Circle of Spies Read online

  HARVEST HOUSE PUBLISHERS

  EUGENE, OREGON

  Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.

  Cover by Garborg Design Works, Savage, Minnesota

  Cover photos © Chris Garborg; Photo DC Inc.

  Some of the prayers are taken from The Valley of Vision: A Collection of Puritan Prayers and Devotions, published by Banner of Truth, www.banneroftruth.org. Used by permission.

  Published in association with the literary agency of The Steve Laube Agency, LLC, 5025 N. Central Ave., #635, Phoenix, Arizona, 85012.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  CIRCLE OF SPIES

  Copyright © 2014 by Roseanna M. White

  Published by Harvest House Publishers

  Eugene, Oregon 97402

  www.harvesthousepublishers.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  White, Roseanna M.

  Circle of spies / Roseanna M. White.

  pages cm.—(Culper Ring series ; book 3)

  ISBN 978-0-7369-5103-6 (pbk.)

  ISBN 978-0-7369-5104-3 (eBook)

  1. Women spies—Fiction. 2. United States—History—Civil War, 1861-1865—Fiction. 3. Maryland—History—Civil War, 1861-1865—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3623.H578785C57 2014

  813'.6—dc23

  2013026761

  All rights reserved. No part of this electronic publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopy, recording, or any other—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The authorized purchaser has been granted a nontransferable, nonexclusive, and noncommercial right to access and view this electronic publication, and purchaser agrees to do so only in accordance with the terms of use under which it was purchased or transmitted. Participation in or encouragement of piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of author’s and publisher’s rights is strictly prohibited.

  Dedication

  To my brave little princess, Xoë, and my little prince superspy, Rowyn.

  What would a day be without your giggles?

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Books by Roseanna M. White

  Maryland Rail Lines, 1865

  Genealogy of the Culper Ring Series

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Discussion Questions

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Ring of Secrets

  Whispers from the Shadows

  Fairchild’s Lady and A Hero’s Promise

  About the Publisher

  Acknowledgments

  Whenever I try to come up with original plots, “different” often means “risky”—which means I email my editor in complete uncertainty. Thanks, Kim, for encouraging me to write this series as it needed written, and to the whole team at Harvest House, who I adore working with! Thanks too to my agent, Karen Ball, for being an awesome cheerleader and go-getter. You amaze me.

  And as it may never have gotten written if not for that perfect weekend writing retreat, enormous smiles of gratitude to Stephanie, for instant brainstorming, lots of laughter, and hours of beautiful quiet. Thanks too to Dina for her amazingly quick turnaround while critiquing!

  As always, the love and support of my family, from hubby David and beautiful kiddos to my parents and grandparents and sister and mom-in-law, give me the strength and inspiration I need.

  Special thanks to Alyson Dow for naming little Elsie as part of a contest win on Go Teen Writers. Big, huge, grand appreciation to Rachel Wilder, fashion expert extraordinaire, who taught me how ladies of the Victorian era dressed, layer by layer.

  And though he’s unlikely to ever pick this book up, I also want to thank Dave Cherry, the former coworker who regaled me with stories of his classmate with the perfect memory, who could read books with his eyes closed after merely glancing at the pages. Bet he never knew he’d end up the inspiration for my heroine!

  Books by Roseanna M. White

  THE CULPER RING SERIES

  BOOK 1—Ring of Secrets

  http://bit.ly/RingofSecrets

  Fairchild’s Lady

  (free e-romance novella)

  BOOK 2—Whispers from the Shadows

  http://bit.ly/WhispersfromShadows

  A Hero’s Promise

  (free e-romance novella)

  BOOK 3—Circle of Spies

  We have video clips showcasing our books.

  Check them out at the web addresses above.

  Now the brother shall betray the brother to death…And ye shall be hated of all men for my name’s sake: but he that shall endure unto the end, the same shall be saved.

  MARK 13:12-13

  Spies are about everywhere.

  THE PRIVATE JOURNAL AND DIARY OF JOHN H. SURRATT, CONSPIRATOR

  MARYLAND RAIL LINES, 1865

  GENEALOGY OF THE CULPER RING SERIES

  One

  Baltimore, Maryland

  January 16, 1865

  Marietta Hughes was the worst widow in the history of mourning. She smoothed a hand down the lavender fabric of her dress and felt the twist in her stomach that shouldn’t have been so long absent. The punch to her heart that hadn’t made itself known since the first month after Lucien died.

  Squeezing her eyes closed, her fingers found the smooth mahogany of the grand staircase railing. Mother Hughes, still weak, her voice feathery, had looked so hopeful when she’d asked Marietta to don the muted colors of half mourning. How could she have refused her? True, it had only been a year and three months since Lucien’s death. She had only been three months in second mourning—black relieved only by a white collar—rather than six. But there were so many others with fresh losses to grieve. Her widow’s black had made a mockery of them.

