A creak from above jarred him half an hour later, and Devereaux straightened on his chair. Perhaps Marietta had returned from wherever she had gone—likely her grandmother’s house, given that it was Tuesday. The thought was incentive enough to put his work and coat away and climb the steep stairs again. If he could steal a few minutes alone with her, perhaps he could charm her into his arms.
Distance didn’t suit him at all. Not when she was forever a few feet away, looking so dashed alluring. The mere sight of her heated his blood. And if he thought of her kisses…
Devereaux replaced the lantern, eased around the desk and to the door that opened into the garden. Warm sunshine touched his face when he stepped outside, a welcome reprieve from the icy cellar. He headed for the carriage house to see if she had returned.
He was nearly to it when movement caught his eyes. A swishing skirt, to be sure, but not the one he wanted.
Had she continued on her path, or retreated into the shadows as she usually did when he passed by, Devereaux would have said nothing. Cora might have been an entertaining diversion for a night, but a taste was all he had needed to assure himself she didn’t satisfy him for long.
But the way she halted, her eyes wide with terror. The way she reached behind her…
He too came to a lazy stop a good stone’s throw away and arched his brows.
She swallowed and backed up half a step, her hand still behind her. “You need somethin’, Mr. Dev?”
“Well, now.” For the pure pleasure of watching her quake, he swept his gaze down her. She was breeding again, apparently—and apparently had been for a while, though he hadn’t looked at her long enough to notice. “Kind as it is of you to offer, I prefer my women with a waist.”
The way her face twisted nearly made him laugh. Though his attention was snagged by a little blond head that peeked from behind her skirt. Her brat. Lucien’s, from the looks of her, though his brother had always sworn he needed no concubine after marrying Marietta.
His gaze went back to Cora’s petrified face. “What are you doing out here this time of day? Don’t you have cleaning to do?”
“Yes, sir. I just…Miss Mari said…yes, sir.”
Miss Mari said what? He nearly asked, but what did it matter? “Speaking of Miss Mari—is she back yet?”
“No, sir. Not yet.”
No point in continuing to the carriage house, then. He dismissed the slave with a flick of the wrist and headed instead to the side of the house they so rarely used, especially in the past fifteen months. Much of it was taken up by the ballroom—a chamber that had been draped all this time in the silence of mourning. The rest were guest rooms also not needed recently.
The hedges had been let to grow around this side of the house, which allowed the Knights to slip in as they pleased without being seen. Once in the darkened room locked from the rest of the house, he followed the usual path. Through the concealed door, down the stairs, and along the long tunnel.
No light burned in the meeting room. He must still be a few minutes ahead of the others. No matter. He lit a lamp, laid the fire, and prepared the coffee.
They had plans to make.
“No. That is unacceptable. It must be before the inauguration.”
Slade leaned back against the wall beside the fireplace, his arms folded as he watched Booth pace the room. He knew well his line was a thin one to walk. He had to appear every bit as frustrated as they, encourage them, and yet speak reason. “We can try. But you wanted the truth.”
Surratt tapped his pen against the table, his gaze flickering from the pacing Booth to the brooding Hughes. “Osborne is no doubt right, Booth. It is when they will expect us to move. Lincoln will be too closely guarded.”
“I was the first to insist that Osborne find us a way, but in reality this second inauguration changes nothing.” Hughes pushed himself up and dumped the dregs of his coffee into the fire. “We may simply not be able to act beforehand.”
“Still, we must try. Think of all the soldiers we could get released with him as ransom.”
Slade swallowed. No doubt they were right about that. But they might be surprised by Lincoln himself if they succeeded in capturing him. The president underwent trial each and every day of his life, and he stood tall under it. And not just because of his height.
Their three gazes fell on him, as if awaiting a response. What did they want? His opinion on how many soldiers they could get in exchange for Lincoln? He had no way of knowing, so he had no reason to opine. He unfolded his arms and meandered to a map tacked to the wall. “Escape route?”
“Ah.” Booth leapt to his side, eyes alight. “I have been working on one for months. Assuming we take him in Washington, we will make first for the Mudd plantation twenty-five miles out. Mudd is a doctor, so if we need any medical aid, he will no doubt give it.”
Slade glanced at Hughes and tried to recall if he had seen the name on the list of KGC members. He didn’t think so, but he couldn’t be sure. He needed a copy of that list. “Is he one of us?”