Comfort Elizabeth Kennedy stood with her back to the granite balustrade on the portico and surveyed the activity in the grand salon. She’d closed the French doors behind her when she made her escape to the portico, but she didn’t have to strain overmuch to hear the lilting melodies of the stringed orchestra or the titter and tattle of so many voices rising and falling in concert with the music. Woman after woman was led in a graceful arc past the beveled windows, blurring the definition of each gown until Comfort saw them as a single piece and held their luminescence in her eye as she would a rainbow.

One corner of her mouth lifted as she saw her Uncle Tuck taking his turn across the floor with Mrs. Barnes. He was duty bound to do so, as Uncle Newt had already danced with the widow. It wasn’t competition that prompted each of them to invite every eligible woman to dance; rather, it was the very opposite of that. Neither wanted to show the least favoritism or become the subject of speculation in regard to any particular female.

Smile fading, Comfort turned away from the house. Torches lighted the circuitous path to the fountain situated squarely in the center of the wide expanse of lawn. She considered leaving the portico for the relative privacy of the garden, even moved a foot in that direction, but then came up short as she realized she didn’t want to be that alone. For a moment she let herself do more than hear the three-quarter time of the waltz; she let herself feel it. She swayed, feet rooted, her side-to-side bent so slight as to merely suggest motion. Raising her head, she studied the night sky and found calm and order and the peace that had been snatched from her when Bram made his ridiculous announcement. And it was a ridiculous announcement. Spectacularly so.

She couldn’t bring herself to place all the blame on his shoulders. Hadn’t she gone along with him? Trusted him as if she had no mind of her own? Where was the sense in that? His own mother would have counseled her against it. Abraham DeLong meant well. That was at the crux of the problem. He always meant well. Comfort rarely felt as easy in anyone’s presence as she did in Bram’s. That was his effect on people, his special talent, and tonight, when she’d needed to keep her wits about her, he’d managed to make her forget the most fundamental truth: there were invariably unforeseen consequences for following Bram’s merry lead.

The doors behind her opened. Comfort stiffened as the music momentarily swelled, and she wished that she had acted on the impulse to leave the portico in favor of the fountain. It was too late, of course. She was standing in a pool of torchlight and couldn’t hope to slip unnoticed into the shadow of a marble column.

“So this is where you’ve gone,” Bram said, closing the doors.

Comfort shrugged and purposely did not glance over her shoulder. If she didn’t look at him, the odds improved that she would remain firm. Bram’s reckless smile had caused hearts stouter than her own to seize.

“You’re angry.” He stood directly at her back and placed his hands on the balustrade on either side of her. If he dropped his chin, he could rest it in the curve of her neck and nuzzle her ear with his lips. He did neither of these things. “I can tell you’re angry.”

“Then there’s no need to comment, is there?”

He chuckled softly. “How is it possible that you can be flush with heat and frigid in your sentiments? Butter won’t melt in your mouth, but I could boil water for tea on the nape of your neck.” Bram tilted his head to gauge her smile and saw that there was none. “Oh, you are mad.”

Comfort lifted Bram’s right hand from the balustrade and stepped sideways to elude capture. “I thought you understood that was a given.” She turned and showed him her most withering look. True to form, he remained undaunted. Worse, she was afraid his smile was actually deepening. “You might have warned me that you intended to announce our engagement.”

“You would have had no part of that.”

“Precisely.”

“Then I fail to understand how informing you would have helped. Everything would be just as it was at the outset of the evening when there was hardly an utterance that did not include the name of our sainted guest of honor. When is he coming? Where has he been? Will he be surprised? What could have detained him?” Bram’s gaze slid from the fountain to Comfort. “I can tell you, Mother is mortified by his absence.”

“Your mother is made of stronger stuff than that. I do not think she has the capacity for mortification.” Comfort was tempted to point out that it seemed to be a DeLong family trait. “Even if you’re right in this instance, Bram, what possessed you to make such an outrageous statement?”

“Didn’t I just say? Everyone was talking about him. What is unreasonable about giving Mother’s guests something else to discuss? And if you’ll permit a small immodesty, I want to point out that Mother’s event has been saved by my quick thinking. Our engagement put her over the moon.”

Comfort took a slow, calming breath and chose her words carefully. “I appreciate that you want her favor, but did you consider even for a moment what her reaction will be when our engagement is summarily ended?”

Bram’s gaze sought out the fountain again.

Comfort sighed. “I didn’t think so.” As there was nothing to say beyond that, Comfort simply joined Bram in his deep study of the torch-lit garden. She did not mind the silence settling between them, but experience told her it would be short-lived. Bram’s inclination was to fill the void.

“Summarily,” he said. “Why summarily?”

