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A wave of nausea threatened to choke her. She knew more than anyone what Osgoode was capable of. James’s reputation would be ruined. He’d would have no way of supporting himself. Or Evie. She’d destroy his life. Just as she’d done to Colin.

Sara leaned weakly against the spade, the sickening fear fading under a far stronger emotion. Loss. She would lose them both. Well, she’d known it was coming. It’s not like she could stay here forever. Yet she’d forgotten, grown complacent.

Evie’s voice drifted across the yard, high and sweet. Calling her. Her heart contracted. Evie had just found security and routine. What would it do to her if Sara left?

Stephen Osgoode’s words came back to her, sharp and insistent. You’ll ruin him, and his daughter, too.

How could she stay?

James stifled a yawn, wondering how soon he could politely take his leave. He eyed the parade of servants entering Ballantine’s dining room. Not anytime soon, judging by the size of the next course: lobster cream, chicken croquettes, and a saddle of mutton. Ballantine had spared no expense.

Ballantine caught his eye and raised his eyebrows. His gaze slid across the table to rest on the empty seat across from James. Andrew Ridley hadn’t made an appearance tonight. Ballantine frowned, his eyes meeting James as his head tilted in question. James could only shrug.

“Quite a large party this evening,” he said, attempting conversation with his dinner partner. He’d been paired with Miss Wilson, a simpering chit barely out of the schoolroom who couldn’t seem to string a sentence together beyond “How diverting, to be sure.”

“I don’t think anyone would miss it. It’s the first dinner he’s hosted in years. Mama said he hasn’t opened his doors to company since—” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “His daughter.”

Heavens, had the girl no more sense than to gossip about her host at the table?

“Yes, of course, that must be it.” He had no intention of rehashing the old story of Ballantine’s wayward daughter.

It had happened months before he’d even arrived in Upper Canada.

He busied himself with his plate for a moment, searching for an innocuous topic of conversation.

“Miss Wilson, have you read Ivanhoe ?”

“I adore Ivanhoe . So diverting, to be sure.”

James looked down at Miss Wilson in surprise. She was a reader, was she? Thanks to Sara, he had more than a passing knowledge of Scott’s latest novel.

“A capital book,” he said. “Tell me, do you prefer Rowena or Rebecca? It’s a matter of some debate in my house.”

“Oh, well I—” A look of confusion passed over her face. “Which one is the princess? She’s my favorite.”

“Rowena,” James said dryly.

Some men might find her rosy cheeks and tiny bow mouth attractive, but she reminded James of a china doll.

No spark of intelligence in her eyes, no strength to the tilt of her chin or the set of her shoulders.

Did Ballantine think he was the same man he’d been a decade ago, so bowled over by a pretty face that he wouldn’t notice there was nothing of substance underneath?

He refused the footman’s offer of more wine, only half listening to Miss Wilson’s imperfect recollections of Ivanhoe .

Amelia had been as beautiful, her smiles as encouraging.

As a young man with barely a feather to fly with, he’d never been the recipient of such admiration before.

He’d rushed headlong into love without a second thought, not realizing that Amelia had seen him more as a challenge than as a man.

She’d planned to remake him into a model gentleman, a pillar of the Tory elite.

Only he wasn’t the ambitious, biddable husband Amelia imagined.

He liked quiet evenings at home and had no interest in political power.

He wouldn’t invest his money in dubious land claims that lined the pockets of the rich and misled newcomers about the value of their allotments.

He refused to go into debt to maintain a lifestyle they couldn’t yet afford.

He’d been nothing but a disappointment to Amelia.

Judging by the relief on Miss Wilson’s face when she turned to her other dinner partner, he was a disappointment to her, as well.

Finally, the ladies rose to move to the parlor.

He inhaled, running through his argument once again.

Soon, he’d have his chance to sway the men in this room into action.

“Well, gentlemen.” Old Colonel Fitzgibbon leaned forward as soon as the port was poured and sent his sharp gaze around the table. “I’d like to know what that fool Mackenzie is up to.”

“It will come to nothing, mark my words. They wouldn’t know a musket from a spade,” said a grizzled man to his right.

James cleared his throat. It was exactly the opening he’d hoped for. “We’d do well to pay attention.” Heads swivelled in his direction, and he sought the words that would make them take heed. “That last election was a shambles, surely you can admit that. Reforms are necessary.”

“Come now, Kinney,” the Colonel responded. “You’re starting to sound like one of them.”

James scanned the table, but there was no sign of support in the unsmiling faces around him. The injustice struck him anew. These men, born to privilege, couldn’t spare a thought for policy that didn’t benefit them. He doubted he could change their minds, but he had to try.

“Gentlemen,” James said, trying for a conciliatory tone.

“I’m only saying what we all know. We can’t continue to ignore the needs of newcomers, not if we want to move this colony forward.

” He held up a hand to silence the immediate rebuttals.

“Land grants are a case in point. How can it be that hardworking immigrants are denied land because they aren’t members of the Church of England?

