“You woke the baby, damn your eyes,” he said. “Oh. Hallo, Willie. Come in, then, don’t stand there letting in drafts; the little fiend is teething, and catching a cold on top of that won’t improve his temper to any noticeable extent. Who’s your friend? Your servant, sir,” he added, putting a hand over the child’s mouth and nodding to Cinnamon with a fair assumption of hospitality.

“John Cinnamon,” both young men said automatically, speaking together, then stopped, equally flustered. William recovered first.

“Yours?” he inquired politely, with a nod at the child, who had momentarily stopped howling and was gnawing ferociously on Lord John’s knuckle.

“Surely you jest, William,” his father replied, stepping back and jerking his head in invitation. “Allow me to make you acquainted with your second cousin, Trevor Wattiswade Grey. I am delighted to meet you, Mr. Cinnamon—will you take a drop of beer? Or something stronger?”

“I—” Panicked, Cinnamon looked to William for direction.

“We may require something a bit stronger, sir, if you have it.” William reached for the baby, whom he received gingerly from Lord John’s wet, relieved grasp. His father wiped his hand on his breeches and extended it to Cinnamon.

“Your servant, s—” He stopped abruptly, having evidently got a good look at Cinnamon for the first time. “Cinnamon,” he said slowly, eyes fixed on the big Indian’s face. “John Cinnamon, you said?”

“Yes, sir,” said Cinnamon huskily, and dropped suddenly to his knees with a crash that rattled the china on the sideboard and made little Trevor stiffen and shriek as though he were being disemboweled by badgers.

“Oh, God,” said Lord John, glancing from Trevor to Cinnamon and back again. “Here.” He took the child from William again and joggled it in a practiced fashion.

“Mr. Cinnamon,” he said. “Please. Do get up. There’s no need—”

“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.”