“Pardon?” Her mistake, she supposed, was that she turned to look at him in the same moment his grin was breaking wide, changing his features from merely handsome to indecently so. His pale blue eyes met hers with unwavering directness and issued a challenge that still managed to be boyishly charming and full of mischief. She found herself asking the question she did not believe she had the courage to voice: “You intend our engagement to end, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

Comfort was glad that she had steeled herself for just such a careless reply. He’d answered with no discernable hesitation. It was better that way, she told herself. She had nothing to grasp at, nothing that she would question later and perhaps attempt to interpret as uncertainty on his part. If he were uncertain, she would have cause to hope. Nothing good could come of that.

“Then summarily seems entirely appropriate,” she said. She was relieved to hear herself sound so sensible. She concentrated on schooling her expression to be equally imperturbable. “As we are in agreement that the engagement must end, it should be done without delay.”

One corner of Bram’s mouth kicked up. Reaching out, he tapped Comfort on the tip of her nose with his index finger. “There it is again. Why should it be done without delay? Who says that’s the better course?”

“I do.”

“Well, yes, but I don’t think you’ve thought it through.”

Indignation made Comfort stiffen. “I haven’t thought it through? You’re saying that to me?”

Bram tapped her nose again. “Careful, dearest. You’ll put this out of joint, and your lovely countenance will not be improved for it.”

She slapped his hand away. “Stop acting the fool, Bram. I am angry with you. Do not test the limits of my patience.”

Dutifully dropping his arm back to his side, Bram stood sharply at attention. Although he made the effort, he could not quite manage to affect a contrite mien. His mouth twitched.

Comfort stared at him. He’d recently run his fingers through his blond thatch of hair, and she quelled the urge to make the unruly runnels right again. Her fingers curled into loose fists at her side.

“If it will make you feel better,” he said, “you can blacken my eye.”

“Do not tempt me.” She relaxed her hands. “What makes you think I’d blacken only one?” She was gratified to see that gave him pause. Gathering the unraveled threads of her composure, Comfort said, “If you don’t believe our engagement—our sham engagement—should be ended quickly, then you’d better explain yourself. What you’ve begun involves more than just the two of us. I am also thinking of my uncles. They did not welcome your announcement with the enthusiasm of your mother.”

“That’s because I did not approach them first to state my intentions and ask for your hand. I grant you, that was an error of judgment on my part. There was no time to take them aside and do the thing properly.”

“And that’s because you acted on the engagement the moment you thought of it. Why me, Bram?” She waved a hand toward the salon, where his mother’s guests continued to chatter and laugh and spin themselves about the floor oblivious to the small drama unfolding just beyond the doors. “Look there. Amelia Minter.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him follow the sweep of her hand. She pointed again. “Deborah Brush. Oh, and there is Miss Arleta Ogden. All have something to recommend them besides the fact they’re unattached. I know any one of them would have been pleased to participate in your scheme. I cannot think why you chose me.”

Bram’s eyebrows rose. He regarded her with surprise. “I believed that was obvious. Aren’t you my friend, Comfort? I should have been well and truly snared if I’d put myself in reach of any of those young ladies. You were my only choice. I trust you.”

There it was, Comfort thought. In her own way she was as predictable as he was. He’d never been disappointed by depending on her steadiness and good sense. “I should insist that you marry me,” she told him. “It would serve you right if I took offense to my own nature and behaved as rashly as you.” She took some solace from the small crease that appeared between his eyebrows. It would not last long, she knew, but he was momentarily wary.

“You wouldn’t, would you?”

“God forbid.”

Relieved, he leaned forward and bussed her on the cheek. “This is why I adore you.”

Comfort was tempted to raise her palm to her face and make a shelter for the lingering imprint of his mouth. Resisting temptation was part and parcel of her long friendship with Bram DeLong. “And I adore you,” she said, meaning it. “That doesn’t release you from making a full explanation, however. If our engagement is not to be ended summarily, you will have to say how you mean for us to go on. Further, do not suppose for a moment that I will keep the truth from my uncles. You may say what you like to your mother, but Newton and Tucker will hear the truth from me.”

Bram blinked. “Then I am a dead man.”

Unmoved, Comfort shrugged.

“Although that will summarily end our engagement,” said Bram.

For the first time since Bram joined her on the portico, Comfort smiled.

Bram chuckled. “Very well, I can hardly stop you from speaking freely to them. I hope you will find a way to soften the blow.”

“And I hope you will not be offended, but I believe they will be relieved by the news. You are not what they hope for me, Bram. If they were still prospectors, they wouldn’t stake a claim on you.”

“A man who does not know his shortcomings as well as I do would take offense to your candor. It is to my credit, I think, that I am fully aware that my moral fiber is dangerously frayed.”

