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  “Wait. Where’s your husband? I’d like to meet the man who’s given my sister such lovely children.” He ignored Charlie, though, and kept his eyes on Noelle.

  “He’s at war.”

  “I see. That’s a shame.”

  But George had the feeling he didn’t really think so.

  “By the way, did you know Barron Beauchamp was killed at the Battle of Rocky Face Ridge?”

  “No. I had no idea he’d even joined.”

  “Yes. Last year. Stupid move on his part when he could have paid someone to fight for him. Even more stupid since the Union won that battle, thanks to Sherman’s flanking movement.”

  “Henrietta must have taken it hard. She was quite fond of her brother.”

  “Yes, well—”

  “Goodbye, Mr. St. Claire.” George had no compunction in interrupting the man.

  He nodded at George. “Good day, Georgie.”

  George pulled Bella to a halt again. “George,” he corrected. “Only my parents call me Georgie.”

  St. Claire’s lips tightened for a brief moment, but then he smiled. “I beg your pardon. George.”

  George kicked Bella, and she snorted and broke into a canter. He waited until they were out of earshot before he patted her neck. “Sorry, querida.”

  “I don’t like him, George,” Noelle whispered.

  “Neither do I. Don’t say anything to Mama. He’s her brother, after all.”

  “You’re a nicer brother than he is.”

  “Thank you.”

  She reached up and patted his cheek, and he smiled at her.

  Mama came trotting up. “George, we’re still going to the Thompsons, aren’t we?” she asked.

  “Yes.” He wanted to say I know he’s your brother, but he makes me nervous, but he didn’t. He risked a quick glance behind him, but St. Claire wasn’t there.

  They turned the horses and headed in the direction of the rectory.

  * * * *

  Later that evening, after the girls had gone to bed, Mama took him aside. “I let my pleasure at seeing a family member I hadn’t seen in quite a few years override my good sense.”

  “Mama?”

  “It isn’t likely you’ll come into contact with my brother again, but if you do…please be cautious. I saw the way he was regarding you.”

  So she had noticed.

  “When I was a girl, I had no idea that such—” She shook her head. “George. Guard yourself and your sisters.”

  “I will, Mama. I promise.”

  Chapter 27

  Lewis St. Claire returned to his father’s house in Gramercy and tossed the nag’s reins to the waiting groom.

  He strode up the walk, took the shallow stairs in two steps, and stormed into the house. He knew at this time of day his father would be in his study, tossing back one glass of brandy after another.

  The old man had always been quite fond of brandy, but lately he seemed even more so.

  “Lewis.” Father peered at him over a snifter of the amber liquid. “I trust your wife is well?”

  “She’s fine. Breeding again.”

  “At least that’s one thing you’re capable of. Now if you could just get some sons.”

  Beyond baring his teeth at him in an imitation smile of cordiality, Lewis didn’t bother responding to that. He was no more paternal than his father and had little to do with the brats Eloise had presented him with. Although a son would be nice if it got the old man off his back. What did Father care about who inherited? He’d be dead.

  “To what do I owe the dubious pleasure of this visit?”

  “I saw Olivia.” He was gratified to see the knuckles of the hand that gripped the snifter turn white, and he wondered idly if the glass would shatter. “Did you know she has three children?”

  “Two,” his father corrected sharply. “The boy isn’t one of us.”

  Lewis shrugged. Olivia considered the pretty boy to be her son. That might be something they could use as leverage. “She’s pregnant,” he announced as he poured himself a brandy.

  “The father?”

  “Pettigrew.” He left the snifter on the credenza, not that the old man noticed, he thought sourly.

  “Goddammit.” Who had Father expected it to be? That useless boy, Barron? No, that was right, he was six feet under, rotting in the red Georgia clay.

  “You’d prefer she cuckold her husband?”

  “It certainly would have made things easier. No man wants a set of horns on his forehead.” He glared at Lewis for wont of a better target. “Pettigrew should have been taken care of at Gettysburg.”

