honor and respect her. His proposal also relieved her of the social and emotional burden of being a spinster or old maid. Partially because of the scar on her neck, Rebecca did not consider herself a beauty, and she had no real money to speak of. She was also considered to be a little too outspoken in her zeal regarding the need to abolish slavery. This had stood her well in Boston, but not in Washington.
“I had hoped for happiness, if not romance,” Rebecca said, “but I had neither, although I suppose there was a measure of security. Thomas never loved me and never had any intention of doing so. I was a social necessity. He needed a wife and I would do.”
Valerie had known of many loveless marriages. Too bad for Rebecca, but no real surprise. She had known Thomas Devon through her husband's activities and had not liked him very much. “And you never saw each other naked?” Valerie persisted. The thought fascinated her.
“No. Let's just say he was perfunctory when it came to performing the marriage act.” In truth it had been nothing like the novels Valerie had brought with her from France and had let Rebecca read
“Let me guess,” Valerie said. “He would come at night in the dark, climb into bed, pull up your nightgown, enter you, grunt a few times, and then slip quietly back to his room.” Despite her intense embarrassment, Rebecca smiled. “It's almost as if you'd slept with him. You didn't, did you?”
“No, although I've known men like that. Did you ever try to tell him what you wanted from him?”
Rebecca shrugged. “If I'd known, I might have. I just don't think he cared. After he was hurt in battle, I found his diary and realized he had a mistress.”
The diary also detailed how Thomas Devon had been profiting illegally from purchases for the army. He had been a tool of Secretary of War Simon Cameron, and the last few pages had told of Thomas Devon's fears that he would be caught and left to hang out to dry by Cameron. Devon had joined the army to make himself a hero and insulate himself from the worst of the accusations. He hadn't counted on getting killed. After reading it, Rebecca burned it in anger and shame. Later, she realized that it might be necessary to show investigators that shed known nothing of Thomas's affairs and that the diary might have proved it. No matter. Few wives knew what their husbands did. Her assertions of innocence would be believed.
For a short while she had wondered just what to do with the money that had accrued to her from Thomas's estate, since much of it had been ill-gotten. So far she had done nothing other than live on it, and had pretty well determined that she would not return it as she had no idea where and to whom it should be returned and in what quantity.
“You poor thing,” Valerie said, interrupting her thoughts. She had known that Thomas Devon had a mistress. She was somewhat surprised that Rebecca hadn't figured it out sooner. “Tell me, didn't you ever feel the stirrings of pleasure or the feeling that you wanted more when he was doing what he wished with you?”
“Yes,” Rebecca responded thoughtfully.
“Do you think he would have done what you wished had you known what to wish for?”
“It's been far less than a year since he died, so I don't wish to speak ill of the dead, but no, I don't think so. Too late I found that he lived in his own little world and wasn't interested in mine.”
“Well then,” Valerie said happily, “let's get back to the point of finding you another man. Your presence at my soiree the other day was a clear signal that you are no longer in total mourning. Believe me: my dear departed Captain Knollys absolutely noticed, so I guess it's good that he's gone. And General Scott's friend, that Mr. Hunter, seemed interested in you. There will be a handful of other events over the Christmas holidays, and I will see to it that you are invited.”
“You're very kind,” Rebecca said. “And you're a very good friend. However, it took me all that time to find one husband, and it turned out all wrong. I'm afraid you might spend an eternity looking for a second one for me and still not do any better.”
Valerie laughed. “Once again, who said anything about a husband? Regardless, we shall ensure that the next time you take a man to bed with you, you are well prepared and knowledgeable. You will have to learn at almost thirty years of age what most Frenchwomen know at fifteen. I was taught by a friend of mine at that age. She was very helpful. I learned from her how to both give and receive pleasure.”
She? Rebecca was astonished. “Valerie, you're not one of those women who prefer women, are you?”
“Of course not, although I admit to having tried it a couple of times. I vastly prefer men, even the inferior ones. I was talking about imparting knowledge through specific experiences. Surely you're not afraid of a little knowledge, are you?”
Rebecca laughed and blushed. “A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, isn't it?”
Valerie laughed and the two women headed back to the French embassy, where they would have tea. She was intrigued and delighted that Rebecca hadn't rejected her suggestion. Poor little Rebecca Devon was growing up. This, she decided, could be very interesting. Their mutual love of art would be a beginning. Both had taken up charcoal sketching and painting with watercolors, but with limited results. Valerie had some skill, but Rebecca's work was stiff and lifeless.
Perhaps, Valerie thought, working with paints and charcoal would be a conduit to liberating the passionate creature Valerie thought lurked beneath Rebecca's exterior. If nothing else, it would be an interesting adventure.
As Nathan Hunter entered his darkened bedroom, he noticed a bulge behind one of the drapes. He forced himself to act normal while keeping an eye on where it looked like an intruder might be hiding. He thought about leaving the room but he was alone in the house. General Scott was visiting friends with Sergeant Fromm and it was Bridget's night off. No, he would stay and surprise the person by becoming the aggressor.
Nathan carefully laid his dress gloves on the bed and moved to rest his cane against a dresser. As he did, he pushed a release and the bottom of the cane dropped off. In the same motion, he quickly wheeled and jabbed the short sword into the bulge.
“Jaysus Christ that hurts!” a man's voice howled, and a body fell in front of him. Nathan planted his foot on the man's chest and placed the sword, really a modified bayonet, against the intruder's throat. The man's shirt was sliced at his belly, but there was only a little blood. Nathan had intended to shock, not kill.
“Just lie there,” Nathan said angrily. “Move and I'll run this through your throat till it sticks into the floor. You're not dying, not even hurt. I barely broke the skin. Do you understand me?”
“Marvelously well, kind sir, and I have no intention of moving without your permission. And probably not even then.”
Nathan paused and took in his captive. The man was short, thin, and in his mid-forties. By the accent, the man was Irish. He was, however, well-dressed and, since Nathan hadn't killed him outright, was rapidly losing any fear he might have felt at having a sword at his belly and then at his throat.
“Now, what were you doing hiding in my room? Looking for valuables, I don't doubt.”
“Actually, kind sir, I was looking for you. That is, if you are Mr. Hunter?”
Surprising and interesting, Nathan thought. How did the man know who he was? “If that is the case, may I ask why you didn't make an appointment, or even knock?”
“I thought the subtle way was best. If nobody sees me, then maybe no lies are necessary to deny any conversation. By now you should realize that it's the way things are done in this pigsty of a town.”
With one quickly moving hand, the intruder swept Nathan's sword away and, with the other, sent Nathan off him and rolling across the floor. In an instant, the Irishman was on Nathan's chest, but it was just a half second too late. The knife from Nathan's boot was against his throat.
“Jaysus,” the intruder gasped again. “You're very religious,” Nathan said. “How many more of those bloody damned things do you have?”
“Enough. I was taught that trick by an Apache scout. Do you want to see what else he taught me?” The intruder shook his head. “Then move back slowly and we'll both get up. Then you'll tell me just who the devil you are and what you want?”
Both men cautiously got to their feet. Nathan retrieved the bayonet sword without removing the knife from the other man's throat. “Start.”
“My name is Attila Flynn:” the stranger said, “and I wish to help you and your general win this war against England, goddamn them. General Scott is correct, you know. McClellan will never do anything right, and the United States might lose this war if it's not careful. While I don't much give a damn about the fate of the darkies or whether the rebels should become truly independent, a British victory would be the worst thing in the world for the cause of a free Ireland.”
