Fiddlehead (The Clockwork Century #5)

Fiddlehead (The Clockwork Century #5) Page 13

Reptilian sprang to mind. Or maybe he was drunker than he thought. He had no idea what color the eyes of any given reptile were.

But he took her hand, because it’d go well beyond the casual appearance of rudeness to refuse, and gave it a perfunctory kiss before saying, “I’m sorry, I’ve been an ass.” Someone in the back of the room choked on a mouthful of something expensive, but Grant didn’t care, so he continued. “But there is a protocol to this sort of thing. Isn’t there, Fowler?”

With a fixed, unpleasant smile, Fowler replied, “Protocols were made to be tested, and occasionally revised.”

“If you say so. But what occasion do we have tonight?” Behind him, Grant heard mutterings that were halfway meant to be heard by all. He hated that kind of muttering. Speak up and make yourself heard, and take responsibility for having said it, that was his philosophy. Not that he strictly disagreed with the room’s general timbre, or its complaint that it would not do to have a lady present for such proceedings. He just didn’t care for cowards, that was all.

But Desmond rose to the occasion, or at least described it with enough gravitas and aplomb that he got everyone’s attention. “Because tonight we learn how we’re going to end the war.”

“Once and for all?” asked Emmet Wigfall, a man from someplace small and unmentionable in New York with an unfortunate name but a great fortune.

Fowler said peevishly, “Yes, once and for all. Or else why even take a stab at it? I mean really, Emmet. But we are going to end the war—and, more to the point, we’re going to win it—with the help of Miss Haymes and her remarkable weaponry.”

“Ah,” Grant said. It meant nothing, except that Desmond’s declaration seemed to require some answering syllable, so he provided it. And he followed it up with, “I see,” for suddenly he did see—they were talking about Desmond’s program. This was the woman who’d done the dirty work. Or she’d done some portion of the dirty work, that was for damn sure. Desmond Fowler never did much of anything that wasn’t dirty.

It had taken Grant entirely too long to figure this out about his Secretary of State. If he’d only paid attention sooner, he might’ve been able to do something about this man … a brilliant man, of course, and no one would say otherwise. But he was not a man you wanted to keep very close.

No, that was wrong.

Friends close. Enemies closer.

Grant thought—and very nearly said aloud—that he ought to keep Fowler in a box under his bed for safekeeping. Only a glimmer of sobriety pulled the emergency brake in time to keep him from airing the idea to the room at large.

He shook his head, which only made the room wobble. By the time it settled, Desmond Fowler had led Katharine Haymes to a seat, and she was sitting decorously with a fancy beaded bag in her lap and her legs crossed at the ankle, offering a peek at a pair of boots that might’ve cost more than a horse.

“So this is where you tell us about your program to end the war. Or how you got the money for it, behind my back, if I can infer a few things from your grand announcement,” the president said, just loudly enough to dampen the room’s uncomfortable murmur. When surprised silence was achieved, he added, “Because I sure as hell didn’t sign off on this.”

Fowler stood up straighter and placed a hand on Katharine’s shoulder. Grant couldn’t shake the impression that he didn’t mean to calm her, but to draw on her strength—and it unnerved him, though he couldn’t find a clear enough place in his head to sort out precisely why.

“Mr. President,” the Secretary of State began, with a defensive note in his voice. “Allocation of funds occurs at your discretion, yes—in this instance, at any rate. But I believed in Miss Haymes’s program, and I was able to strike a deal that wouldn’t dip into the Union’s coffers.”

Grant pulled up a chair. It was a big, heavy chair, and he moved it easily, leaving a trail as he drew it roughly across the knotted rug, which he found perversely satisfying. He dropped himself into that chair, facing both Desmond and Katharine. Fixing them with a gaze that demanded answers, even if he was afraid to hear them. “This must be one hell of a deal, then. It must be so good, you’ll hardly have to sell it. I’m sure we’ll all be on board the very minute the explanation leaves your mouth.”

The room’s other occupants—nine men of various allegiances, motives, calibers, and competencies—congealed around the scene, lurking at the sideboard and the liquor cabinet, or milling about at the edges of their bright, unhappy circle.

Fowler didn’t waver or find a chair of his own. Katharine patted his hand, and then she answered for him. “Gentlemen, Mr. President, thank you for granting me an audience this evening. I am well aware that my presence here means this isn’t a typical war meeting, but I want to assure you all that war is the matter at hand. I am here to offer you the keys to victory.”

