The Charleston Chase (Phantom Knights Book 2) Read online

  Samuel moved around his desk and pulled open a drawer. He produced two glasses and poured out what looked like brandy. One of the glasses he held out to me. Without hesitation, I took the glass.

  “Would you like to tell me what you are doing in Charleston, or perhaps whom you were fighting?” he said after he had taken a sip.

  “Her name is Guinevere Clark,” I said, seeing no reason to lie. I did not expect him to have heard of her. I was not sure what she was doing in Charleston. The last time I saw her was in the throne room of Levitas after I received a brand on my back.

  Samuel set his glass down with a look of astonishment on his face. “Indeed, and were you trying to beat information about the Holy Order from her, or do you strike every person you meet?” There was a small note of humor in the words.

  Scowling at him, I raised my chin higher. So he did know who she was. “She deserves much worse than the blows I dealt her,” I felt my eyes narrow, “as do you, I will remind you.”

  He grinned, the teeth-flashing kind that revealed perfect white teeth. He moved to sit in his desk chair. He said nothing, but I saw the moment his smile faded, and he stiffened slightly. I moved the cloth from my one arm to the other, shifting straighter in the chair. When his eyes flicked to mine, he was silently furious. If eyes could blaze fire, I would be aflame.

  “Do you also make it a habit of breaking into houses and stealing people’s correspondence?”

  A pang of regret struck me, but it was momentary. “If it is necessary to my investigation, yes.”

  “Your investigation?” He leaned back in his chair crossing his arms. “Do not you mean our investigation, Miss Martin?” When I did not respond, he smiled, but it was not a pleasant one. “You see, I know why you are here.” He picked up a letter from his desk. “My uncle did not send you trusting that you would come to me for help. He sent a letter that arrived on the same ship you did. A porter delivered it while you were no doubt fighting in the field.”

  George would do that, vexatious man! I wanted to snatch the letter away from him and to read what George said, and then burn the letter.

  Samuel raised the letter, saying, “Uncle George writes that he has sent you to join my team. That together he knows we will be successful in destroying the Holy Order.” He refolded the letter and tossed it on his desk. “I am curious, Miss Martin. Are you capable of following orders?” Samuel’s voice was calm, but his eyes were gray storm clouds threatening thunder and possibly some lightning.

  “Yes, sir,” I replied without emotion.

  “Then why, Miss Martin?” He did not need to say more; I knew he wanted to know why I broke into his house, stole his letter, and had no intention of approaching him for help.

  “George has no authority to order me to do anything,” I informed him.

  “True, but then you have no authority to go after the Holy Order. You are no longer a Phantom.”

  I wanted to stand and walk out, but he would never let me leave with the stolen letter. My investigation would be back to nothing without that letter unless Guinevere could be found and forced to give me the information I needed.

  When I did not reply, Samuel was out of his chair in an instant. Leaping to my feet, I barely held in a cry at the sudden burst of pain. Rounding the chair, facing him and ready for a fight, I would not give him the higher ground.

  It was a lesson that my father taught me. I made him angry once—well, more than once—but one significant time. He made me sit in a chair while he paced before me in brooding silence. The silence was meant to make me squirm. When I showed signs of being truly intimidated, he would let me have the full force of his anger in his words. I remember shivering with my shoulders hunched over in defeat, regret, and a little fear. But, when I chanced to glance up into his eyes, he was waiting for me to react. He was teaching me a lesson. I straightened in my chair and listened until he was finished, and then I stood, rendering a formal apology with my shoulders squared, holding his gaze. We stared at each other until my father broke a smile. He told me that unless it was him or a person that I looked upon as my authority, never was I to cower or to give up the higher ground. I would face my adversary and never let my emotions show on my face.

  Watching Samuel’s every movement and keeping my breathing even was all pretense. Inside, I was not feeling confident at all. He took slow steps toward me; his eyes moving over all of me. It was as if he were sizing up a horse instead of looking upon a respectable, well, almost respectable female. A piece of my ground was taken away as he stopped before me, and I had to look up to see his eyes.

