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'Hambly's brilliantly crafted eighth historical brings the antebellum South so alive you could swear the author traveled back in time to observe her settings firsthand. This riveting novel of suspense is sure to win Hambly many new fans.'
Nineteenth-century New Orleans is a blazing hotbed of scorching politics and
personal vendettas. And it's into this fire that Benjamin January falls when he
is hired to follow Oliver Weems, a bank official who has absconded with $100,000
in gold and securities. But it's more than just a job for January. The missing
money is vital to the survival of the school for freed slaves that he and his
wife Rose have founded.
Following the suspected embezzler--and the money--onto the steamboat Silver
Moon, January, Rose, and their friend Hannibal Sefton are sworn to secrecy about
the crime until they can find the trunks containing the stolen loot. And then
the unexpected happens: Weems is found murdered and suddenly the job of finding
the pirated stash grows not only more difficult--but more deadly. There is no
shortage of suspects--from the sinister slave-dealer to the bullying steamship
pilot to the suspiciously innocent "lady" with connections to every
river pirate in the riotous port of Natchez-Under-the-Hill--who all seem to have
something to hide.
Now, with time running out, January seeks clues wherever he can find
them--and allies among whoever can help. Working in tandem with a young planter
named Jefferson Davies, he must uncover the dark web of corruption, betrayal,
and greed that has already cost one man his life...and, if he can't catch a
brutal, remorseless killer, will soon cost January and his friends theirs.
ONE
Six days out of seven, the ten thousand or so people in the city of New
Orleans whose bodies were the property of other people were kept pretty busy.
Having no legal right to choose what they'd rather be doing, they tended to get
the dirty jobs, like mucking out stables, cleaning the always-horrifying
three-foot gutters that rimmed the downtown streets, cooking everybody's food in
sweltering kitchens, and washing everybody's clothing, and getting damn little
thanks for any of it--they were better off doing white people's chores than
living in heathen villages in Africa like their ancestors (said the white
people).
Sunday afternoons, the slaves got together in what was officially called
Circus Square--unofficially, Congo Square--next to the turning basin where the
canal-boats maneuvered, and close by the old St. Louis Cemetery. Those who had
garden plots sold their surplus produce: tomatoes and corn, this time of year,
and peaches whose scent turned...
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