  By pulling a number of strings, his father had been able to get around the age factor and get Pettigrew drafted. Unfortunately, the man turned out to be a wizard when it came to horses, and the generals he served under had him doing that rather than facing the Rebels.

  It had seemed their luck was about to change at Gettysburg, when the ambulance Pettigrew drove on occasion—he’d do that whenever they were short-staffed—was hit by a Union cannonball. So much had been going on that no one would have suspected anything other than bad luck. But Pettigrew had been called away at the last minute, another man had taken the ambulance, and once again Pettigrew had emerged without a scratch.

  The man had more lives than a fucking cat.

  “All right, this needs to end here and now.” Father set down his snifter with a snap and drummed his fingers on his desk.

  Lewis took his pocket watch from his waistcoat pocket, opened it to check the time, then wound the stem and returned it to his pocket.

  “Lewis.”

  Excellent. The old man was almost frothing at the mouth in his irritation. He gave him a bland smile. “I’ll find someone to deal with it more directly.”

  “Excellent. And perhaps…”

  “Raise the rent once more?” Lewis was good at reading his father’s mind. Much better than his father was at reading his, which was a damned good thing. The last thing he needed was the old man getting an inkling that on occasion Lewis preferred cock to pussy.

  He thought about the pretty boy who’d been riding with his sister, and he frowned. The girl on his lap concealed Lewis’s view of what Georgie had between his legs. Lewis found he was curious, more curious than he’d been in a while.

  “Yes.” Father rubbed his hands together, interrupting Lewis’s vision of taking down the boy’s trousers and fucking him. He scowled, but of course Father didn’t notice. “I want it paid bi-weekly. And this time make it a sum she can’t possibly meet. Sooner or later she’ll accept that she needs to come home.”

  Lewis gave a brisk nod, turned, and, unseen by Father, adjusted his cock. He started to walk out of the room, but of course the old man had to have the final say.

  “And for God’s sake, be discreet.”

  Chapter 28

  Bart Hall had been working since his Pa dropped dead on the job when Bart was ten—just turned ghost white, according to the men he’d worked with, and keeled over. Ma made him leave school, not that he’d minded. He could cypher and do sums, and he reckoned that was all that mattered.

  Pa had been a carpenter, and Bart had picked up some skills from him. After Pa died, Bart was lucky to get an apprenticeship with Mr. Wagner, the carpenter Pa had worked for.

  It wasn’t easy for Ma to raise eight kids, and even with three of them working, times were rough. Mary Agnes, the oldest of the brothers and sisters, worked as a maid in one of the big houses on Park Avenue. She sent money home when she could, but she rarely came to visit; Bart had the feeling it was because she was ashamed of them. Mary Beth, who was a couple of years younger than him, worked as a scullery maid in a boarding house in the East Village. She came home as often as she could, and he felt bad that he wished she didn’t, because all she talked about were the young men who caught her eye and how strict Mrs. O’Connor, the woman who employed her, was. It was left to Mary Katherine to look after the little ones while Ma worked in the kitchen of whatever family
was willing to hire her. What bothered Bart the most was how those families treated her—as if she was invisible and not worth a kind word.

  That changed when Mrs. Thompson, the preacher’s wife, suggested she be hired by a couple new to the congregation.

  Bart tried to walk Ma home whenever he could; their neighborhood wasn’t as bad as some, but he didn’t want her to put herself in danger.

  The family turned out to be real nice, though. The missus was a young lady—only a few years older than Bart—who couldn’t cook, and to top it off, she was expecting a baby. The mister was top over tail in love with her, according to Ma. He drove a hansom cab, and would drive Ma home before he turned it in for the night on those days when the boss wanted Bart to stay late.

  And then there was the son…

  The first time Bart saw George was on a late spring day in 1859, when he’d come to escort Ma home from the cottage where the Pettigrews lived.

