The Sapphire Brooch Katherine Logan (best beach reads TXT) 📖

supposed to happen during the next few hours. Charlotte and Jack were back in his townhouse, while the others, a handful of conspirators, were moving into their places and preparing to attack. Braham took a deep breath then gagged at the sour mixture of stale sweat, slightly tainted food, and remnants of an earlier celebration which fouled the air in the room. The odor hung like an unrelenting fog. Desperate for a clean breath of air, he fully raised the window and leaned out, gulping greedily.

He shoved fingers through his hair, and encountered the leather thong securing the queue at his nape. He ripped it out, leaving his hair loose around his shoulders. Before he left town on assignment he would cut it, but he wouldn’t do so while Charlotte still shared his bed. He enjoyed the sensation when she ran her fingers from scalp to ends. If he accomplished tonight what he intended, everything would change between them. When he arrived home, she’d be sequestered in her room, not waiting in his bed. He would never again hear her soft moans of pleasure.

The door to Stanton’s office creaked open, and, low-voiced, the secretary said, “He’s rejected my resignation.”

Hearing Stanton wanted to resign sent a small jolt through Braham. The secretary couldn’t quit. The president’s reconstruction efforts would be hampered, if not stymied, without him. Stanton was a man of steel, unmoved by events or personal feelings. But beneath the hard exterior, he had a powerful and abiding respect for Lincoln. He must stay on as secretary of war.

Braham picked up his hat and idly threaded the brim through his fingers—an illusion of calm he had perfected. The action was so mundane he appeared unconcerned and relaxed, when what he wanted to do was flare his nostrils and crack every one of his knuckles.

“He knows of your fragile health. Did he tell you why?” the visitor asked.

“He only said I cannot go,” Stanton said.

The visitor approached the outside door and grasped the knob, swinging the door open to the creak of old hinges. “The president knows you understand the situation better than most. The country needs you.” He reclaimed his walking stick from the cast iron stand and quit the room.

Stanton watched the door close then turned his attention to Braham. “Come in, Major.” He picked up a quire of paper from his desk and held it out to him. “Here are two reports describing what happened in Richmond the night of the fires. Both are based on statements made by eyewitnesses. The president has requested a report. I need you to review these, and if you find errors, correct them.”

“Will tomorrow—”

“Mr. Lincoln wants it on his desk in the morning. So make yourself comfortable.”

The embers in the hearth broke apart with a soft whuff, and Braham let his breath out in a long sigh, shoulders slumping in capitulation. He settled into a chair in front of the desk, still warm from the visitor’s body. He massaged his forehead, hoping to fend off a headache. Reliving the pain and trauma of the Richmond fires wasn’t compatible with recovering the lost timeline and avoiding another headache. His only option was to read quickly, make a few notes, and get out of there. If he didn’t save the president, it wouldn’t matter what was on his desk in the morning.

Thirty minutes later, Braham had made the final notation on the last page of the second report when a cup of coffee was set on the table in front of him.

“Thought you might need this,” Stanton said.

Braham stacked the papers together. “Thanks.” He gulped some of the lukewarm coffee. “I’ve made a few comments in the margins. On the whole, their information is consistent with what I witnessed. Now, I must leave. I have correspondence from the president to deliver to Secretary Seward.”

“Go on, then. He was tiring when I visited earlier.”

“I haven’t seen him since his stagecoach accident, but I heard he’ll have a full recovery.”

“In time,” Stanton said.

The stress of Braham’s delay caused a painful tightness in his neck and exacerbated his headache. He rarely had one, but since the beatings in Castle Thunder he’d had them frequently, along with blurred vision. He took another swallow of coffee then hurriedly left the building.

Seward lived in a three-story brick house facing Lafayette Park on Madison Place near Pennsylvania, only a short distance from Braham’s townhouse. He checked his timepiece—nine fifteen. It was still early, and there was time enough to get his horse before going to Seward’s. He rushed over to his house, but went directly to the stables. Another confrontation with Charlotte would only delay him further.

The time was nine thirty when he swung into the saddle for the short ride to Seward’s residence. There he dismounted and tied the reins to the hitching post. All was quiet except for the distant din of the Navy Yard employees’ procession and the creaks and sighs of tall trees. A small twinge of unease escalated to a high pitch. Nothing was amiss, but the dark air seemed heavy with threat. He removed the cylinder from his .44 caliber Remington revolver, grabbed a new one from his preloaded cylinder pouch, and locked it into place.

The moon, two days past full, rose high over Washington. Under its clear, bright light, Braham scouted the perimeter of the house. At the back-property line, he stopped and searched for clues to explain his unease. The dense smoke and intermittent bright sparks flying from the chimney in a shower of fireworks caught his attention, but nothing else.

Satisfied the outside of the residence was secure, he cautiously approached the front door, and put his ear to the dark wood, listening. He heard no scuffling or groans to indicate a fight was in progress, nor gunshots, nor screams. If the secretary had already been attacked, there would be hysteria. And there wasn’t any.

He rang the doorbell and waited, his revolver at the ready. The doorman, Mr. Bell, whom Braham had spoken