“What in God’s name are you doing to that baby, Uncle John?” The furious female voice came from the doorway on the far side of the room, and William’s head swiveled toward it. Framed in the doorway was a blond girl of medium size, except for her bosoms, which were very large, white as milk, and half-exposed by the open banyan and untied shift that she wore.

“Me?” Lord John said indignantly. “I didn’t do anything to the little beast. Here, madam, take him.”

She did, and little Trevor at once thrust his face into her bosom, making bestial rooting noises. The young woman caught a glimpse of William’s face and glared at him.

“And who the devil are you?” she demanded.

He blinked. “My name is William Ransom, madam,” he said, rather stiffly. “Your servant.”

“This is your cousin Willie, Amaranthus,” Lord John said, coming forward and patting the top of Cinnamon’s head in an apologetic fashion as he pushed past him. “William, may I present Amaranthus, Viscountess Grey, your cousin Benjamin’s … widow.” It was almost not there, that pause, but William heard it and glanced sharply from the young woman to his father, but Lord John’s face was composed and amiable. He didn’t meet William’s eye.

So … either they’ve found Ben’s body—or they haven’t, but they’re letting his wife believe he’s dead.

“My sympathies, Lady Grey,” he said, bowing.

“Thank you,” she said. “Ow! Trevor, you beastly little Myotis!” She had stifled Trevor by stuffing him under a hastily pulled-forward wing of her banyan, evidently pulling down her shift in the same movement, for the child had battened onto her breast and was now making embarrassingly loud sucking noises.

“Er … Myotis?” It sounded vaguely Greek, but wasn’t a word William was familiar with.

“A vesper bat,” she replied, shifting her hold to adjust the child more comfortably. “They have very sharp teeth. I beg your pardon, my lord.” And with that, she turned on her bare heel and vanished.

“Ahem,” said Cinnamon, who, ignored, had quietly risen to his feet. “My lord … I hope you pardon my coming here without warning. I didn’t know where to find you, until my friend”—nodding at William—“found out your house just now. I should maybe have waited, though. I … can come back …?” he added, with a hesitant movement toward the door.

“No, no.” Relieved of the presence of Amaranthus and Trevor, Lord John had regained his usual equanimity. “Please—sit down, will you? I’ll send—Oh. Actually, there’s no one to send, I’m afraid. The manservant’s joined the army and my cook is quite drunk. I’ll get—”

William took him by the sleeve as he made to exit toward the kitchen.

“We don’t need anything,” he said, quite gently. Paradoxically, the chaos of the last few minutes had settled his own sense of agitation. He put a hand on his father’s shoulder, feeling the hard bones and warmth of his body, wondering whether he would ever call him “Papa” again, and turned him toward John Cinnamon.