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the power to make her heart falter. “I believe your brother will disagree with you.”
    â€œI’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.”
    â€œPerhaps 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.”
    â€œNow 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.
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    Newton Prescott slipped a finger between his stiff shirt collar and his Adam’s apple and tugged. He’d probably been more uncomfortable in his life, but just now no specific memory was coming to him. The salon was warm, and for some reason that defied good sense, the doors to the outside remained closed. He had always suspected that Alexandra DeLong’s blood ran cold, and here was proof. Lord, but he could think of no greater pleasure right now than sitting in his own home with his slippers on and feet up.
    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.
    â€œWhere d’you suppose she’s gone?” asked Newt. “I haven’t seen her for the better part of an hour.”
    â€œBram disappeared for a while. Did you notice?”
    Newt nodded. “I thought he’d come back with her.”
    â€œOur