City of Glory by Beverly Swerling Page A

but the whole town knew that didn’t satisfy his wife. The last time Bastard raised cash by selling scrip in Devrey Shipping, the purpose had been to build a Broadway mansion up near Astor’s. Celinda Devrey had been a Clinton. She’d married a man presumed to be able to support her in style, but the war and Bastard’s bad judgment conspired to deny her expectations. The Broadway house stood half built and empty, and likely to remain so given the morning’s events.
    Joyful had been planning this encounter for some time, and he knew he’d never have a better opportunity. Celinda must have given her husband a fair serving of grief with his Wall Street dinner this day. Bastard was as ripe as he’d ever be, a fruit ready to drop into Joyful’s hand. All the same, he couldn’t simply present himself at the door and wait for a servant to announce him. His cousin was unlikely to be receiving visitors this evening.
    It was almost nine o’clock and the rain had stopped. Joyful turned left on the mossy cobbled path that circled the house and approached the set of long windows that spilled light into the shadowy garden. An oil lamp had been lit but the curtains left open. He could see a high-backed chair and a footstool, and a man’s legs. Joyful reached for the handle of the casement. It turned easily and opened toward him. “Good evening, cousin.”
    Bastard did not turn around. “Who the hell are you?” His voice was thick with drink.
    “Joyful Patrick Turner, your second cousin, I believe, once removed. At least that’s as near as I can work it out.”
    “Got your hand blown off in this miserable war, didn’t you? Not a hellish lot to be joyful about, is there? Go away. Devreys have no truck with Turners. It’s tradition. And speaking personally, I care even less for heroes.”
    “Much as I expected. But I’m not going away just yet. Mind if I pour myself a drink?”
    Bastard still had not turned around, but he waved a languid arm in compliance. “Help yourself. The Madeira’s excellent but the sack isn’t much better than piss. Cellar’s gone to ruin in this war, along with everything else.”
    The simple furniture of New York cabinetmaker Duncan Phyfe was the fashion now. This room’s style had the feeling of an earlier time; heavy, rococo pieces in the style of Chippendale. An elaborately carved mahogany table against one wall held a number of decanters. Joyful removed the glass stoppers and sniffed each in turn. When he’d identified the Madeira, he poured himself a generous tot. “Can I get you a refill, cousin?”
    “Cheeky sort, aren’t you, offering a man his own tipple in his own house.”
    “Not for long.”
    “What does that mean? Are you planning to be less cheeky sometime soon?”
    “No. It means the house won’t be yours for much longer. It will go on the block with all your other assets once Gornt Blakeman squeezes the last drop of life out of Devrey Shipping. As, I trust, you are well aware.”
    Silence for a few seconds, then, “Come over here, Joyful Patrick. So I can get a good look at you.”
    He did as he was asked, and took a good look in his turn. Bastard was sweating profusely, his face was bright scarlet, and his eyes were puffy with drink, maybe tears. He squinted up at Joyful, then leaned forward and squinted some more. “Truth, isn’t it?”
    “What?”
    “That we’re all redheads descended from Red Bess.”
    “My mother was also a redhead.”
    “The beautiful Roisin. Yes, so I heard. I remember now, you’re a bastard as well. Christ, what a history.”
    Joyful shrugged. “My parents married soon after I was born, but it doesn’t make any difference. We’re not responsible for the past, Cousin. Only the present. And maybe the future.”
    “My future, as you so generously pointed out, is a bucket of steaming manure. The whole town has the stench in its nostrils. So why should I go on talking to you, Joyful Patrick? This house is still mine, whatever may happen