LITMIR.BIZ

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read it, and then handed it to Tooke. “It’s from the War Department. They are absolutely certain Abbott crossed the border several weeks ago, heading for Quebec City.” Another clerk delivered two cups of coffee. “Well,” Fitz said, after taking a sip of the brew. “It appears he is here, and we are here, so now it is simply a matter of finding him.” The coffee was bitter but Fitz was glad for its warmth. He watched the steam rise from the black liquid. “But why would the man come to Quebec City? You said he’s been here before?”

      Tooke said, trying to be helpful. “Several times I understand. Let me ask about.”

      “All right,” Fitz said. “It’s in our best interest to proceed as if Abbott will be, or already is, in the hands of Southern agents. In any case, he came willingly or by coercion. It’s down to cases, and ours is simple; find and return the good professor to the United States.”

      Chapter 10

      Suite 221

      St-Denis Hotel

      Asia had seen to most of the unpacking with the assistance of a hotel maid, a stout Frenchwoman who managed to decipher Asia’s instructions in textbook French. She’d used little of the language since leaving boarding school and traveling to the continent. She was seventeen then, and had never been so homesick in her life. London was dirty and Paris was wonderful, and it seemed to her that Rome was a city frozen in the past. When she returned home, more than ready to be rid of the foul-smelling aunt who had been her chaperone, the first thing she told her father was that she never wanted to leave Washington. He had thrown back his head in laughter and promised that he would never ask that of her again, but he pointed out the obvious—every country and every continent has contradictions. As do people.

      The night of her return she snuck out of her house and made her way three blocks to the west. Asia was bursting with stories of all she had seen.

      She had always loved Robert’s house. It was a stately Georgian of refined proportions. Everything balanced—chimney-to-chimney, dormers, windows, and thick columns crowned by scrolled capitols. The porch was bordered by holly bushes speckled with red berries.

      Asia had spoken to Robert for hours, while his mother, a beautiful woman with golden hair, sat quietly on a nearby settee, lost in the latest Walter Scott novel.

      Now she remembered Robert’s letter, waiting until the maid had closed the suite door behind her, before drawing it out of her purse.

      Dear Asia, he began. She smiled as his writing changed to match the intensity of his emotions, letters half-formed, and ink smudged as his thoughts fought one another to be included in the letter.

      We have been too long out of each other’s lives and thoughts, so I found it important to tell you of my decision.

      Her heart sunk, reading the letter, knowing what he had decided. He had always been impetuous, and deep within he battled the twin demons of inferiority and arrogance. The end result was anger—a result of the circumstances of his birth.

      Washington holds no interest for me unless I return a triumphant conqueror. The south is my country, the nation holds my heart. I turn my passion toward something good, and pure, knowing that I can do no better than to fall at the shrine of southern liberty.

      Asia folded the letter, remembering the boy who had played Romeo to her Juliet, and his mother, strangely sad and alone, their only audience. Robert was the director, stage manager, and Hamlet, or occasionally Richard III. He had lost himself in his performances, escaping for a short period from the house that saw few visitors and only fleeting moments of joy. She had watched the tenderness and comfort, which mother and son shared, as if they held a secret too delicate to expose to another soul.

      Asia continued reading.

      I have thrown myself in with a courageous band—heroes that will strike a blow for the south, and pierce the heart of the hated north. You must console yourself with the knowledge that although we may not see each other again, our bond will never be severed. I trust my soul, I give my life, and bind my will to companions of like thought. We are involved in a crusade of the highest order—a holy adventure.

      Love, Robert

      She slid the letter into her pocket, knowing she should have told Fitz. He knew something was wrong, and his poor attempts to learn the source of her pain did nothing but lead to even more turmoil. But Asia had decided, on the trip to Quebec, that it was not necessary to speak of the letter, or Robert. If she did, Fitz would take it upon himself to do something, and most likely any action he took would be wrong. There was no reason now—Robert had gone south from Washington, probably to Richmond, and was now probably leading troops into battle. A larger stage, Asia thought, so much grander than the day parlor.

      She worried about him. He was such a passionate young man, a boy really, if only five years younger than she. She had seen him fight for every measure of respectability due him. She could have been describing Fitz, she realized. Except that Fitz Dunaway had been hardened by adversity, and tempered with the fires of conflict. Fitz fought wars, while Robert played at them.

      They were enemies. Fitz was sworn to protect the Union, and Robert sworn to destroy it. Asia loved them both, and she feared her heart could not bear the strain.

      The knob clicked and the door opened. It was Fitz, looking tired but happy to see her. She stood and went to him, feeling guilty over her treatment of her husband and her thoughts for Robert.

      “You look all in,” she said, slipping his cape from his shoulders.

      “I am,” he said, wondering if he was forgiven for whatever wrong he had committed. He watched her as she poured a cup of coffee and brought it to him, looking for any signs that her mood might change and she would fall into the melancholia that had become so much a part of her life. And his as well.

      “Thank you,” he said, taking the coffee. After a few sips he decided the coffee at the St-Denis was far superior to that at the American Consul.

      “What did you learn?” she asked, settling next to him.

      He told her, wishing at the same time the suite had a piano so he could relax as she played. He relayed the War Department’s telegram, and added that he had sent one to Lincoln that said no more than “Arrived Quebec City. Investigating.” For the first day in a strange city, there was little else to be said. He saw the trunks were unpacked.

      “Where are my quarters?” he asked, hoping she would see he was teasing her.

      “There, Colonel Dunaway,” she replied. Her eyes brightened. “And mine, are there.” She indicated a door across the suite.

      “So far away,” Fitz said. “I may have cause to reconnoiter.”

      She leaned over him, brushing the dark hair off his forehead and kissing the bridge of his nose. The presence of her breasts so close to his mouth and the sweet aroma of her perfume filled him with desire. He guided her lips to his and kissed her deeply.

      Asia stood and shook her head, cautioning him against any ill-considered action. “You are confined to quarters, Colonel Dunaway. Your arm needs time to heal properly.”

      “What I had in mind,” Fitz said, “has nothing to do with the condition of my arm.”

      Asia answered a knock at the door, saving herself the trouble of responding to Fitz. A white-gloved bellhop bowed, spoke something in French, and handed her a small envelope.

      She closed the door and found a letter opener on a desk.

      “What is it?” Fitz asked.

      “From Inspector De Brule,” Asia replied, reading the note. “He has invited us to the theater this evening as his guests.” She looked up at Fitz, her eyes shining with delight. “Oh, Fitz. We are to see the Januarys.”

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