Bowman’s shout echoed through the house. Rachel, her tear-stung eyes, glacial now, shot daggers at Lucas. He shoved her behind him, keeping to the darkness. The door to the library banged open, light spilled from his lantern, his subordinate bent on catching an intruder.
Bowman leveled his revolver at Lucas and snapped off a fast shot. Lucas twisted. Bowman’s aim was not good. The bullet struck the desk, splintering mahogany and ricocheting shards of wood into his belly. The pain stabbed at him.
He checked for Rachel. She had fled. Lucas leaped through the French doors. He didn’t want to get caught breaking into Bowman’s house. He wanted to keep Bowman under surveillance.
More shots crackled. He retreated to the shadows, escaped through the door in the courtyard and rounded out to the street. He paused, palming his side, warm and sticky from his blood. Far ahead, Rachel clamored on a horse behind someone at full gallop. Jimmy O’Hara. Contempt heated his blood. So much for her promises.
In a mocking tone indisputable to his ear, Lucas stood in the darkness. “I’ll see you at the Adams’ ball tomorrow night, Rachel. And that’s a promise.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Rachel stood in front of a gilded mirror in the entry hall of the Adams’ home. The image of a woman in a red silk gown trimmed with lace and black jet beadwork and a décolletage cut dangerously low stared back at her. When she pinched her cheeks, the words,femme fatalecame to mind, a tempting woman who had devastating consequences upon those men imprudent enough to yield to her charms.
Her lips turned up from Simon’s objections. No way did he want her going out inthatgown and would have to fetch Grant’s army to protect her. Yet she had to put herself face to face with the Copperhead leader. As to guessing his identity, her instincts would be her guide.
She had already created a stir at two other balls she attended, inveigling herself in any way possible to learn more, if anything, about the Copperhead leader. Industrious Southern spies moved like furtive ghouls, elusive shadows in the night, stealthy and impenetrable. Time eclipsed on silent wings with the Rebel uprising drawing near. Her belly knotted. Fortunately, key Northern commanders had been apprised of the Copperhead plot and planned an anaconda approach to round them up…that was unless they changed their plans.
In her bones, she felt this night would reveal all. Etched into her memory was the invitation discovered in Bowman’s safe. She swept a slow appraising glance over the crowd. The ball was her last opportunity to find the Copperhead leader, and nothing must get in her way.
She thought of Lucas. Had Bowman wounded him? When shots had been fired, she ran, Lucas vaulting behind her. Simon had checked with a black servant of General Dodge and allayed her fears, discovering Lucas’ injuries minor. A part of her desired to go to him and ease his pain. However, there were destructive consequences to that impulse.
She contemplated the darker side of Lucas, the part she had come to dislike. The one who had humiliated her with her own traitorous body. No, it did not serve her well to continue her thoughts. Lucas was lost to her.
At least, he was out of her hair. My, how she liked the sound of that. She smiled imagining the look on his face when confronted by his superiors. A letter to the right man way up in the pecking order had cured her problem, and that man had ordered Lucas to stay away from her.
She didn’t need him. Simon could protect her, along with the precocious Jimmy and his vast network.
She waited while an attendant took her cloak and directed her down a festooned hall. She moved to the opening of the ballroom then fashionably paused to obtain the most male attention as possible.
The cavernous room was alive with music and laughter. Dangling from the vaulted ceiling were huge chandeliers, lit with hundreds of flickering candles, bathing the room in a soft, wonderful glow. Whirling in a realm of colorful silks and satins were ladies of Washington’s elite, dancing with a number of Union officers and government officials. Laughter tinkled, wineglasses clinked, and the sweet harmonious chords of a waltz greeted her.
In no time, Rachel became the belle of the ball. From the moment she made her entrance, she had the rapt attention of everyone in the room. Feeling all eyes fastened on her, the occasion developed exactly how she had planned. With a surge of confidence, she lifted her chin and laughed at shared witticisms provided by handsome young officers. Fans snapped shut. Conversations halted. Men stared and flocked to her side, their conduct less than dignified, while worried mamas and young women watched in jealous dismay. Men, young and old, begged for a dance with her. More than willing to oblige, Rachel was led onto the dance floor with one dance after another wondering all the while what Lucas would think of her in a ball gown instead of one of her disguises.
Surprising her, Lieutenant Bowman appeared at her side. She narrowed her eyes, remembering the shots he fired at them.
“Would you do me the honor of this dance, Miss Pierce?”
Ill at ease, Rachel nodded her consent. How did he know her last name? When he noted the puzzlement on her face, he laughed into her ear.
“I try to know everything there is about a lovely woman.”
Rachel flinched from the double entendre.
Bowman was memorable. His eyes…where had she seen that color before? He gripped her too close. She moved back.
“You are the most remarkable woman I’ve ever met. So mysterious and full of secrets.”
Beyond a doubt, he was shrewd and cunning, and she dared little to trust Lucas’ subordinate despite the fact Lucas said there was nothing to be found in Bowman’s library.
“I do not desire to waste time on preliminaries but wish to escort you in the near future to a place, shall I say, very close to my heart.”
Her gaze snapped to his. Years of studied diplomacy set ingrained in Bowman’s face, making his sentiments difficult to discern, yet the calm in his eyes emerged more frightening than if he shouted at her.
“I would be honored,” she feinted, bestowing a sham smile. She glanced over his shoulder to Simon and Jimmy, both with serving trays. A silent communication emitted between them. Bowman was to be watched.
The dance ended, and a portly colonel drew her away to the buffet table. She by-passed the duck soup, French chicken pie, veal, olives, sweet breads, fried artichokes, scalloped tomatoes, and pineapple pudding that the colonel heaped on his plate in healthy amounts, and sipped a cup of fruity punch which tasted sour on her tongue.
A loud stir echoed across the ballroom. Rachel stood on tiptoe to observe the commotion. The blood drained from her face.
