But no. King Abraham had taken over, had seized power never meant to rest in the hands of the president, and had sent them all to their deaths. And for what? To end a way of life centuries old, one with its roots in the rich soil of the South, one that had seen the entire nation to prosperity.
Devereaux braced his arm against the window frame and looked out at the crowds bustling about his depot. Most of them no doubt felt exactly as he did, but few would dare to say so at this point. Not with Maryland in the grip of martial law. Women couldn’t even mourn for their fallen Confederate relatives without the authorities seizing them and carting them over the river into Virginia.
And the tyrant dared to call it a fight for unification. Dictatorship, that’s what it was.
He pushed away and snatched up his greatcoat, charging out into the frigid, damp air. His last communication with Davis had laid it all out very clearly. Peace, the president claimed, must be bought at any cost, before the last resistance the South could offer was broken.
Peace, it seemed, was not of interest to Lincoln. And so, the plan would proceed. Lincoln would pay. They would topple him from his throne, and when he found himself in a small, dark room in one of the towns his precious Sherman had burned to the ground, with a gag in his mouth and a hundred hate-filled eyes staring him down from behind armored helmets, then they would see how tall he stood.
“Osborne!”
Osborne straightened from where he had been crouched, examining something beside a stevedore. As usual, the man couldn’t be put upon to say anything, he just arched a brow and stepped toward him.
Which suited Devereaux fine. He didn’t need a man of words; he needed a man of action. One who knew what in blazes he was doing. One who would spend a cold night in the pitch-dark to scare away a few anonymous vagrants.
Devereaux didn’t pause, just strode past him, motioning him to fall in alongside. “I’m calling in the brothers. It may take a few days for them to assemble, but in the meantime we need to make plans. Contact your old friends on the security detail. Try to get a feel for how this next inauguration will be run. If we can seize him beforehand, we must.”
The crunch of their boots on the gravel disappeared under the whistle of an incoming train. Osborne made no reply until they had climbed up into the carriage.
Then the man sat back with pursed lips and hard eyes. “It won’t be easy. They know that is the most likely time for you to target him, so there will be guards everywhere and spies out.”
Devereaux felt himself glower. “I don’t need to hear why it will not work, Osborne. I need to be given a way to ensure that it will.”
Osborne folded his arms. “Ready to trust me, then?”
“I haven’t the leisure not to.” When he realized the carriage had yet to move, he pounded upon the roof. “Able! Go.”
His driver bounded onto the box with enough energy to shake the whole carriage—energy he should have spent keeping an eye out for their approach and already being in his position. Blasted, lazy slaves who thought the promise of freedom meant they could stop working.
Feeling his companion’s gaze steady upon him, he nearly growled. “What?”
Osborne tapped one finger against his opposite arm. “You realize that if you pull this off, you’ll be an outlaw, you and every man who takes part.”
That was assuming his part was known, something he would work at all costs to avoid. “I know the risks.”
A snort spilled from Osborne’s lips. “Do your women?”
Devereaux bit back the words that wanted to snap out and borrowed his new friend’s usual silence for a few beats. Paired with his own glare, it must have done the job.
The man shrugged. “Just observing. It’s what I do. Your mother’s health is still fragile. And Marietta…well, are you planning on taking her with you?”
He sure as thunder wasn’t leaving her behind. “Don’t worry yourself about my personal business. Just talk to your friends. And be ready to make plans.”
Osborne held his hands up in surrender.
Good. About time something worked in his favor.
Slade left the parlor without so much as a glance over his shoulder, but he kept his ears strained. Marietta’s laughter covered Hughes’s response to Slade’s declaration that he would, yet again, be in the library. The servants were helping Mrs. Hughes back up the stairs.
And if it worked this time as it had before when this situation presented itself, it meant he had at least half an hour to do some snooping.
Because the old butler and his wife and Mrs. Hughes were still on the stairs, he went into the room he said he’d be in. He pulled out a book at random, opened it, and set it on his chair. The household had come to anticipate him enough that the fire had already been stirred, a lamp already lit.
When he peeked out the partially opened door, he saw no movement. Perfect. Easing through it, he darted across the hall toward the one room he’d yet to search. He’d managed to peek into it once, but someone had come before he could do more. A study, it had looked like, which meant Lucien’s.
His blood rushed with promise.