Comfort laughed. “Only you can manage to turn a slight upon your character on its head. Enough. You have one more chance to state your intentions before I announce to everyone in the salon that you were only pulling their collective leg.”

“Six months,” he said quickly. “We will allow our engagement to run its course in six months. You will end it in whatever manner you choose, publicly if you wish.”

“I would never do that.”

He ignored her. “You may humiliate me, make me the villain, turn me out for being the fool that I am. It would serve me right.”

“I’m sure it would, but you fail to appreciate how I would become an object of speculation and pity. We will end it quietly by simply dropping a word here and there with our most sympathetic but reliably indiscreet friends. The engagement will be ended that easily.”

“All right.”

“But six months?” she asked. “That is too long, Bram. You cannot manage to keep up appearances for so long, and I will not be made a fool while you troll the brothels for female companionship. Everyone knows where you take your entertainments.”

Bram’s lips twitched again. “Plain speaking, Comfort, even for you. Is your objection to brothels in particular or me having female companionship in general?”

His amusement twisted her heart, but she brought up her chin and narrowed her eyes in a way that put him on notice. “It is my opinion that perhaps you can abstain from visiting your usual haunts for six weeks.”

“Only six weeks? Is it your contention that I behave like a satyr?”

“If the horns fit . . .” When he merely continued to stare at her, she added, “I said ‘perhaps.’ I am not confident you can stay away from the Barbary Coast that long.”

“Are you challenging me?”

“No.”

“It sounds as if you’re challenging me.”

“That’s because you are filled with ridiculous notions this evening.”

“Six months, Comfort. I can do it. I tell you, I am flirting with responsibility. It wasn’t so long ago that I was dispatched to Sacramento to attend to matters of business for Black Crowne. I held my own with the governor. I sat at the same table with railroad men and their Pinkerton agents and didn’t blink. Six months is nothing compared to spending an evening with legislators who require money for favors but aren’t nearly as straightforward about it as whores.” He realized his own speech had become rather plain, and he apologized.

She rolled her eyes. “I’m not asking for six months. Six weeks is sufficient. Moreover, people will expect that I come to my senses before then. If I wait as long as six months to end it, they will wonder at my discernment, and the public relies on my ability to recognize a good investment from a bad one. Jones Prescott is successful in part because of my facility for discriminating the levels of risk.”

Now it was Bram DeLong who rolled his eyes. “Not everything you do is a reflection on the bank.”

“You’re wrong.”

“I’m not, but I see that you believe it. I do not accept the same yoke, and it is a yoke, Comfort. Everything I do is not a refection on Black Crowne. I am a person separate from the family enterprise, and if you do not know that to be true, then ask my brother. He will tell you the same.”

Comfort chose not to press him. Hadn’t he just described his trip to the capital as a flirtation with responsibility? As far as she was concerned, Bram had made her point for her. “Six weeks,” she said.

“Four months.”

“Six weeks.”

“Three months.”

“Six weeks.”

“Two months.”

“That’s eight weeks, Bram.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Very well.” She was not gracious in concession. “But if I learn before then that you’ve been a visitor anywhere in the vicinity of Pacific Street, I will break the engagement immediately. If there is gossip about you, whether it’s whoring or gaming, I will break your thumbs. You understand that would be painful, I imagine.”

Bram had sense enough not to laugh. There was nothing in her expression to indicate that it was an idle threat. Comfort rarely spoke about her childhood, and there were likely only a dozen or so people who knew some of the truth, and only three that knew all of it, but in spite of the success of Jones Prescott, or perhaps because of it, there was always talk. The fact that the talk was mostly whispered seemed to lend it credence. It was possible that Miss Comfort Kennedy, she of the well-modulated voice and correct manner, might indeed know a thing or two about breaking a man’s thumbs.

“Painful,” said Bram. “Yes, I understand.”

Comfort did not indicate that she was satisfied. She simply gave him her back and began walking toward the garden.

“Comfort.”

She didn’t turn. “Don’t follow me, Bram.” She could almost feel his hesitation. He wasn’t used to being held at bay, and she had never had cause to do it before this evening. She was afraid the balance of their easy friendship had shifted, and if that were so, it fell to her to keep Bram from realizing it. She could not make herself that vulnerable. “Make some excuse for me. You’ll think of something.” Well outside of his hearing, she added, “You always do.”

Even before she stepped onto the garden path, she heard the music swell and then recede as the door to the salon was opened and closed again.

She wondered how Bram would explain her prolonged absence, but the thought didn’t occupy her. He had a gift for making explanations, and one would come to him far more easily than one would have come to her. His knack for making the most outrageous behavior seem reasonable, even acceptable, fascinated her. She could admit, at least to herself, that she was a little envious of his talent. Except in matters of virtually no consequence, she had an almost compulsive tendency to tell the truth. Lying came hard to her, and there were times when that was more curse than blessing.

