Chapter Two

Charleston, South Carolina, 1867

Constance fingered the expensive note-card in her hand. A footman brought it to her only moments earlier. How did Kenward know she'd returned to the Teague townhouse in Charleston? Did the blasted man still have spies everywhere? Bad dreams of her many narrow escapes, of being discovered and talking her way out, and her fear of being publicly hanged as a spy had almost stopped over the past few months.

However, being back in this house, this town, with its buildings bearing shell holes and war ghosts, disturbed her peace of mind. She'd dealt with one of her vivid nightmares just last night. And now this... A note demanded she meet Sir Kenward in their usual place.

He couched it in terms of a romantic liaison, in case of its interception, and he signed it with only his initials. Just as before, when she'd passed information to him or his contemporaries on Southern troop movements and supply runs.

Constance paced the floor. She didn't want to go and wondered what he would do if she failed to show. What could the man possibly need from her after all this time? The war was well and truly over – the country was healing, wasn't it? Surely, he had no more need of a female spy. Perhaps she should keep the assignation – one last time. She would make it clear she was done with him and his notes. This would be the end of it.

Dressed carefully, as she would for a true meeting of the heart, Constance sent for a Hansom cab and instructed the driver to take her to the theater. He assisted her inside and took his place atop the coach.

Once at the theater, Constance paid her driver and walked into the foyer. But rather than purchase entry, she slipped out a side door, pulled her scarf about her head and shoulders, and scanned the line of lesser class cabs waiting for fares. She hired an elderly driver who looked clean despite his worn clothing and climbed inside. This one she instructed to take her to a certain dock, to a private boat, a yacht they were now called. Constance told him there would be a fine tip, if he would wait. He stayed put, propped his feet on the carriage edge, and pulled out his pipe.

Constance made sure her hair and most of her face remained covered then walked along the wooden ramps among the tethered boats until she reached the correct one. She rang the small bell three times and waited.

He came from behind her. His arm encircled her shoulders and he greeted her, "My love. I am so glad you came. Come aboard and let me show you the changes I've made to the Lady Freedom. I was just out securing this bottle of wine for us. We'll drink a toast to her." With that he ushered her on board and hurried her below.

She heard one of his men move into place to guard the access as Sir Kenward finally lit a lantern.

"Well, Thaddeus. Looks like nothing much has changed with you." She uncovered her face and hair as she pointedly looked at the thick black cloth draped over the porthole and the maps and papers stacked on his desk.

"It is grand to see you also, Lady Constance. You're more beautiful than ever. Won't you have a seat and partake of the wine?"

"No, thank you. I won't be staying long, and I was mistaken. In the light, I can see you are thinner and even more worn looking than before. Are the nation's affairs so troublesome?"

"Extremely troublesome, my dear. Exactly the reason I asked you to join me tonight. You must excuse me, please, if I sit. This leg pains me more each day. I definitely could use a libation." Thaddeus dropped onto the chair behind the desk, stretched out his offending limb, and popped the cork on the wine. He poured a fair portion into a mug and took a long drink. "Sure you won't have just a sip?"

Constance shook her head. "Thaddeus, our arrangement is over. I came tonight out of... curiosity ...let's say – and because I owe it to you. But this is the last time. I am out of this." There, she'd said it, and now she could go. She did not want to be drawn back into whatever had him looking so shaken.

"Someone is trying to assassinate the President." Thaddeus watched her over the rim of his pewter mug as he took another drink. She sat abruptly on the edge of the chair facing him.

"But... I thought they caught all the conspirators involved in the assassination of President Lincoln. Johnson appears to be doing an adequate job of the Reconstruction, isn't he?"

"Yes and no. There are several groups who want Johnson gone. Seems they don't agree with his policies of taking from the rich to share with the poor. Then on the other side, there are those who don't like his efforts to block civil rights. Some are willing to attempt to remove him legally through impeachment, but others would rather he join Lincoln in the grave. Our country would be in dire straits if another assassination were to occur, particularly now. We need to get someone close to a man who is involved."

"Me?" Constance laughed nervously and played with the edges of her shawl. "What makes you think he would let me get close? No, please, Thaddeus... You must find someone else. I truly—"

"Nathaniel Weston," Kenward said the name then poured wine into the second mug on the desk and passed it over.

She drained it in one swallow. "Nate? You think he's trying to kill President Johnson?"

"We don't know, Constance. He's involved up to his...er, uhm...chin. We're just not sure how, or why. You are to use any...uhm...means at your disposal to find out and to stop him. Now you know why I chose you." Wisely, Thaddeus stopped talking and allowed her time to mull over what he'd said.

Nate – an assassin? Her mind tried to work that out. Yes, she knew he could kill a man. She'd watched him do so on two separate occasions. And he'd gotten her out of more than one tight spot during her spying days. He was tough, quick, and wily as a fox, but she would not accept him as an assassin of the President. He was a true patriot who loved his country.

"I don't believe it," she told her former employer. She breathed deeply as she tried to find a way around this, but then let out a long sigh before saying, "All right... I will do this one last thing for you, for my country. But you will not ask anything else of me, ever. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly, my dear, perfectly." A smile lit his face and he poured both of them another dollop of wine. "To success – and hopefully, to saving our Union."