  “Do you want my help, Miss Martin?” He asked softly.

  Did I? No, not truly, but what other choice was open to me? He held the power. He could turn me over to the constables if he liked, but I did not think that was what he wanted. He wanted to hear me ask for his help. “Yes,” I said with a firm voice that I inwardly congratulated myself on.

  “Then why steal from me?” I hesitated to reply, and he frowned. “You do not mean to tell me? I could order you to do so, you know.” There was no threat in his voice, only fact.

  “Yes, sir, and as the leader of the team I am wishful to join,” I would not give him the satisfaction of hearing me call him my leader, “I would be coerced to tell you.”

  His eyes were staring penetratingly into mine, then, slowly they dropped to my lips. My body stiffened all over. That would not happen again. When the moment passed, his gaze flicked back to mine.

  His voice dropped as he said, “It is not my will to coerce you, Miss Martin. I believe you stole my letter because the Holy Order is in some way connected to why you are here.”

  Being a spy, confession was foreign to me, but I was feeling guilt again over having stolen the letter from him, and my guilt made me want to confess. He did not give me a chance.

  “Will you follow every order that I give you?” His gray-blue eyes bore into me, searching through the files of my soul for every crime I had ever committed.

  My shoulders straightened. “To the best of my conscience.”

  His dark brows shot up causing three lines to form on his forehead. “What may that mean?”

  “Only this; I have been working this job for a long time. I have been trained by the best and have the highest perception in the field. I know when to follow orders, and I know when to make my own decisions.”

  “Indeed,” he stepped nearer, his legs brushing the front of the chair, “and can I trust you, Miss Martin?”

  “Of course,” I replied with outward calm, though inside I was a hurricane of emotions, none of them positive. Before he could speak again, I asked, “Can I trust you, Mr. Mason?”

  His eyes searched mine. He was so close that I could see the lighter flecks in his eyes that looked light white lightning. “I will never lie to you.” He did not look away; he did not hesitate. He was completely honest. Drat the man!

  I wanted to test his honesty—to see how far it reached. “Are you a libertine?” I asked before I could stop myself.

  There was no flicker of surprise in his eyes. His chest rose and fell as he stared at me. If he expected me to back away, to give up, he would be disappointed.

  He sighed but did not look away from me. “When the job requires, yes. But, my heart and will are pure, and I have never purposefully hurt someone when in those situations.”

  Opening my mouth to retort, no sound came forth. My cheeks were full of heat. I could have been standing before an open fire instead of an intriguingly honest man. My heart was throwing itself around, trying to escape, or knock some sense into me.

  He tilted his head to the side, his lips lifting on one side and curiosity filling his face. “What is your secret wish, Miss Martin, one thing you want above any other thing?”

  My brain and my mouth did not seem to be working together at the moment, for I did not mean to respond, but I said, “I want a quiet life where I never have to tell another lie as long as I live.” As I lowered my eyes, my cheeks
filled with even more heat, and pain filled my chest. I fought the tears that sprang to my eyes. I had never admitted that to anyone other than Jack, and Ben my first betrothed.

  He smiled a real smile without smugness. Even his eyes smiled, replacing the intensity. He was alarmingly handsome when he smiled like that. My heart beat with the fierceness of a war drum. Stupid, traitorous heart.

  “I hope that we can work together, Miss Martin,” he said softly.

  “So too do I, Mr. Mason.” My words came out breathless, and I mentally berated myself. I could not allow a man with intense eyes and a smile that could melt the ice around my heart if I focused on it, to affect me. As my new leader, I would treat him with the respect that his position demanded, but nothing more.

  “As we are now on the same team, I hope you will call me Sam.”

  “I find that any form of intimacy between a leader and his team is misplaced.”

  “Is that so?” He sounded amused. “Is that how you led your team?”

  “Of course not. My team was my family. You, however, are not.”

