When he straightened from putting on the shoes, he found Booth standing with Slade’s greatcoat and top hat and gloves, his own accessories already on. Slade knew his suspicion must be obvious as he took them. “What is it with you, Booth?”
The man chuckled and opened the door. “You need to ask? You are accompanying Marietta Hughes to the theater, with Devereaux clueless in the mountains. This may be one of your last living acts. You ought to look the part.”
“Of all the…” He stomped his way into the hall as he put on the coat. “I am not accompanying her. I am merely in a party that includes her. And Hughes himself charged me with keeping an eye on her, so—”
Booth’s laughter cut him off. “The gentleman doth protest too much, methinks.” He gave Slade a friendly elbow and hurried down the stairs. “Make the most of it, I say, because you will pay for it regardless.”
They emerged onto the street. The air had cooled more during his brief stint inside, reminding Slade that February still had some teeth left. “It’s only a play. With, from the sounds of it, her entire family.”
“It is only what you make it,” Booth said with a smirk in his tone. “If I were you, I would see that it was worth the punishment Hughes is sure to dole out. Enjoy the flirtation she’s so good at. Maybe steal a kiss when you see her home. For that matter, steal an extra one for me.”
His throat went dry at the mere suggestion. “I would rather live.”
Booth laughed again. “Might be a fair trade.”
Slade didn’t mean to scowl. He just couldn’t stop himself. “Aren’t you engaged?”
“Hush, man. That is not yet known. And my lady is unsurpassed, to be sure. But Marietta Hughes…” He made an appreciative noise.
Was that what Slade had sounded like to Hughes’s ears that first day in the carriage? It was a wonder the man hadn’t socked him. “She’s his.” A fact of which he had reminded himself approximately two thousand times in the last two days—every time his lips wanted to remember the feel of hers. No, he wouldn’t be stealing any more kisses, tonight or ever.
Booth loosed an overdramatic harrumph. “Have it your way, though I still say you ought to live a little before he calls you out. Not that I will say anything to him, mind you. In my opinion, it’s high time someone pulled one over on him, but all of Washington will see you, so he will hear.”
Slade shoved his hands into his pockets. Yet another bad idea, this. “He won’t call me out.” He hoped. “And least not until after this business is concluded.”
“Hmm. Maybe. At any rate, you ought to enjoy the play tonight. Laura Keene plays the dowager to perfection…”
All too soon they arrived at Ford’s Theater, and Booth left him to go in the front entrance while he took himself around the back to collect his mail. Slade stood on the walk outside for a long minute, watching the well-dressed couples sweep through the doors before him. Women in expensive gowns, men in extravagant coats and hats, more than one gold watch glinting in the lamplight.
All this, while not so far away men were freezing in the trenches.
He nearly turned on his heel and left. But before he could move, familiar laughter tickled his ears, and his head swiveled to his right. There, coming en masse down the street, was his party. Both the elder Lanes, Marietta’s mother, Marietta herself laughing with Barbara Arnaud, and two couples besides that he didn’t recognize.
No, wait, he knew one of the men—the third man he had caught at the rail yard that night with Lane and Walker.
Before he could even think to evade them, Lane raised an enthusiastic hand in greeting. “Oz, hallo! What perfect timing.”
Yeah. Perfect. He mustered the biggest smile he could, not that that was saying much, and tried not to look too closely at the redhead ensconced between her mother and Barbara. “Good evening, Mr. Lane.”
“Indeed it is.” Lane led the way into the theater, his good humor not faltering. “Have you met Mari’s brothers yet? Ize is the elder, Hez the taller—Isaac and Hezekiah, that is.”
“No, I—”
“Boys.” Lane waved them over as they handed off their outer garments to an attendant. Slade begrudgingly relinquished his hat and coat as well.
He meant to look only at them. But it was hardly his fault Marietta chose that moment to sweep her cape from her shoulders, was it? Nor his fault that the gleaming light from the chandeliers reflected just so off the shoulders bared by her gown, which fit her far too well. And shining in the light, the gray—silk, was it?—turned to silver against her ivory skin.
Her brothers stepped into his line of vision, both giving him a look that convinced him he should have fled when he had the chance.