  Her widow’s black had made a mockery of her.

  She descended a few steps, but her eyes burned. Her husband was no doubt in heaven begging the Almighty to send a divine bolt to strike her. And not because of the color of her dress.

  “I’m sorry, Lucien.” The words came out a breath, but still they seemed to taunt her. She should have said those words long before he fell prey to the violent streets of Baltimore. Said them for every thought gone astray, for every too-long look, for every wish she never should have made.

  A low whistle made her jump and brought her gaze to her front door, to Lucien’s brother. And her stomach twisted again a
t the object of those stray thoughts. The apple to her Eve.

  Upon the wicked he shall rain snares, fire and brimstone, and an horrible tempest: this shall be the portion of their cup.

  Marietta’s feet pulled her down the stairs, toward where Devereaux Hughes stood with one hand upon the latch. His gaze swept over her, making her cheeks flush even as those words from the Holy Book pounded.

  Wicked. Wicked. Wicked.

  Sometimes she wished she had never read the Scriptures, so that they couldn’t haunt her.

  Sometimes she wished she could be, as her parents had advised time and again, good.

  She swallowed back the regret and guilt—a skill she had mastered nearly six years earlier—and smiled. “Heading home, Dev?”

  He leaned into the door, folding his arms so that the fabric of his well-tailored greatcoat strained against his muscles. Glory, but he was a fine-looking man with that charming smirk of his. “I have missed seeing you in color, Mari. Black never suited you.”

  A fact that shouldn’t have bothered her as it did. How vain was she, that she had dwelt on such a truth this past year instead of on the loss that necessitated it?

  She smoothed out the wrinkle her fingers had made in the skirt and gave in to the tug that always pulled her closer to Dev, close enough for him to slide an arm around her waist. Given the quiet morning halls, the servants all tending to breakfast or Mother Hughes, she made no objection. Though her heart thudded its accusation.

  Wicked.

  Her throat tightened. She had never betrayed her husband, not in deed. And who would hold her thoughts against her? Other, of course, than God. And Lucien. She forced a swallow. “Your mother asked me to move into half mourning. I was so glad to see her up and able to speak this morning that I hadn’t the heart to argue.”

  Dev’s jaw ticked. “I just saw her. She looks better, but if the doctor is not as hopeful as I expect when he stops in later—”

  “I know.” Her gaze landed on his cravat. “Dev…”

  “Ah, how well I know that look.” He bent his head, and when his lips touched her neck, her eyes slid shut. “Hope and regret mixed into perfect beauty. Do you recall when I first saw that expression upon your lovely face?”

  As if she could ever forget. “The nineteenth of December, eighteen sixty.”

  His chuckle sent a pulse of shivers down her spine. “How quick you are with the date.”

  And usually she would have forced a hesitation. But she needn’t with that particular recollection. “It was the day before my wedding.”

  “The day I met my brother’s bride.” His chuckle went bitter. “Had I obeyed my father and returned to Baltimore a year earlier, it would have been I you met at that ball. I who would have claimed you. I who—”

  “Don’t.” She pulled away, though his arms granted her only another inch of space. She’d had similar thoughts—much to her shame. “Please, Dev.”

  Too late. His eyes, blue as July’s sky, had already blended in her mind with Lucien’s deep green. The parade through her memory had already begun. Each time she had let her thoughts go where they ought not. When she had held Dev’s gaze a second too long. Had smiled too warmly.

  She was despicable.

  “I love you.” Vulnerability sparked in his eyes, but his arms were still like iron around her waist. “I have loved you since I first set eyes on you.”

  The sob came out of nowhere, erupting in a gasp. She covered her mouth, squeezed shut her eyes, and jerked away. Dizziness washed over her when she tried to breathe. Cora had laced her corset too tight when she retied it—that was why the air wouldn’t come. Her corset. Just her corset.

  Not her conscience. Heaven knew that voice had been muted most of her life, drowned out by the steady march of meaningless facts through her memory.

  “Darling.” His fingers closed around her shoulders, so warm against the January chill. “Why does that make you cry? You have known so long how I felt.”

  Too long. She had known and had held it to her heart, a secret blacker than the gown she had just ordered Cora to pack away. “Tell me I made him happy. Tell me he never knew.”

  “Mari.” He turned her to face him again and tipped her chin up with a gentle touch. What was it about that narrow nose, that tapered chin, those two slashes of dark brows, that made her melt? He thumbed away a tear. “I have pushed you from mourning too fast. Yet I feel as though I have waited forever to claim you.”

  Her gaze dropped, all the way to the yards of lavender fabric that declared her ready to ease back into society. Why did the declaration make her want to run and hide, when these fifteen months she had struggled so against the confines of black? “I should have better mourned him.”

