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

it was his impenetrable wall of indifference freezing her out. One last try, then she was done. “I beg of you, please don’t change the future because of what you learned while you were with us.”

There was silence, short enough to fill a heartbeat, long enough to pave the distance growing between them. She swallowed with difficulty and a tear slid down her cheek. Using his thumb, Braham wiped it away.

“I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t try to change what’s to come.”

“But—”

He pressed his finger on her lips. Then said in words so thick with emotion he seemed barely able to squeeze them out, “Go home, Charlotte.”

41

Washington City, February 1865

Gordon slammed the carriage door, sat on the opposite bench from Charlotte, and said with a sarcastic bite, “A joyful reunion of cousins, followed by a lousy dinner with a less than charming dinner companion.”

“I’m sorry I was distracted.” Familiar anxiety clutched at her stomach, triggering a bitter churn. She’d had more than enough male attitude hurled at her for one evening. All she wanted to do now was go home, get in her jammies, and drown her sorrows in a glass, no, a bottle of wine.

“Distracted?” he said, sneering. “I’d call that a polite term for speaking only monosyllables during a five-course dinner.”

“I asked you to take me home before we ate, but you refused.”

“Of course, I refused.” His absolute matter-of-factness sent a shiver running down her spine. He removed a tin snuffbox from his jacket pocket, tapped on the lid a few times, and then slowly opened it. “I wasn’t going to let the son of a bitch ruin the rest of my evening.”

“You obviously dislike the major. Why?”

He took a pinch of snuff between his thumb and forefinger and sniffed it sharply into one nostril, and then the other. “We had a difference of opinion a couple of years back. Nothing more, and nothing to concern you.” He closed the tin and returned it to his pocket. Making no effort to hide his contempt he asked, “Are you in love with him?”

“No.” There would always be loyalties, fears, and lies separating her and Braham. She wasn’t in love with him, but even if she were she’d never admit it to Gordon. But if she wasn’t in love with Braham, why did her heart ache?

The conversation died, and they rode in an exceedingly awkward silence until they were only a couple of blocks from the townhouse.

“Braham’s appearance interrupted you earlier. I’m sorry it happened. You were talking about what you intended to do after the war. Would you like to finish now?”

The frown, which had lurked during the discussion of Braham, cleared at the mention of their earlier conversation. “No. It’s late.” He shrugged uncomfortably while tugging at his cravat.

If he didn’t want to talk, it suited her fine.

The carriage stopped, and Charlotte couldn’t get out fast enough. As they proceeded toward the front door, Gordon said, “We have a dinner invitation Friday evening—”

The timing was perfect. Gordon wouldn’t verbally attack her in front of another person. Just as Edward opened the front door she said, “I don’t know if I’m available. I’ll give you my answer tomorrow.”

“Good evening, Colonel Henly, Miss Mallory.”

She handed the butler her cape. “Is Jack home?”

“A man is with him in the study.”

She glanced in the direction of the room Jack had co-opted as his office, located across from dining room and the ever-present coffeepot. “Do you know the man he’s with?”

“Mr. Mallory didn’t mention a name.”

The door to the study creaked opened and Jack and his guest came out into the shadowy entryway. When she saw the visitor sauntering toward them, her heart lodged in her throat. Dear God, surely not him.

“Charlotte, my dear, and Colonel Henly, I’d like to introduce Mr. John Wilkes Booth.”

She opened and closed her mouth in a futile search for something—something calm and rational—to say. Nothing.

Gordon shook Booth’s hand with star-struck enthusiasm. “I saw several of your performances last year at Ford’s: Richard III, Romeo and Juliet, The Merchant of Venice. I believe the Star hailed your engagement as brilliant and lucrative.”

Gordon continued to gush on, further disorienting Charlotte. “You’ve had much success as a tragedian. Your swordplay and bounding leaps are spectacular. When will you return to the stage?”

Booth resembled a preening peacock, with his greatcoat collared in fur and a stick pin thrust in the center of his elaborate cravat. “I have no professional engagements scheduled. I’m more interested in investing in oil lands than acting.”

The actor’s sweet voice grated on her nerves. His risky speculations were the stock jokes of the day. A shiver rolled up the length of her body from her shoes to the top of her head. If she had not been well schooled in social graces from the time she learned to walk and talk, they would have failed her now, and she would have refused to touch the assassin’s hand. Instead, she demurely lifted her fingers to greet him in a performance worthy of the stage he had recently vacated.

“Mr. Booth, what brings you to Jackson Place this evening?” she asked as civilly as possible.

His big, powerful hand contrasted oddly with his fine-drawn features. He was impeccably dressed. Even his hair was perfectly waved, as though he’d used a curling iron. She was not remotely impressed and, in fact, thought he appeared vain and insufferable. He kissed the back of her fingers, gazing at her from beneath his long lashes. She quickly reclaimed her hand, wishing she could sterilize it. How could Jack bring this monster inside their doors? Inside Braham’s home? Jack had some explaining to do.

“Mr. Booth agreed to sit for an interview,” Jack said. “I’m afraid I’ve used much more of his time than he originally offered.”

Edward handed Booth his hat.

“I have a late appointment. Please excuse me.” Booth bowed to Charlotte, then said to Jack, “I look forward to reading the interview.” Booth left the house, his cape flowing behind