It’s not what they were promised when they uprooted their lives to come here. ”

“So, you think every man who steps off a boat should be granted a parcel of land?” The Colonel snorted. “They wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

“Not necessarily. But I do think the lawmakers are more concerned with providing themselves with cheap labor than the future of this colony.”

“Oh, ho, now the knives come out.” The Colonel bristled as murmurs of dissent grew around the table.

“James, my boy,” Ballantine said, his eyes flashing a warning. “If changes are needed, you can trust the governor to bring our concerns to the attention of Britain. All in good time.”

James’s hands clenched. Not one of these men had any intention of listening. Of compromise. “But sir, that could take months. Years. The rebels are preparing to fight. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

“Fight?” The colonel scoffed. “One good British regular could take on twenty farmers and win. We’ve nothing to fear from those fools.”

“But the governor sent the militia to Montreal,” James said. “If worst came to worst, we’d be defenseless. We need to negotiate. Compromise.”

The word brought a chorus of objection from the men around the table. “You can’t compromise with treasonous rebels.” The colonel’s voice rose, his face darkening.

“We have a new queen.” Ballantine interjected before James could respond. “Now is not the time for petty squabbles. We need to demonstrate our loyalty. Britain has always acted in our best interest.” There were murmurs of assent.

“In our best interest, perhaps, but lawmakers should represent the concerns of everyone.” Even as he said the words, he knew he’d gone too far. The incredulous laughter that greeted his words only confirmed it. But who would speak for the families living in squalor in Irish Town?

I could.

For a moment, he thought he’d spoken the words aloud. He knew the law. He knew people in power. He could do something.

Ballantine rose to his feet, calling to order the unruly arguments that sprung up around the table. “A toast to the queen.” He raised his glass and waited for the others to join him. “To Her Majesty Queen Victoria.”

James had no choice but to join them. If only he could make them see they could be loyal to the Crown and still work for change.

“To the queen.” The men’s voices joined as one and harmony was restored to the table.

Ballantine’s eyes sought his as he lowered his glass, sending a fierce glare in his direction before turning back to his conversation with the man beside him. James sighed. He’d be in for a tongue-lashing later, and for what? If anything, his words only seemed to widen the divide.

“You’ve missed your mark with this crowd, James.” Stephen Osgoode had moved from his place on the other side of the table and taken a seat next to James. “You’ll never get anywhere if they think you’re a radical.”

“Hmmm.” James waited. Osgoode wasn’t here to drop a friendly word of advice in his ear. He always had an ulterior motive in conversation. Over the years, James had learned it was best to bide his time and force the man to show his hand.

“Lovely girl, Miss Wilson. If you were looking for a wife, you couldn’t do any better.”

It wasn’t the political diatribe he’d expected, but then, that was typical of Osgoode.

Keep your opponents guessing. Attack when their defenses are down.

In the aftermath of his failed attempt to engage his colleagues, James couldn’t find the cool logic he usually employed to fend off the older man.

Instead, his ire built. The nerve of the man, to imagine James would discuss his private life with him.

He held his tongue, hoping Osgoode would give up and seek out more interesting prey.

“Rumor was you were cozying up to your new governess.”

“What do you know of Sara O’Connor?” The question burst out of him, sharp and angry like the crack of a whip. It did nothing to cow Osgoode, who merely gave his cool, feline smile. Blast. He’d wanted James to react, and James had walked right into his trap.

“I know enough.” Osgoode draped a languid arm on the table and played with the stem of his glass. “Not the sort of woman to make you a good wife.”

Every drop of blood in James’s body urged him to defend Sara and wipe the smiling confidence off Osgoode’s face. He forced himself to take a breath, to sit back in his chair and examine Osgoode impartially.

It didn’t make sense.

Stephen Osgoode put his self-interest before everything and everyone. He would love nothing more than to discredit James because of his connection to a laundress. What could he possibly gain from warning James away from her?

A self-satisfied smile slid over Osgoode’s face.

The man was enjoying watching James’s confusion.

He leaned forward. “I’d be careful, if I were you.

Rumors have a way of spreading out of control.

It would be a pity to see an upstanding man like you brought low by a scheming woman like Sara O’Connor.

” The satisfaction in his voice said he wouldn’t find it a pity at all.

“You will not speak of her.” James half rose out of his seat, bringing his hand down on Osgoode’s wrist. He couldn’t take another moment of her name in Osgoode’s mouth. He gripped hard, feeling the narrow bones start to bend together.

For once, Osgoode seemed rattled. He sat up, attempted to pull his arm away, but James gave no quarter. “James, what the devil...?”

James bent his head low, so he could mutter into Osgoode’s ear. “Leave Sara O’Connor alone.”

Osgoode was too wily to show surprise if he felt any. “Why, James,” he drawled, a hint of amusement in his voice. “I had no idea you were so... attached.”

“There’s a lot about me you don’t know.” James sent him a final, seething glare and strode from the room.