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“Do sit down,” Aaron suggested. “May I offer you a glass of claret? It’s just lately arrived from France.”

Naturally, Hamilton had no interest in taking a seat. He was too busy wearing a track on Aaron’s one remaining Turkey carpet. “The boy has been sacrificed on the altar of public opinion. A thousand tongues of rumor lash him about. Even his fellow inmates in the prison have declared him guilty and wreaked their vengeance upon his unresisting frame. This boy—only a boy—faces the gallows.”

“How public-spirited you are to interest yourself in his fate,” Aaron murmured.

“Considering he had no representation before,” growled Brockholst into his own glass of claret.

Hamilton let that slide off him, as he had let so many things slide off him. Women, for example. “If we are to prevent this boy being sacrificed to the coarse appetites of the common mob, we must discuss our strategy for his defense.”

“There’s nothing to discuss,” Brockholst said tersely. “The girl had a vial of laudanum. A roomful of people heard her say if she could she would swallow it whole.”

“And the bruises?” Hamilton countered fiercely.

“Can be accounted for by the effect of submersion upon the corpse.” Aaron’s patience was beginning to wane. It was time to bring this meeting to a close. Let Hamilton see they had the matter well in hand. “The doctors who performed the autopsy found no conclusive evidence of violence. They will attest to that.”

“I spoke to Dr. Hosack this morning.” Of course he had. Aaron might have guessed. Whatever the topic, Hamilton must play the expert.

“Dr. Hosack,” said Aaron, “did not perform the autopsy.”

“No, but he viewed the body, and saw, in addition to the general discoloration caused by submersion, a series of spots around the windpipe of the sort that might be effected by a hand grasping the throat.” Hamilton paused in his peripatetics around the room to draw some air into his own windpipe, his sky-blue waistcoat swelling. “He is firmly of the opinion that the livid marks on her neck could only have been caused by violence.”

“Opinion is little better than rumor,” said Aaron. “Mere empty air. I wonder that you would give it credence.”

“The girl said she would kill herself and she did,” said Brockholst.

Hamilton’s gold buttons glinted in the candlelight. “Levi Weeks didn’t appear to believe so.”

“Levi Weeks would do well to believe so. His neck depends on it. Claret?” Aaron tipped the decanter over the glass without waiting for Hamilton’s answer. Apparently, their unwanted co-counsel needed to be reminded which side he served. “We can find a dozen people to swear that the girl had a melancholy disposition.”

“Levi Weeks described her as lively.”

Levi Weeks didn’t know what was good for him. Neither did Alexander Hamilton.

Aaron held out the glass of claret to Hamilton. “What can one expect? The girl was a bastard. They are notoriously prone to violent humors.”

Hamilton’s hand shook on the stem of the glass. For a moment, Aaron thought it would fall, which would be a pity, since it would break up the set. Hamilton managed to retain his grip on the glass, but he couldn’t hide the flush that spread up from his cravat straight to the tips of his ears.

Really, the man was almost too easy to goad.

Aaron gave him a moment to stew, and then said smoothly, “In this case, it works to our benefit. If the girl did away with herself . . . why, then, Levi Weeks is saved.”

“But if she didn’t?” Hamilton’s pale skin was suffused with color; Aaron couldn’t imagine how he’d endured a tropical climate. “One must entertain all possibilities.”

“My dear Hamilton, I prefer to entertain only by invitation.”

Brockholst snorted with amusement.

Hamilton’s fingers tightened on the stem of his glass. “I should think that justice should be the object of any practitioner at the bar. The girl’s associates should be questioned, her circumstances examined. Who was by the well that night? Are there houses near enough that someone might have overheard an altercation—or noted the lack of one?”

“Why not consult the man who carts away the morning soil or the watchman napping in his box?” inquired Brockholst sarcastically.

“Why not, indeed?” murmured Aaron. A delightful prospect was beginning to open itself before him. Hamilton, a victim of his own industry. “If you must satisfy the dictates of your conscience . . . by all means. One wouldn’t want to work an injustice to that poor girl or her family.”

Brockholst tossed back the rest of his claret. “That’s young Colden’s obligation as prosecutor, not ours.”

“And we may be sure he will fulfill it,” said Aaron meaningfully. “Diligently.”

“Diligently, yes. Intelligently, no,” said Brockholst dismissively. “The boy is like a farmer told to plow a furrow. He’ll move forward regardless of what lies in his path.”