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knee; both elbows propped on chair arms so that fingers could steeple together; speculative level gaze that saw too much, too deep.
    John Yancey, who was no slouch at reading posture and expression as well as character, perceived that he was being somewhat led down the garden path by this fashionable young gentleman. Facts were facts, and the basic ones would hold true. But he suspected there was a lot that Mr. Noah Harper had not told him. Worse, that had been shaded or shelved entirely. Not the best of circumstances, by any means, even if intriguing.
    A smart man would drop this claim like a hot rock. A smart man would show this prospect the door. A smart man would forget this case had ever come forward. A smart man—
    “Yes, Mr. Harper,” he astonished himself by saying. “I’m interested in taking on your case.”

IV
    If but given the chance, life could be such a rosy dream of happiness.
    There was, for example, the Academy, thriving and excelling, with enrollment currently numbering ten students. Prospects to add several others seemed quite favorable. Because so many transplanted Americans now sought their fortune in the gold fields of California, engaging another assistant, a Miss Jessica Burns, and then one more, Miss Sarah MacIntyre, had proven to be less complicated and less time-consuming than originally anticipated.
    Almost immediately upon arrival in San Francisco, Gabe had opened his own law office. What with continual disputes between hard-fisted, ham-handed miners over various claims, and the occasional divorce petition to be contested or murder suspect to be tried, business was booming. To the point where he had happily hired two more attorneys and a secretary to run the whole outfit.
    Then there was Bridget, bright and bouncy, effervescent Bridget. She had actually met one of those miners, a Forty-Niner, clumping out of her uncle’s new business digs as she was sashaying in.
    Both met in the middle with a “Whump!” and immediate, flustered apologies. Since that time, she and Maximillian Shaw had been stepping out together on a regular basis, practically inseparable.
    Gabe had done his best to check out the man’s pedigree, based on a smattering of information received and solicited. Many emigrants to this new world had left behind a whole other life, whole other families, and occasionally whole other names. Here, now, it was often necessary to simply take folks at their word. Gabe could only hope, for his niece’s sake, that Maximillian was the fine, upstanding citizen that he appeared to be. Bridget’s happiness—and, by association, Cecelia’s—came first, above all else.
    In matters concerning affairs of the heart, Gabe himself was doing quite well. A well-spoken, well-dressed, well-mannered bachelor, even one as well-preserved as he, would be welcome at every social event. To be known as a man about town having a stable background, with financial security, was the cherry on top of the sundae. Currently he was keeping company with a lady some ten years his junior, one Pensacola Rush, widowed by a mine cave-in.
      Yes, with this small tight-knit family apparently settled both romantically and monetarily, life could have been rosy. Was it not for that annoying fly in the ointment, Mrs. Augusta Kingsley, and her only slightly less annoying son, Josiah.
    More and more, Cecelia was beginning to regret her impulsive acceptance of Josiah’s proposal, and his small, cut-rate ring.
    “Not exactly a match made in heaven?” Gabe wanted to know, one evening after another of Mrs. Liang’s delicious light suppers.
    They were enjoying a rather balmy evening on the front porch of their farm style frame house, with a breeze wafting in off San Francisco Bay to sweep away the bothersome insects and noisy foot traffic to the wharf side gambling dens far enough away to provide only a mild hum as backdrop.
    Bridget had been invited to join them, with their plate of sugar cookies from Mrs. Liang’s pantry,