  The weather was warm, and his sleeves were rolled up, much as Bart’s were. The muscles in his forearms rippled as he rode a black horse around the paddock. The boy was almost motionless in the saddle, and he seemed part of the horse as it danced across the ground. The horse was poetry in motion, but George…he took Bart’s breath away.

  Bart got snappy talking to George—lunch had been a long time ago—and he wanted to kick himself in the ass for being rude. He was positive George would get the cold look on his face boys from well-to-do families got when they talked to anyone they thought was below them. Instead, George just smiled at him and told him to go in the house.

  Bart found he wanted to kiss that smile off his lips. He’d never been very interested in girls, which was a good thing, considering he barely had time to wash up after he got home from work, eat dinner, and fall into bed to have the next day a repetition of the one before. He had no time for courting.

  But…he wouldn’t have minded courting George Pettigrew.

  * * * *

  To his surprise, they became close friends, even closer than Frank Thompson, although Bart had known the preacher’s son for some years and liked him well enough. He didn’t tell George this, since George agreed with Frank, who saw them as the three musketeers.

  George even accepted his cockeyed notion of changing his name to Abe after he’d heard Mr. Lincoln give that speech at Cooper Institute. That name change had only lasted until Mr. Pettigrew was drafted into the army and George had to leave school and go to work himself.

  Not that either Mr. Pettigrew or George or Bart blamed the president.

  George put his expertise with horses to good use and drove a hansom cab, just like his pa had. Somehow that made him seem more within Bart’s reach.

  “I’m working over on East 23rd Street this week,” he said one evening while he waited for Ma to fetch her shawl and bonnet.

  “Yeah?” George took a jug of milk from the ice closet and poured a glass for Bart. Ever since that first day, George had always insisted on making sure he had a glass of milk before he left on the walk home.

  “Yeah. If…if it ain’t too much trouble, maybe we could meet for lunch.” Bart used the act of drinking his milk to conceal his nerves.

  “That would be swell!”

  So the next day they had, and it was the start of a tradition they continued, even after that asshole Jimmy Hartman sneered when Bart collected his lunch pail to meet George.

  “Going to see that pretty nellie boy of yours?” He snorted and glanced around at the other men, looking for approval.

  Bart put down the pail and delivered a roundhouse punch to Hartman’s chin. Hartman’s teeth snapped together, his eyes rolled up, and his feet flew out from under him.

  “George Pettigrew is my friend. Lay off, or I’ll knock you on your ass again. Got it, asshole?”

  It didn’t look like Hartman was going to answer, so Bart picked up his lunch pail and turned to head out the door.

  “Hall, watch it!” one of the older men who’d worked with his Pa called out. His warning was too late, though. Bart spun around, and Hartman’s knuckles landed a blow first to Bart’s nose and then his eye.

  Bart had been fighting since before Pa kicked the bucket, and while the neighborhood the family lived in now wasn’t as bad as some of the previous ones, it did house some rough characters. He launched himself at Hartman, started swinging, and just kept going.

  Finally they pulled him off Hartman. “C’mon, Bart. Boss’ll be mad if you hurt Jimmy bad enough that he can’t work.”

  Bart let them drag him away from the little pissant. He could feel his eye swelling shut and his nose beginning to throb. He ran a sleeve under his nose. It was bleeding, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t broken. But shit. Now he had blood all over his shirt, and George was waiting for him.

  “You keep your filthy mouth shut, you hear me, Hartman?”

  Hartman glared at him from where he lay on the floor, but at least he had enough sense to stay down.

  And of course Bart had to tell George why he had a black eye and a bloody nose. He held his breath, waiting for his friend to take him to task for fighting.

  “I remember meeting him once,” he said. “He’s an ass.”

  “He is. He called you a pretty nellie boy.”

  “Me?” Georgie’s eyes grew huge and his mouth dropped open, and Bart wished he’d kept his own mouth shut, at least about the nellie part. “He thinks I’m pretty?”

  Bart blinked. That was what George took from the cause of the fistfight?

  George slanted him a glance, and for a second Bart wondered if he was going to ask if Bart thought he was pretty.