Jemison Simms, an old-timer from Pennsylvania, was almost as difficult to impress as the president. And, apparently, he was better briefed. “That’s a peculiar proposition, ma’am, seeing as you’re a Southerner yourself. You’ve tamed your accent well, but your reputation precedes you.”

Her reputation hadn’t gotten anywhere near Grant yet, a fact which he was prepared to place squarely in the deliberate, conniving hands of Desmond Fowler. He covered for his ignorance with a guess. “Yes, Miss Haymes—do explain why a Confederate woman of means has such an interest in seeing her nation defeated.”

“Southern, yes. Confederate, no. They have nasty words for people like me south of the line, Mr. President.”

Oh, but he had no doubt. And it took true physical effort on his part to keep from saying so. “Surely not,” he mustered successfully, if without sincerity. Maybe it wasn’t fair, the way he disliked her already—but if she wanted to make a better first impression on people, she could keep better company.

“If there’s another name they’d like to give you, I’d expect it might be ‘criminal,’” Simms pushed, his fluffy white facial hair hiding most of his uncertain frown, but not all of it.

Grant wasn’t sure what Simms was talking about, but Wigfall chimed in. Usually the way Wigfall liked to state and repeat the obvious annoyed him. This time, he was glad for any shred of context he could glean.

“The Rossville incident,” Wigfall said. “The Rebs may not have held you accountable, but you may rest assured that Washington will.”

Desmond Fowler cleared his throat. “On the contrary.”

“She’s a war criminal,” Jemison Simms asserted. “And an enemy sympathizer, at that—though considering how much she’s contributed to the war effort down South, we may as well call her a treasonous enemy. She shouldn’t be allowed in the District at all, and you’ve brought her into a closed meeting.”

A dim recollection started to take shape in the back of Grant’s mind. All these little pieces were adding up to a memory, some bit of trivia overheard and ignored. A Southern woman, making weapons and testing them … testing them inappropriately. Did she do it at a prison camp? Was that right? It felt right, as he turned the idea over, testing its familiarity. The more he thought about it, the more certain he was that yes, this was that same woman. Haymes. Not the sort of name that stuck out in a conversation. Not his fault that he hadn’t recognized it immediately.

Wigfall joined in with Simms. “Perhaps we should contact the authorities, have her arrested on the spot.”

Wryly, and not at all nervously, she replied, “I’m sitting in a room with the president. If you have a higher authority than that in mind, I’d like to hear about it.”

This rebuttal caused all eyes to turn to Grant. Now he really hated her. But Desmond Fowler had cleared his throat and said … he’d said … oh, yes, now he remembered. The president asked, “What did you mean by ‘on the contrary,’ Fowler? Why isn’t she accountable here? Do you know something I don’t?”

The question was so huge and ridiculous that he smiled in its wake. Fowler smiled back, and for one narrow, unreproducible instant, they might’ve shared a moment of camaraderie, had the subject been anything else in the world.

The moment passed. Fowler’s grin condensed into something harder and differently cruel. “Miss Haymes and I have come to an agreement. A formal, legal agreement which has been signed off upon by Salmon P. Chase.”

“Signed … signed off upon? That’s not even English,” Grant complained, but that wasn’t what really made him mad. “You think you can go running to the Supreme Court every time you want to take steps I don’t approve of?”

“You’ll approve of this one when you hear it. But I didn’t have time to convince you outright, so I’ve taken a shortcut. And before you say so, yes, I know you can fight the Chief Justice on this. I have only his word to back it up. The rest of the court is not yet involved, though it certainly could become part of the game if it has to.”

“Don’t threaten me, Fowler.”

“No one’s threatening anyone!” he protested. “I’m only explaining why I’ve taken the path of least time investment and resistance. And if you’ll only let the lady speak, I think you’ll agree that I’ve come to the right conclusion.”

“If you’re so sure I’d come around, why didn’t you just ask me in the first place?” Grant demanded. He walked over to the liquor cabinet despite only halfway noticing that he needed another drink, so accustomed were his hands to finding refills before he’d even detected the glass was empty.

Fowler snuck a glance down at Katharine, who sat calmly and still. “Because Miss Haymes makes her case better than I do, but I was compelled to guarantee her safety during her visit. I did not have time to risk the possibility of your disapproval. Now, I’m asking you, Mr. President, if you’ll kindly hear her out. She might surprise you.”