January sat at his makeup table, fuming over his sister’s performance, worse still her inability to recognize how slovenly she was. Her pale efforts poisoned his, undermining all that he attempted to give to the audience. He poured a glass of whiskey, downed half of it, and went to the door that adjoined his dressing room with his sister’s.
He threw it open with a bang. She spun to face him, just closing a silk robe over her bodice. “Get out!” she demanded.
He was gratified to see she feared him. “We’re not finished yet.”
“I will call for the manager—”
But before she could say anything else he had her pinned in his arm, his mouth covering her. She fought his advance, struggling to break free, but the firmness of her full breasts against his chest and her resistance only inflamed him. He felt her hands seeking him, her fingernails clawing at the bulge in his costume. She returned his kisses, each one a mounting explosion.
January pushed her onto a divan, tore away his heavy costume, and freed his swollen penis. Dropping to his knees, he pulled out the dagger used in the performance, slipped it under the silk ribbons securing Victoria’s bodice, and with an upward sweep released her breasts from their confinement.
She parted her legs, readying herself, and said, as if in a dream, “Slowly, my lord. Oh, so slowly.”
Chapter 4
Eleutherian Mills
Near Wilmington, Delaware
Major Bloom was a liar, Fitz thought. Or at the very least he was doing a very poor job of avoiding the truth. The major had met Fitz and Asia at the Hagley Yard of the E.I. du Pont de Nemours and Company site on Brandywine Creek. The meeting had started badly with Bloom being disagreeable about Asia’s presence.
Fitz silenced him with a curt, “She is not your wife but mine. And even I do not presume to tell her where she may or may not go.”
Bloom relented, either because Fitz outranked him and carried a warrant from the president or because Asia’s cold gaze caused him to reconsider his position.
“Very well,” Bloom had grumbled, “but this is a dangerous place and I will not be held accountable for her.”
“No,” Fitz said. “That is why I married her. Has a man from the Navy Department named Abbott arrived?”
“Not to my knowledge,” Bloom said.
They traveled a short distance in a carriage to the scene of the explosion. Fitz smelled the desolation before the vehicle stopped. It was the heavy stench of burned wood, and damp earth mixed with the sharp, stinging scent of fired powder. When the carriage stopped Fitz was first to dismount. He said nothing as he surveyed the destruction. All that remained of the three buildings were charred timbers jutting from mounds of shattered bricks. The steady pillars of smoke that floated into the afternoon sky and the remnants of fires that glowed within the rubble reinforced the notion.
As Fitz studied the macabre landscape, Bloom spoke, stacking explanations and observations atop one another so effortlessly that no seams were apparent in his conclusion.
“One of the workmen was smoking,” Bloom said. “There are several hundred here, and you don’t expect a man to be denied a cigar. There were no rebel agents.” He laughed at the thought, adding, “For God’s sake, Colonel, this entire area is safeguarded by the 178th Michigan.”
“You command the regiment?” Fitz asked.
The question startled Bloom. “What? No, sir. Colonel Greenwood.”
“I would expect Colonel Greenwood to have met us with his explanation,” Fitz said. “Where is he?”
Bloom grew defensive. “Called away, sir. Important business.”
“Gentlemen.” A man hurried toward them. Seeing Asia, he amended his greeting. “Oh. My apologies, madam.” He removed his hat, and nodded in place of a bow. “I am Kinnane, the mill manager.”
Bloom introduced Fitz and Asia but did not continue explaining his theory.
Fitz spoke to Asia, to spite Bloom. “That makes perfect sense, doesn’t it, my dear? A moment of inattention, an unguarded flame, a clumsy attempt to light a cigar?”
Kinnane’s eye’s widened before he blurted, “What is this? What are you implying, sir? What have you told them, Major Bloom?”
“I?” Bloom said, offering the appropriate amount of innocence.
“A workman’s doing,” Asia said. She aimed her charms at Bloom. “Isn’t that what you said, Major? Oh, silly me. My woman’s brain is often unable to grasp such complex theories, but I believe, Mr. Kinnane, the good major plans to lay this fiasco at your feet.” She cocked her head to one side, as if she had just noticed something. “You were a lawyer before the war, weren’t you, Major Bloom?”
Bloom’s face reddened. “What of it?”
“I’ve spent my life among lawyers, Major Bloom,” Asia said. Her tone was cool. “I can tell when a lawyer is forced to argue a weak case.”
“Bloom,” Fitz warned the major. “Do not banter words with my wife. She has a sharp mind and a quick wit. I can testify to those traits personally.” He turned his attention to Kinnane. “What happened?”
The mill manager, relieved to have his chance to talk, barely drew a breath before the words tumbled out. “The fire started there, at the Number Two shed, I think amid the wagons ready to be loaded.”
Fitz saw a string of bright red enclosed wagons in the distance, the du Pont name painted in gold letters over the word explosives. A driver sat under a shelf that extended from the roof of the wagon. “Like those?”
“Yes. Yes,” Kinnane said. “We’re very careful.” He tossed Bloom an accusing glance. “Our men are very careful. They know what one spark will do. The buildings are well separated to prevent incidents such as this. One building setting fire to another.”
“And yet it happened?” Fitz said.
The idea puzzled Kinnane. “Yes.” He looked over the rubble. “But I don’t know how. Unless the fires were set at once.”
“But the major assures me the mill is safe,” Fitz said. “Surrounded by a regiment from Michigan.” Kinnane had no response, so Fitz continued. “It was either an accident or the work of traitors. Why are you reluctant to offer any details, Mr. Kinnane?”
Kinnane hesitated. “We had a report, you see. A very puzzling event. I did my very best to investigate the explosion, but—” He decided on a solution. “We must speak to Gideon.”
A large black man sat on an upturned bucket in the shadow of a drab, brick building, wrapping a soiled bandage around his hand. He stood when he saw the party approach, touching his knuckles to his forehead in salute.
“Hello, Mr. Kinnane,” he said in an English accent. He moved his bandaged hand behind his back.
“Mr. Gideon,” Kinnane said. “This is Colonel and Mrs. Dunaway.” A moment passed before he was compelled to add, “This is Major Bloom.”
Bloom was incredulous. “A nigger? We bring this incident to a nigger?”
“Mr. Gideon knows more about powder than virtually anyone here. Mr. du Pont himself has said as much.”
Bloom turned to Fitz, outraged. “Colonel, surely you cannot place any value on the word of a common nigger. He could be the very cause of this horrible accident. Look at his hand. Show us your hand, boy. I’ll wager it’s burned.”
“Major,” Fitz said. “Shut up.”
“I