  He came toward me; his every move calculated. He knew how to work upon a woman’s resolve; I knew that without a single doubt. The closer he came, the more I wanted to run out of the room. He was smiling that annoying smug tilt to his lips as if he were enjoying my discomfort, although I knew none of my emotions were showing.

  “Do I make you uncomfortable, Miss Martin?”

  Completely. “No, sir,” I lied, before stepping closer until we were toe to toe and was rewarded by a slight lift to his brows. Tilting my head to the side and smiling how I had seen Hannah Lamont, the society minx of Philadelphia, beckon to so many men, Samuel’s eyes widened. “Do I make you uncomfortable, Mr. Mason?”

  “Just so,” he replied, his voice sounding distracted, like he was far away in his thoughts. His eyes refocused on me, and he ran a finger carefully, softly down my cheek over the place Guinevere had struck me.

  Behind us, the door slammed against the wall. “Step away from my sister!” a sharp voice demanded.

  Jack? My gaze flew to the door, hope in my heart, but it was only Levi. He had sounded like Jack. Suddenly, realization struck me that he was holding a pistol; the barrel pointed at Samuel. Samuel had turned and was staring at the pistol.

  “I take it you are John Martin.” Samuel spoke with calculated calm.

  Stepping in front of Samuel, I moved to Levi’s side, laying my hand on his extended arm. “Levi, lower the pistol. Mr. Mason, allow me to present Levi Martin.”

  Levi stared at Samuel for another moment, then lowered the pistol and moved forward with his other hand outstretched. Samuel shook it.

  “I had not heard that you have two brothers, Miss Martin.”

  Not in blood but in our name. When my father brought home orphans to train to become spies, he not only provided them with a home, but with a name if they did not have one. Levi was the only orphan without a name, so he was made a Martin. It was a risk once we moved to Philadelphia, but there were many Martins in the city.

  “Now I remember,” Samuel said after a moment of looking at Levi, “you are Hades.”

  Levi grinned. “My exploits reached all the way to Charleston, have they?” I could not stop the smile that touched my lips. Levi was sixteen and incredibly spirited. Wild was how Jack described him, the reason he was given the name Hades. Levi’s black hair was what was wild at the moment, wind-blown, and his narrow cheeks were pink from being out in the chilly air. His green eyes were filled with mischief as he spoke with Samuel. He was shorter than I by three inches; the same height as Jack. The resemblance between the two was remarkable considering that we were not blood related to Levi. Their similarities had served them well on many missions over the last seven years that we had been Phantoms.

  “Are you joining my team as well, Levi?” Samuel asked.

  Levi laughed. “You make it sound like Bess is joining your team, and wouldn’t that be something.”

  “Levi,” I said sharply. When he looked at me, I gave him a hard look. His laughter stopped abruptly. “Be so good as to fetch me my reticule from the carriage.”

  Levi looked from me to Samuel, then turned and left the book room without a word.

  “Levi was only my escort, Mr. Mason. He will not be staying long as he is part of the Washington Phantoms.”

  There was a small smile playing on Samuel’s lips and a look of curiosity covering his face. “Bess,” he murmured. “It suits you.”

  I chose to ignore that.

  We silently regarded each other until Levi came back into the house. He handed me my small, blue reticule that matched my traveling gown that I had worn earlier on the ship. I opened it, removed a folded letter, and held the letter out to Samuel.

  As he opened the letter, I said, “A little over a month ago, I was sent to meet with a former member of my team who had some information to give me. After we had parted ways, I heard two shots fired, so I went back to investigate. I found Henry’s body, but there was nothing to be done.”

  “Look up?” he asked as he looked over the letter.

  Here was the difficult part of my story. I knew he had seen the Holy Order crest on the paper. “That letter was left on Henry’s body for me to find. Then, someone I knew came upon me beside the body. The only thing for me to do was to tell him the truth, and that is why I had to leave my home.”

