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Ezra had to stop and think. “Three—and Levi’s apprentice. As I said, it was convenient.” His face darkened. “If I’d known, I’d never have let any of them near the place. But it seemed like a respectable house. Mrs. Ring—have you met her? She seemed like a sensible woman. And that there were young women there—well, what’s the harm in a bit of flirtation provided it doesn’t go too far? Levi was on good terms with all of them. He took—what was her name? the other one—to a charity sermon.”

“Hope,” Levi said hoarsely. “Her name is Hope.”

“He paid more mind to Hope than to Elma. Elma couldn’t bear it and threw herself into a well. The family doesn’t want to admit it and that’s why they’re pointing the finger at my boy.”

Ezra pounded the words like nails, one after the other, as if he were trying to hammer them into Alexander’s skull.

The clock on the mantel said it was well past seven. Alexander had an appointment to keep at eight o’clock, to the north of the city, in the stronghold of his enemy.

“Our first order of business is to stem the tide of public condemnation. I go to meet with Colonel Burr and Mr. Livingston to discuss how best to go about it. After that”—Alexander looked back at Levi, hunched in his seat by the fire—“we can begin to determine the truth of the matter.”

“The girl killed herself,” said Ezra Weeks firmly. “And that’s the truth of it.”

Chapter Four

Resolve to succeed and you cannot fail.

—Aaron Burr, 1799

New York City

January 7, 1800

“I’ve come from Ezra Weeks.” Hamilton stood in the doorway of Aaron Burr’s drawing room, steaming with cold and self-importance.

Never mind a good evening or the other social niceties. The man had demanded this meeting and then arrived late. Why bother to pretend to courtesy?

“How kind you are to honor us with your presence,” said Aaron gently. “Do come in. As you see, Brockholst has preceded you.”

Hamilton gave a curt nod to the tall man sprawled in Aaron’s favorite chair, with the chintz cover, in blue, to match the window curtains. “Livingston.”

Brockholst didn’t even bother to nod. He just glowered. “Hamilton.”

It was going to be, Aaron could see, an utterly delightful evening.

“Forgive me for not offering supper. My Theodosia is indisposed, so I find myself a bachelor, reduced to cold meats.”

To his credit, Hamilton looked genuinely concerned. “It’s nothing serious, I trust? When Philip was ill—”

“A simple ague.” In fact, Aaron’s daughter Theodosia was quite recovered, more than well enough to preside at the table, but Aaron had no intention of rewarding the man for pushing in where he wasn’t wanted.

Hamilton had insisted upon a meeting; Aaron had determined the place and manner of it.

Richmond Hill was at its best at night. In the candlelight, the pale patches where paintings had once hung were less apparent. Between dusk and dawn, Aaron could imagine Richmond Hill as it had once been, crammed with Turkey carpets and China porcelain, lyre-backed chairs from France and a liquor case from Holland. He missed his inlaid card tables and his marble side tables, each chosen with such care—all sold two years ago in the wake of a disastrous financial loss.

He would buy them back and better. Once he had recouped his finances. The fledgling Manhattan Company was serving its purpose nicely, but the monies Aaron had redirected to himself from its coffers were just a morsel in the maw of his debts.

Since Hamilton had no interest in polite nothings, Aaron went straight to the point. “I understand you have decided to interest yourself in the matter of Levi Weeks.”

Brockholst could be heard to mutter something that sounded like “damned interfering puppy.”

Aaron hoped he would contain himself. The last thing they needed was a duel.

Brockholst had been fortunate not to be prosecuted for his last encounter, in which James Jones had publicly tweaked Brockholst’s noble Roman nose and been rewarded with a bullet to the groin and a swift trip to the cemetery. Aaron needed Brockholst at his side in the upcoming elections, not immured in the Bridewell like Levi Weeks.

“It’s a travesty.” Hamilton was wringing his hands, actually wringing his hands, like a third-rate actor playing Lady Macbeth.

What a loss to the stage he was. Aaron spared a moment’s regret the man hadn’t taken to the boards and let politics be; what a boon to public life that would have been.