  She should have better loved him.

  Dev’s hand rested on her cheek. “Finish your mourning and take what distance you need, darling. When these final three months are finished, you will be mine.”

  She didn’t know whether to tip her mouth up to invite a forbidden kiss or to pull away. Whether to breathe in his bergamot scent with a smile or let a storm of tears overtake her.

  A loud rap on the door saved her the decision and made them both jump. Pulling all those frustrating emotions back in, she waved away the servant who appeared from the kitchen corridor and opened the door herself.

  Her smile went from halfhearted to full bloom when she craned her neck up, and up still more to take in her dawn visitor. “Granddad. What are you doing here so early?”

  “Your father just made port, and I went to tell him about Fort Fisher’s fall yesterday—”

  “Fort Fisher? In North Carolina?” Hope surged up, though Marietta settled a hand on her chest to contain it. It would be a mighty blow to the Confederacy, but that did not mean the war was over.

  “Hadn’t you heard? Then I’m glad I thought to pay a call on my favorite girl while I was out.” Thaddeus Lane grinned, tapped a finger to her nose as he had since she was a tot, and strode inside. A blast of icy air came with him, against which she shut the door. When she turned again, his smile had faded to a glower aimed at Dev.

  “Mr. Hughes. What are you doing here so early?”

  Dev was never one to be flustered, though his smile looked strained. “Mother took a bad turn last night. We feared the worst. She pulled through, praise the Lord, but I couldn’t leave until I was sure of it.”

  Both men sent her a glance. Dev’s, full of shared worry and relief and that black secret. Granddad Thad’s, full of censure. Marietta opened the door again. One of them at a time was plenty. “Shall I see you at dinner, Dev?”

  “Dismissed.” He chuckled but obeyed the dictate and made for escape. “You shall. And do send a note to tell me what the doctor says, even if it is good news.”

  “I will.” Her lips pulled of their own will into a soft smile for him. Though after she shut the door, all softness evaporated under the scathing regard drilling into her back. She turned around and looked at her grandfather with arched brows. “Must you treat him that way?”

  Granddad’s scowl only deepened. “I am your grandfather, young lady. I will treat a man any way I please when I find him in your home at seven in the morning. Now get your cape. You are taking a walk with me.”

  “I am not. It is freezing out there.” But even as she said the words, she reached for the heavy woolen cape on the rack. Granddad never issued orders. Not unless it was of the most vital importance. “You cannot condemn a man for being concerned for his mother.”

  “If he were so concerned, he would move her into his house.”

  Marietta fastened the toggle and wrenched open the door again. “Must we have this conversation for the ninety-second time?”

  “Ninety-two, is it?” Amusement crept its way into his voice. “Is that an approximation or an exact count?”

  She glared at him over her shoulder.

  He pulled the door shut, and for a long moment held her gaze with glinting amber eyes. “How is it you can know the exact num
ber of times I have said a certain thing, yet cannot see the wisdom in obeying? Go home to your parents, Mari. Or take the money your husband left you and set up house somewhere else. Go to Alain in Connecticut—”

  “No. This is my house, my home.”

  He had to have known she would say it, just as she had the other ninety-one times. So why did he look so sorrowful as he offered her his elbow?

  She tucked her hand into the crook with an exhalation blustery enough to rival the wind off the Chesapeake. “I am a woman of three and twenty. I am perfectly capable of maintaining my own living, and Mother Hughes needs me.”

  He sighed, led her down the walk for a few steps, and then turned toward the drive.

  Marietta dug in her heels. “You said a walk, Granddad. Why would we need to go to the carriage house?”

  “We are walking to the carriage house. We need to talk, and that is the safest place.”

  No, no it wasn’t. The carriage house was anything but safe. “We can just keep going down the street—”

  “Marietta. Come.”

  Her throat went dry. He hadn’t used her full name in so long…and that spark in his eyes was like a fuse. “What is it? Is something wrong? Grandmama? Mama, Daddy?”

  “Something is wrong, but not with them. Please, Mari. For once in your life, stop fighting and do what I ask.”

  He looked so serious, the lines in his face deepening. She nodded and complied, even though her corset seemed tighter with each step they took.

  She had managed to avoid the carriage house and stables for more than a year and would have been happy to make it two. Not that any sour memories were connected to this particular building. It was the similar one at her parents’ that made her teeth grind together.

  And the arrogant, infuriating man who had once mucked stalls there and now stood in her outbuilding, pitchfork in hand. She should have dismissed him years ago. Should have refused her brother’s pleading. Should have slapped that patronizing smile from Walker Payne’s face the first time he put it on.

  “Morning, Walker.” Granddad said it with sobriety rather than cheer. Unusual for him.