  Samuel’s face remained emotionless throughout my recounting. It was not until I looked down at my clasped hands that were shaking that he spoke. “I do believe that this is a fortunate occurrence.”

  My gaze shot to his, and a burning fire rose within me. Fortunate? That my life had been torn apart in a matter of hours? That I was driven from my home and that I lost my betrothed? I wanted to do more than slap him. He smiled, and it took all my restraint to keep from scratching out his intense eyes.

  “You see, Miss Martin, you have come to the right place. The Holy Order is in Charleston.”

  Chapter 3

  Jack

  13 February 1817

  Baltimore

  Over the last few months, Leo and I had been in New York, Washington, Baltimore, and everywhere in between, it seemed. The Holy Order had left us a trail to follow and one that ended in a giant circle. We had gone first to the mercantile in Baltimore where Guinevere had directed me and found it deserted in what looked like haste.

  The throne room was a room two stories below the mercantile that had also been deserted. We had found our first clue there that had led to another, then another until we ended back in Baltimore. We did not find the Holy Order, but we did find a group of foreigners who had long been a source of trouble for us. They had murdered the man my sister was going to marry when she was sixteen, threatened my sister’s life, and were searching for the woman that I loved. What they wanted with her, I had yet to discover, but they had a name for her. Ma belle.

  It was late, nearing midnight, when Leo and I followed them at a discreet distance. When they stopped at the back door of the two-story mercantile, Leo and I paused. They unlocked the door and the four of them went in, without looking around first, to see if they were being followed.

  Fools!

  Leo and I waited a minute before moving to that door. We each took out a handy pistol before entering the mercantile. The door led into a dark storage room, but there was a hint of light coming from an open door to the right. There was a light moving down a staircase, and as we descended, we could hear mumbled words coming from the cellar.

  To anyone who went down the first flight of stairs, they would come upon a stocked cellar. Whoever carved the underground rooms did a fine job of masking the door that led to a second staircase, for if you pushed a shelf that was on a track, the shelf moved to reveal a hole cut out of the stone.

  The lower we went, the cooler the air became. As we stepped off the last stair, we were in a stone-carved hallway that ended at a black door with a gold knob in the center. Painted in gold around the kn
ob was the crest of the Holy Order. The door was standing ajar, and we heard voices, but not clear enough to decipher what was being said. As we walked toward the door, all was momentarily silent on the other side.

  “We understand you have information for us,” came a voice that did not sound American.

  “All knowledge comes at a price,” replied a voice that I knew well. I felt my lip curl. Frederick, who was the leader of the Washington Phantoms. I always said Frederick was a fool, but even he could not be so foolish as to be working with those rogues who wore the serpent ring.

  “As agreed upon,” the foreign man said. Then he added, “Den hellige orden.”

  “Charleston,” Frederick replied, followed by a sigh of long-suffering.

  That dirty cad! Frederick knew where the Holy Order was, and instead of telling me or Bess or Leo, he gave that information to the ones who were after Ma belle.

  “We can’t let them go,” Leo whispered beside me.

  “I know. Follow my lead.”

  The throne room was as I remembered it, with the exception of five men in the center of the room. It was a large square room with a vaulted ceiling rising two stories above. Twelve golden thrones lined the walls facing a large golden chair on a raised platform in the center of the room. Candles were aglow on gold wall sconces illuminating a mural painted on the far wall. It was a battle scene of angels fighting demons.

  As I sauntered into the throne room, Frederick was seated in the center throne chair. The other four men were standing. As expected, those four men were wearing a gold snake wrapped around their index finger. Frederick’s eyes widened, but he did not move. When five pairs of eyes stared at Leo and me, I smiled.

  “Den hellige orden?” one of the men asked.

  “Fantom,” I replied.

  The four men drew their weapons, and I braced myself for the fight, but I had not taken a step, when pistols exploded from beside me. I leapt to the right, my shoulder bumping into the wall as my heart beats exploded in surprise and distress. Leo had shot the four standing men, but Frederick was unharmed.