Comfort veered away from the fountain. The steady rush of water was pleasant to her ears; the spray was not. She circled to the far side and followed the flickering torches all the way to the back of the garden. A hedgerow, carefully tended to take on a shape that was probably painful to its leaves and branches, bordered the rear of the property. Comfort removed one of her elbow-length gloves and ran her palm along the top of the hedge as she skirted the perimeter. She walked slowly, occasionally stopping to breathe deeply from the scent of the bay far beyond her. The ocean called to her from the opposite direction, still farther away, and in her mind she called back, taking the first tentative steps to the water’s edge. A ship was waiting for her, a Black Crowne ship, bound for . . .

Adventure, she supposed. Yes. Bound for adventure.

“You look as if you wish yourself anywhere but where you are.”

Startled, Comfort instinctively shied away from the voice. She required only a moment to recover her wits and the glove she’d dropped. Straightening, she stared down at the intruder, a circumstance that was made possible because he was lounging on a stone bench some three feet away.

“I might say the same of you,” she said. It was difficult not to show her agitation as she pulled on her glove.

“I’m exactly where I wish to be.”

“Your place is inside, Mr. DeLong. Your mother is expecting you. Her entire guest list is expecting you.”

“And yet, I am here.”

She noticed that he didn’t stir. He remained in a half-reclining position in the corner of the bench, an arm extended across the scrolled back, one leg drawn up at the knee and the other stretched and angled in her direction. He regarded her without any particular interest, as if he were already bored by their brief exchange. It made her wonder why he’d spoken in the first place. She might easily have passed without noticing him. Almost immediately, she corrected herself. For reasons she did not entirely understand, failing to notice Beauregard DeLong had never been possible.

Comfort was glad of the shadow play across his face. His eyes were a most peculiar shade of blue-violet, and to be the subject of his study was to be pinned in place by twin points of light glancing off polished steel.

“Are you going inside?” she asked.

“I haven’t decided. Are you?”

“I’ve been inside all evening, Mr. DeLong.”

“Bode.”

Comfort acknowledged this preference with a slight nod. She couldn’t imagine that she’d ever be that familiar with him. From Bram she knew that his older brother’s name had been too much of a mouthful, even for a child as precocious as Beauregard was alleged to have been. He repeated what he thought he was hearing all around him. Beauregard DeLong. Beau DeLong. Bode Long. The most difficult part of the story for Comfort to imagine was that Beau DeLong had ever been a child.

“Would you like to sit?” asked Bode.

As he didn’t move, Comfort considered the invitation suspect. She had never thought of him as someone who embraced formalities, so perhaps it was only that he was tired of looking up at her. “No, thank you.”

“As you like.”

Bode didn’t shrug, but it was as if he had. Comfort wondered that he could communicate so much carelessness in so few words. Nodding again, this time as a parting gesture, Comfort took the first backward step to remove herself from his presence. She came up short when he spoke.

“I noticed you and Bram in earnest discussion on the portico.”

Comfort stared at him and said stiffly, “You should have made yourself known.”

“Perhaps. I thought it impolite to interrupt.”

“It is far more impolite to eavesdrop.”

“It is. And so I came over here.” A short, soft laugh rose from the back of his throat. “You don’t believe me.”

She didn’t deny it. “I suppose I’m wondering at what point you left.”

“Do you imagine listening to your conversation with my brother was a temptation? I assure you it was not. My only thought was escape. I saw you, and I left. And why wouldn’t I? Your presence there gave me another opportunity to avoid that crush inside. Who are all those people?”

“Your friends.”

“Do you think so?”

“Your mother and Bram say they are.”

“Then they must be.”

Comfort sighed. “You’ve known about this party, haven’t you? For how long?”

“Just about as long as my mother.”

She smiled a bit ruefully. His answer was not unexpected. “I suppose her excitement made all the secret planning perfectly transparent.”

“Something like that.”

Comfort had hoped for a less enigmatic reply. “You’ll be appropriately surprised, won’t you?”

“Is it important to you?”

Not understanding the question, she frowned. “To me? It’s important to your mother.”

“I’m certain it is, but that’s not what I asked.”

“I don’t see why it matters.” When he said nothing and let silence become a burden, she answered. “It’s important to me because it will give your mother pleasure. She deserves that.”

“We are all deserving.”

“I hope so.”

Bode tapped the back of the bench with his index finger. “What has your part been?”

“My part?”

“Mother elicited your support. She can’t have a secretary to help her manage her affairs, so she relies on those trusted people within her sphere of influence.” He paused, arching an eyebrow. “Are you going to tell me she didn’t rely on you?”

