“You say he is married, sir. I do not imagine that his wife—is aware of my existence.”

“A hundred to one against,” Grey assured him. He eyed the young man carefully. Might he actually set out for London? At the moment, upright and stalwart, he looked capable of anything. Grey tried—and failed—to imagine just what Malcolm’s wife would do, should John Cinnamon turn up on her doorstep one fine morning.

“Blame me, I expect,” he murmured under his breath, reaching for the decanter. “Another drop, Mr. Cinnamon? I should advise it, really.”

“I—yes. Please.” He inhaled the brandy and set the glass down with an air of finality. “Be assured, sir, I wish to do nothing that would cause my father or his wife the least discomfort.”

Grey took a cautious sip of his own fresh glass.

“That’s most considerate,” he said. “But also rather prudent. May I ask, had I actually proved to be your father—and let me repeat that I regret the fact that I am not—” He lifted his glass an inch and Cinnamon cast down his eyes, but gave a brief nod of acknowledgment. “What did you intend to do? Or ought I to ask what you had hoped for?”

Cinnamon’s mouth opened, but then shut as he considered. Grey was beginning to be impressed by the young man’s manner. Deferential but not shy at all; straightforward but thoughtful.

“In truth, I scarcely know, sir,” Cinnamon said at last. He sat back a little, settling himself. “I did not expect, nor do I seek”—he added, with an inclination of his head—“any recognition or … or material assistance. I suppose it was in good part curiosity. But more, perhaps, a desire for some sense of … not of belonging; it would be foolish to expect that—but some knowledge of connection. Just to know that there is a person who shares my blood,” he ended simply. “And what he is like.

“Oh!” he said then, abashed. “And of course I wished to thank my father for taking thought for my welfare.” He cleared his throat again. “Might I ask, sir—a particular favor of you?”

“Certainly,” Grey replied. His mind had been stimulated by his own question—what might an abandoned child seek from an unknown parent? William certainly wanted nothing from Jamie Fraser, but that was quite a different circumstance; William had known Jamie since he was a child, though knowing him as a man was likely to prove a different kettle of fish …. And then, too, William had a family, a proper family, people who shared not his blood, but his place in the world. Grey tried—and failed completely—to imagine what it must be like to feel oneself totally alone.

“—if I were to write such a letter,” Cinnamon was saying, and Grey returned to the present moment with a jerk.

“Send a letter,” he repeated. “To Malcolm. I—yes, I suppose I could do that. Er … saying what, if you don’t mind my asking?”