  He did, but he didn’t want to bring it up just then. Bart gave George a crooked smile and offered half the sandwich Ma had made for him.

  This afternoon, he thought, I’ll tell George that yes, I think he’s pretty, and more than that, I…He swallowed. No, he’d better save that last for another time.

  * * * *

  As it turned out, he didn’t tell George anything that day. By the time he arrived at the cottage, he found George pacing the parlor instead of working with the two horses as he usually did after work.

  “What is it?”

  “I just told your mama we can’t afford to have her come anymore. I’m so sorry, Bart. Please don’t be mad at me.”

  “I’d never be…What happened?”

  “That…” He glanced around, then lowered his voice. “That damned landlord raised the rent again, and now he wants it every month.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  George shook his head. “There’s nothing. Not unless you can turn into an heiress.”

  And marry him? Bart stood there, his mouth gaping like a beached fish.

  “Don’t pay any mind to me. I’m not thinking straight.” He held out his palm to reveal the large red brooch he held.

  “Is that a ruby?”

  “Yeah. I’ve got to go to Mr. Feinstein’s. Hopefully he’ll give me enough to tide us over until Papa gets paid.”

  “Has the Army held back his wages again?”

  “Yes, but it’s not just him. They’re late with everyone’s pay.”

  “I’m sorry, Georgie. Look, suppose I go with you?”

  “Would you? I could use you at my side—for moral support. This brooch was my mother’s, and I feel awful having to sell it. Which is foolish, since I’ve sold all Mama’s jewels, and she hasn’t shed a single tear over them.”

  Bart patted his shoulder. He knew George’s pa had been married before—although George called his pa’s wife “mama,” he’d lost his real ma when he was just a tyke. “I can’t explain women,” was all he could offer.

  “You live with enough of ‘em.”

  That was the truth: there were six of them, not counting Ma.

  “Are you making fun of me?” He tugged Georgie’s ear.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  Bart was pleased to see his friend’s mood had lightened a bit.

  George headed in
to the kitchen, and Bart followed him. “Mama, I’m going out for a little while with Bart. I’ll be back before dinner.”

  “All right, George. Bart, would you like to join us? Your mother will be dining with us also.”

  “If it’s not too much trouble, I would, Mrs. Pettigrew. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome, Bart.”

  George went out the door that led to the side yard. “Do you want to ride Salida?”

  “Are you gonna ride Bella?”

  “Yes.”

  “Uh…no.” Bart wasn’t much of a rider, even though George had tried to teach him, but he was touched that his friend would offer him the use of the mare George loved almost as much as his family.

  “Okay, we’ll ride double. Bella won’t object.”

  Bart didn’t tell him he objected. He wanted George to think well of him.

  George saddled the mare and led her to the mounting block.

  Okay, no use in putting it off. Bart hitched up his britches, swaggered over to the block, stepped onto it, and got a leg over Bella’s back. She danced a little, and he clutched her mane.

  “It’s okay,” George crooned, and Bart didn’t know if he was talking to him or the mare, but they both relaxed at the sound of the soothing voice. He scooted back enough so there was room for George, and held his breath. They’d ridden together like this a time or two before, and he just had to keep enough distance between their lower bodies so George wouldn’t feel his prick getting interested.

  George’s fluid movements on the horses always impressed Bart, and now was no different. The easy way he got his left foot into the stirrup and swung his right leg over the mare’s neck so he wouldn’t kick him made Bart whimper.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Fine,” he said hoarsely. He couldn’t tell George the way his britches hugged his ass made Bart want to do a little hugging of his own.

  “Hang on tight then.” George waited until Bart slid his arms around his waist. “Hang on, I said.” Bart sighed and moved closer. George smiled at Bart over his shoulder, then nudged Bella’s sides, and they headed for Mr. Feinstein’s shop.

  Mr. Feinstein was a fair man, and the price he paid George for the ruby would tide the family over until well after Captain Pettigrew got paid. That was, if the damned landlord didn’t raise the rent again.