“It is the best course, Lady Margaret.” Dr. Sillery had taken a cupful of blood from Toby’s arm and now he pulled blankets over the patient. “The sweating will help.”

Lady Margaret suppressed a retort that nothing had helped so far. She sat beside her son and put a hand on his forehead. It was hot. He had a fever and she knew that most fevers led to the grave. She looked at Sillery. “The wounds?”

“The hand is healing well, extremely well.” He shrugged. “The shoulder…” He did not finish.

Lady Margaret looked back to Toby’s sweating, unshaven face. He had been struck in the left shoulder by a musket ball that had mangled the joint and torn itself raggedly free from his armpit. That wound had thrown him to the ground. Then a sword had chopped down and taken two fingers from his left hand. The finger stumps were healing well, the skin pink and free of smell, but the shoulder seemed to fester. Each day Sillery would sniff the wound, frown, and then draw blood to equalize Toby’s bodily humors. Each day, too, Mr. Perilly said prayers for the sick, and Lady Margaret feared they would become prayers for the dying. In another room of the New House Colonel Washington sat up in bed, his face bandaged where once he had eyes.

“Mother?” Anne looked round the door.

“I’m coming.”

In the long gallery, a room untouched by the victorious troops, the Earl of Fleet waited with a drawn, anxious face. His allegiance was torn between his convictions that looked forward to a Parliamentary victory and his duties toward his wife’s family. He nodded heavily. “Lady Margaret.”

“John? I assume from your face that the news is not good?”

“No.” He spread his hands in a quick gesture of futility. “I did my best, but we could not offer enough money. Indeed not.”

Lady Margaret’s face was as calm and stern as it had been throughout her husband’s burial service. “May I ask who did offer the most money?”

The Earl of Fleet frowned, twisted his body uncomfortably and then walked toward the nearest window. “Money was not offered.” He held up a hand to ward off a question. “It seems that the estate will be awarded as compensation in repayment for a loan to Parliament. The amount was unstated.”

“To whom is my house compensation?”

The Earl of Fleet faced her. His hands rubbed uneasily together. “Sir Grenville Cony.”

“Ah.” Lady Margaret stiffened her back. “I trust that unspeakable piece of slime is not in the castle now?”

“No.”

“And I assume, too, that the property is confiscated? Not sold?”

Fleet nodded unhappily. “Confiscated.”

“So I am penniless?”

“No, mother!” Anne protested.

The Earl of Fleet paced uneasily back toward the fireplace. “Sir George’s other properties were not discussed. The Shropshire land.” He stopped, knowing he was giving no comfort.

Lady Margaret sniffed. “The Shropshire land will have to be sold, and I’ve no doubt at a laughable price. I suppose I can have no hopes of selling the London house?”