1870, Philadelphia, USA.
Martha Whitcomb, the wild child of Philadelphia society, is now a grown woman, independent in wealth and in personality. At twenty-three, still unmarried and childless, she is exposed to constant rumors and ridicule, crushed...
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Rick unlocked the door to Lucky Shot, holding it open for George and Frank to step inside before following his brothers. He had barely managed to lock the door behind them before George was roaring like a lion with a toothache.
"Of all the horseshit!" he snarled, overturning one of Rick's chairs. "And we sat there and took it like women!"
He and George had certainly met different women, Rick thought, calmly uprighting the chair and returning it to its place at one of the socializing tables.
"We oughta do something about that damned coward Gregory," Frank said as Rick moved around the bar. "I can have Young and his boys—"
"Absolutely," George said.
"Absolutely not," Rick snapped, retrieving a bottle of whiskey and pouring himself a drink.
"Aren't you gonna give us some of that, Ricky?" Frank asked, and Rick shook his head.
"No—you are both behaving like infants in a strop well enough without the aid of liquor," he said, lifting his glass. "Send Young out after Coroner Gregory—have you entirely taken leave of your senses?"
"He let that bitch walk—"
"Because it was justified—" Rick snapped again. "Look—the two of you need to grow up, wise up, and face reality—the old days are dead and over. Period."
"The hell is that supposed to mean?" George asked, his own temper rising.
"It means that we can't strut about doing as we please without consequence," Rick said. "It means that there will be no more lessons, no more crying into your soup about disrespect—we have lost, gentlemen."
"Like hell we have," Frank said.
"Indeed—it is not yet finished," George added, and Rick frowned.
"You have a plan?" he asked, feeling himself deflate. Despite it all—his own experience and every shred of sense in him—he had harbored hopes that perhaps he could persuade his brothers to abandon their father's path. He had harbored hopes that without their father's iron fist at their throats, his brothers might see how hopeless it was to continue on, and that he might persuade Moore to abandon his investigation. He had harbored hopes that perhaps there might, for once, be peace.
He was an idiot.
"Something like that," George said with an odd, cold smile that Rick had not seen in his brother.
"And?" he prompted, but Frank shook his head.
"Nothing to do with you," he said, crossing his arms over his chest. "You've decided where you stand in this, and we don't need you running to your mistress like a dog."
The irony, Rick thought, drinking his whiskey.
He, along with everyone else with a functioning mind, had expected his brothers to react badly to the verdict of the coroner's jury. Though Rick had not been at all surprised to hear the men unanimously deem Cuthbert Cutler's death to be a justifiable homicide and decline to recommend charges, George and Frank remained deeply entrenched in their fantasy world where all around them bowed to their family's benefit. Rick was entirely certain that the two men had, without a shadow of hesitation, expected to hear a completely different verdict. It must feel like an utter betrayal, he knew, but he was not sympathetic.