“I assisted her with the guest list.” One corner of her mouth lifted. “And the menu.” The quirky line of her lips became more defined. “And the seating arrangements.” Laughing softly, she added, “And I auditioned four separate stringed orchestras before I hired this one.”

“Then you’re also invested in the success of this party.”

“I suppose I am.”

He considered her answer for a long moment before he made his decision. “Then you’d better help me up.”

Comfort stared at him. “Help you—” She stopped talking and rushed forward to lend assistance when he began to push himself to his feet. There was no mistaking that standing required his full attention and effort.

Comfort took his right arm and brought it around her shoulders, supporting him as best she could. She was tall, but he was taller still, and the fit presented no difficulty for either of them.

“What happened?” she asked. “Where are you injured?”

“My back.”

She glanced at him, saw his grimace when he stepped forward, and paused to allow him to catch his breath. “Can you make it with only my assistance? Perhaps I should summon more help.”

“I hobbled here on my own. Your support is sufficient.” To prove it, he took a more confident step. This time his lips didn’t twist into a perversion of a smile. “By the time we reach the doors, I’ll be able to walk unaided.”

Comfort kept her doubts to herself. She slid an arm around his waist to steady him. “You haven’t said what happened.”

“No, I haven’t.”

Recognizing that she held the upper hand, no matter how briefly, Comfort decided to take advantage. She stopped cold and halted his forward progress. For the first time since happening upon him, torchlight bathed Bode’s face, and when Comfort’s glance swiveled sideways, she saw clearly what the shadows had concealed.

His face was distorted by the swelling in his left cheek. It was only a matter of time before it took over his eye. Dried blood defined a slash just below and a little to the right of his chin. A cut on his forehead disappeared into his hairline.

She sighed with great feeling. “Did you give as good as you got?”

“At least that good, I hope.”

“The police? They were notified?”

“And further delay my arrival? No. I didn’t make a report.”

“I see. What happened to the miscreant who assaulted you?”

“Miscreants,” he corrected, offering a slim smile. “All away, I fear, run off by a gang of young ruffians who then relieved me of my money and what remained of my dignity.”

“Then you’ll have no justice.”

“It seems unlikely.”

Comfort braced herself to take Bode’s weight again. “I think we should use an entrance other than the salon.”

“That was my intention before I came upon you and Bram. The first side door I tried to use was barred.”

“Bram insisted. He was concerned that with so much attention on the salon, the rest of the house was ripe for plunder. I think we’ll find the servants’ entrance open. If not, I can slip inside the salon and find someone who will open it.” She slowed their progress as they reached the fountain and invited him to rest for a moment.

Bode refused the offer. “Too many kinks to work out,” he said. “It’s better if we keep going.”

“Very well, but if your back seizes again, allow me to shoulder more of your weight.” She was uncertain of his response. It might have been laughter; it might have been a growl. Neither communicated cooperation. When she considered it, it was rather astonishing that he’d asked for her help at all. That must have pained him every bit as much as his back.

“Where were you assaulted?”

“Not more than fifty yards from the Black Crowne warehouse.”

“So you were on your way home.”

“I was on my way here.”

The distinction was not lost on Comfort. Bram lived in the family home with his mother. Bode lived above the shipping offices on Montgomery Street and had done so since returning from the war. Comfort was not privy to the reason Bode chose to live apart from his family, and Bram was often uncharacteristically tight-lipped where Bode was concerned. Her encounters with Bode had always been brief, mostly in passing, and for her at least, accompanied by a fine element of tension that annoyed her and appeared to amuse him. Bram made a point of steering her clear of Bode when he was around, but she had a niggling suspicion that this was done more for Bram’s sake than hers. “Will you recognize your assailants if you see them again?”

“Which ones?”

“The ones that waylaid you first.”

“Then no, but I think I know where to find the young ruffians. They might be able to identify the others, if they can be compelled to talk. On principle, they’re against speaking out.”

“Honor among thieves?”

“More likely fear of retaliation if any one of them talks. And by retaliation, I mean disfigurement or death. My attackers were probably Rangers.”

The Rangers were the most fearsome of the gangs operating in the Barbary Coast. No one faced them down, although the newspapers regularly pointed out their vices, reported the harrowing accounts of their victims, and called for them to be rounded up and expelled from the city.

Comfort felt Bode’s eyes on her again, as though trying to decide what she knew or had heard about the Rangers. Had he meant to shock her or prove to himself that she could not be shocked? If it was a test, she had no idea whether she passed or failed. She was relieved when they reached the portico and Bode indicated that they would go on. They were more than halfway to their goal.

“You were fortunate to have survived the encounter,” she said evenly. “I’ve never heard of the Rangers being run off by anyone.”

