. “No.” She tightened her hold so he couldn’t pull out of her embrace. “You are nothing like him. You defended yourself against Ross. He was the one who plotted murder.”

  “I still killed my brother.” His hand, splayed on the small of her back, flexed with that agony.

  Agony so very different from Dev’s cold satisfaction. She touched a hand to Slade’s cheek and stretched up to kiss him. “You are a good man, Slade Osborne, and I love you. You are doing all you can to undo—wait.” Now she pulled away so she could glare at him. “You should be in Washington stopping Booth. What are you doing here?”

  The agony faded as his lips turned up. “Nothing out of the ordinary. Just jumping onto moving trains. Stopping a villain. Rescuing the girl.”

  “Fool.” She slapped at his chest and then curled her fingers into his lapel to hold him close. “You cannot be wasting time on the girl, especially when the villain will kill us both if he sees you. You need to get off this train and to Washington.”

  His eyes glinted black as hardened steel. “Your grandfather promised they could handle that. Hughes has to be stopped too. But you’re right about the danger. The next time the train slows, you jump.”

  Of all the idiotic suggestions. “Absolutely not.”

  “Soon, before we reach the mountains.” As if he actually thought he would talk her into it, he strode over to the large side door, slid the latch, and pulled it open a few feet. The thunder of the mechanical beast rushed in, along with a gust of air. “The ground is still relatively flat here. When we slow for the next town—”

  “I said no.” She sat defiantly upon a barrel…until she saw that it said gunpowder. Then she jumped back off. “We are in this together.”

  “Yetta.” He came back over and framed her face in his hands. “Kitten, listen. I know you feel guilty for what he’s done, but this isn’t your fight.”

  But it was. Dev and the KGC were trying to undermine her country. The one her brother had fought and died for. The one her family had risked their lives for throughout the generations. She gripped his wrists. “Yes, it is. Slade…I knew who you were before you arrived. I knew what you were about. I was charged with helping you.”

  A breath of laughter puffed from his lips, though it faded as he gazed into her eyes. His hands slid down to link with hers. “What do you mean?”

  “Granddad. He…he was an intelligencer in the War of 1812. His mother before him in the Revolution. He has kept the group active through the years. We call ourselves the Culper Ring.”

  “We.” Now he sat on the barrel and didn’t seem to care that it could explode with a random spark. “Are you trying to tell me that you’re a…a spy?”

  “A spy too, don’t you mean, Detective?” She gave his hands a squeeze. “Why is that so shocking after all I’ve done to help you?”

  He blinked, his gaze on her chin rather than her eyes. “You’re talking about an organized group of them.”

  “They are just my family. Doing what they can for the country they love, as everyone should do.”

  “Just your family.” He freed one hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. When he lowered it again, he revealed a small smile. “You really are something else, kitten. Come here.”

  She hesitated a moment, but what did it really matter if the gunpowder spontaneously exploded? At least they would go up together, and perhaps take Dev out with them. She perched on his knee and wrapped her arms around his neck.

  He anchored her with a strong arm. “Listen, if we live through this…”

  She tightened her arms, knowing exactly what he would ask and biting back a yes. Yes, of course she would marry him! But she would let him get the question out first.

  He grinned and ran his nose down her cheek. “I could put in a good word for you with Pinkerton. Get you a job using these skills of yours.”

  A job? He was proposing a job? The laughter started deep in her stomach and felt like heaven in her throat. She gave it rein and then rewarded him with a sound kiss.

  When finally their lips broke apart, he tucked her head to his shoulder and held her close. She felt his sigh building before she heard it ease out. “I don’t know what our odds are here, and I hate that. I want to think we can stop him. I have to think that, have to believe it. I just don’t know what the cost will be.”

  The lamp sputtered. Marietta felt for the necklace she had scarcely taken off since Grandmama gave it to her, and found it under the collar of her dress. A legacy, she had called it. Their legacy, not just of the Lanes and Arnauds, but of the Culpers. A legacy of secrets and whispers and spies…a legacy of failures and successes. Of faithfully doing what they could, when they were called to do it, no matter the cost.

  She closed her eyes against the dying flame. “I believe, my love, that all our chips are already on the table. The hand has been dealt. There is no point in worrying over which cards might be turned up…we have only to play. And to pray.”

  His hand slid into her hair and pulled loose the lace snood, spilling the curls down her back. “Listen to you, using gambling language. Have I mentioned that I love you?”

  She breathed in his citrus scent. “Only twice now, which isn’t nearly sufficient. We had better pray hard, because I need to hear it thousands more times.”

  “Hmm. Guess we had better do this right then, so I have some time for all those words.”

  She smiled into his collar and turned her head into his hand. “I figure it’ll take you years. Decades, even.”

  “Probably. And that’s if we’re together more often than we’re apart. So I guess we should get married or something.”

  She chuckled and pulled away enough to look him in the eyes, to see the pure love shining there. “What a romantic you are.”

  He grinned, though the lamp sputtered again. At his urging, she stood so that he could check its fuel level.

  “Is there more?”

  “Logically somewhere, but…” He shrugged and headed for the door. When he slid it wide, precious little light came through. Gray clouds blanketed the sky. “Looks like rain in the mountains.”

  “Good. That should make it more difficult for him to move this to wherever he’s going to hide it.” She came to his side, gripping his hand as she watched the fields roll into hills. “We could dump it out along the way.”

  “Tossing all those weapons and powder into the hands of strangers? Not wise.”

  “Have you a plan, then?”

  “Not yet. None of them felt right. But that was when you were in there with him.” Turning away from the door, he sat on a crate, pulled out his revolver, and set it beside him. “You know how to use this?”

  Able only to nod, she sat too, on the other side of the weapon. “If necessary.”

  “I’m hoping it won’t be, but let’s be cautious. He doesn’t know I’m here, and he won’t expect you to be armed when he comes back for you. Two advantages to us. But right now, let’s focus on the most important one.”

  He extended his hand, palm up, and closed his eyes. Marietta put her fingers in his, bowed her head, and turned her heart to prayer.

  Thirty-Three

  With the mountains came darkness, more from t
he moaning clouds than the descent of the sun. Thunder had been rolling for the past twenty minutes, and flashes of lightning danced around the hilltops.

  Marietta scooted closer and closer to his side, which Slade accepted with nary a complaint. He might only have another hour with her, so he would savor every moment.

  “How long until we get there, do you think?” Her words were muffled against his chest.

  Slade smiled and coiled another scarlet strand around his finger. “I’m not sure. We haven’t been stopping the way passenger trains do.”

  He had no idea where they were now. In West Virginia, somewhere—whenever Marietta released him long enough to move near the door again, he could see the Potomac winding its way through the valleys.

  They had decided after prayer that they should wait until they were on solid ground before taking any action. Mrs. Hughes could too easily be injured in any fray they took to his private car, and Marietta insisted they spare her whatever fresh pain they could. So when the train slowed, Slade would close the door again and hide. Marietta would go with Hughes when he came for her—with Slade’s revolver; he had liberated another from the crates—and pretend to be repentant.

  Hughes might believe her for a few minutes, anyway. Long enough for her to get the mother separated from the son. Slade would give himself enough time to see how many cronies the man had recruited and do what was necessary to stop them.

  Another tongue of electricity flashed through the sky, and Marietta scooted closer. “That seemed close. What if it strikes us, or sends a tree onto the tracks? What will we do then?”

  “Just what we planned, kitten. With a few modifications.”

  She shuddered when the thunder rolled over them, loud as a cannon. “I’m sorry I’m such a ninny about these stupid storms.”