Prologue

New Orleans, Spring, 1853

Barton D’Evereaux ran his fingers through his silver hair. He poured two glasses of brandy and handed one to the person sitting across the desk.

“Here. Drink up. One of us will need it.” Barton sipped his drink, studying his companion over the rim. How could he have misjudged his friend so badly? Had there been no indication, or was he so blind that he had missed it? Neither thought brought comfort.

Setting his glass down, the banker issued a resigned sigh, pondering the choices life often offered. “You know I’ll have to report this to the authorities. There’s really no other way.” He watched closely for a reaction to his words, but there was no discernible response.

His friend took a long sip of brandy. “Reconsider, Barton. You lost more to that gambler than you can afford. I’m offering you a solution to your financial troubles. In fact, I’m offering you a great deal more. You can see you have no choice. Accept my offer or—I promise—you’ll be sorry. Don’t answer now. Just consider what I’ve said.”

Weariness, as tangible as a wool cloak, settled on him. “There’s nothing to consider. You’re mistaken about the gambler.” Barton picked up his glass and swirled the fiery liquid around before taking a drink. “I can’t accept either of your offers. We’ve been friends too long for that. I’m truly sorry, but I have to report this first thing in the morning. I’ll help you any way I can, but it has to be reported.” Sadness overwhelmed him.