“That occurred to me also, but those boys swarmed like locusts.” He gestured toward the servants’ entrance. “The kitchen will be as crowded as the salon,” he said. “But I think I know all of the staff. I can’t say the same for the guests.”

Comfort ignored that. If the guest list included people he did not count as his friends, he was still acquainted with them. They were business associates, men of power and influence, traders, bankers, railroad men, politicians, and speculators, and Beau DeLong stood shoulder to shoulder with them. They’d come to wish him well, and quite possibly to use the opportunity to settle some bit of business, but mostly they’d come to wish him happy on his thirty-second birthday.

“There is considerably less hesitation in your step,” she said.

Bode nodded. “You can ease away if you like.”

“When we reach the door.”

They negotiated the stone steps that led down to the kitchen with considerable care. Comfort was glad she hadn’t abandoned him. He was favoring his left leg, and she suspected the injury to his back was now radiating pain as far as his knee.

“I understand the bruises and cuts to your face,” she said. “But what happened to your back? Were you kicked?”

The truth was less palatable. “Tripped.”

“You tripped or you were tripped?”

“Is that an important distinction?”

“Perhaps not to you, Mr. DeLong, but I would like to know if there’s amusement to be had at your expense or if I must continue to feel sorry for you.”

“I stumbled over my own feet trying to avoid the point of a knife.”

“Well,” she said, vaguely disappointed. “It’s difficult to know how to respond to that.” Comfort reached for the door and turned the knob, testing whether she’d be able to ease it open. At first she thought it was barred, but a second push made it give way. “If you don’t want to be seen, I can manage to distract the staff long enough for you to take the back stairs to your old bedroom. I’ll send Hitchens to you. He’ll see to your cuts and draw you a bath.”

“Send Sam Travers. Hitchens will report to Alexandra straightaway.”

It struck her oddly that he referred to his mother by her Christian name, but she didn’t comment. “All right.” She looked him over, gauging his ability to manage the staircase on his own. The narrowness of the passage would assist him, because he could brace himself on either side as he climbed. “Shall I tell Bram that you’ve arrived?”

“No.” He touched his swelling eye. “There will be no hiding this. Does any reasonable explanation come to mind?”

“I’m afraid not.” Comfort wondered what it was about his brief, mocking smile that drew her attention away from his eye. “Bram is the one you should ask.”

“Yes, he is.” He fell silent for a moment. “No matter. Something will occur to me.”

Regarding the whole of his battered face again, Comfort meant her smile to be encouraging, but she suspected it lacked confidence. She had never heard anything about Beauregard DeLong that led her to believe he had a facility for telling less than the bald truth. It made him feared. Indeed, all evidence to the contrary, now that he’d set his jaw tightly enough to make a muscle jump in his cheek, he was not a man who had been beaten. She did not think he had ever needed her help, or perhaps anyone’s.

Disquieted by his steady, frank regard, Comfort felt her smile fading. For the second time in the course of the evening, she wished herself anywhere but where she was. Giving him the faintest of nods, she turned away to slip into the kitchen, where the activity remained loud and furious. She hadn’t taken a step when she felt Bode’s fingertips brush her elbow. She wanted to ignore him. Instead, she looked back.

“Does my brother know that you’re in love with him?”

Of all the things he might have said, this question was easily the least expected. Comfort knew what it was to have the blood drain from her face, and she felt it again now. A chill crept under her skin, and beneath the smooth crown of her ebony hair, her scalp prickled.

“Yes,” she said. She spoke quickly, too quickly, and it made her wonder how he would interpret it. She swallowed, all but choking on the lie, and was unnaturally pleased that she could meet his gaze directly. On the heels of that hubris, she realized that it was truer that she couldn’t look away. She did what was left to her and made her features expressionless. “That is, I should hope so. He announced our engagement this evening.”

Bode’s expression merely became thoughtful. “Did he?”

“Yes.”

“Then you have my con”—an infinitesimal pause—“gratulations.”

Comfort felt certain he’d wanted to say condolences. That tiny pause had been deliberate, pregnant with meaning, and she should have bristled in defense of Bram, or at least in defense of herself. What she did, though, was incline her head and accept his words at face value. “Thank you.”

“That remains to be seen.”

Comfort’s nostrils flared slightly, but she made no reply.

“I saw you,” he said simply. “On the portico. I told you that.”

Comfort understood then that she had no better evidence that Bode hadn’t overheard any part of her conversation with his brother. His eyes told him a story his ears wouldn’t have.

“I saw both of you.”

Now Comfort had his full meaning. “I’ve been told to expect more directness from you, Mr. DeLong. Say it. Say all of it.”

“Bram doesn’t love you, Miss Kennedy.”

Having it put before her so bluntly, even though she’d demanded that he do so, still had the power to make her heart falter. “I believe your brother will disagree with you.”

