“Will you not stay—just for a bit? I know Uncle John would like it; he misses you very much. And I should like to know you better.”

The simple sincerity of this statement moved him.

“I—should like to,” he said awkwardly. “I don’t—that is, it may depend upon my friend. Upon his conversation with my father.”

“I see.” She petted Trevor, smoothing his soft hair and snuggling him into her shoulder. William had a sudden pang of envy, seeing it. Amaranthus, though, rose and stood swaying with the child in her arms, her own light hair lifting in the breeze as she looked at the house.

“I should like to go inside, but I don’t want to disturb them. I wonder what can be taking so long?”

32

Lhude Sing Cuccu!

JOHN GREY STOOD FOR a moment, blinking at the door through which his son had just vanished, and feeling just behind him the enormous quandary perched on a tiny gilt chair. Without the slightest notion what might happen next, he turned round and said the only thing possible in the circumstances.

“Would you like some brandy, Mr. Cinnamon?”

The young man sprang up at once, graceful in spite of his size and the look of profound anxiety stamped upon his broad features. The mixture of dread and hope in John Cinnamon’s eyes wrung Grey’s heart, and he put a hand gently on the young man’s arm, turning him toward the sturdiest piece of furniture available, a wide-armed chair with a solid oak frame.

“Sit down,” he said, gesturing to this object. “And let me get you something to drink. I daresay you need it.” I certainly do, he thought, heading for the door that led into the kitchen. What in God’s name am I to say to him?

Neither the time consumed in finding brandy, nor the ceremonious pouring of it, provided him with any answers. He sat down in the green-striped wing chair and picked up his own brandy, feeling a most peculiar mix of dismay and exhilaration.

“I’m so pleased to make your acquaintance again, Mr. Cinnamon,” he said, smiling. “I last saw you at the age of six months or so, I believe. You’ve grown.”

Cinnamon flushed a little at this—an improvement over the pallor with which he’d entered the room—and bobbed his head awkwardly.

“I—thank you,” he blurted. “For seeing to my welfare all these years.”

Grey lifted a hand in brief dismissal, but asked curiously, “How many years has it been? How old are you?”

“Twenty, sir—or ought I to call you ‘my lord’ or ‘Excellency’?” he asked, anxiety still evident.

“‘Sir’ is quite all right,” Grey assured him. “May I ask how you fell into company with my—with William?”

Having a straightforward story to tell seemed to relax the young man somewhat, and by the time he’d got through it all, the brandy in his glass had sunk to amber dregs and his manner was substantially less anxious. With Cinnamon’s size in mind, Grey had poured with a lavish hand.