On this particular morning, though, William woke to the sight of a suit of dark-gray velvet, with a waistcoat in ochre silk, tastefully embroidered with small beetles of varying colors, each with tiny red eyes. Fresh linen and silk stockings were laid out alongside—but his ex-army kit had disappeared, save for the disreputable boots, which stood like a reproach beside his washstand, their scuffs and scars blushing through fresh blacking.

He paused for a moment, then put on the banyan Papa had lent him—fine-woven blue wool, comforting on a chilly morning as it had rained in the night—washed his face, and went down to breakfast.

Papa and Amaranthus were at the table, both looking as though they’d been dug up, rather than roused, from bed.

“Good morning,” William said, rather loudly, and sat down. “Where’s Trevor?”

“Somewhere with your friend Mr. Cinnamon,” Amaranthus said, blinking sleepily. “God bless him. He came by looking for you, and as you were still sunk in hoggish slumber, he said he would take Trevor for a walk.”

“The little fiend yowled all night long,” Lord John said, shoving a pot of mustard in William’s direction. “Kippers coming,” he added, evidently in explanation of the mustard. “Didn’t you hear him?”

“Unlike some people, I slept the sleep of the just,” William said, buttering a piece of toast. “Didn’t hear a sound.”

Both relatives eyed him beadily over the toast rack.

“I’m putting him in your bed tonight,” Amaranthus said, attempting to smooth her frowsy locks. “See how justified you feel around dawn.”

A smell of smoky-sweet bacon wafted from the back of the house, and all three diners sat up involuntarily as the cook brought in a generous silver platter bearing not only bacon, but also sausages, black pudding, and grilled mushrooms.

“Elle ne fera pas çuire les tomates,” his lordship said, with a slight shrug. She won’t cook tomatoes anymore. “Elle pense qu’elles sont toxiques.” She thinks they’re poisonous.

“La facon dont elle les cuits, elle a raison,” Amaranthus muttered, in good but oddly accented French. The way she cooks them, she’s right. William saw his father raise a brow; evidently he hadn’t realized that she spoke French at all.

“I, um, saw the garments you kindly had prepared for me,” William said, tactfully diverting the conversation. “I’m most appreciative, of course—though I don’t think I shall have occasion to wear them at present. Perhaps—”

“Gray will suit you very well,” Lord John said, looking happier when Moira came in and set down a glass of what smelled like coffee with whisky in it next to him. He nodded toward Amaranthus, seated across from William. “Your cousin embroidered the beetles on the waistcoat herself.”

“Oh. Thank you, cousin.” He bowed to her, smiling. “By far the most fanciful waistcoat I’ve ever owned.”

She straightened up, looking indignant, and pulled her wrapper tight across her bosom.