The Prince of Spies (Hope and Glory #3) - Elizabeth Camden Page 0,87

shot over his shoulder. “From sea to shining sea, Magruder!”

Andrew’s temper unleashed the moment Gray was gone. “The gall of that man!”

The strength in Marianne’s legs drained, and she dropped back into her chair. Andrew and her grandfather both gave free vent to their outrage, but Clyde tried to pass off the intrusion as a run-of-the-mill commotion.

“The life of a congressman,” he said in a lighthearted tone, even though his knuckles were white as he gripped the armrest of his chair. “Come, we mustn’t let this kerfuffle spoil our fine dinner. The quail is getting cold.”

An awkward silence descended as people picked up silverware to begin eating. Delia filled the void, chattering about the origin of her amethyst saltcellars. Colonel Phelps gamely followed her lead, commenting on the fine cut of the leaded glass.

It was impossible for Marianne to participate in the conversation. Guilt warred with shame. Luke had shown her the article he wrote for Modern Century, and she approved of it. How could she not? She had seen exactly what those chemicals did to men in the poison study, and Luke’s article blamed the congressional committee for stifling the studies, not her father. The world needed more such research, and it was wrong to hide those studies.

It was her fault Luke was in jail, and she didn’t even have the mettle to stand by him and admit what she’d done. Luke was probably climbing the walls of his jail cell while she dined on quail.

At the far end of the table, Vera scrutinized her, and Marianne forced herself to take a tiny bite of quail. It tasted like ashes and landed in her stomach like a lead weight. She set down her fork.

“Marianne, everything is all right, isn’t it?” her mother asked. A hint of iron underlay Vera’s words. It was a command as much as a question.

“Yes, I’m fine,” she confirmed.

But Luke wasn’t fine. He was living out his worst nightmare, and it was all her fault.

It was nine o’clock before Colonel Phelps took his leave. Vera retreated to bed, complaining of a migraine brought on by the stress, but Marianne helped the maids clear and tidy the dining room. It would settle her restless nerves, but nothing could ease the indecision that battled in her mind.

One thing Gray said haunted her. I will fight for my brother with everything I have, he’d vowed. He said it with strength, confidence, and conviction.

And when Marianne had the opportunity to be equally brave, she’d cowardly denied all knowledge of what had happened. Shame weighed heavily as she gathered the linen cloth from the table to carry outside for a good shaking. As she passed the closed door of Clyde’s study, she overheard him talking with Andrew and Jedidiah inside and cocked her ear to listen. Andrew was adamant that they had every right to press charges against whoever revealed the contents of those studies, but Jedidiah worried it would only direct more attention toward something they wanted hidden.

“Grandpa, stop panicking about things that haven’t happened yet,” Andrew said.

His condescending tone didn’t go over well with Jedidiah. “I may be old, but I know how the world works, boy.”

“I have the matter well in hand,” Clyde said, his voice silky with confidence.

It made her afraid. Luke couldn’t even tolerate being in a darkroom for an hour to develop film, but he’d been trapped in a jail cell all day. Given the confidence in her father’s tone, it sounded like Luke’s stint in jail could grow into weeks or months. Years.

She drew a calming breath and headed to the small, brick-lined garden behind the town house to shake out the tablecloth. Humid night air surrounded her as the chirp of crickets sounded in the distance.

She hadn’t comported herself with honor tonight, but she could still try to get Luke out. Jedidiah was right. In making a federal case out of this, the Magruders would draw attention to everything they wanted hidden. Perhaps she could make her father see reason without destroying herself in the process.

She stepped back inside the town house and draped the tablecloth over the railing to be folded later, then knocked on the door of her father’s study.

“Come in,” Clyde said.

A wall of cigar smoke enveloped her the moment she entered.

“Yes, Marianne, what is it you need?” Clyde asked. She was clearly interrupting their meeting, and he probably thought she was here for nothing more consequential than asking what he wanted for breakfast in the morning. She wished