“That very gentleman who has just enjoyed the privilege of your company, Miss Vesper.” Stuart flashed his teeth. “And he now bids you a good night.”
The air in Natchez was stifling, an unpleasant contrast to the mild spring weather in Boston. Klio suspected the tense, near-choking atmosphere was as much a result of the stresses of the ongoing war as the lack of a breeze. While the action thus far remained in the East, Klio observed men — many of whom might still be called boys — dressed in Confederate gray, congregating before they went to join their compatriots on the battlefield. Her gaze shifted constantly, her body stiff as she moved with the traffic of pedestrians and carriages alongside the Mississippi. As usual, her garb drew curious gazes. Though her sapphire-blue silk gown and matching short cape fit the style of the moment, her small hat with its veil that fell just past the tip of her nose was custom-made and nothing like the bonnets favored by fashionable ladies. Accustomed to stares, Klio ignored them and walked on at a confident pace. She ran her gloved palm over the silk fabric of her skirt and felt the stiff folded papers tucked inside her pocket.
The documents had been inside the envelope Hamilton Stuart gave her, along with a contract and an impressive stack of banknotes. But the princely sum did nothing to relieve the sickness Klio had felt when she’d looked over the papers that would allow Whitby to accompany her on the journey; they named Whitby her slave.
Klio understood the necessity of the documents, but despite their artifice she could barely contain her disgust at having to carry them, and from the wrath she caught whenever her eyes met Whitby’s she knew he detested their forced role-playing even more than she did, and understandably. If Klio had had her way, Whitby would never have set foot in any slave state. But Whitby had ignored her pleas that he stay behind, so the ruse was necessary. So long as the Fugitive Slave Act protected them, slave traders could abduct freedmen with impunity.
Whitby carried her bags up the gangplank while Klio strolled behind. Boston was a city of ships, but Klio had never seen the likes of the Fortuna. Swan-white save for the great red wheel at its stern, the Fortuna looked every bit the debutante awaiting her admirers. Klio appreciated the elegance of the steamboat, but she surveyed its decks with a critical gaze. Ships were designed to hold as many provisions as possible within a confined space. That meant the Fortuna would be full of closets, nooks, and compartments — the sort of spaces that lent themselves as easily to staging an ambush as to storing ropes and life jackets.
“Welcome aboard, Miss Vesper.” A man in livery greeted Klio when she alighted upon the deck. “Mr. Stuart has asked me to see you to your cabin.”
“How kind.” Klio spared the man a brief smile. Her attention was on the other passengers.
The Game’s importance meant it attracted a throng of spectators, and each faction boasted its own entourage. Most of Klio’s shipmates would pose no threat. It was even possible that Hamilton Stuart would be in no danger whatsoever. If all the factions adhered to the rules of the Game, this boat was sacrosanct, neutral ground. But given what was at stake, Klio had to agree with Stuart that his adversaries would exploit any loopholes in the rules to gain an advantage. Something as simple as a charm to draw luck or an amulet to ward off malicious spells could prove a deciding factor.
Stuart’s man opened the door to Klio’s cabin. The rooms were surprisingly spacious for shipboard quarters. Silk-and velvet-upholstered chairs and settees graced the sitting room, and sumptuous linens and overstuffed pillows decorated the bedroom.
“Are the rooms to your satisfaction, Miss Vesper?” the valet asked.
“They are.” Beautiful as the cabin was, Klio doubted she’d spend much time enjoying its luxuries.
The valet nodded at Whitby. “While your man unpacks your bags, Mr. Stuart has requested your presence in his cabin.”
“Has he?” Klio’s eyebrow lifted. “Would you be so kind to show me to his cabin?”
Stuart’s rooms were adjacent to Klio’s cabin. Klio tolerated the ritual of being announced to Stuart and offered an assortment of refreshments, but she had little patience for meaningless niceties. Her life was one of relative solitude, her only companion being Whitby, whose nature was as reclusive as her own.
Stuart lounged in a high-backed chair. He wore a crisp shirt and a waistcoat of sapphire jacquard, but no jacket. He had one leg thrown over a chair arm as he sipped amber liquid from a crystal tumbler. His dark hair was rumpled and his face wanted a shave.
“You may leave us, Talbot,” Stuart told his valet with a dismissive wave.