President Lincoln's Secret - Steven Wilson

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there, Colonel Dunaway.” Lincoln smiled at Asia. “In the company of your lovely wife, of course, and keep in touch by telegraph. I need to know what you learn. Wear the wires out, Colonel, no matter how insignificant the matter may seem.” He took Asia’s hand in his with all the affection of a father. “You must take care of our colonel, Mrs. Dunaway, but you must look after yourself as well.”

      “I? Mr. Lincoln,” Asia said, surprised.

      The tall man, towering over Asia, leaned close to her. “Something troubles you, Mrs. Dunaway. Remember that you must be your own best friend. I hate to see such lovely eyes filled with sadness.”

      Chapter 3

      The Laconte Theatre

      Quebec City, British Canada

      The audience exploded in applause as the curtain rose for the third encore. Shouts of bravo, magnificent, and brilliant delivered in a confused mixture of French and English showered the actors. They clasped hands. Othello, his dark skin glistening with sweat in the harsh footlights, radiated majesty. Desdemona, arrogant, her alabaster breasts swelling about her low-cut bodice, swept the first few rows for her next likely conquest. “Royal and Victoria January, the brightest stars in the galaxy of actors,” the critic of the New York Herald gushed. To others, the Januarys were devils.

      “The finest swordsman the stage had ever seen,” John Wilkes Booth had taunted him. Booth was drunk, and he became a madman when he was drinking, surly and vindictive. He had followed Royal January and members of the company into a tavern just off Broadway one evening.

      January, surrounded by his friends, had lifted his glass in return. “I’m glad that you recognize your betters, John. Now go away and let us celebrate our triumph.”

      The insults were too much for John Wilkes Booth. “Better?” He staggered forward, his eyes flashing in rage. “You’re a charlatan, January. A rank amateur.” He kicked a table to one side as he advanced. Some of the actors stepped back.

      “The handsomest man in America,” January had said. “Isn’t that what someone said of you? My how the drink has taken its toll. Your youth, ability.” He waited to gauge the impact of his words. “Tell me, John, can you still handle a sword? Or has yours been permanently sheathed?”

      Booth had waved his cane at January like an imaginary sword. “I can still spit a pig.” Two men had quickly grabbed Booth’s arms, holding him back.

      “Let him go,” January had said, reveling in the opportunity. He selected a man’s walking stick with, “May I?” and tested its weight and balance. He had slashed the air several times, taunting Booth, and lowered the walking stick in his direction, challenging the actor.

      Booth had broke free of his captors, removed his coat, and seizing his own walking stick, took a final drink from his glass and advanced toward January. Chairs and tables had been pulled to one side, clearing an arena of sorts, while the tavern keeper’s shrill protests were ignored.

      The two actors approached one another.

      “I’ve had your sister,” Booth had said, his breath hot with alcohol and rage.

      “Indeed?” January had said. “She told me you did not rise to the performance.”

      Booth pushed January back with a shout, twisted the handle of his walking stick, and withdrew a sword from the cane scabbard. He had brandished it at January amid shouts from the other actors, begging both men to stop the fight.

      “Mr. January?” A young man January recognized as an understudy had pushed his way through the crowd and tossed him a sword cane. January smiled his thanks, withdrew the blade, and prepared himself for Booth’s attack. The other actor had lunged at January’s chest, withdrew, circled to the right, and lunged again. The crowd fell back, forming a rough circle. Booth attacked again, and January parried the blade, following with a riposte and then a feint to the left. Booth had still been drunk, or near drunk, but he was still dangerous. January edged to the right, keeping well clear of the other man’s blade. His opponent was reckless, mad some people thought, and that made him violent.

      “Do you have a wager on the contest?” January had asked the understudy. Robert. His name was Robert Owen—an earnest boy. “Put your money on me, Robert.” January struck at Booth, who stumbled away from the sword point, colliding with a chair. He kicked the furniture out of his way and returned the blow. It had been an awkward response, and he lost his balance. Some of Booth’s companions had pleaded with him to sheath his sword, and one man attempted to insert himself between the two combatants, hoping to reason with them. Enraged, Booth slashed at him and then pushed him aside, rushing for the kill. January had waited a moment to gauge Booth’s action, pivoted, and brought the flat of the blade across the back of his attacker’s hand. Booth cried out in pain as his sword clattered to the floor. He cradled the back of his hand and stooped to pick up his weapon, when January slid the tip of his sword under Booth’s chin.

      “I believe the event has been settled,” January had said. The other man glared up at him, his eyes dark pools of rage and humiliation. John Wilkes Booth stood, and nodded. His friends rushed in and pulled him away to safety. January had turned to find Owen at his side, sharing in the actor’s triumph.

      “Your sword, Mr. Owen,” January had said, returning the weapon. “I am at your service.”

      Royal January now bowed again, basking in the admiration of the audience. His sister curtsied deeply.

      “For God’s sake, must you show everyone your breasts?” he muttered under his breath.

      “They must have something to entertain them,” Victoria January smiled, rising. “Your performance tonight had little to offer.”

      The curtain descended and the other actors made their way off the stage, leaving the principles to their applause.

      January wasn’t done with his sister. “You could have been reading your lines, for all the passion you generated.”

      The curtain rose and January extended his forearm, leading Victoria downstage.

      “Perhaps I should learn to garble my words,” she smiled, offering her slender hand as a parting token to the audience. “I thought at first you were speaking an unknown tongue.”

      The manager of the house appeared and presented a bouquet of yellow roses to Victoria in appreciation, stood back, and led the audience in another round of applause.

      “What about your clumsy efforts to upstage me?” January said through a tight smile. “You behaved like a rank amateur tonight. It was positively pathetic.” He bowed once more, sensed the applause waning, and with his sister on his arm, withdrew as the curtain descended.

      Victoria dropped the bouquet on the floor and broke free of her brother’s arm. She crossed backstage and entered her dressing room. Royal January pushed his way through the stagehands and actors for his dressing room.

      A young actor stepped in front of January and proclaimed in a burst of admiration, “Sir? Sir? Magnificent. Amazing.”

      January’s cold eyes searched for the stage manager as he sidestepped the actor.

      “I cannot tell you how much this performance means to me. To be a member of your company, sir.”

      January lost his patience. “Jessup?” The stage manager appeared. “How many times must I tell you? How can I state it other than to plainly say I will not be approached by anyone before or after a performance?”

      “I’m sorry, Mr. January,” Jessup said, trying to drag the young man away.

      “But you’re my idol,” the shocked actor said. He was betrayed, his golden moment was really brass. “The greatest living American actor.”

      “Get him away from me,” January ordered Jessup. “Out of my sight, out of this theater, out of this company. Do you understand?”

      January

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