Page 6 of Dalliances & Devotion (The Truitts 2)

charge in her nightclothes, which he was certainly not.

“As far as I could tell, though who knows what’s lurking under all those gowns? Every inch is covered with ’em. She must have at least a dozen pink ones alone. Though they aren’t pink.” Meg pinched her nose, raising her voice up an octave into squeaky range in an obvious attempt to imitate Amalia, in the least flattering manner possible. “They are mauve, and blush, and fuchsia, peony, and salmon, and rose. Very, very, very different. And so important to know. Listening to the ‘Amalia Show’ is just the best.”

Oy. No love lost there. If only Thad could’ve come. Or sent her parents, but his friend hadn’t wanted to disturb them in Washington. Something about an important meeting with President Grant reminding him he carried the Jewish vote in both elections, despite what happened in 1862. And celebrating the passage of a Third Enforcement Act, designed to kill the Ku Klux Klan.

At least the family supported real equality, instead of just allowing the Confederacy to recast itself as “misunderstood” to further “reconciliation,” or what have you. A rarity for people who profited from a peaceful, unified country.

He opened his mouth to make a soothing remark but Meg cut him off. “Little Miss Truitt has certainly made herself comfortable. How I’m going to pack it all up so we can change lines tomorrow in Pittsburgh, I’ll never know.” Meg’s upper lip quirked. “You’d think she created the mess to punish me, especially after I accidentally-on-purpose pulled her hair to make her stop talking for two minutes, but it preceded us.”

“Have we finally found a task you can’t handle?” David leaned, tenting his hands, readying himself for the “Meg Show.” A rehearsal for Will, the person whose attention and sympathy she actually wanted. The preview was usually pretty amusing. He could use some amusement. It’d been a long day.

Meg stalked to the mirrored shelf that opened to reveal the best part of the private car—the liquor supply—and poured herself a tall glass of amber liquid. She held out one to him, but he shook his head. One of them needed to stay sober.

“I can do it.” Meg hiccupped. “Besides, I’m not sure your innocent soul could handle even viewing the mysteries packed in her trunks, rabbi. You should’ve seen her undergarments. Black. They come in red too.”

“I—I hate that nickname.” He stuttered the automatic response, even as his mind reeled. Black? What did that look like against her golden skin? Despite her now—thanks to the Inquirer—famous penchant for pearl powder, Amalia always glowed as if she spent her days frolicking in a meadow.

“Why? It suits you. You wear the string things and it looks like you’re trying for a beard.” Meg frowned and gestured, splashing liquid on her sleeve.

“Nevertheless, I lack the education for it. As you well know.” David’s hand went to his chin. Yup, bristles. He should do something about them, but he couldn’t muster the strength. Maybe after they changed lines.

Meg ignored his comment. “You repeated all those Bible stories and sayings too.” She smirked at him. “Though I will say, even an actual priest would’ve had trouble making eye contact with the one in there. I mean, she rouges her cleavage. Before bed. And the scarlet lips... I’m surprised the letter didn’t accuse her of charging by the hour.”

“Stop.” He near roared the word as he leapt to his feet before he could think better of it. “That’s Thad’s younger sister you’re talking about and it isn’t proper to suggest those sorts of things about her. You don’t even know her.” And despite her...thoughtlessness—all right, fine—her downright meanness in the past, Amalia Truitt was still a person. And, more importantly, a client.

“You’re just jealous I got to see her petticoats. And what lies beneath, without fearing her family’s wrath.” Meg crossed her ankles and her plain linen skirt hitched to show the trousers she wore over her undergarments. As she had ever since the one mission during the war where she’d been captured—thank god Will rescued her before anything really bad happened. Easier to move, she always said after that.

David inhaled through his nose and closed his eyes. They were friends, and she was just teasing him. Drunk. He forced a half smile. And a calm tone. “And you’re just bitter that Will and I get these lovely cushioned couches out here while you’re stuck in a tiny bed in the servant’s quarter.”

“I get privacy so I can’t complain.” Meg glanced at the door.

“He’s not back yet.” David might have used a little more singsong than usual, but sue him, she deserved it.

“So.” She glared at him in a watery-eyed way.

He gave her his most exaggerated, feigned innocent expression and tucked his thumbs into his pockets. “What?”

Ah, it was fun to turn the tables.

“How do you know her highness so well? I mean Will said you only met her a few times—on leave for some of those Jewish holidays and the like.” Meg stretched out both her hands and legs in front of her. She had to have been a feline in another life—if one believed in such things.

“I studied the dossier. It’s what I do. And I do it well, very well.” He scowled into the air.

Meg snorted. “You’re the worst liar. Always were. It’s more than that.”

“Fine. We had a few conversations.” He ran a hand through his hair. “And exchanged some letters during the war.”

“Letters?” Meg’s tongue darted out of her mouth and her brow wrinkled. She narrowed her eyes. “What sort of letters?”

Drat.

“Oh, David.” Meg gave him a pitying look. “I was teasing you before. Ugh. You really do want under her petticoats.” He opened his mouth, but she wasn’t finished. “Let me guess—these letters—if anyone read them, or more if Thad read them, he’d fillet you?”

He held his head in his hands.

“You’re a dullard.” Meg tutted as she echoed David’s own thoughts. “I mean, not just writing her, but letting it get...” She lowered her voice. “Inappropriate. Especially after she lost Simon. Brat or not, the girl had to have been so vulnerable after that.”

Simon. The man who never once said an unkind word, his first friend in America. His name was like a slap. David placed a hand on his own cheek and shuddered.

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