“I’m sure he will. He frequently does. It doesn’t mean I’m wrong.” He leaned his shoulder against the inside wall, not casually, but for support, a small concession to his injuries. “Don’t misunderstand. I’m aware you and Bram have been friends for years. He probably cares more for you than he does for anyone else of his acquaintance, and he could well mistake that circumstance for love, but you should know that it’s not.”

“Perhaps what it is,” she said, “is enough.”

He was quiet for a moment before he conceded, “I hadn’t considered you might take that view.”

“Now you know.” She spoke with a certain directness that effectively ended their conversation. Careful not to give Bode any indication that she was in full and hasty retreat, Comfort swung her skirts to the side and left the entry alcove for the relative calm of the kitchen.

He surveyed the gathering as best he could without finding a box to stand on. Mrs. Rodham’s smooth, white shoulder kept getting in the way. In any other circumstance, it would have been a pleasure to look at, but right now it was a distraction and an obstacle. Although Newt was not engaged in conversation with his present company, he nevertheless excused himself from their circle and maneuvered sideways to reach the inner perimeter of the dance floor.

Across the room, he saw Tucker engaged in a similar scan of their surroundings. Tuck had the advantage of height, and he was able to make his survey from deeper in the crowd. Newt noticed that Michael Winter was yammering in Tuck’s ear, oblivious to Tuck’s attention being elsewhere. Newt caught Tuck’s eye when that dark gaze came around to him. Their communication would have been imperceptible to anyone looking in their direction, but the exchange of nods and glances had them moving simultaneously toward the overflow of guests in the hallway, and then to the front parlor, and finally to the relative quiet of what had been Branford DeLong’s sanctuary within the house when he was alive: the library. It was also the place where Branford regularly cornered and groped the prettiest of his house servants, willing or not. Newt had once overheard Branford confide that the walls of books deadened the sound of so much sweet moaning. Having it from the horse’s mouth, Newt never questioned the gossip about Branford DeLong’s interest in women outside of his marriage, an interest that necessarily came to an end when Branford was killed running a Union blockade near Hampton Roads, Virginia.

At the time of his death, it was rumored that Alexandra Crowne DeLong made peace with her husband’s affairs and indiscretions, but that she would never, ever forgive him for taking up the Confederate cause. Newt reckoned it was true. Alexandra’s family probably built the Mayflower before they boarded it.

Newt leaned against the library door to keep other guests out. Tuck was already hitching a hip on the edge of Branford’s massive mahogany desk.

“Where d’you suppose she’s gone?” asked Newt. “I haven’t seen her for the better part of an hour.”

“Bram disappeared for a while. Did you notice?”

Newt nodded. “I thought he’d come back with her.”

“Our little girl has a mind of her own.”

Their little girl was a woman full grown, twenty-five on her last birthday, but Newt didn’t remind Tuck of what he already knew. “Six proposals of marriage,” he said instead. “Six. And this is the one she accepts. That must be the very definition of a mind of one’s own.”

“Must be.”

Newt frowned. “Is it our fault?” he asked suddenly, rubbing his broad brow. “Something we did?”

Tuck folded his arms across his chest. “Something we did that made her stubborn? Or something we did that made her stupid?”

“Oh, I know she gets her cussedness from us.”

“Then I expect we also have to take some responsibility for stupid.”

Newt accepted that Tuck was right, but he wasn’t happy about it. His broad brow remained furrowed. “Remind me, what was it about that McCain boy we didn’t like?”

“Shifty.”

“And Fred Winslow’s oldest son?”

“Shiftless.”

“Theodore Dobbins?”

“Full of shift.”

Chuckling, Newt felt the tightness in his chest ease. “Who does that leave?”

“Jonathan Pitt.”

“Over my dead body.”

“And Richard Westerly.”

“Over your dead body.”

Tuck nodded. “There you have it. We’ve come to Abraham DeLong.”

“She didn’t ask us what we thought.”

“Could be she didn’t want to know, or could be she knows and didn’t want to hear.” He drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. “You harbor any doubts that she loves him?”

Newt tugged at his shirt collar again. “There’s a couple or three ways to look at that, so hell yes, I have doubts. We agree our girl has a mind of her own, but that doesn’t mean she knows her own mind. I can’t figure if she loves him or just thinks she does.”

“Does it matter?”

“Maybe not. I can’t find a way to make anything good come of it, and when it’s all said and done, and her heart’s brittle and breaking, she’ll blame herself.”

“That’s her way,” said Tuck. “Always has been. Remember how she was when we found her, all hollowed out, nothing but empty black eyes and a shell of body that looked like it would shatter if she sucked in enough air to catch her breath?”

“I remember.”

