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his stomach began to flare, burn. He thought longingly of the small tavern he’d glimpsed near his lodging. He could be there now. Perhaps finding someone for a game of cards or chess.
    Then he overheard Mrs. Brightman murmur to Tippy, “I received a letter today with important news from a woman we met in Seneca Falls. I’ll call on you tomorrow to discuss it.”
    Gerard was intrigued. A letter from one of those radical suffragists? Perhaps Miss Foster would accomplish his mission for him. Certainly more outlandish behavior from this young lady could not fail to wipe the mist of blind love from Stoddard’s eyes. As he thought this, he sent a particularly generous smile to Tippy.
    The mystery was how this Quakeress and this young ladyof society became friends and why the Fosters hadn’t protected their daughter from such a woman.
    “Dinner is ready,” the butler said from the doorway.
    Soon, in a large dining room decorated with wallpaper depicting the Parthenon in Greece and alight with a crystal chandelier, they settled at the white-clothed dining table, lit by candles and gleaming with polished silver. Miss Foster and Stoddard sat across from him. Mrs. Brightman had been seated to his right. The master of the house sat at the head and the lady of the house at the foot, with the other guests ranged along the sides. Just a happy family and their guests.
    Gerard opened his crisp white napkin and placed it in his lap, dreading the long, many-course dinner ahead. Social chatter always needled him while at the same time boring him. But I must learn all I can about this family, all that is useful to me.
    “I used to go to Saratoga,” Mr. Foster said toward the end of his wife’s drawn-out story about how Tippy had met Stoddard there. “Great horse races.”
    Gerard beamed at the man. “Nothing like a good horse race. Stoddard took me to one yesterday. I take it Cincinnati doesn’t have a formal racetrack?”
    “No, but those races are held in outlying towns from time to time,” one of the other men said. “If a Cincinnati man wants a regular racetrack, he must go across the river.”
    “Really?” Gerard said.
    “And that’s close enough, if you ask me,” Tippy snapped. “Men betting on horses and losing money that should feed their children.”
    Prudish busybody. Gerard held his tongue.
    The other ladies busied themselves with their napkins, trying to ignore this lapse of good manners. Young debutantes were not supposed to censure gentlemen, and especially not at dinner.
    Gerard regarded the girl, smiling with his teeth and hiding his animosity. “One can’t outlaw every enjoyment just because some abuse it. I’ve always enjoyed horse racing.”
    “The lower classes lack self-control. That’s all, and it’s not going to change no matter what people say.” Mr. Foster took another spoonful of the just-served beef consommé.
    Gerard was aware that the woman beside him had gone very still. No doubt she agreed with the daughter, not the father. Blessing Brightman was a meddler if he ever saw one.
    Tempted to say more, he decided to wait to pursue the topic till the gentlemen were left alone with the port after dinner. The idea of a permanent racetrack suddenly presented itself to him in another light. This might be an opportunity to address his most pressing need: a new source of income. And if he were forced to stay longer in Cincinnati than he’d anticipated, he might as well turn it to his monetary advantage. From what he’d seen yesterday, a new track would have no shortage of patrons. Here was a need he could meet.
    Yes, a permanent racetrack just might prove to be an ideal investment. And it certainly would exasperate Miss Tippy Foster and perhaps Mrs. Blessing Brightman too.
    Gerard smiled and, in spite of his touchy stomach, continued eating the excellent dinner, planning his course toward profit and vexation of the bluestockings. Abruptly, the memory of yesterday’s horse race brought up