No way to escape her. She led the way to her study. The soft sway of her backside put his mind on other things. Unlocking her desk, she tripped open a secret compartment, and withdrew several papers.
“Were you aware of the imminent threat to the United States of America, emerging as a grave and gathering danger by Copperheads in the north?”
“They’re always scheming. We have them closely surveyed, but Southern agents are elusive.”
She spread the sheets and detailed maps. The minutiae immediately commanded his attention. He smoothed back his hair under his collar and pored over the information, grasping the seriousness of the situation. The Copperheads were bringing revolution to the northeast.
“It starts in New York,” Rachel began. “The United States Sub-Treasury on Wall Street is to be apprehended, City Hall turned into a fortress, Broadway to reverberate with the march of twenty thousand traitors. Policemen who are associates of the Copperheads will take possession of Police Headquarters on Worth Street. The Federal Courthouse and all government buildings are to be taken. Six cans of gunpowder will be buried under the central gate of Fort Lafayette in the Narrows off Brooklyn to blow a hole through the thick stone walls. General John Dix will be taken hostage. All Confederate prisoners will be released, on the rampage and armed. The Stars and Bars of the Confederacy will fly over City Hall in twilight’s purple light. By nightfall, all New York City will be a sea of flames.
“At the same hour, the U.S. Government will be up to its eyeballs. Chicago will be ransacked, set ablaze, plundered and turned into an enemy city. Fifteen thousand howling Rebel prisoners will be released from neighboring prison camps, armed with bayonets and Navy Colts smuggled to them. State and municipal officials will be slain and substituted with puppets. There will be twenty thousand battle-experienced Copperhead and Rebel prisoners ransacking the state. Baltimore and Washington, they are also targeting. I have names and addresses of Southern agents and those aligned with them, also stashes of weapons and munitions.” Rachel tossed her hair back.
Lucas stood spellbound. “How did you get this information?”
“At the Rutherford ball. I hid in a closet and eavesdropped.”
Lucas’ blood ran cold. “You little fool. You might have been caught.” Beneath gritted teeth, he asked, “Where did you get the maps and other information?”
She had the audacity to stand there with a mutinous expression on her face that sent his temper soaring.
Lucas narrowed his eyes. “The Saint. How do I know I can trust this information?”
“I would know.”
“I don’t echo your sentiment.” That was the rub. He had to depend on the Saint to return to Washington and…for the valuable information. “How does the Saint maintain his anonymity?”
She plunked her hands on her hips. “It’s very simple, Colonel Rourke. The Saint does not get caught because he never trusts anyone until he is absolutely sure of their loyalty.”
“Does the Saint trust me?”
She snorted. “Probably trusts you more than he should.”
“Sit down,” he ordered. “As your commanding officer, I order you not to get involved ever again.”
She sank into a chair and tapped her toe on the carpet. Yielding to his authority had struck a nerve. He could care less.
Yet, little did he feel his rank altered her inclinations to take matters into her own hands or curb her rebellious attitude. He leaned against the desk and folded his arms in front of him, silently amused, and pondering the problems facing him. Keeping a tight rein on her maddening independent streak would be a challenge well met.
Why was it then, that instead of feeling like he was in charge, he felt like a pawn under a tiger’s paw?
Chapter Eight
Rachel sat dwarfed by the four massive, cathedral-like columns that accentuated the front porch. Peeling from lack of paint and now fodder for termites, the pilasters once welcomed guests with great stateliness.
In the distance, a lone rider approached her home, the horse kicking up little ploughs of dust with its hooves. Via a trusted courier, she had sent a coded message to the one man in Washington who could stop the Copperhead plot. The courier was captured crossing the James River and arrested. Fortunately, he sank the dispatch in the river and claimed he was catfishing, the story buying his release. She had to try again to get the valuable information through but the search for Colonel Rourke had the area bottled up tight.
She shrugged and breathed deep, enjoying the warmth of the noonday sun until a dark cloud swept overhead. The rider rode through a bevy of chickens, sending them clucking and skittering to the safety of their coop before he halted.
“Captain Johnson.”Why was he here?
With so many people to insulate her there was no way could she have been implicated in sending the message…or had she been?
Rachel did not offer any well-wishes or formal greeting. Nor did she stir herself. Instead she concealed a black rage boiling in her blood.Play the game, Rachel. Stay above suspicion.
He tied his horse to the hitching post, keeping his eyes on her at all times.
They had been neighbors for years. His assumption that she’d marry him. In fact, the entire county speculated on the banns, confident of an obvious match that linked two leading families. His, from the wealthiest plantation, and a perfect complement to Rachel’s, a prominent Virginia family, as old and well-renowned as the Lees.
Strong rumors indicated deep financial woes for Captain Johnson, and with the advent of bankruptcy looming, he grew desperate.
