“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.

The Indian had gone as pale as it was possible for someone of his complexion to go, and looked as though he was about to be sick.

“I came to say thank you,” he blurted, and clamped his lips shut, as though fearing to say more.

Lord John’s face lightened, softening as he looked the tall young man up and down. William’s heart squeezed a little.

“Not at all,” he said, and stopped to clear his throat. “Not at all,” he said again, more strongly. “I’m so happy to meet you again, Mr. Cinnamon. Thank you for coming to find me.”