“And all those years going by while she carried around that little red-and-white tin like it was something real special, when what she was doing was reminding herself that it was her fault for what happened to those pilgrims.”

“I recollect that, too.”

“That’s her nature,” Tuck said. “We can’t undo her nature, so I suppose what we can do is take her in when it all goes to hell in a handcart.”

“I reckon that’s right.” Newton’s cheeks puffed as he blew out a breath. “Did you suspicion things were going to take a turn tonight?”

“I had a feeling.”

“You should have told me.”

“I thought it was indigestion. I had the clams.”

Newt made a sound at the back of his throat that communicated his displeasure. “Seems like there’s no choice but to go along with this engagement.”

“Seems like.”

Newt kicked the door hard enough to make it shudder. “Damn it, Tuck. Bram DeLong should have asked us for Comfort’s hand. The way he did it, it was disrespectful.”

Tucker put out a hand. “Easy. We don’t need company on account of you causing a ruckus.” He waited for Newton’s shoulders to go from hunched to brooding. “Bram’s spoiled.”

“I’m not arguing that.”

“Comes from having a face like an angel, I expect.”

Newt stared at Tucker. “He has a face like an angel?”

Tucker shrugged. “I’ve heard women say that. He looks regular to me.”

Newt just grunted.

Tucker pushed himself away from the desk and stood. “We’d better go back. If Comfort’s not with Bram by now, you look for her outside. I’ll look around upstairs. Maybe Alexandra’s cornered her and they’re planning the wedding.”

And because Newt looked as if he wanted to kick the door again, Tucker hurried over and opened it.

“Your gown has been repaired beautifully. Didn’t I tell you that Mary Morgan was extraordinarily talented with a needle and thread?”

So that was the explanation he’d given for her disappearance. It was rather uninspired as excuses went but thoroughly serviceable. “Indeed,” she said, turning slightly to show off the sixty-five-inch train that was de rigueur for a proper ball gown. “I defy you to find the rend.”

Bram chuckled. “You know I cannot.” He released one of her wrists and drew the other forward until he had her arm secured in his. With a brief apologetic smile to the guests closest to them, Bram led Comfort onto the floor and swept her into the waltz with a grace that made it seem effortless.

Comfort smiled up at him. “I am always a better dancer when you’re my partner.”

“I know. And I’m a better partner when I’m dancing with you.”

Her smile reached her dark, coffee-colored eyes. “Have you always known the right thing to say?”

“I think so, yes.”

She laughed.

The sweet sound of it washed over Bram like a cool, cleansing spring rain. For reasons he did not entirely understand, it sobered him. “I’m sorry, Comfort. I mean it.”

She could have said that he always meant it. Underscoring that point seemed petty. “I know,” she said. “We’ll manage. It is only for six weeks, after all.”

“Eight,” he said. “That was the hard bargain you struck.”

“I was merely confirming that you remembered.”

Bram regarded her in a way he hadn’t done before. His last study had been for the benefit of his guests, and he realized he’d barely seen her. This he did for himself, taking in the upsweep of her thick black hair and the exposed vulnerability of the nape of her neck. Comfort did not meet any standard of beauty. Her mouth, especially her bottom lip, was too generously proportioned; her eyes, a fraction too widely spaced and a bit too large for her face. Her nose was unremarkable, neither turned up prettily nor refined in the manner of the blue bloods. Tall and slender, she had no curves to speak of except those that were compliments of the construction of her evening gown. Beneath the red-and-white-striped silk dress, a pannier crinoline exaggerated the definition of her hips and derriere, while the formfitting cuirass and décolletage gave the impression of fuller breasts than she’d been endowed with by nature.

And yet, he thought, while no single feature would inspire the poets to put pen to paper, Comfort Kennedy could inspire a man to be better than he was. Newton Prescott and Tucker Jones believed that. They credited her with all their success. Looking at her now, with her darkly solemn eyes and slim, reserved smile, Bram realized he believed it as well.

Who would he be, Bram wondered, if he were a man better than himself?

And the answer came to him: Bode.

It was like a blow, and Bram’s breath hitched. His timing off, he made a misstep and could not catch himself quickly enough to steer Comfort clear of the same mistake. She stumbled. He corrected their course by lifting her slightly and then steadying her on the downbeat.

Comfort regarded him curiously. “What is it?”

“Nothing. That is, nothing that matters. A stray thought, is all. My mind wanders.”

“Yes, it does,” she said.

Bram heard no accusation in her tone, only acceptance. Was that how she did it? he wondered. Did she make a man better by embracing who he was until he expected something more of himself?

“You’re really very lovely, Comfort,” he said, and realized he meant it.

“Pretty compliments?” she asked, her indifferent tone at odds with the creeping color in her cheeks. “Save them for someone who will truly have you, Bram. You know I am not that woman.”