“I can see real well.”
He leaned against the doorframe. He was there for the long haul.
Maybe she’d show him her newest cache of information, maybe she wouldn’t. “You don’t trust me to do my job, do you?”
“At the ball, I suppose you kept all the men tight on your strings, your mind weaving strategies to overwhelm them.”
She smiled over her teacup. “I rely on a hidden weapon—male gallantry.”
One eyebrow raised, Lucas said, “I’ll be reminded not to succumb to your methods.”
She gestured for him to have a seat which he ignored. “Why there was one time, I reminded Senator Jackson how his stirring discourse on the Old Testament moved me to tears, my heart in deepest rapture. His face beamed like a full moon and he gave me a note to the Provost.”
Lucas scoffed, moved to the sideboard and poured a glass of her father’s brandy. The clothes she had procured fit as if tailored specifically for him, and she could not, nor had the desire to tear her eyes away. The butternut shirt clung to his wide shoulders and the pants fit snugly, outlining his long, lean frame.
On a long, deep breath she pulled her gaze away and continued, “In any case, as the wagons rolled into Richmond with Northern prisoners, I discovered the appalling conditions of Libby Prison. They would not allow me to visit the prisoners, claiming the venture unfit for a lady, and forcing me to employ other approaches.”
He pivoted. “Such as?”
“Manipulation, guile and cunning with a liberal dose of flattery.”
He threw back the contents of his glass and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Really, you don’t strike me as someone who is the least insincere.”
She took a sip of tea and returned the cup to its saucer with a deliberate clink. “I secured an invitation to meet with Secretary of War Seddon, with whom I had prior acquaintance. A bit overbearing, stuffy, behaves exactly how a baboon does when looking into a mirror and admiring the charm of his own reflection. Typical man, don’t you see?”
Lucas picked up the decanter and flopped beside her on the settee. He had healed extraordinarily well. No longer could his restlessness be contained, and like a caged beast, he prowled her home, waiting for her to give him the go ahead to return to Washington when her sources indicated the noose had slackened. She had evaded him whenever possible. Except tonight, engaging him relieved her stress.
“Then there is Old Winder. I can flatter almost anything out of him. I would smile and tell him his glorious white head of hair would adorn the Temple of Janus. I was even bold enough to liken his form to Michelangelo’sDavid. I had all the passes I wanted.”
He poured another glass, lifted it high, looking triumphant although there remained a coldness in his eyes. No doubt, his reflections were on the Saint. “To the toast of Richmond.” How he watched her like a fox snaring a rabbit in its jaws.
With the looming Copperhead plot, the Union teetered on the edge of disaster, and all he could do was pine away about her mythical lover. The excitement of showing him the information procured at the Rutherford ball evaporated. “Your suspicions have clouded your judgment. If it were as easy to arouse your trust as it is your cynicism, just think what could be accomplished.”
He took out his pocket watch clicked it open and snapped it shut. “It’s my business not to trust.”
“That’s a rare and fine sentiment. There is a reward for you, preferably alive, though a dead Colonel Rourke would also be acceptable.”
He rose, skulked about the room, examining gilt-framed portraits on the wall, one with her stern-faced grandfather scowling down from his position of honor.
“Your family?” Without waiting for her to respond, he said, “You have a close resemblance to your mother, a beauty who probably broke many a heart. Your stubborn traits must yield from your father.”
With his glass in hand, he sauntered to within inches of her, his eyes thoughtful, and his astute regard unraveling her nerves. “No pictures of the Saint? Why not a picture of a paramour?”
She tilted her head. “Have you ever battled with humility?”
“Humility?”
“Yes, humility. Is it difficult for you? Did you travel by boat or simply walk across the James River?”
He caught her chin in his hand and, smiling at her, stroked the curve of her jaw with his thumb. Her skin grew hot, her mouth went dry.
“No telltale signs of a male visitor, despite your constant avowals of communication with the Saint…strikes me as an odd relationship.”
She was unable to breathe.Steady now.But when he smiled like that, it was as if the sun had come out. Was it the unexpected tenderness that smile conveyed, that shared moment of intimacy that made her breath hitch?
She smelled the brandy on his breath.
“I’m suffering for want of you,” he mocked her. “The tormented, Lieutenant Washburn. I feel sorry for those poor souls lolling at your feet like lap dogs. Your amber eyes could trap the devil. Almost any man alive could make that mistake.”
