Manoke, he thought, with mingled exasperation and amusement. No point in being angry; Manoke made his own rules, and always had. At the same time, though … Despite the intermittent and casual nature of their relationship, Grey trusted the Indian more than anyone, with the exception of his own brother or Jamie Fraser. Manoke wouldn’t put Cinnamon on his trail for the sake of mischief; either he’d thought Cinnamon likely was his son and therefore had a right to know it—or having met William as an adult, he’d thought that Grey might need another son.

Perhaps he did, he thought, with a small clench of the belly. If William chose to deal with the problem of his paternity by simply disappearing … or even if he didn’t … but no. It wouldn’t do, he concluded, with a surprising sense of regret.

“I’m glad you’re here, Mr. Cinnamon,” he said, eyes on the brandy as he poured another glass for the young man. “I must begin by apologizing.”

“Oh, no!” Cinnamon burst out, sitting upright. “I would never expect you to—I mean, there’s nothing to apologize for.”

“Yes, there is. I ought to have written down a brief account of your circumstances when I put you in the care of the Catholic brothers at Gareon, rather than simply leave you there with nothing but a name. It is difficult, though,” he added with a smile, “to look at a six-month-old child and envision the … er … ultimate result of passing time. Somehow, one never thinks that children will grow up.” He had a passing vision of Willie at the age of two and a half, small and fierce—and already beginning to resemble his real father.

Cinnamon looked down at his very broad hands, braced on his knees—and then, as though he couldn’t help it, stared at Grey’s slender hand, still wrapped around the brandy bottle. Then he looked up at Grey’s face, searching for kinship.

“You do resemble your father,” Grey said, meeting the young man’s eyes directly. “I wish that I were that man—both for your sake and for my own.”

There was a deep silence in the room. Cinnamon’s face went blank and stayed that way. He blinked once or twice, but gave away nothing of what he felt. Finally he nodded, and took a breath that went to the roots of his soul.

“Can you—will you—tell me of my father, sir?”

Well, that was it, Grey thought. He’d realized the choices instantly: claim the young man as his own, or tell him the truth. But how much of the truth?

The trouble was that Cinnamon’s existence wasn’t purely his own concern; there were other people involved; did Grey have the right to meddle with their affairs without consultation or permission? But he had to tell the boy something, he thought. And reached for his glass.

“He was a British soldier, as Manoke told you,” he said carefully. “Your mother was half French and half … I’m afraid I have no idea of the nation from which her other parent originated.”